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spicy30 · 3 days ago

Text

Ich bin ein Jäger

Pairing(s): Remmick (Sinners) x Fem! Augustine Vampire! WOC! Reader

Crossover: TDV→Sinners (Reader has no prior knowledge of anything in the TDV universe. Just someone who is an Augustine Vampire.)

cw: graphic scenes (violence) Age gap (Idk who would be older), Stockholm syndrome???

Rating: 18+

Add-ons: AFAB reader, no use of Y/N, one-sided pinning?

(Not Proofread)

WC: 10.4K

It’s a small town. To be expected is all the eyes on him as he enters a church. A white man (Not that the ‘real’ white people agree that he is a white man, but that’s neither here nor there.) in church, the pressure felt like he’s not supposed to be here. But all people will be his people. So, for now, Remmick ignores it..

This is a church and all are welcomed, that is what is preached. Especially on this night.

Christmas.

Only time he gets to enter a church without burning alive. Only time he gets to hear the words that remind him of home. (Even if they’re not in that exact order.)

Remmick is looking at the pastor. He knows this pastor. A good man, with a good wife and their precious little daughter who doesn’t seem to like this church very much. His eyes shift to you. Your leg is bouncing. It bounces through the entire sermon. Your eyes never left the cross. Not even as the church ended. (Though the longer Remmick looks at the cross, the stranger it looks. Its end is jagged and splintered.)

A man approaches Remmick. Remmick gives a smile. The smile returned. After all he did save the man, and he was invited to this gathering. Then comes the pastor. Again Remmick smiles. He greets the pastor. A good frim shake, then a softer grip on his wife. Then comes you. Pretty little smile on your face.

Maybe you’re just being polite. It’s expected of you, after all. Expected of your people. Because if you dare to push back when someone steps on your neck—They’ll only press harder and eventually they’ll break it. (What does the death of a woman of color mean to the white man?) And just looking at your neck, well, it don’t look like it’ll take much to break.

“Hi.” You extend your hand to him and he gladly takes it. You’re warm, like all people are.

“Hello.” He returns your greeting and almost as a reward, you give him your name. In thanks, he gives you his. It isn’t long before he’s ushered away from you and instead taken to others as they offer to share their food with him. Food that they have labored to get. Worked for days in the sun (What he wouldn’t give to feel the sun again and it not burn him as if he ain’t trying to alleviate the burden his people faced—the burden your people now face.) to get this meal on the table.

He sits at a table between two men. Remmick knows he looks out of place, but what does it matter?

Before anything Remmick smells the food.

Can’t have no garlic.

He takes a bite. Don’t taste like anything. Not to him, but when he looks up as he’s chewing he sees you eating with a smile on your face enjoying the food.

Everyone is smiling. Laughing. Sharing stories and food like it’s enough to keep the world from collapsing. (But it’s not. But what he can deliver is enough.)

Remmick knows it’s not enough to simply have this. He knows it’s not. Just like he knows your daddy is struggling to pay the bills. Just like he knows your mother is struggling to keep her store afloat. Just like he knows the man next to him is struggling to meet his quota. Just like he knows the woman across from him is crying herself to sleep every night because her husband is out fucking whores and the man fucking the whores? Well, Remmick knows he does it because he can’t stand his own life.

It’s no way to live.

And you? Well he knows you too. He knows you hate going to church. He knows you hate humid heat. Knows you know about your family’s troubles — and he knows you’re going to try and fix them.

Though how? Remmick has yet to find out. Maybe you’ll pawn that ring of yours on your hand. Pretty little thing. Jewel catches every bit of light in the room. Looks expensive. Too expensive. Where’d you get a ring like that, anyway?

He doesn’t know. Not yet.

You’re talking to a man next to you, but your eyes keep finding him. That little game he likes to play sometimes. See who'll look the longest. Remmick always tends to win that game. And he does with you. Over and over again until the night starts to thin. It’ll be morning soon. He’ll have to head to his house soon. (Not home. Home is across the sea. Home is long gone.) A temporary place.

