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whisperedmeg · 15 days ago

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AFTERSHOCK ⋆˚꩜｡ spencer reid x liaison!reader

summary: you were held at knifepoint. spencer wasn’t there, but now he is — sitting outside the shower, whispering sea otter facts, and touching you like he’s still afraid you’ll disappear.

genre: smut, hurt/comfort | w/c: 3.9k

tags/warnings: 18+ MDNI, reader works for the BAU, friends/coworkers to lovers, story starts after a hostage situation/being held at knifepoint, mentions of bruises and cuts and blood and a gunshot but no major injury (to reader), fingering, p in v, spencer asks for consent like a million times #king, kind of open ending

a/n: omg my first request 🥲 i made reader an assistant media liaison bc i liked the idea of her having minimal field experience + working closely with JJ. i was envisioning like young, s2 spencer here (specifically glasses reid when he goes to check on Elle in her hotel room hence the header but hey, imagine what you wish). hope you enjoy, kind anon! 🦦

The lights were too bright.

Not in a metaphorical way, but literally. Overhead fluorescents buzzed in the corner of your vision as a paramedic waved a penlight in your eyes, asking questions you could barely process.

“You know your name?” he asked. You nodded. Or at least you thought you did. Maybe you answered him verbally — you couldn’t say for sure. “Good. You’re gonna be okay. Just some bruising and minor cuts. We’ll get your neck bandaged up then you’ll be good to go.”

This time, you heard yourself thank him, but your voice didn’t sound like your own.

In the moments after the standoff ended, everything had blurred. You remembered the moment you realized he was about to slit your throat — and how you kept your voice level anyway, how you kept talking to distract him until the team broke through the front. You remembered Hotch yelling your name, and Derek rushing forward as the unsub yanked you tighter against him — right before the single shot that brought him down rang through the air. You remembered insisting you were fine. “It’s just a few scratches.” But your hands had trembled when you signed the incident report, and your voice had cracked as you hugged JJ and tried to tell her you were okay. You remembered blood on your blouse, though it hadn’t been yours. And then you thought of Spencer.

Spencer.

You hadn’t seen him since before you’d gone into that warehouse backroom, when he was told to stay at the precinct while you were sent in to try to talk the unsub down. You were the suspect’s type — it seemed like it made sense, at the time.

Now, hours later, your ears still rang faintly with the sound of a gunshot and sirens. The scent of sweat and antiseptic clung to your hair. You were stiff from tension, from crouching for too long, from being held with a blade tight against your throat. And though the medics cleared you, your body didn’t quite feel like it was yours.

So when you got back to the hotel and opened the door to your room, you weren’t surprised to find Spencer already sitting there.

His hands were clasped tightly in his lap, white-knuckled. His legs bounced slightly, shoulders curled inward. As soon as he saw you, he stood so quickly it looked like it surprised even him.

You stared at him for a moment. He somehow managed to look even worse than you felt.

“Hi,” you said softly.

His throat bobbed. “Hi.”

You closed the door behind you. Leaned against it, unsure what you needed, only that it might be him.

“JJ told me you weren’t seriously hurt.”

“I’m not. Just… tired. Shaky. A little out of it.” You tried to smile, but it faltered. Your knees felt too weak to hold the weight of your composure.

“Could you—” You paused. Swallowed. “Will you stay? Just for a little while?”

He didn’t answer. He just nodded and stepped forward, his arms coming around you so gently it nearly broke you.

—

You had worked with Spencer Reid for nearly two years. As assistant press liaison, your job at the BAU was mostly behind the scenes — handling media inquiries, prepping briefings, coordinating with JJ. Occasionally you went into the field, like you had today. And over time, you’d gotten closer to the team. Closer to Spencer.

He was your best friend. The kind who noticed when you were quiet for too long. The kind who annotated articles he thought you’d like. Who remembered your coffee order down to the exact milk-to-cold brew ratio. Who once lent you his beloved purple scarf because you were shivering, and never once asked for it back.

You’d always told yourself that’s what it was — just friendship, albeit the rarest and gentlest kind. You two had never crossed the line. Never even came close.

But still, there were moments.

The brush of hands when passing files. Gazes that lingered a little too long when you laughed. The quiet way he always listened intently as you spoke, even in a room full of louder voices.

It was nothing. It was everything.

And you didn’t let yourself dwell on it.

Not until today — when you saw him across the hotel room, eyes wide and wounded, as if he’d been holding his breath for hours. That look wasn’t friendly. That look was something else entirely.

—

You sat together on the edge of the bed for a while — not really speaking, just breathing the same air. You noticed the redness in his eyes, the way he rubbed his palms together like he needed to feel something real.

“I should probably shower,” you said eventually, your voice small. You were still in the same clothes from the scene, crusted with dirt and dried blood. “But I don’t… I don’t really want to be alone.”

His eyes softened instantly. “I could sit in the bathroom with you, if you want. I won’t, uh, look or anything. I’ll just— I’ll be there.”

You nodded, your chest aching.

The hotel bathroom was a little dated, the kind with a plastic curtain and a light that hummed faintly when switched on. You undressed slowly, hands trembling, and stepped into the spray. Warm water hit your skin, but the shivering didn’t stop. You called out for Spencer to let him know he could come in.

“I’m here,” Spencer said gently from the other side of the curtain. You heard the soft thud of him sitting down, back against the tub.

“Thanks,” you said. Your voice sounded a little steadier than you felt.

“Did you know that the human body has over two million sweat glands? They’re actually most concentrated on the soles of your feet.”

You laughed — a surprised, soft sound. “That’s… weirdly interesting.”

He chuckled too. “I read once that just hearing someone else talk about non-threatening subjects can help slow down your heart rate. It activates the parasympathetic nervous system.”

You swallowed as you massaged shampoo into your scalp. “Keep talking, then.”

So he did. He told you about an article he read on sea otters. About how they sometimes hold hands and cuddle while they sleep so they don’t drift apart. About how Saturn’s rings are made mostly of ice and dust, and how they’re slowly disappearing. About a study on how people who read a lot of fiction are generally more empathetic, and how he thinks that’s probably true, especially when applied to you and your collection of romantasy novels.

When you turned off the water, you stood there for a moment, breathing in the steam.

You reached outside the curtain for the towel you’d hung on the hook earlier, wrapping it around yourself before you stepped out carefully onto the mat. Spencer stayed seated, gaze averted, but lifted his arm to offer you the white fluffy hotel robe.

“Here,” he said, voice soft, still not looking.

“Thanks,” you murmured, taking it from him with fingers that brushed his. You slipped it on over the towel, grateful for the extra warmth, and tied the sash tightly around your waist.

He finally glanced up then, eyes scanning your face for any sign of how you were holding together.

“Can we go sit down?”

He stood immediately. “Of course.”

Together, you stepped out of the bathroom, his presence quiet beside you. You sat on the edge of the bed and he joined you, leaving space but not distance.

It was then you finally noticed it: he looked so tired. His shoulders sagged like he’d been carrying something too heavy, and you wondered how long he’d been holding it all in. There were shadows beneath his eyes and something raw in the way he held his hands — like he didn’t quite know what to do with them.

“Are you okay?” you asked.

Spencer blinked a few times and stared down at his knees. When he finally spoke, his voice cracked.

“I… I didn’t realize how scared I was. Not really. Not until I saw you standing here again. When I was back at the precinct and heard what was going on, what he was doing to you, I—” He stopped himself, swallowed. “I couldn’t breathe.”

Your chest ached again. You reached for him instinctively — not with any plan, just the need to touch something steady. Your hand found his face, palm against his cheek, and you felt the tremble in his jaw.

“I’m okay,” you whispered. “I’m right here.”

He turned into your touch slightly, eyes fluttering closed. A breath escaped him — a shaky, wordless thing.

“I keep thinking about what could’ve happened,” he murmured. “About how close it was. And I don’t know what I would’ve done if—”

“You don’t have to finish that sentence,” you interrupted gently. “I’m here, Spencer. It’s over.”

The silence stretched.

When he opened his eyes again, he looked at you like he was finally seeing something he’d never dared to let himself look at too closely — not until now.

His gaze dropped to your lips. Then back to your eyes. Then away entirely, as if embarrassed.

You smiled, small and a little awkward. “Spencer…”

He didn’t move. Just stayed there with your hand pressed to his cheek and his gaze trained on the sheets, as if he was terrified the moment might dissolve if he shifted even an inch.

“I know it’s not helpful to spiral into hypotheticals, but… I can’t stop. I can’t stop thinking about how close it was. How close I came to never seeing you again. And it made me realize…”

He trailed off, brow furrowing like he was debating whether to keep going. His fingers fidgeted in his lap. You waited.

“I realized that if I lost you,” he said quietly, “I wouldn’t just miss working with you, or… talking to you, or being your friend. I’d miss you. Everything I never said. Everything I always pretended I didn’t feel because it wasn’t—because it wasn’t appropriate, or logical, or fair.”

Your breath caught. He still wouldn’t look at you.

“I just don’t know if… if you’ve ever thought about it. About me. About… us. About, um, being more than just friends.”

The room spun gently. Not in a bad way — more like the moment had tipped sideways and you were falling into it, a new gravity you hadn’t dared even imagine until now.

You stared at him.

For a second, your brain scrambled to fill the silence with something. A joke. A change of subject. A safer version of the truth.

But the look on his face — the quiet devastation of it, like he was already preparing to apologize for crossing a line — cut straight through every instinct to deflect.

Because of course you’d thought about it.

Every late night on the phone. Every smirk across the briefing room. Every friendly touch on your shoulder that lingered half a second too long. You’d buried it all under layers of friendship and professional distance.

But it was there. It had always been there.

And after everything you’d been through today, you were tired of pretending it wasn’t.

“Spencer,” you said softly. “Look at me.”

His breath hitched, and he finally lifted his eyes enough to meet yours.

“I’ve thought about it, too,” you admitted.

His eyes widened slightly. You could feel the warmth radiating off him. The tension. The fragile possibility hanging in the space between your bodies.

“Really?” he asked quietly.

You nodded, stroking his cheek with your thumb. “Course I have.”

“Then can I—” He stopped and laughed a little, awkward and embarrassed. “God, I don’t even know how to ask.”

You smiled. “Try anyway.”

“Can I kiss you?”

You took a long, deep breath, then whispered, “Please.”

He leaned in slowly, hesitantly — and when his lips finally met yours, it wasn’t confident or practiced. It was cautious. Careful. A little awkward and clumsy. But it was him, and it was you, and it was real.

His mouth moved against yours like he wasn’t sure it would last. You kissed him deeper, steadier, until you felt him melt a little — into the moment, into you.

He held your face like you were something sacred. You tugged him closer like you’d die without the contact. He whispered your name against your mouth, like he was still trying to make himself believe you were there.

The kiss stayed soft for a long time — tentative, exploratory. Like neither of you wanted to break the spell. Like you were both waiting for the moment one of you might pull away and realize this was a mistake.

But you didn’t, and when his hands drifted down to your waist, he paused.

“Is this okay?” he asked, his voice barely a whisper against your skin. His fingers trailed across the terrycloth material of the hotel robe. “You’re… you’re not wearing any real clothes right now. Maybe we should stop.”

You laughed softly. “Don’t you dare stop. It’s definitely okay.”

Still, he hesitated, eyes searching yours like he needed to hear it in more than words.

“I don’t want to mess this up,” he murmured. “I don’t want you to feel like I’m expecting anything. We don’t have to—”

You shook your head before he could finish, brushing your thumb over his cheek. “I know. You’re not messing anything up.”

His eyes searched yours, still uncertain.

“I want to. I want you,” you whispered.

You reached for him, guiding his hand to your chest like you needed him to feel how steady your heartbeat had become — proof that this wasn’t panic. This was choosing. Choosing him.

He took a long breath, then slowly, he eased you down onto the pillows.

When his fingers brushed the tie of your robe, he paused again. “Okay?” he asked, eyes flicking to yours.

You answered not just with a nod, but by threading your fingers through his hair. “Spencer. Please, I need this.”

He let out a soft, quivering breath, like he’d been waiting for this moment all along without even knowing it.

And still, he didn’t rush.

He loosened the tie and slipped the robe from your shoulders like it was something precious. Beneath it, the towel clung to your damp skin, and when you let it fall open, he didn’t look away — but he didn’t devour, either. He just gazed at you like you were something precious and rare, like he couldn’t believe he was allowed to see you this way.

He undressed, too — slowly, thoughtfully — until there was nothing between you but skin and breath and unspoken things neither of you had ever dared say before.

Between each move he made, he kissed you again — your temple, your shoulder, the soft curve of your wrist, your neck just above the bandage covering your cut. And every time he asked if it was okay, you gave him a variation of the same answer:

“Still okay.”

“Still yes.”

“Still want you.”

His hands moved with aching care — not wandering, but learning. He touched you like he was trying to memorize every inch of skin, every breath you took beneath him. His mouth found the bruise along your ribs and lingered there, brushing a kiss so gentle it nearly undid you.

When he rose up on his elbows, his hair fell softly around his face. You reached up and tucked it behind his ear, and the way he smiled — shy, grateful, like he couldn’t quite believe this was real — made your heart twist.

Then he kissed you again, slower this time, more sure. It was gentle, then a little deeper. Then everything, all at once. His mouth opened against yours and you welcomed him in, arms winding around his back to pull him closer. You felt his weight shift, the warmth of his thigh sliding between yours, the subtle grind of his hips.

His hand found your cheek again before sliding down to your jaw, your neck, your collarbone, your breasts — then lower. When his fingers finally brushed between your legs, you gasped.

He pulled back instantly, worried. “Too much?”

You shook your head, breathless. “Not at all. Just… it’s you. My brain’s still processing.”

His eyes softened. “Yeah,” he murmured. “Me too.”

“Keep going,” you whispered.

His fingers moved with cautious intent, like he was still learning you, like he was determined to get it right. He traced slow, deliberate circles, his touch light enough to tease but steady enough to draw a soft moan from your throat.

“That good?” he whispered.

You nodded, your voice caught somewhere behind your breath. “Better than good.”

He kissed your shoulder, your jaw, your lips again — never straying too far from your mouth, as if needing that closeness to anchor him. One finger slipped inside you slowly, then another, stretching you with exquisite care. His other hand cradled the side of your face, grounding you in the moment, in him. Every stroke of his fingers sent heat curling through your belly, your hips tilting toward him without conscious thought. He was watching you now, eyes dark and tender, his breath uneven with each sound you made.

“God,” he murmured, brushing the pad of his thumb softly across your clit. “You’re so responsive.”

You managed a breathless laugh, clinging to him. “Guess we’re finding out a lot tonight.”

He swallowed hard, like he didn’t know what to do with that — like it meant more than either of you were ready to say aloud. But his pace never faltered. He curled his fingers experimentally, eyes never leaving yours, and smiled when you moaned softly.

“That’s it,” he whispered. “Just like that.”

You could feel it building, not fast but steady — pressure, heat, ache. But before it crested, before it could consume you entirely, you reached for him.

“Spencer,” you breathed.

And he knew what you meant.

He withdrew his fingers, kissed you like it was the only language he knew — and as your body trembled beneath him, aching for more, he paused.

One hand stayed at your cheek, the other braced beside your shoulder as he shifted his weight between your thighs, lining himself up with deliberate care. He looked down at you then — really looked — as if the entire world had narrowed to the space between your bodies.

“Still okay?” he asked in a soft, comforting whisper. “We don’t have to, you know. We can still stop.”

Your heart kicked against your ribs. You reached up, brushing hair back from his forehead again, and held his gaze.

“I know,” you murmured, “but I want this. I want you.”

His breath hitched — and only then did he move.

Slowly, carefully, he eased into you with a soft, broken sound, his breath catching in his throat as your body welcomed him in.

You gasped again, overwhelmed — not just by the sensation, but by the way he fit against you like he was always meant to be there. Like this was what you’d always been waiting for.

You held his gaze like it tethered you to something solid — like it kept you both from slipping back into fear or doubt or the thousand what-ifs still echoing from the day.

He moved cautiously — each roll of his hips asking if you still wanted this, and each time, your body answered by drawing him closer, moaning his name like a promise.

A soft sound escaped your lips as he pressed deeper. You tightened around him, and his breath hitched.

“God,” he murmured, voice low and rough, “you feel… incredible.”

You threaded your fingers through his hair, your chest rising to meet his. “You’re shaking,” you whispered.

“I know,” he said, exhaling shakily as his hips stilled. “I can’t stop.” His voice dropped, cracked and honest. “This is surreal. And I keep thinking about what could’ve happened if the team didn’t find you in time.”

“Spence,” you said gently, cupping his cheek, “I’m here. You don’t have to be afraid anymore.”

He rocked into you again, the motion tender and deliberate. “I’m not,” he whispered, “not when I’m with you.”

You gasped softly, clutching at his shoulder blades as he began to find a rhythm, unhurried but overwhelming.

“Talk to me,” you breathed. “You always talk when I need it. Can you still do that?”

His forehead rested against yours as he nodded, his voice warm and broken between thrusts. “You’re so beautiful like this. I mean, you’re always beautiful. I’ve always thought that. But this is… something else entirely. And you’re so soft, so open.” He kissed you, slow and searching. “I can feel every part of you. It’s—God, it’s even more than I thought it would be.”

You arched into him, breath catching in your throat. “More?”

He groaned softly, moving deeper, a flicker of something reverent in his eyes. “More real. More… you. You’re letting me see all of you, and I—” His breath faltered. “I don’t want to miss any of it.”

You smiled, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes from the sheer weight of it all. “You’re not. I’m right here.”

He kissed you like he was trying to memorize your breath, your softness, your heartbeat against his. And then his hand slid between you, fingers circling where you needed him most — slow at first, then firmer, perfectly in rhythm with the gentle thrust of his hips.

“Let go for me,” he whispered, his forehead pressed to yours, his voice shaking with restraint. “Please. I want to feel you fall apart.”

You clung to him, gasping his name, overwhelmed by the way every nerve in your body seemed to fire at once — not just pleasure, but everything: safety, want, the ache of almost losing this before you ever got to have it. Your body arched into him, chasing the edge he offered so tenderly, so completely.

When you finally broke, it was all-consuming — a tremble that started deep inside and rippled outward, your nails digging into his back, your eyes wet, your breath catching on a cry. And as you came apart in his arms, you felt him follow, felt the shudder in his body as he moaned your name against your neck and held you like you were the only real thing in the world.

Afterward, he didn’t move far. Just wrapped his arms around you and held you like a lifeline — like he couldn’t bear to let go even for a second.

Neither of you spoke for a long time. Not because there was nothing to say, but because the silence said it all.

When he finally pulled back, his voice was hoarse. “I’m sorry we didn’t get to you sooner. I’m so sorry I wasn’t there.”

You brushed your thumb along his cheekbone, your fingers still trembling slightly. “You were exactly where you needed to be,” you murmured. “Somewhere safe. And you’re here now. We both are.”

He kissed you again — softer this time, slower. Like something steady. Like a promise.

—

Later, beneath the hum of the hotel air conditioner and the softened static of silence, you let your body sink into his. The worst had passed, but the aftershocks of what happened earlier in that warehouse still lived in your body — in the ache behind your eyes, in the way you reached for Spencer without thinking, in the unspoken things now pulsing between you like fresh bruises.

Spencer stayed awake beside you, his fingers tracing quiet, grounding patterns along your spine as his other hand held yours tightly. He looked down at your intertwined fingers and thought about the sea otters again, a small, barely-there smile curling at his lips.

You didn’t know what this would become — only that something had shifted. But as you felt the hush of his breath against your neck, you drifted off. And for first time all day, you didn’t feel like you were bracing for the next wave of tremors.

ᝰ.ᐟ

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godmadeaterribleerror · 19 days ago

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Been Keeping It Down

Main Masterlist - Dean Masterlist

Read on A03!

Tags: Dean Winchester/Female Reader, friends to lovers, light fluff, light angst, lotta smut (fingering, p in v, cockwarming), humor, love confessions

Summary/Warnings: After Dean gets hit with a curse, he starts avoiding you. Sam won't tell you what's wrong, and you love him almost as much as you miss him.

Almost as much as he might love you.

Author's Note: Request from an anon! I love thinking a fic will be 5k and then. it's not.

Word Count: 8.3k

“Why’d you lock him in the car?”

“Uh,” Sam scratches the back of his neck, letting out a long, slow breath. “I didn’t. He sorta locked himself in there.”

Your nose wrinkles, and you lean a little further down, trying to get a better look at Dean.

He’s sprawled out on the back bench, knocked out and drooling onto the seat.

He looks adorable.

His hair is mussed, his eyes keep fluttering slightly, and if you climbed over him he’d probably be just as strong and warm as when he yanks you into his chest, making sure you don’t stumble or trip during a hunt.

You can’t crawl over him while he’s asleep. You’re not sure if he’d want you to, or if you’d just get shoved off his body with a grunt and glower. Ruining everything, and bombing the careful fantasy you’ve built where maybe Dean flirts with you a little more than other girls, and maybe he gets so pissed at you because he cares, and there’s a small, thin chance that he likes catching you just as much as you like falling into him.

And you’re never going to tell him you do it on purpose. That it’s dumb, and reckless, and pathetic, but sometimes you’ll be a little less cautious, just so Dean will grab you. So his arms will wrap around your stomach, he’ll glare at you with enough venom to make your skin hot, and you can smile up at him like nothing’s wrong. It couldn’t be, as long as Dean was holding you.

But something is certainly wrong right now.

“And he let you drive?”

Sam shrugs awkwardly. “He’s sick.

You give him a flat look. “I’ve seen Dean drive when he was actively bleeding out.”

“From his stomach.”

“So?”

“It’s- He could still drive.” Sam’s voice is lame, as if he doesn’t even believe what he’s saying. “This was a fever. He’s not lucid.”

“Sam.” There’s panic rising in your chest, hot and tight and suffocating, but you force your voice to remain flat. “If he’s not lucid, we need to take him to a hospital-“

“No! I-“ Sam’s eyes widen, darting between you and Dean at a frantic pace. “It’s- He’s fine! It’s a magic fever.”

“A magic fever-“

“Witches. He hates them.”

“I know that-“

“He just needs to sleep it off,” Sam’s voice is suddenly firm and determined, and something is very wrong. “It’ll be easier if we don’t bother him.”

“But-“

“Can you got get some ice from town?”

You frown. “We have ice.”

“Right.” Sam glances back to Dean. “What don’t we have?”

“I don’t know, I don’t do audits while you guys are gone-“

“Do we have soda?”

“I don’t know-“

“Pie?”

You let out a long, slow breath, and Sam is very close to being punched in the face. “We have pie. We always have pie. Sam, what’s going on-“

“I just- I need to get Dean out of the car. And I-“ Sam swallows, giving you an apologetic look. “I’m not supposed to let you help.”

Your mouth falls open, something tearing up your chest that’s made of Dean doesn’t want your help, he knows how useless you really are and he can’t even imagine you carrying him to bed.

Sam must see the shatter of your heart, just a layer under your face, because he shakes his head, and his words are quick.

“No it’s- it’s not like that-“

“I’m fine.” You mumble, drawing yourself to stand tall, keeping your gaze firmly fixed away from Dean. “You don’t have to-“

“He might be contagious.”

You give him a dry look. “You’re still going to touch him, though.”

“I was in the car with him.” Sam mutters, not fully meeting your gaze. “I’m already exposed. And there are some, uh- Weird side effects. To the curse.”

“Weird? Weird like-“ You cut yourself off at Sam’s apologetic expression, letting out another heavy sigh. “You can’t tell me.”

“He just- You know Dean. It’s a weird curse, and doesn’t want you to have to deal with it-“

“I wouldn’t mind.” You mumble, frowning down at your hands, and you can feel Sam’s look of pity.

“I told him that, he… Didn’t seem to care.”

You glance up, and your voice has to remain neutral. You’re almost certain Sam knows—he must, he’s seen you trail after Dean like a shadow on every case, laugh at all his stupid jokes, run to him whenever he so much as stubs his toe, and glare at him every time he gets hit on and basks in it because you love him too much to hate him for it, and that makes your skin blister—but that doesn’t mean you have to admit it.

It doesn’t matter if you admit it.

Even if Dean flirts with you, it’s still just flirting. He flirts with everyone. And he’s never really shown that he’d want anything more with you. Maybe just skin on skin in the dark, but not his lips on your brow in the morning, and you head resting on his chest in the dead of night.

Not what you’d need. What you’ve needed, from the moment he appeared over you on the street, both of you drenched in the blood of a decapitated vamp, Dean offering you a hand that once you took, you never wanted to release.

But Sam knows that too. He was there when Dean asked you to stick with them, and you had an expression like the Sun had dropped at your feet and asked you to orbit around it forever. Sam’s noticed that you never even try to sleep around, and that whenever someone hits on you at a bar you never take it past smiles and words.

You think Sam believes you have more dignity than you actually do, though. That if Dean offered you just one night, you wouldn’t take it in a heartbeat. That you’d keep coming back like an addict, until Dean decided he was done giving you what you crave. Sam thinks you wouldn’t break yourself for Dean.

It’s sweet, that he thinks that highly of you.

That doesn’t make him right.

“Can you-“ You pause, trying to find the right thing to say, that will just give you a chance to help. “If there’s anything-“

“I’m gonna talk to him. He’s being- You know.”

Sam glances back to Dean, and you do know. Dean’s never been good at asking for help.

He’s still fully knocked out and snoring so loud you can hear it through the windows.

Still adorable.