A few people pass Remmick on the way out. Some nod. Some just look.

No one says his name.

And then he sees you again.

You’re standing by the window now, arms crossed, eyes still on that damn cross up front — even from here. Your ring taps the side of your elbow, soft and steady. Like a clock.

He stands.

Walks slow.

He doesn’t speak right away. Just stands beside you and looks out the same window.

“Did ya’ like it?” He heard you mumble beside him. He turned to you and you had a small soft smile on your face.

“I did.” You smiled again looking up to the cross once more. The light caught your ring.

“I’m glad. Everyone should have the chance to enjoy the lord on this day.” That confused Remmick. “No matter who we are. Don’t you think so?” You were now smiling at him again. The confusion sat with him. You didn’t like church.

“I do.” It was all he could say before you walked off.

“Well then, have a blessed night.” You left with your parents before he could say anything more.

…

The next time Remmick sees you, it’s through a window. You’re there, talking to the man from Christmas eve. The sunlight makes your skin shine. You shine almost as much as the ring on your finger.

Then you motion to his house. Remmick’s ears perk.

“I heard the white boy is living over there.” You whispered to the man next to you. The man only scoffed.

“Reckon all them white folk gon start comin’ here?” Remmick kept his eyes on you. You simply looked away from his house and faced the sun letting it warm your skin, or so he can imagine. He hasn’t felt the sun in centuries. Not without it blistering him raw anyways.

“God’s plan I sus’pose.” Maybe Remmick didn’t know you. Least, not as well as he thought.

“The devil and the white man.” Remmick could only smile at the man’s words. “You afraid of the white man? The devil?”

You left Remmick’s sight, though he could hear you clear as day. “I don’t fear the devil.”

“You a God-fearin’ woman, then?” The man asked. As you both walked further and further, Remmick strained to hear your answer. Though in the end, he was left to speculate cause Remmick never heard your answer. He wonders what you’d do if you ever saw the devil. Many say they don’t fear the devil. Well…the devil's never come for them. But Remmick knows the devil. It came for him and his people, and now, they’re after yours. The devil that wears a pointy white hat preaching that all men are equal, but some are more equal than others.

Well since he never heard you answer, it'd be best if he went to find out himself.

And so he does. It’s night when he walks. And you — you live deep on the southside, damn near the bayous. The kind of place where the roads narrow to dirt and gravel, and the streetlights don’t bother shining. The air is thick out here. Heavy with swamp heat and cicada buzz. Spanish moss hangs like old ghosts from the trees, and something unseen slinks through the reeds just off the road.

Strange for a pastor to be so far from his flock.

Remmick steps up the creaking porch steps. Peeling paint, warped boards. A porch swing sways slow, like someone just left it. He raises his fist and knocks. Once. Twice. Three times — a pattern made for stories that never end well.

(But not his story. For what he brings is salvation)

Again, his ears listen. He hears your voice from inside. Tired, but clear. “I got it, Daddy.” How trusting.

The door opens with a soft scrape of wood on wood.

You’re there, framed by the crooked doorway and warm house light spilling out behind you. A yellowed hallway. Faint smell of oil and iron and old Bible paper. And you — in a robe, hair tied, lips bare.

“Hello,” you say.

Remmick’s eyes go straight to your hand. That ring again. Big and bright, even under moonlight.

“What are you doing out here? This late at night?” Your tone is different. None of that sweet Sunday warmth. No church politeness. No false softness. You’re not smiling either.

Yes. Maybe Remmick didn’t know you.

“Thought I’d come by and say hi,” he answers. “Ain’t seen you since Christmas.”

“That so?” Your brow lifts — and there’s something sharp in your voice now. Like a blade kept just under the tongue.

“It is so.” He waits. Wonders when you’ll let him in. Night hums around you both — crickets and frogs singing their ancient hymns.

You open the door a little wider and lean against the frame, arms crossed under your chest. An invitation, maybe. “Couldn’t’ve come to see me during church?” you ask.