And when he’s finally up, and feeling better, you’re going to shove his stupid, broad chest and yell at him that no magical side-effect could ever make you not want to help.

For now, you’re going to take one of the spare cars and drive in circles, until the ache in your chest hurts just a little less. And when Dean calls for you, you’ll be there.

You’ll always be there.

But he doesn’t call for you.

The day passes and turns into night, and the night turns into another day, and then suddenly it’s all blurring together and it’s been a week. And you haven’t spoken to Dean once.

You only know he’s in the bunker because you can see the light from under his door, and food is vanishing that Sam would never touch. When you wake up there’s enough coffee left over for you to have a cup, just like every morning, but usually Dean is leaning against the counter and waiting for you to join him. Now it’s just the mug out and the pot half-full. Same as how books keep going missing from the library before reappearing the next day, but Dean never once even wanders into the room. The Impala is gone for hours, and then you’ll check the garage again and it’s back. Dinner gets made, but you never see it. Dean doesn’t appear over your shoulder in the library and call you to dinner, you just wander into the kitchen and find it made.

“He’s avoiding me.”

Sam shakes his head, not looking up from his laptop. “No, he’s not.”

“I haven’t seen him once-“

“He’s still sick.”

“Sam-“

Sam says your name back, and when he looks up, there’s a heavy exhaustion in his gaze. “I’m working on it. He’ll be fine, the fever broke, but Dean- I can’t tell you.”

“Why.” Your voice is desperate, but the ache in your chest has only grown. You miss him. Even ignoring the in love with him thing, Dean’s your best friend. You miss talking to him while he cooks, and bothering him with the books you’ve read, and trying to see who can fit the most marshmallows in their mouth.

But he’s avoiding you. Even if Sam won’t say it, you know he is. You’ve tried to catch him. You get up an hour earlier, but he’s already gone. You try and stay up for a whole day just to see him—to make sure he’s okay, and that he didn’t die and Sam just hasn’t figured out how to tell you—but you pass out around 4am and wake up with a blanket over your body, and another three books gone. The next time the Impala is gone you sit in the garage all day, leave once to go to the bathroom, and come back to it returned and Dean nowhere in sight.

You don’t understand why.

“I-“ Sam exhales, shaking his head again. “I wish I could tell you. But that- You know I trust you. Dean trusts you. But explaining it- I’d be violating Dean’s trust. I’m sorry.”

He looks it. Sam’s expression is tired, and you can hear the strain in his voice, but it doesn’t make anything hurt less.

Dean’s avoiding you.

And you just want to see him. To know what’s wrong, so you can tell him you don’t care about the curse.

That evening, you try to camp the kitchen. Dinner never comes out that night, and around eight, Sam wanders in and asks if you can just order.

“No.” You mutter, sitting cross-legged on the counter, and Sam sighs.

“I’m hungry,” he says your name with a pleading tone. “I know you’re hungry too. And I’m going to order for myself, so just text me if you want anything and I’ll pick it up while I’m out-“

“I don’t want anything.”

Sam gives you a sympathetic look, and you want to curl into yourself and hide. It can’t be that obvious. Even if Sam knows, there’s no way he knows-

“If you’re waiting for him, he’s not going to come out.”

You scowl, shooting Sam a glare. “So he is avoiding me.”

Sam sighs your name. “I- Yeah. He is.”

“Why-“

“I can’t-“

“Tell me.” You finish for him, rubbing at your face as you continue, until it’s raw enough to hurt a little. “Yeah, I got it. Is he-“ You have to swallow on a lump in your throat. “Is he okay?”

“He will be.” Sam mutters. “I- I think I’ve almost got it.”

“Can I help?”

Sam shakes his head, and you swallow, leaning down until your back is flat on the table.

“Okay.”

“Do you, uh- Want anything?”

You want to help. To understand.

Dean.

You want Dean.

“No.”

There’s a silence for a second, and you’re convinced Sam is gone, right up until he mutters your name. His voice is impossibly soft.

It just makes this hurt more.

“He’s in his room. And he knows you’re in here. He’s not going to come out.” Sam sighs. “I’ll be back in a few hours.”

You frown at the ceiling, trying to work out what that means, but by the time you sit up Sam is gone.

Dean’s in his room. And he’s not going to come out. And it does not take a few hours to pick up dinner, but Sam will be gone anyway, and-

Oh.

Okay.

You slide off the counter, keeping your steps soft as you walk down the hall, and stop in front of Dean’s room.

“Dean?” You knock, and he’s not a subtle as he thinks he is.

The noise from the TV turns off.

“Dean,” You knock again, still to no answer. “I know you’re in there.”

Nothing.

“Dean Winchester, if you don’t open the door, I’m going to break it in-“

“Don’t.”

His voice is barely a grunt. But it’s the first time you heard it in a fucking week, and a sob rises to your throat.

He’s alive. He can talk, and he’s been avoiding you, but he’s okay.

“Fuck, Dean, are you-“

“Don’t come in here.” His voice is rising slightly, and something starts to prickle over your skin.

It’s the same feeling you get on a hunt, when something is just a little off.

A warning.

“Dean-“

“Please.” There’s a desperation in his voice, and it just makes the prickle grow into a stinging itch. “Don’t.”

“Don’t-“ You swallow. “Don’t what?”

You can hear his deep breath through the door. “Come inside.”

“De-“

“Just- If you need something, go ask Sammy-“

“I don’t need anything, Dean.” I just need you. “I want to talk.”

There’s a beat of silence, and then, “We’re talking right now.”

“This doesn’t count, I want to see you-“

“No.”

“Dean-“

“I’m not dying,” Dean snaps your name. “You don’t need to help.”

There’s a harsh tone to his voice that you’ve rarely heard in your direction. The tone he uses on hunts and when he and Sam are fighting. His pissed tone.

He’s serious.

But it’s only making the itch feel like a burn. You need to see him. Just for one second, so you know he’s not lying, and he has to look you in the eyes and admit that he’s been avoiding you. He doesn’t get to be pissed when he’s been dodging you. That’s not how this fucking works.

You want to help, still.

But Dean does not get to be angry about that.

“I’m going to open the door.”

Dean hisses your name. “I’m tellin’ you, don’t-“

“I won’t if you give me a reason-“

“I don’t want you to see me.”

You freeze, your hand hovering up to push open the door, and your heart might have frozen and dropped into your stomach.

He didn’t want you. Doesn’t want you. Not just your help, but to see you at all. He doesn’t want you, and your heart is fracturing in strange places you didn’t know it could break—but you should have, only Dean has ever been able to touch them—and Dean doesn’t want you-

“Fuck, are you- Son of a bitch-“

There’s a shuffling and banging sound from the other side of the door, and the world is blurry. It might have something to do with the soreness in your throat and the choked sound you couldn’t stop from escaping.

“Don’t cry, sweetheart-“

“I’m not.” You take a step back from the door, your hand falling back to your side. “I- Sam’s out, if you need something, call him.”

“I know, it’s-“ He sounds closer than before. “It’s complicated, but I’m not pissed at you-“

“So why are you avoiding me.”

The silence is tight. Long. You can hear Dean’s heavy breathing through the door, and your fingers are straining to touch him, to make it better, but he doesn’t want you.

“I’m not crying, Dean.” Your voice has to be neutral. He already has your heart resting somewhere stronger than just the palm of his hand, he doesn’t get to have every other piece of you too. Not when he’d only toss it right back. “I know you got cursed, and I know you don’t want my help, but you don’t need to be- I would help. I’d always help. You’re my friend-“

There’s a dry, slightly muffled chuckle through the door. “Friend, huh.”

“Yeah, I am.” You raise your chin—he can’t see it, but it makes you feel better—and narrow your eyes at the door. “And I know you’re avoiding me, so don't try to deny it-“

“Can’t.”

You blink. “What?”

“Can’t deny it.” He grunts. “I’ve been avoiding you.”

“I- Oh.” The world is getting blurry again. He doesn’t get to have the rest of you. “Why?”

Dean groans, and you flinch as a heavy thud sounds from his room. “Fuck.”

“Dean-“

“Don’t ask me that.” He grunts, his voice right on the other side of the door. “Please.”

“I- Why?”

“Goddamnit, just stop asking me questions-“

“Dean, I need to know-“

“No, you don’t.”

“Yes, I do-“

“Trust me,” he mutters your name. “You don’t.”

You scowl at the door.

He doesn’t get to do this. No matter what type of righteous shit he’s got in his head, no matter what this curse is, Dean doesn’t get to just say he’s avoiding you, then not say why. Doesn’t get to tell you what to do when he won’t look at you.

Doesn’t get to have all of you if he doesn’t really want it.

“Dean Winchester.” You move your hand back to the door, and you could swear you hear him stiffen. “You do not get to tell me what I need.”

He chuckles again, and you can hear it this time. The pain in the sound. “Then you’re just gonna have to trust me on this one-“

“I can’t trust you.” You cut him off with a snap. “Not when you won’t answer my questions. You can even lie, you just have to be convincing-“

“I- Fuck- I can’t!”

Dean’s voice has risen to a shout, and you pause. He sounds wounded. Like a distressed animal.

“I can’t goddamn lie.” He grunts, his voice lowered to something heavy. “The witch truth-roofied me, and I can’t say a lie.”

You frown. “Then why the fuck have you been avoiding me?”

“I- Shit,” he groans again. “There are some questions I don’t want you asking me. Safer for all of us.”

“Safer for you to ignore me-“

“I haven’t been ignoring you.”

“We haven’t spoken since you got back-“

“Cause I’ve been avoiding you-

“Which is better?”

He pauses, his voice falling to a mumble. “No.”

You let out a soft, insane sounding laugh. You’re going to strangle him, or hug him, or shove him off a cliff before diving after him. He’s not stupid, but he can be such a fucking idiot.

“What were you planning on doing, when the curse was broken?” You lean against the door, keeping your voice dry. “Just popping up and acting like nothing ever happened?”

“Uh-“ Dean coughs. “Yeah? Are you pissed at me?”

“Yes.”

“Oh-“

“But.” You hum, watching the door as if you might be able to see Dean through it. “I’ll be less pissed if you tell me why.”

You can feel his glare. “I told you why, truth curse-“

“That’s a stupid reason. I know everything about you.”

There’s the chuckle again. “No, you don’t.”

“Yeah, I do-“

“I told you to trust me-“

“And I told you I can’t.” You take a slow, stuttering breath. “Please, Dean, we’ll be fine if you just tell me the truth-“

“No.”

“Dean-“

“You don’t want to know the truth-“

“I don’t even know that you’re actually cursed with that!” Your voice is rising, but he’s such an idiot, and you love him, and most of what you can feel is hot. Worry or anger or stress or just want. You want to see him, to help him, to punch him in the face and trust him. But you can’t. “For all I know, you’re lying to me right now-“

Your words are cut off with a yelp as the door swings open, and you stumble a step forward, right into-

Dean.

He’s catching you. Keeping your upright by pressing you right to his chest, his hands framing your face and his eyes boring right into yours.

And he looks tired—bags under his eyes and his hair a little messy from lack of care—but he’s still Dean. Still the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen, strong and hot around you, a growl in his voice that you can feel vibrate through his chest as he speaks.

“Ask me something.”

You blink at him. “You said-“

“Not that. Anything else.”

“I-“ You swallow, unable to break his gaze. “Can you tell me something embarrassing?”

His jaw twitches, but you get a firm nod. “I used to hide hentai mags in Sam’s bag, so chicks wouldn’t see them and think they were mine. One time I ate a pie off a girl’s stomach, and I enjoyed the pie more than the sex. I tried one of Sam’s running smoothies and it wasn’t dogshit, but then I spent twenty hours of the toilet after. Body wasn’t ready for it, I guess. Uh- One time I got turned on by holding a book-“

“A book?” You frown at him. “What book?”

“Uh, Wicked.”

“Oh. I love that book.”

“I know.” He mutters, scanning over you carefully. “Do I look like I’m lying?”

“No,” you whisper, your hands shoot up to hold Dean’s against your face. “I- No.”

“Good. You trust me?”

“I- Dean, I still need you to tell me why.”

Dean’s jaw tightens, his nostrils flaring slightly.

You might be about to melt. You’ve never been this close to him, he’s never looked at you like this—as if he wouldn’t mind only looking at you for the rest of your life, or maybe he’d just like to eat you alive—and there’s a firmness to his voice that’s lighting a fire in your core.

“I told you not to ask me that.” He mutters, and you shake your head.

“I need to know, Dean, please.” You pull your lips between your teeth. “You didn’t even talk to me, and you told Sam not to tell me, and it really- It wasn’t-“ You swallow, your voice turning to almost a whine, and you can’t stop it. “That wasn’t fair, I thought you were mad at me and I just- I wanted to help-“

“I know you did, baby.” Dean sighs, and your lips part slightly.

Baby.

“I’d never be mad at you,” he runs his thumb over your cheekbone, and it’s becoming really hard to not give him all of you. “I- You’re just- I-“

He’s moving before you know what’s happening. Diving down and pulling you up at the same time, crashing his mouth against yours with almost a bloody desperation, and you did melt. You’re all heat as your fingers curl against his chest, and his lips mold perfectly against yours, and he’s kissing you like you’re going to disintegrate and he’s going to die and he’s kissing you-

It’s over as soon as it starts. Your head is spinning, and your lips are already swollen from the bruising force of his kiss, but Dean’s drawing back with an almost frantic expression, stumbling back and leaving your swaying into the middle of the room.

“I- Son of a bitch- I’m sorry-“

You blink at him, still a little dazed. “You’re sorry?”

Dean nods, running a hand through his hair and shaking his head. “Shit- I shouldn’t have done that, sweetheart, I-“

“Why?” Your voice is soft, and he frowns at you.

“You- I didn’t-“

“Dean.” You force yourself to stand tall, wrapping your arms around your stomach. He can’t do this. Just kiss you like that then say it shouldn’t have happened. He fucking kissed you. “Please just tell me why. I- You can’t just ignore me then do that and not say- You have to tell me why-“ You won’t cry. “Please-“

“I love you.”

Time might not be moving. Dean’s just staring at you from across the room, and you can’t really feel your legs, and-

“What?” You whisper, and he shakes his head.

“I- I fucking love you.” He mutters, his gaze falling down to the floor. “And I know you deserve better, I do- But I always wanna tell you, and I would’ve, so I had to- I wasn’t tryin’ to piss you off, and I- Goddamnit, I never wanna make you cry, but you shouldn’t have to worry about turning me down-“

It’s your turn to move. You cross the room before Dean can keep saying stupid things, grab the collar of his shirt, and yank him back down into a kiss.

It’s even better than the first one. Dean falls into you in half a second, his arms flying out to hold you right to his chest, almost lifting you off the ground as he pushes his tongue between your lips, then groaning down your throat when you nip at it and wrap an arm around his neck. He tastes so good, and he fits better against you than you thought possible, and his hands are roaming all over you like he’s trying to check you’re real.

You’ve never felt more real. There’s a wildfire spreading through your body, building as broad fingers brush against the bare skin of your back, and Dean’s mouth is starting to wander, sucking your upper lip between his teeth before starting to kiss down your neck, and his hand squeezes against your ass-

You move back, shoving his chest with all the strength you have, and he stumbles away, blinking at you with a wide, lust-blown expression.

“Never,” you poke his chest, glaring up at his dumbstruck, handsome face. “Do that again. I have loved you since I met you, Dean, you fucking idiot, and if you ever pull something like that again, I will shoot you with the gun you gave me.”

Dean blinks at you, and his face splits into a wide grin. “You love me?”

“Of course I love you-“

“Awesome.” He takes a step forward, and you stop him with a palm on his chest.

“Not awesome, Dean, I’m still mad at you-“

Your words turn into an unconvincing sigh as Dean grabs your wrist and tugs you forward, pulling you back into a longer, deeper kiss.

It’s slow and soft, like you have all the time in the universe, and you feel as if you’re floating. Like everything is only light and warmth and the taste of Dean, lingering on your tongue when he hums against your lips, and pulls back with another wide, boyish grin.

“Here’s the deal, babygirl.” He tangles a hand in your hair, tipping your head back until your gaze is locked onto his. “You can kick my ass later, but right now I’d really like to give you a reason to stop being pissed at me. You want that?”

You pause, your fingers playing with the hair on the nape of his neck. “I still get to be mad later?”

Dean nods, leaning down to suck on the soft skin of your neck, and you can’t stop the moan that escapes your mouth.

“Dean-“

“Lemme show you how much I mean it,” he hums against your skin. “Can’t lie right now, sweetheart, and you’re the prettiest things I’ve ever goddamn seen. Fuckin’ hated avoiding you, missed you so much-“

“I- Missed you too-“

“I know you did, c’mon, lemme take care of you-“

“Okay.”

He pulls back, watching you carefully. “You sure?”

You nod eagerly, and his face splits back into a grin.

“Ready?”

“Yeah,” your voice is breathy, and Dean’s grin widens.

But he doesn’t get to get off that easy.

“What do you want to do to me, Winchester?” You give him a teasing smirk, and his hands tense on your waist. “If you’ve been thinking about it that much…”

You raise your brows in a silent suggestion, and Dean groans.

“That’s not playing fair,” he leans back down, and you dodge, moving to kiss along his jawline.

“Tell me what you want-“

“You’re starting something, sweetheart,” his words sound pushed through his teeth, and you giggle.

“And you’re dodging the question- Dean-“

You squeak as his hand tangles in your hair, and he yanks you back to meet his gaze.

He looks almost feral. Darkened eyes and full, swollen lips that are already parted with heavy breath. You’re pressed right against him, and his hand still on your waist is kneading your skin until you’re almost melted in the sheer heat and want, and-

He’s pressed right against your thigh. Hard. Big.

The ache between your legs is unbearable. You might come apart from nothing at all.

Or just from the sound of Dean’s voice, deep and rough and filled with hunger.

“I’ve wanted you since I saw you, baby,” he mutters, and when your hands shoot up to wrap around his neck and tug at his hair, a soft moan escapes his lips. “Son of a bitch, I want you all the fuckin’ time-“

“How?” You whisper, and his eyes flash.

“You really wanna know, sweet girl?” Dean starts to walk you backwards, towards his bed, and lets out a hiss when you yank on his hair again.

“I’m asking-“

“I’ve thought about everything,” his voice is almost a growl, and you squeak as he tosses you back onto the mattress. “Thought about eating you out until you screamed, or just touching you to see what kinda sounds you’d make,” Dean pulls his shirt of as you gape up at him, before crawls over you with a wide grin. “Had dreams about those freakin’ sounds, how you’d moan for me if I did this-“

One big hand slides under your shirt, palming at your breasts before rolling a nipple between two fingers, and you fall fully back with a gasp.

“Dean-“ You grab at his shoulders, squirming below him, and his grin grows, his hand wandering over to the other breast to repeat the movement. “Oh, god.”

“Nope.” Dean leans down, kissing you slow and deep, his hand starting to wander down your stomach, until he’s cupping you over your shorts. “Just me, sweetheart.”

You moan, shaking your head. “That’s so bad, De- Fuck-“

He smirks as his fingers slide under your shorts, and it falters for only a second as they find your bare pussy.

“You’re not wearing any underwear.” He grunts, and you flush, turning your face into the pillow.

“Laundry day,” you mumble, and Dean chuckles.

“Sure, baby-“

“It is,” you twist to glare at him, and his grin just grows.

“I believe you,” he leans down, brushing his mouth right over yours, and you squeak as one finger trails between your pussy lips. “But I also believe you’re always this wet for me. And sometimes,” his thumb presses right over your clit. “You’d go bare and hope I’d just pin you down and fuck you.”

You moan shamelessly, your eyes wide and trapped on Dean’s and his voice drops lower than you’ve ever heard it.

“I think you’ve touched yourself thinking of me, just like I touch myself thinking about you.”

There’s no chance to respond before his finger pushes inside of you, his thumb starting to rub slow circles around your pussy, and you’re flying. The only tether between the earth and pleasure, white-hot and perfect and teasing, is Dean’s voice, right in your ear.

“Dream about your pretty mouth on my cock, babygirl. Or your hands, or being buried in the sweet pussy until you’re a perfect mess for me.” He chuckles, pressing a soft kiss to the corner of your mouth, and your nails dig into his back. “Kinda like this, actually.”

“De- Shit,” a second finger pushes in with the first, and he’s still moving them so slow. “Feels good, so good-“

“Yeah, it does,” Dean groans, and your eyes flutter open to see him rutting against the mattress, his own face almost a mirror of your own desperation as he watches his fingers pump in and out of your cunt. “Jesus, you’re so pretty-“

“Dean.” You grab his face between your hands, and his eyes snap onto yours. “More.”

He blinks at you for a second, but then gives you a tight nod.

His fingers crook inside of you, rubbing against that hot, spongey spot inside of you, and your mouth falls open in a silent scream. His thumb is gone from your clit, only giving it quick, frenzied flicks as you’re dragged right up to the edge, and he won’t look away from you-

Then he’s gone. You’re dangling right on the edge of release, but Dean yanks his fingers away with a taunting grin, and a high, pathetic sound escapes your throat.

You start to grumble an incoherent protest, but it dies in your throat at the sight above you.

He’s pushing your legs up to help you out of your shorts. He kisses against your calf before tossing everything into a corner of the room, and shoves your knees back apart. Then the two fingers push back into your for only a second, long enough to pull another moan from your throat, and Dean settles back between your legs with a grin.

Then he’s gone again. And one hand grabs your chin to keep your eyes trapped on his as he brings his fingers up to his mouth.

Dean cleans his fingers of your arousal, his gaze never leaving yours, and a sound that’s awfully like a moan rumbling through his chest.

“Taste better than I dreamed,” he mutters, and you shudder with pleasure as he goes back, dragging those same fingers back over your soaked core, dipping slightly into your cunt like he’s trying to gather as much as he can. “Shit, I would’ve let a witch get the jump on me years ago if I knew I’d finally get to have this.”

You blink at him, your voice so soft and needy you almost don’t recognize it. “Years?”

“Uh, yeah.” Dean nods, a slight blush seeming to creep over his cheeks, even as his thumb starts to drag slow circles around your clit. “Told you, sweetheart, you’ve been in since I saw you.”

“I- Why didn’t you-“

He shrugs. “Didn’t think you’d want it. Taste.”

You frown at him, opening your mouth to protest—your mind doesn’t seem to be able to wrap itself around not wanting Dean—but the sound falls into a moan as his fingers press on your lower lip. They’re soaked in your wetness, and asking for further permission, and under Dean’s almost adoring gaze, you don’t know how to do anything but grant it.

Dean groans as he pushes his fingers almost all the way down your throat, and you feel his still-clothed cock twitch against you when you start to suck.

“Jesus,” he mutters, pulling back with another one of those moans. “You’re so freakin’ perfect-“

“Dean,” you whine, scratching at his chest and bucking your hips up to try and grind over his bulge, but he just grunts, dropping his full weight down to pin you against the mattress.

“Not yet, sweetheart.”

You shake your head, wiggling below him, and his eyes flutter shut.

“God-“ He moans your name as you manage to get your legs free, wrapping them around his waist and rolling your hips against his still hidden cock. “Shit- Alright.”

Dean grabs you by your waist, and you yelp as he rolls you over without warning. Suddenly you’re straddling his bare chest as he pulls off his sweats, his gaze locked on yours the whole time. Then your shirt is being all but ripped off your body, and before you know what’s happening, Dean’s got one hand on your ass and the other back on your jaw, hold your eyes down to his.

He mutters your name, and your fingers curl against his bare chest. “I’ve got a condom in the side drawer-“

“I’m clean.” Your words are too quick, and his eyes flash. “And I- I’m on birth control. If- If you’re- If you too-“

He laughs, his thumb tracing over your lower lip, and the sound rolls through his chest, vibrating against your pussy and making your mouth fall open.

“Don’t hurt yourself, baby.” Dean’s hands drift to grab you by the waist, and he shifts below you, making sure he’s more leaning against the headboard than flat on his back. “Hold on.”

His grip tightens, and a stupid, high sound leaves you as he picks you up and pushes you down onto his cock.

He’s big. And thick. And you’re being filled up so good, already cockdrunk and a little out of your mind at the feel of him splitting your open and pressing on all the right spots, but he’s not moving. Dean’s just watching you with a wide, adoring gaze, grunting whenever you try to grind against him and hissing when you clench around him.

“I said,” he lands a light slap on your ass, his eyes narrowing on yours. “Not yet. Wanna feel you, baby. We’re gonna stay just like this until you’re begging for it.”

You gape at him, every word coming up as only a gasp or whimper as you try to move again, and he hits your ass again, and Dean raises his brows.

“Good?”

You nod, leaning down to press your brow to his. “Just doesn’t seem fair.”

He frowns. “Fair- If you don’t-“

“I like this.” You mumble, ghosting a kiss over his lips. “A lot. Love it.”

Dean grunts, dragging you down into a full, deep kiss that makes it almost impossible not to squirm against him.

“What’s not fair, then?” He hums against your lips, and now that he knows you’re good, he seems to be all back on teasing. “C’mon, baby, you can tell me-“

You shove his chest, and he laughs. He can’t keep doing that. It’s like a small vibrator against your clit, and he’s so handsome, and you don’t know how to not clench around him. But all that gets you is another slap of your ass, and you might be starting to drip down your thighs and onto Dean’s.

“Asshole-“

He grabs your hand, pressing a kiss to your palm. “You love it.”

You do. “Never should’ve told you that,” you grumble, and he laughs again, and you might be on the brink of insanity.

“Too late. I know it now. Never gonna let you or this pretty pussy go neglected again, babygirl, so watch out.”

He pokes your side, grinning as you let out a squeaking giggle, but it quickly falls into a moan as his free hand moves up to play with your tits.

“Dean-“

“I know,” he hums, flicking your nipple before leaning up to press a kiss over the hurt. “But you’re doing so well for me, sweetheart. Being such a good girl.”

You moan against, and Dean smirks.

“You like that, don’t you. Like being my good girl-“

“Dean.” You hiss, trying to grind against him, and whimpering at the next slap on your ass. “Fuck, please-“

“That’s closer.” He hums, resuming his movements on your tits. “But you still have to tell me what’s not fair.”

“It’s-“ You take a shaking breath, trying to regather your thoughts. “It’s not important-“

“Anything you think is important.” He mutters, and you swallow at the intensity in his gaze. “Tell me, baby. Then I’ll give you whatever you want.”

Fuck.

He can’t lie.

And just from the expression on his face, you can almost feel how much he means it.

“It’s just, I-“ You take a slow breath, watching him carefully. “What about you?”

Dean frowns. “What about me.”

“You had, um- a lot of ideas.” You trace your fingers over his tattoo, trying to focus on your words instead of Dean’s cock, hard and pressed into you and making you almost burn with desire. “And I- I just don’t want it to only be about me-“

You’re cut off as Dean laughs again, your words falling into a high, gasping moan, and almost in a reward, Dean slams himself up to meet the rolls of your hips.

You still get a small spank for the movement.

Worth it.

Dean drawls your name, looking up at you like you’re the best thing he’s ever seen. “You think having you sit on my cock under you’re begging me to fuck you is about you?”

You flush, shaking your head weakly, and he chuckles again.

You moan, fluttering around him, but this time the slap on your ass comes with Dean pinching your nipple, and slamming up until he’s hitting your cervix.

“Trust me, baby,” he grunts, squeezing your ass and tugging you back down into a long, slow kiss. “This is all about me.”

“But-“

“We’re gonna do all of that shit later,” Dean pulls back, just enough to hold your gaze, and his arm wraps around your back, pinning you firmly down. “Trust me, babygirl, I mean it. I’m gonna give you everything.”

“Dean-“

“But right now, I want you to come on my cock, and I want you to say please.” Something strange flashes over his expression, and his voice drops impossibly lower. “Need to know you mean it, sweetheart.”

Oh.

You’re not under a truth curse. And Dean is adorable and handsome and strong below you, but he’s still Dean.

And you can see it in his eyes.

He’s still not sure you do mean it.

You have nothing to do but prove him wrong.

“Dean.” You whisper, forcing your hips not to roll as you lean down, holding his gaze. “Please. I want it. Want it so bad. I dream about you and touch myself thinking about you. I’d let you do whatever you want to me, cause I love you and I need you, Dean. I’m going to go insane if you don’t fuck me, please.”

“Son of a bitch.” Dean mutters, his grip growing bruising on your hips. “Feel so good, baby, just need you to give me one more-“

“Please-“

Your voice turns into a long, heavy moan as Dean rolls your hips along his cock, and the whole world lights up with good.

“Good girl,” he mutters, and you throw your head back as he helps you repeat the movement, every single nerve in your body glowing with Dean. “Fuck yourself on my cock, sweetheart. Take what you need.”

There might be something teasing to his voice, but you can’t really hear it. You can’t really think of anything past the feeling of him inside you, or the low sounds that you keep pulling out of his chest as you grind down. You’re riding Dean’s cock like your life depends on it, gasping his name whenever your clit rubs against his groin or his hips jerk, making him bump that sensitive spot deep inside of you.

And he’s a vision below you. Moaning your name and kneading at your ass, watching you move above him like he’s looking at all the stars in the sky. His lips are parted with heavy breathes, and one hand is drifting slowly up to the nape of your neck, squeezing slightly with his eyes wide on yours, and you tip your head back without a question.

Dean groans, his hand moving to grab your throat, and you move faster. He’s not holding you that tight, but there’s a possessiveness to his touch that’s like fire up your spine, and you want him to leave a mark. Want everyone to know that he’s yours, and he’s touching you, and-

“Fuck-“ Dean grunts your name, his grip squeezing slightly, and you move faster. “Shit- Sweetheart, you’re-“

His head throws back with a groan as you clench around him, chasing your release desperately, and you want him to come with you. You need him to. You need him to fill you up, to feel the burn of him in a week, to be so fucking ruined by him you can’t even walk-

“Dean,” you gasp, and his grip tightens even more. Stars are starting to dance behind your eyes. “So close, feels so good-“

“I know,” he grunts, and you gasp as his hips rut up. “Hold it, babygirl.”

You shake your head, grinding faster. “Can’t- Need you-“

You whimper as Dean squeezes your throat, and his eyes flash. “C’mon, sweet girl, be good for me-“

“I- Dean-“

He grunts, and you’re not sure when the shift happened, but you’re not in charge anymore. Dean’s arm is wrapped around your waist, pinning you against his chest as he surges up, his hand moving to your jaw to hold it still. The kiss is deep and bruising and all spit and teeth, and he’s fucking you. Drilling up into your aching cunt without relent, kissing all over your face and down your neck, over the small marks his hand left. Moving back to your mouth as you start to shudder around him, scraping at his shoulders in a plea for release and moaning down your throat.

“Gonna cum,” he groans, his pace growing uneven. “Where-“

“In. Inside. Dean, just- Fuck-“

You almost scream as his thumb moves back to your clit, leaving a featherlight touch that’s somehow too much and not nearly enough.

“Dean-“

“Cum on my cock, baby.” He growls, pressing his thumb down so hard it lights a firework in your whole body, and you don’t know how to do anything but listen.

Your orgasm hits your like a wildfire, sweeping through your whole body until your toes are curling and you’re slumped in Dean’s arms, and he meets you with one last, beautiful moan of your name and a slam of his hips home. Your fingers tangle in his hair as he fucks you through his release, making yours rise and crest once more, and when it’s done, everything feels sort of bright and dizzying. A high, cockdrunk giggle escapes your throat, and Dean groans.

“Shit-“ He mutters your name, and you realize you’d squeezed around him. “Goddamnit, that was-“

“Yeah.” You whisper, curling further into his chest. “Thanks.”

He chuckles, but it falls into another moan as you flutter around him once more. “Alright, that’s enough of that.”

Dean’s breathing is ragged in your ear, and you keep your arms wrapped tight around him as he pulls out. You don’t manage to stop your soft moan, feeling impossibly empty and raw from the absence of him, but it’s alright.

He’s still here.

And now, he’s yours.

Dean presses a soft kiss to your brow, his words soft in your ear. “You want me to clean you up, baby?”

You shake your head, pressing your face into the crook of his neck. “Don’t wanna move.”

“We made a mess-“

“Later.”

He chuckles, rubbing soothing circles on your back. “Whatever you say, sweetheart.”

You smile, and grab him a little tighter. “Are you still truth cursed?”

“Course I am. Wasn’t a sex curse, this is just a benefit-“

“Shut up.” You tug on his hair, and all you get is a laugh in return.

You lean back, just enough to meet his eyes, and he can’t have looked at you like this before. Like you’re his whole world, and he’d never want to ever be anywhere else but you.

You would’ve seen it.

You hope you would’ve.

“Did you mean it?” You whisper, and he frowns.

“Mean what?”

“That you’ve loved me since we met?”

Dean’s jaw twitches, and he lets out a slow sigh. “I’ve wanted you since we met. Didn’t love you until a few months after. But it didn’t take much.”

You raise your brows, and he rolls his eyes.

“You’re really taking advantage of how that I’m cursed, you know-“

“It was first sight for me.” You whisper, and his mouth snaps shut. “You saved me, then helped me stand up, and I felt like an idiot because I was in love with the stranger who just decapitated someone in front of me.”

Dean’s throat bobs. “You still feel like an idiot?”

“Yeah.” It’s only fair you’re honest, if he has to be. “But only because I spent years pretending, I didn’t love you, and didn’t get to have this.”

You lean down, pressing a soft kiss to Dean’s lip, and he lets out a soft sound that almost has you ready for round two.

“You punched me.” He mutters, and you lean back with a curious expression.

“Huh?”

“That’s when I fell in love with you.” He mutters, rubbing slow circles on the skin of your hips. “I was trying to teach you how to shoot, but you’d never held a gun so you were shit at it. And I already liked you, so I was, uh- Kinda being an asshole. Pushing you too hard. And I said somethin’ about you not being able to defend yourself, and you suckered me right in my fuckin’ jaw. Started shouting at me about how I was being a dick, but- Um-“ He’s blushing, giving you an almost sheepish expression. “Didn’t hear a word you said. Think I was making heart eyes or something. Remember thinking I’m either marrying you, or no one.”

You can’t stop your wide, almost idiotic smile, but it’s worth it. Dean mirrors it right back, and his eyes flutter as your run your hand carefully through his hair.

“I love you.” You whisper. “And I can punch you again, if you want.”

He chuckles, shaking his head, and leaning up to pull you down into a long, slow kiss. And you can feel it, in this one. How he really has been as hungry for this as you have. How—just as you don’t think you ever want to move from his lap, even if the rapture floods the world and the sky starts to fall—he never plans to let you go.

“That can be one of our later things,” he mutters, tracing his tongue over your lower lip. “Right now I just wanna sit with my girl.”

You beam, nipping at his tongue. “Who you love?”

“Yeah.” He snorts, squeezing your ribs and grinning as you jump, almost falling over him with a whine. “Who I love.”

End Note: The Dean Winchester mind cannot comprehend that he is lovable (I am going to force that knowledge down his throat).

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no-144444 · 2 months ago

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the oscars- o.piastri

꩜ summary: you bring your own oscar to the oscar's!

꩜ pairing: married! oscar piastri x actress! fem! reader

꩜ a/n: just realised i never posted this and it has been sitting in my drafts for over a month and a half ish lol

I want you to come with me.

Those words had run through his head like a fucking jack-hammer for weeks. What did that even entail? Acquiring a tux, sure. He could do that. Learn all the names of the people he could potentially meet, any celebrities or old co-stars he’d probably met but didn’t remember. Again, he could do that. Sit beside you all night and let you be your wonderful self as he got a first class seat and bragging rights about the fact that he was yours, he did that all day everyday.

So why did this feel so different? He’d been to award shows before. Not the award show, but motorsports ones. You’d come as his date. The world knew about you two. He’d gone to the BAFTAs with you one year. He should be fine. He knows he’s just there to hold your hand all night and make sure you don’t forget to eat something, but this just feels… different. This was the Oscars. The one night all of Hollywood steps out in their very best, hoping to get something back. And you were nominated in 3 categories.

“Fix your bowtie,” Hattie fussed over him as he rolled his eyes. You’d even invited his whole family. You weren’t super close with yours and they hadn’t really supported your career, but the Piastri’s had. Nicole went to every premiere you offered her, sometimes flying last minute just to be there to support you. He remembered how touched you’d been when she showed up at your Cannes debut, you called him crying that night, not even knowing what to do with yourself because you thought it was just so nice. You were 14 then, but you were 24 now, and you weren’t just his girlfriend, you were his wife. You were officially part of the family, even though you had been from the moment he’d brought you home. He started playing with his ring, a nervous habit he’d picked up since getting married.

“It is fixed,” he snapped back as she fiddled with it. “Mum said it looked fine-”

“I wasn’t looking at you when I said that!” she called from the other room. Oscar rolled his eyes again.

“Your eyes are on swivels today,” Mae teased, looking up from her phone. Oscar fought back rolling them again, and instead went for a scoff.

“I’m the only reason you guys are even coming,” he scoffed, Hattie still fixing his tie. Mae’s jaw dropped in offence.

She gasped. “Excuse you! I think Y/n would still invite us even if you guys got a divorce.”

A shiver went up his spine at that thought. Leaving you? He couldn’t do it. He knew in his bones he’d adore you until he was old and grey, and probably a while after that too.

“She definitely would,” Eddie added, walking in. “Plus, she’s dressed now, if you want to see her.”

Oscar tried to pull away from Hattie, but he just got choked by his bowtie, resulting in a fit of coughs and a gaggle of laughter from his sisters.

He heard a chuckle he knew all too well and he turned his head. You were radiant. A burgundy formal gown, your hair exactly the way you loved it, and that wonderful look in your eyes. The one he saw when he woke up next to you. The one that made him blush no matter how long you’d been together. “You alright there?” you questioned.

He chuckled and Hattie finally finished with his bowtie, so he turned to you, wrapping his arms around your waist and pressing his lips to yours as he lifted you off the ground- just slightly. You grinned against his lips and he felt the panic that had been building completely subside. You pulled back as your feet reached the ground again, and chuckled. “Do I have lipstick?” he asked, a question he asked most days. You nodded, but Mae got up to take a photo, giggling at her brother with you. It didn’t bother him. You finally just wiped it off and smiled at him.

“What do you think?” you asked, pulling back and giving him a spin. You showed off the low back and he knew he’d be ripping this dress off of you tonight. He swore the breath was knocked from his lungs every time you looked at him, but truly, you were breathtaking.

“I think you’re the most beautiful woman in the entire world,” he whispered, pressing a soft kiss to your cheek.

“Oh yeah?” you smirked. He nodded.

“Oh yeah.”

The Red Carpet was as overwhelming as usual, but he enjoyed watching his sisters interact with the few fans of theirs that were there. He watched you with so much love and pride in his eyes, so much so that Tim had to nudge him to remember to walk on and not just stand in the back of your photos looking at you lovingly. When you finally finished up, you grabbed his hand as he led you into the auditorium.

“You still have my speeches?’ you questioned. He tapped his chest, signalling that it was in his breast pocket. You smiled. “Thank you.”

“Always,” he smiled back. “Forever.”

As soon as your moment began, it ended, because Nicole pulled you away to go talk to people and he fucked off to the dinner table. He watched as you worked the room, animatedly speaking to people as he watched on from his seat at the table, thoroughly enjoying his food.

It was his dad who pulled him out of his daze, asking how he was feeling.

“I’m fine,” he nodded, only slightly lying.

Chris smiled. “She’s going to win ‘em, I bet you.”

“She will,” Oscar nodded. “Her work has been incredible this year.”

“You’re telling me,” he chuckled. “I cried for three days over the Outrun.”

Oscar laughed out loud as his dad shook his head. “I know what you mean.”

Just then, Oscar caught your eye from the other side of the ballroom and you smiled at him, waving. He waved back. You were a vision in burgundy. He swore to go he was going to get heart palpitations from how beautiful you were.

“Starting soon now,” Tim clapped his hands on Oscar’s shoulders. “Better be ready with those acceptance speeches.”

Chris smiled at Tim. “Took the words out of my mouth,” he chuckled. “Also have to practice your shocked face. Even though we all know she’s going to win every single one of them,” Chris tapped his leg. “Like how she pretends to be shocked when you win.”

Oscar laughed, his cheeks going red. Why was he being embarrassed by his own father and step-father at the Oscars right now? He wanted you back, you could always calm them down, make them less… whatever they were.

“Busy?” you asked, coming up to the table, your question directed at him. He stood up immediately.

“Not at all,” he shook his head, the boys behind him chuckling like schoolgirls. He took your hand and you led him to the foot of the stage, squeezing his hand.

“I’m so glad you’re here,” you whispered, leaning to his shoulder. “Thank you for coming.”

“I'm so proud of you,” he smiled, his hand sneaking around your waist to pull you closer. He loved this. These quiet moments between all the hustle and bustle of your own lives. The room melted away behind you as you both stared at the stage you hoped you’d end up on tonight, but he knew you would. “I’ll always come.”

You chuckled. “You said cum.”

He rolled his eyes, the soft moment between the two of you, now abruptly over due to his choice of words. He looked down at you and you laughed at his unimpressed stare. “I love you?” you offered, cupping his cheek.

“I guess I love you too,” he leaned in and pressed his lips to yours gently, but quickly- as to not get lipstick all over his mouth.

“And the nominees are; Anora, written by Sean Baker. The Brutalist, written by Brady Corbet, Mona Fastvold. A Real Pain, written by Jesse Eisenberg. , September 5, written by Moritz Binder, Tim Fehlbaum; co-written by Alex David. The Substance, written by Y/n Y/l/n,” the crowd cheered and he felt your hand squeeze his just a little tighter. “And the winner is… Anora, written by Sean Baker!”

Despite the loss, you stood and clapped for him. Oscar joined you, though he thought you should’ve probably won. You both sat back down as his speech began and he took your hand again. “You alright?”

You nodded beside him, your eyes fixed to Sean and his speech. “There’s still like 4 hours left, don’t worry.”

He chuckled and pressed a soft kiss to your hand. Ever the positive person.

“And the nominees are; Anora, Sean Baker. The Brutalist, David Jancso. Conclave, Nick Emerson. The Outrun, Y/n Y/l/n. Wicked, Myron Kerstein,” you tensed beside him. “And the winner is… Y/n Y/l/n, The Outrun!”

And the room stood for you. He felt like he was in slow motion. You both stood up at the same time, a bright smile on your face (he was sure he looked ridiculous), and you turned to him and you hugged him.

“Holy shit,” you whispered. He smiled back, nodding.

“You fucking did it,” he cheered as he pulled the speech out of his pocket. “Go accept it.”

You nodded and started your descent down the stairs. The entirety of Hollywood was on their feet for you. You’d been working in the industry since you were a kid. Everyone knew how wonderful you were. Only he got to see it everyday. He watched, pride practically spilling from every pore as you stood up on that stage, taking the award in your hand, the sheet of paper in your hand. You looked up, a teary smile on your lips. “Wow,” you breathed out, looking at the room, but your eyes immediately met Oscar’s, and you both smiled again. “Hello, and thank you,” you started. “Umm… alright, speech- yes!” you unfolded the piece of paper in your hand and took a deep breath. “Well… first of all, I’d like to thank the academy, because this-” you held up your award. “Is incredible. And next, I’d like to thank my family. Nicole, Tim, Chris, Hattie, Eddie, Mae,” Oscar was already tearing up, and he was sure his mom was at the floodgates stage of it all. “You’ve been so incredibly kind to me over the past decade. You took me in when I was just a random 14 year old your son or brother was dating, and you gave me a family, and I'll always be grateful. Next, I’d like to thank my husband-” he felt a tear fall down his cheek and he knew there were about twenty cameras on him. There were a few cheers from the crowd. “- Oscar, you’ve made me insanely happy, and you’re my everything. But you’re also the only person I’ll ever let in my editing room. I love how curious you were at the start, and now, how effortlessly you help me. Truly, this is half yours-” you chuckled, and so did he. “No matter what. Whether you were coming in from a race weekend, totally exhausted, or just come back from a run, you’ll sit beside me in silence and help me make it all work. I don’t think you understand how much that means to me, so, thank you. I love you all, thank you!” you finished off, just wiping the small tear that had fallen away, as the crowd rose for you again. Oscar was a goner, tears falling freely as he tried to wipe them away. God, you were too kind. He adored you.

The night ended at 3am, you walked away with two Oscar awards, and one Oscar. He was grinning the whole time, too. Couldn’t stop. You won Best Editing and Best Supporting Actress. His family were elated and you giggled on the way back tot he hotel as you watched videos of them react to you winning, since they weren't sitting beside you.

Both you and Oscar were exhausted, so you fell into bed, immediately tangling with each other and knocking out.

He ran a hand through your hair as he lazily closed his eyes. "Y/n?"

You hummed against his skin, sign enough that you were slightly conscious.

"I adore you," he whispered, the silence of the room seeming even quieter in the dark. You looked up at him through tired eyes, a soft smile on your lips.

"I feel it," you smiled. "And I love you too."

Best night ever.

mclaren masterlist

navigation for my blog :)

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pyrodolls · 1 year ago

Text

SUPERFAN! YANDERE BOY X POPSTAR! READER

WARNINGS: stalking, obsessiveness, breaking and entering, nsfw, masochist yandere, overstimulation, thigh riding, bondage, male masturbation, unhealthy behavior, average yandere tendencies, male yandere oc (he’s very pathetic and perverted, it’s giving “step on me” energy.) gender neutral reader

A/N: heyyyyy guess who isn’t dead.. i literally open tumblr every 3 minutes i just haven’t been posting. but i’m hereeeee lol. here’s a random yandere oc post, sorry it’s not mortal kombat. (tbh i have faded away from my mk obsession and now i am obsessed with until dawn, the quarry, tlou, and rdr.)

part two here!

superfan! yandere boy that buys all of your merchandise and streams your music on loop 24/7. even while he sleeps.

superfan! yandere boy that commissions artists to draw you and him together in different styles. some of them may depict him on a cute date with you, and some are more explicit and depict you stepping on him or choking him.

superfan! yandere boy that sneaks into your concerts if he didn’t manage to buy a ticket. no matter how strong your security is, he will always manage to find a way in and pretend he's just a regular fan.

superfan! yandere boy that will even sneak onto your house and film you through your window for hours, and then he would go home and touch himself to the footage of you.

superfan! yandere boy that wants to buy meet-and-greet tickets to see you, and be able to feel your presence up close and be able to speak to you personally. but as much as he craves your attention, he knows he wouldn't be able to handle it and would crumble immediately the second you look him in the eyes.

superfan! yandere boy that pays people to stalk you and take pictures of you when he can't do it himself. especially ones when you have a wardrobe malfunction.

superfan! yandere boy that goes to sleep every night fantasizing and dreaming of you. his particular favorite wet dream is of you letting him ride your thigh, grinding against your skin as a desperate attempt to feel any friction on his cock. your hands would roam around his body as he relishes in your attention, no matter where you touch him. any small nudge or brush against his skin would set his heart on fire and oh no where'd his pants go-

superfan! yandere boy that thinks you could do no wrong. you said something offensive and got yourself cancelled? he is your number one defender and would be threatening your naysayers on the internet. he would even go as far as to learn to hack just so he could delete their accounts.

superfan! yandere boy that almost WANTS to get caught. he knows he wouldn't be able to handle your attention, so he avoids it, but a part of him wants to get caught and outed for his perverted, stalker ways. he wants to hear you cuss him out and degrade him. he wants to see the disgusted look on your face as he is exposed for everything he did. spit on him, kick him, treat him like vermin, he doesn't mind. he gets off on the thought of you punishing him. he has a particular fantasy where your punishment for him is by tying him up and overstimulating him until he is crying, whimpering, and almost fainting. but he would still beg for more. no matter how long it lasts. it could be a week long and he still wouldn't be satisfied.

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faroreskiss · 2 years ago

Note

since your saying that requests are open mind if I request something spicy with reader and a Zelda (can be any of them) and a pinch of angst?

Doesn't need to be explicit NSFW (I wouldn't be opposed to it tho 👀), something along the lines of reader and Zelda having been friends for a while then they share their first kiss and things evolve from there. The angst comes from reader not being part of the nobility so their friendship with Zelda is already risky and would be frowned upon if anyone else found out, so let alone kissing the princess so intimately and confessing to romantic feelings about her.

hope all that made sense 😅 you see what you change or not if needed, thank you in advance!

Edit: Posted the clenaed up, revised rewritten version on Ao3 here.

Hi anon! Sorry it took a while, I chose the OoT Zelda in the child timeline, changed some details (or interpreted them in my way) but not as much. I wrote Fem!Reader as you did not specify, I hope it's okay and to your liking!

If you are interested in what happens after the ending here, let me know >:3 Maybe I do complete it to the.. ehem... climax, one day.

For Tonight

Pairing: Fem!Reader x Zelda (OoT) Warning: Angst, no comfort. My first shot at something like this too. Still mature content, but not that much of an explicit NSFW. Minors dni. Typo warning. This is NOT proof-read. I am impatient ;-;

You were walking through the palace corridors with a big stack made of papers and books, barely able to see ahead, trying to make your way into the palace library. Where the fuck were the palace couriers to help you when you needed them? You were mumbling to yourself.

In the midst of your internal mutterings, a sudden collision jolted you, causing the contents of your armful to cascade to the ground in a chaotic disarray. Frustration welled up within you as you looked up to see who had been the unfortunate target of your clumsiness, and unsurprisingly, it was none other than Princess Zelda herself.

“Woah, you have such a scary look on your face, please mercy oh the mighty scholar!”

The princess spoke with a feigned shock in her face, then burst out into laughter as she started to help you collect the papers on the floor, much to your shock.

“Zel! What are you doing? What if somebody sees you?” you whisper shouted at her as you scanned your surroundings.

Well, it was just Zel to you, when nobody else was around.

You also started to collect the papers and kept motioning her to stand up. You locked gazes with her for a moment, drinking the sea that was her blue eyes. Your eyes couldn’t help but drift near her cleavage, making a redness creep into your face. You really hoped she thought it was because of your earlier fit of fury. You bit your lip.

She just softly smiled at you, and continued speaking.

“It’s okay, I spoke to Impa and this wing of the castle is cleared due to ceremonial purifications that’s going to take place,” she smirked at you. You facepalmed. That explained why the courier was not there to help you when you arrived. The King was visiting Zora’s domain; it was known that the princess also had “religious duties” due to her ancestry. Since she was practically in charge when the King was gone, she pulled stunts like this every now and then, so you could hang out in peace.

You didn’t even argue anymore as you sighed as you chuckled, you just adored her smile when she looked this happy, the way dimples appeared in her cheeks, which was a rare occurrence.

The two of you had been inseparable since childhood. From your early days as the daughter of the palace scribe to your current role as the palace historian, you were always there when the princess was receiving her education. You were the closest thing she had to a “classmate”, since she wasn’t allowed to go to school like the rest of the children. The King, seeing how happy her daughter was with having a friend like you, allowed you to attend to her during her studies. Over the years, you were always there for each other, sharing secrets, spending time, learning new things together.

Much to the dismay of the other nobles, of course, especially after Zelda’s 15th birthday. Scholar or not, you were just a commoner that lived in the palace, even worse, in their eyes you even were a bad influence (when you were kids) to the princess, making her sneak out of the palace to play with weird kids.

Hah, as if it wasn’t always her idea in the first place. Plus, Impa always kept a watch on you both.

You were guessing it wasn’t only because of the child shenanigans, but the way you looked at Zelda as well.

Of course, she didn’t have a gloom of air around her back then.

Your thoughts lingered on that vivid memory, etched deep within your soul. It was a day when a forest-clad boy, garbed in resplendent emerald green, had ventured into the palace courtyard. Princess Zelda had watched with unblinking fascination as the Gerudo chief, Ganondorf, exchanged words with her father, the benevolent King of Hyrule.

It was a child, but one bearing an uncanny foresight that sent shivers down your spine even now. He had delivered a grave warning, one that would alter the course of history. And you and Zelda had been there, witnesses to his proclamation.

Since that day, you had been there for Zelda, especially during the trying years that followed. You had watched as her once-vibrant spirit underwent a transformation, first gradually, then with ever-increasing intensity. After that fateful encounter, she had started experiencing visions—glimpses of both the past and future. Visions that didn't seem to belong to her personally from now, but were undeniably hers. A future of horrors that did not happen. She told you all about it as she cried on your shoulders. Your heart broke.

Recalling those turbulent times, you couldn't help but feel the weight of her burden. It was a burden she had borne with grace and strength, even as it gradually eclipsed the cheerful girl you once knew, leaving behind someone who carried the weight of destiny like a heavy cloak. Yet, you still admired her, perhaps even more now, for her resilience and unwavering determination in the face of a destiny she didn’t choose but embraced with unwavering resolve. And even though you knew she could put on a facade of cheerfulness for you, you appreciated the moments when she allowed her true self to shine through the cracks of her burdened existence.

So yes, you were going to shut up and let her do whatever for now.

You had decided to keep a low profile and let Zelda handle her royal responsibilities for now. Ever since she came of age, the palace nobles, and even the King, had become overly sensitive about your friendship with her. You vividly remembered a time when he had nearly reprimanded her for being too familiar with commoners, a far cry from what was expected of a princess. Even if Zelda didn’t realize, the nobles were certainly aware.

After that incident, her schedule became inundated with temple duties. However, given your proficiency as the palace historian, you still found ways to cross paths with her. But the formalities were now taken to the extreme, with a constant presence of chaperones ensuring everyone stuck to their roles. Sneaking into her room late at night or arranging brief meetings between guard shift changes had become the norm. To an outsider, it might have seemed like the meetings of secret lovers rather than two friends trying to share a conversation.

Occasionally, opportunities like this arose when the King was absent, and Zelda took charge of ceremonial affairs. It allowed you to convene in the tearoom of that secluded wing, with Impa discreetly keeping watch to ensure no unexpected guests interrupted your meeting.

_____

“You know somebody is going to notice at some point that those purifications are just us purifying our throats with tea and gossip,” you mused as you brought the teacup to your lips.

Zelda chuckled softly, her eyes meeting yours over the rim of her teacup. How you wanted to be that teacup right now.

"Oh, I'm sure they already have their suspicions," she replied with a mischievous glint in her eyes, as she leaned down a bit more than usual towards you to pick up the piece of sugar. You gulped. "But it's the palace, and gossip is a currency as valuable as rupees. Besides, I think they secretly envy us at our little tea gatherings."

As you laughed in the secluded tearoom, you and Zelda shared a moment of respite from the world outside. The unspoken bond between you had always been a well-guarded secret. The palace's nobles frowned upon your friendship, and your secret meetings had become a necessity to maintain the facade of formality that royalty demanded. If only they knew your true feelings.

Yet, in these stolen moments, you couldn't help but notice the stark contrast between the princess's public persona and the genuine warmth she reserved for you. Outside, she exuded an air of regality, concealing the weight of her royal responsibilities with practiced grace. But with you, there was no need for pretense. She was herself, her true self, a side of her that was never meant to be revealed to anyone else. You didn’t want anyone else to see it either. Her perfectly heart shaped face, deep sapphire eyes and lovely blonde locks.

The tea room's tranquility was disrupted by the knock of Impa, and you knew your time was running short. With a reluctant smile, you set down your teacup.

"It seems our tea time is coming to an end," you remarked, your tone betraying a hint of disappointment. Each time, each time this happened, something cracked in you. One day, it was going to break, you thought to yourself.

Zelda nodded, her eyes holding a mixture of gratitude and longing. Impa was right behind you.

"Until next time, my friend," she replied, a softness in her voice that was reserved only for you. Friend, of course. No way it could be anything more.

___

When the night fell, you finally got back to your room, rejoicing that tomorrow you could finally relax a bit. The King was still away, and Zelda abused her powers once again to make it a “rest day” for some of the staff, including her. She was going to get caught one day.

As you laid back on your bed that night, you shamefully thought back to the moment you dropped the books. The glance you got to her bosom. It wasn’t anything you haven’t seen before, you have seen her plenty of times as the maids were dressing her up, but she would at least be in her corset.

From the panic of the moment and then lured into the sweet conversation, you haven’t thought about it until now.

She wasn’t wearing a corset under that dress. And then in the tearoom she was leaning in a way that-

Oh. Oh.

How dense were you? But that surely wasn’t intentional, was it? She even called you friend.

That didn’t stop you from imagining what you could have been doing instead of drinking tea in that room. Cupping her face, pulling her closer. Making her straddle you on that sofa. A warmth spread to your core. Could have would have should have…

It was unbearable. You wanted to tell her, you wanted to feel her close.

But that would have no future. She had her duties. You would have to leave if it ever came out.

Your hand slowly went down to your thighs under your short nightgown, barely covering your hips, towards your bundle of nerves. You never wore underwear to bed.

And it wasn’t the first time you were doing this as you imagined her. It was going to be another lonely night, where you seek release to sleep, imagining yourself in her arms.

___

Maybe an hour or two had passed after you finally went to sleep. You opened your eyes as you heard your window… getting tapped? As the haziness of sleep was still with you, it took you a moment to realize it was Zelda, in her… Sheikah clothing. You occasionally made fun of her, naming her “Sheik”. You clumsily got out of your bed and silently opened the window, letting her in.

“My my, if it isn’t Sheik,” you teasingly whispered, looking at her figure perfectly highlighted by her outfit under the moonlight shining through your window.

"Ah, hush," she retorted with a playful smirk, removing her mask as she stepped further into the room. The moonlight painted her features with a soft glow, accentuating the beauty that had always captivated you. As she half threw herself on your bed, her legs still touching the floor yet her upper body flushed, you panicked internally, hoping she wasn’t close to the mini damp spot you might have caused on the sheets…A hint of a blush touched her cheeks, partially concealed by the shadows. Her eyes met yours, and for a moment, it felt like time itself had frozen. You decided to not give in to your paranoia, and realizing the gloomy state she is in, decided to try to cheer her up instead.

"Couldn't sleep?" you teased, a playful smile tugging at your lips.

She hesitated for a second before responding, "No, I... I needed to talk to someone."

“You know I’m here for you, always, come on get cozy,” you said as you moved onto the bed as well, making her put her legs up as you leaned to the bedframe and placed her head on your lap. You started caressing her hair as she closed her eyes, as you always did when she felt down. She didn’t know how you were melting inside, to her, it was surely a friendly gesture…

“Is it those weird vision dreams again?” you asked.

The gentle motion of your fingers through Zelda's hair seemed to relax her as she nodded slowly. "Yes," she replied, her voice barely above a whisper. "They're becoming more vivid, more real. And they're not just glimpses of the past or a future unlived anymore; I feel like I'm living someone else's life in those moments."

You couldn't help but admire how her eyelashes cast delicate shadows on her cheeks as she spoke, her vulnerability drawing you in even further. You'd been friends for so long, and yet, tonight felt different, like the air was charged with unspoken emotions.

"Have you told anyone about this, you know to the priestesses, that they were getting more intense?" you inquired, your thumb gently brushing her cheek.

Zelda sighed and opened her eyes, her gaze meeting yours. "No, I can't. They already think I'm strange enough as it is, with my overindulgence in scholarly pursuits and all."

You couldn't resist a teasing grin. "Well, I happen to like your scholarly pursuits…” Thanks to them I see you a little bit more, you wanted to say but stopped yourself. Instead you continued “They're part of what makes you so..."

You stopped yourself short, realizing you were about to tread on dangerous ground. But Zelda's curiosity was piqued, and she raised an eyebrow. "So what?" she prompted, her lips curving into a small, playful smile.

Your heart raced as you met her gaze, the unspoken tension between you growing more palpable with each passing moment. "So... captivating," you admitted, your voice barely a whisper.

Zelda's smile widened, and she let out a soft chuckle. "Captivating, huh? I'll take that as a compliment."

"It was meant as one," you replied, your fingers still gently caressing her hair. The room felt smaller, the air warmer.

She shifted slightly, now sitting on the bed, her eyes never leaving yours. "You know," she began, her voice a low, sultry murmur, "you have a way of making me forget about everything else when you're around."

Your heart skipped a beat, and you leaned in closer without realizing in the dimly lit room. "Funny," you whispered, "because you have a way of making me want to forget about everything else too."

Zelda paused. Did you go too far? The residual wetness between your legs from an hour ago was making itself known once again as the distance between you and her was a little bit less than before. You were painfully aware of the short nightgown you were wearing, rubbing your now slightly more sensitive nipples. Zelda visited you like this every now and then but something was different today.

Something was different tonight.

“Indeed, there are things I’d rather forget about, especially now…” she repeated in a whisper. You became aware where her gaze was. She was staring at your… lips? Her cheeks were a lovely shade of pink, making her look even more enticing than she was. One of her hands very discreetly and hesitantly found itself near your leg. Too close.

The atmosphere in the room was electric, charged with a potent mixture of desire and longing. Zelda's presence, her nearness, was intoxicating, and you couldn't deny the magnetic pull between you two. With her hand inching closer to your leg and your lips mere inches apart, the tension in the room reached its breaking point.

You both knew that crossing this line would forever change your friendship, but it felt inevitable, like the culmination of years of unspoken emotions.

“Zel…” you whispered as you slowly felt her gaze on every single part of your body, making you shudder. “We.. we can’t, you are the princess and…”

Zelda's fingers, now just a breath away from your leg, trembled slightly. Her eyes met yours, and you could see the turmoil of emotions within them. The vulnerability and longing were unmistakable, but so was the understanding of the complexity of your situation.

“Tonight, I'm just a Sheikah warrior…” the words somehow got out of her, you could feel her tears coming, barely audible. Your heart shattered, and as Zelda's hand brushed against your thigh, whatever self restraint you had then had just been thrown out of the window.

You closed the distance between you, and pulled her hesitantly into a soft kiss. Her lips were so soft, inviting and warm and she actually responded eagerly. Her fingers were tracing delicate patterns on your thighs as your tongue traced a gentle line on her bottom lip.

The world outside faded away, leaving only the two of you, lost in a sea of sensations and emotions.

When you finally broke the kiss, your breaths were heavy, and your hearts pounded in unison. Zelda's eyes met yours, and in that moment, all the unspoken words and hidden feelings were laid bare. You didn’t want to talk, you didn’t want this moment to end. She understood.

Because when tonight ended, you didn’t know if you could still face her again and live in the castle, knowing you would never be able to have her in the manner you wanted.

She would be married to another noble to produce more royal heirs, and you would slowly wilt away in the royal libraries.

You wouldn’t be able to live like that.

So for tonight, you just wanted to feel her. Drink in her essence.

For tonight, you clung to each other, finding solace in the knowledge that, in this stolen moment, you could be together, if only in the most intimate and ephemeral of ways.

#farie answers #fanfic request #zelda x reader #ocarina of time #zelda fanfiction #legend of zelda #zelda fandom #angst #smut #lemon #oot au #reader insert requests #reader insert #queer #lgbtq community #lgbtq #angst no comfort

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taintandviolent · 1 month ago

Text

be my woman, girl ; Remmick x reader

summary: As a lonely woman whose prayers are going unanswered, you prayed for something to take away your hurt. This time, something answers.

word count & w a r n i n g s: 2.6K | female reader, vampires, brief religious themes (praying, mention of God), spit kink, spit as a major aphrodisiac, dub-con if you tilt your head and look at it the right way, vampire sex, monsterfucking, fingering, unprotected sex, p in v, biting, blood mention, blood drinking and loss, I guess it's implied virgin!reader (though it isn't focused on).

a/n: just a quick lil somethin' somethin', but it is HEAVILY inspired by Nosferatu, and the vibe of this song. sorry that - spoiler alert - the vampire bites reader in every fic I write about them, I literally cannot stop myself from doing it. not beta-read, as per usual. dividers by @/v6que and @/adornedwithlight! PS: Thank you so much for all the love on my previous Remmick fic, you guys are such darlings!

↓ fic under cut! ↓ / ao3 link here! / I don’t have a taglist anymore, but please turn on post notifications if you’d like to be notified of future fics!

The house is quiet aside from the occassional creak or whine; wood panels shift against each other, moaning low like your grandparents as they sat in a chair. Houses breathed every now and then — never scared you any.

Unlike everyone else, you're wide awake. Though your room is dark, the dreams haven't come for you. Pale, blue moonlight washes your features as you stand in front of the window, looking out into the front yard. There's nothing, no one.

That's just it… no one.

Your head hangs heavy, burdened by the aching, stinging loneliness that you felt.

No one for you, ever.

Hell, even your sister had found someone this past spring. Everyone always said you'd get married first 'cause you were the pretty one of the two. But you hadn't. Men didn't flirt with you, they just passed you by, as casual as can be. People shushed your worries by saying that God works in mysterious ways, when the time is right, can't rush love, and so on. None of those trivial phrases helped you any, you were still alone at the close of every night. So you'd pray. Just like you did every night. You looked up into that sky and prayed your heart out, prayed until you were blue in the face.

You thumb the latch to unlock it and with a small vocalization, push the window up. The sheer curtains flutter delicately, like ghosts in the breeze. The night air floods in, bathing your face and neck in it and you sink softly to your knees, resting your elbows on the wood of the sill. Your hands are clasped tightly together — as tight as you can — and you press your fists against your mouth for a moment as the tears well up in your eyes.

"Please," you beg, speaking against your own fingers. "I am so lonely. I can't bear it any longer. My heart aches somethin' awful..."

You sniff, and lift your eyes to the moon in all her luminous glory, hot tears streaming down your cheeks. "If there's anyone out there… take away my sufferin', take away my pain. I am beggin' you."

You hold your breath, waiting. You're acutely aware of all the sounds; a breeze flutters through the tall grasses and the old trees on your daddy's property, the branches creak loudly against each other, a twig snaps somewhere in the distance. Pricks of light flitter across the forest. An animal, probably. You see them every night.

"Please, come to me." Spoken through tears and snot. "I'm beggin'."

Still shrouded in the shadows of the forest, two of the pinpricks of light stop in the foot-trodden pathway to your front door. You clumsily wipe your tears away with the back of your hand and lean forward out of the window, trying to focus on the fuzzy darkness. They look like eyes, of a coyote or something similar, but you didn't notice until now that the figure seems taller than that, on account of where the eyes are.

You blink.

They blink back before they grow closer, carried on upright steps.

You gasp. Shocked by your own noise, your hand flies to your mouth as though it'll muffle the breathing. You duck back inside the window and fall backwards, catching yourself on your hands. There's a funny feeling roiling in your stomach, like a pit of wet snakes, slippin' and slidin' around in your gut.

From this angle, you can't see the reflective gaze anymore, but the curtains still flutter, seeming to whisper to you, calling your name in a tone that only you can hear. You scoot back, dragging your body along the floorboards until your back hits the bed post, and keeping your gaze locked on the window, you awkwardly crawl up into the bed, twisting your body in a way that doesn't disrupt your line of sight. You slither underneath the covers, pulling them up to your neck like a frightened child.

The window's still open… but you're too afraid to get up again, 'cause maybe those eyes would still be staring right at you. So, you nestle yourself deeper under the covers and stare at that window until your lids get heavy. Eventually, though you don't know how long it takes, you drift off to sleep.

The dreams start as soon as your body settles, as soon as your limp hand falls off the side of the bed, fingertips pointing towards the floor. A shadowed figure stands at the edge of your bed, his hand extended. His fingers are long, tipped by claws that reach out to you and cast terrifying shadows on your bedsheets. Those same reflective eyes stare down at you, watching you tremble. He moves closer, the shadows crawling up the length of your bed until they're pressed down against you. There's nothing on top of you but shadows, and yet, you can't move, pinned in place by some unseen force.

You awake with a heave, a strangled cry that dies in your throat as soon as you're upright. Beads of sweat decorate your chest, and ribbon down into the confines of your nightgown, disappearing into the fabric. Your room is dark and cool, but that does little to bring down the temperature of your feverish body.

Downstairs, you think. It felt natural, like you'd thought it. You throw the covers off your body, and tiptoe to your bedroom door, careful of each barefoot step. You bite your lip and with a gentle pull, you twist the knob and pull it open, praying it doesn't squeak. It doesn't.

You pad carefully down the steps, avoiding the one that creaks, and make your way to the front door. Again, the night air greets you like an old, forgotten friend and you inhale.

Those reflective eyes are staring right at you through the screen door. You can see 'em, clear as day. A moth flutters past your line of sight. As you turn on the porch light, your bare toes tease the edge of the threshold.

"What… what do you want?" Your voice is hoarse, barely above a whisper.

You make a fist in your nightgown, digging your nails into the soft fabric. He takes another step and leaves the shadows behind, allowing the light to illuminate his handsome features. His head tilts slightly as he considers your question, and an assured smile crosses his face.

"Aww, darlin'. You. I'm here for you…" he says, sweet like honey.

His accent is heavy and Southern, but something hides underneath it. You grip your nightgown tighter, suppressing a shudder that threatens to rip through your core. Something about him makes you wanna' step forward into the night, into his arms, but you resist. You shake your head, dislodging the lustful thoughts that try to take root in your brain.

He looks you up and down a few times before clicking his tongue in a disapproving way. You look down at yourself; sweat-soaked and dissheveled, your hair probably a mess, eyes swollen with sleep… God knows what else this man saw. Smelled. Understood.

"You poor thing… Ain't you tired, baby? Tired of screamin' and cryin' for a God that don't listen?"

You were.

"You called," he drawls. "I came."

He did.

He shoulders the door frame, leaning against it, peering at you through the mesh screen. You take a step back, and shake your head again, like a child shaking off her bad dreams. He runs a single finger along the edge of the screen, sharp nail scraping across the mesh with a barely audible tick tick tick. You understand now.

Quickly, but quietly, you push the door shut with a flattened palm. Maybe you were still dreaming. There. All better. Because really… what kinda' prayer is answered in the middle of the night? You hurry back through the darkened house, up the stairs and back into your room. For a moment, you listen in the hallway for sounds of stirring.

Satisfied that everyone's still sleeping, you turn around, leaning your back into the door gently. As soon as your eyes focus again, your muscles tense up and go rigid like steel. You slap your hand over your mouth, muffling the yelp that claws its way up your throat. You reel back, pressing yourself tightly against the door, like you could melt back through it.

Your eyes scrape tenatively along the floorboards, crawling up the elongated shadow of a man until you get to the figure that owns it. That same man leans against your window in a casual, relaxed position.

Be brave, girl.

"How'd you get in here?" You hiss, looking back at your bedroom door. "I ain't said you could—"

He lifts up a single finger, waving it back and forth, effectively shushing you. "Ohhh, you sure did, darlin'."

Remmick clears his throat theatrically, and falls forward to his knees. All at once, his nonchalant expression contorts into one of pain, of longing, of desperation, as he crawls towards you, frowning. "Please come to me…" he mocks in a higher tone, clutching his hands at his chest. "I'm beggin'…"

The realization feels heavy, your jaw hanging slack as you hear him. The world seems to lose its color around you, the floor drags you down by the hem of your gown. You sink to the wood, your ass hitting it with a soft thud. I called him.

His hands drops away from his chest as he knee-walks closer to you, reaching out to sweep your hair away from your temple. "Don't you fret now, ain't no sense in that. Remmick's gonna' make that hurt go away."

Remmick? Was that his name? When you give a devil a name, does it make him less terrifying?

As Remmick crawls over your body, you flatten against the floor, trying to shrink yourself away from him. He throws one knee up and over your hips, pinning you in place with his own. The sensation is intoxicating, and you feel damp heat pool between your thighs. He smiles, savoring the look of you beneath him, soft and supple, pretty and vulnerable.

Somewhere, you were scared. That somewhere that was too far away because your cunt, hot and aching, betrays you, clenching deeply at the feeling of a man on top of you — his weight felt like a blessing, like the long-awaited answer to a prayer. You writhe out of instinct though, clinging to some pure ideal, one that makes the corner of Remmick's lip hitch up in a snarl like he's smelled something foul. His teeth glint in the moonlight, pricks of jagged white amongst the darkness of his mouth.

"Y'got whatcha' asked fer'… don't go and be ungrateful now."

Lightning fast, Remmick's hand lurches out, pinching the sides of your mouth, forcing it open. He holds it there, while his own mouth opens, a stream of thick saliva stretching from his tongue. As it descends, you want to convulse and rip your head away, but with a clawed grip, he holds your head in place. It hits your tongue, dripping towards your throat. A warmth, a comfort, settles over your body, like the rays of sun kissing your body on a summer day, or slipping into a warm bath on a cool night. It's an all-enveloping feeling and you shudder, relaxing into the floor. Your body is no longer rigid, no longer fighting against him. Your legs part, hitching your nightgown up around your thighs in the process.

All you can do is look up into his glowing eyes, watching as the corners of his mouth curl up into a smile. Your back arches against his touch, his thumb brushing over the plumpness of your bottom lip. He smears his own saliva across your mouth. Onto your cheek. You smile lazily, and he nods encouragingly. "That's a-girl…"

With a little maneuvering, he slots himself between your thighs and his hands come down on either side of your neck. You feel his proximity, and whimper, angling your hips upward to grind against a rigidness you know is there, and Remmick lurches forward, sealing his lips to your neck.

He sucks at the skin, sucks until the flesh reddens, until it aches. The ache is a dull one, and even though you ought to stop him, you don't. Your hands find the nape of his neck, fingers sliding up through his dark hair, pulling him closer. He draws one hand down to free himself, and yank your panties to the side. You're no longer lonely, no longer sad. Lust claims your senses, without a care in the world.

Two fingers prod your entrance and you hitch your leg higher, allowing him more room. He sinks them in, breaching her, his thumb bumping into your swollen clit. Satisfied, he exhales above you, enamoured with the way your body sings back to him. With no hesitation, Remmick curves them deep within your cunt a few times, sending stars across your vision. As soon as you moan against the shell of his ear, he withdraws them and you feel him line himself up, the thick, velvet head pressing against the slit.

He's met with no resistance from your eager body, so Remmick sheaths himself inside your slick, waiting walls in one thrust. At first, there's heat as his cock stretches you wide, but your cunt adjusts, hungrily clenching around the shaft. His body undulates against yours, pressing tightly against your sweet, womanly figure as he thrusts, driving himself as deep as he can.

For a good few minutes, there's nothing but the sound of skin slapping against skin, feverish breaths and hushed moans. Remmick hums suddenly into your neck, pressing one tender kiss to the bruised flesh, reverently. He's still buried inside you, cock twitching with an impending release.

Breathily, he speaks as he strokes the side of your sweat-streaked face. "You asked fer' someone to take yer' sufferin' away and I'm gonna' do just that. I'm gonna' take away that hurt."

You whimper below him, a semblance of understanding of what's about to happen flashing across your darling features. "Shhh, this ain't gonna' sting but a second."

He leans in again, and you feel a flash of searing pain as fangs pierce your tender skin, drawing a gush of your sweet, cerise nectar out onto his tongue. Remmick groans at the coppery taste of your blood as it floods his mouth, and begins hungrily suckling at your neck, swallowing against the bleeding flesh. His hips find a new rhythm, and you feel your heartbeat pounding through your body — every inch of you seems to have a pulse — but he's right. It only hurts for a moment before you ease into the feeling, your body's natural defenses numbing the pain.

Now, the feeling drives you over the edge. Your vision darkens around the edges, throbbing between focused and blurry. You give a hard shiver as you spasm around his cock, coating him in slick arousal, and Remmick bucks his hips hard into your clenches, chasing his own release. With your hot blood clogging his throat, he asks of eternity, and you nod sleepily.

When he crashes down from that electric peak of pleasure, you feel dizzy. The sensation of being full claims you, wraps you up, and coddles you. Though, in your last moments, you can't mourn the loss of your precious life, you can't be sad… you'd asked for someone to take away your pain, your suffering, and for someone to come to you.

He'd heard you.

"Remmick," you say, drowsily.

He shushes you again with a clawed fingertip. You hear the dull thud of knuckles against a door. Your head lolls to the side, and Remmick straightens it out, leaving crimson fingerprints on your cheek before his weight leaves you.

The last thought you have is daddy, don't open that door.

But he does anyway.

Remmick is there to meet him.

#remmick x reader #remmick x you #remmick #remmick fanfic #remmick smut #vampires #x reader #reader insert #female reader #myfics #semi inspired by a request I got also

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