Remmick tilts his head, lets that wolf’s smile tug at the corner of his mouth. “You were so nice the first time,” he says. “Figured — why wait?”

You smile back. He can’t figure out if it’s nice or not. “This late? Had my daddy opened the door, you'd have been shot, boy.”

“Guess I should count myself lucky then,” Remmick says, still smiling, “that it was you who opened the door.”

You tilt your head at that. The porch light flickers once, as if considering going out. A moth bats against the glass like it’s trying to warn someone. You don’t move from the doorway.

“Guess you should,” you say, voice smooth as molasses but with something else underneath. “But I think your luck’ll run out sooner or later.”

You step just an inch closer—not enough to close the gap, not enough to invite, but enough to make him wonder what you’d do if he tried to cross the threshold.

“Now best run along,” you say, your voice quieter. “’Fore my father finds out there’s a white boy on our porch.”

The word white hangs in the air between you, sticky and heavy. Out here, it don’t just mean skin—it means history. It means ghosts with badges and fire, it means burnt crosses and blood-soaked soil. Remmick knows what it means. He remembers.

He could linger. He could lean in and say something slick. But there’s something in your eyes that stops him. Not fear. Not even hate. Just knowing.

He takes a step back, slow. Tips an imaginary hat like he’s leaving a saloon. “Wouldn’t want to overstay my welcome.”

“You already did,” you reply, soft and if he’s not hallucinating, playfully. You shut the door before he can say another word.

Behind it, he hears the faint sound of your footsteps—bare feet on old floorboards. Then the click of a lock sliding into place.

Smart girl.

He stands there for a moment longer, staring at the door, then turns and walks back into the swamp-dark night. The heat wraps around him like a second skin. The moss above sways in the still air like something watching.

Remmick’s smile fades.

No, he didn’t know you. But now, he wants to.

And so he does.

The next time he sees you, he’s sitting under a magnolia tree, its wide, waxy leaves rustling just enough to remind the world that the air still moves. He’s fine-tuning his banjo, the old wood resting against his thigh like an old friend. It’s sunset—the sky bleeding gold and peach, the kind of light that makes everything look softer than it really is.

The sun isn’t touching him—not directly—but still, he feels the phantom burn along his skin. Like a memory that lives in the muscle. Like his body knows better than to trust the light.

He ain’t welcome here. Not really. Not by the living, and certainly not by the dead that linger in these woods, these fields, these old bones of a town.

And yet, here you come.

You’re walking slow, arms tucked behind your back like a schoolgirl with a secret. You don’t look right at him, but he knows better. You’re watching from the corner of your eye, just enough to let him know you see him—but not enough to let him see you.

He plucks at a string. Then another. Then another. A lazy little tune. Just testing the cords.

The sound hums low and warm, curling through the air like smoke from a porch cigar. Notes hang between you like fireflies blinking on for the night.

You still haven’t said a word. But you’re not walking away either. That’s something. He plays a little more.

“Can you sing?” Finally, you turn your head to him, but your body stays angled away—like even your shadow doesn't know what to make of him yet.

Remmick stands. His eyes flicker to the horizon where the sun is hanging by its last thread. The final golden gasp before night swallows it whole. Finally, those cruel rays are low enough he can risk a step. So he does.

Just a little one.

The moment his foot touches the edge of light, his skin hisses. A soft, mean sound like bacon grease popping in a cast iron pan. He flinches, but he walks. Toward you.

Can you hear it? Can you smell the faint scorch of flesh? He’s burning just walking to you.

“Just a little,” he says, and his voice is steady even if his body isn’t. “Can you?”

You turn your head away. “I never cared much for music,” you reply. “So no. I can’t sing.” It’s the kind of thing said to shut a conversation down. But you don’t leave. You don’t walk away.

Remmick catches that.

He nods, slow, and looks at the road behind you. The way the shadows are getting longer. The way the trees whisper louder as the night gets closer. “Let me walk you home,” he offers.

There’s nothing syrupy in his voice. No charm. No flirt. Just the plain weight of the offer.

He watched as your eyes trail his face. From his eyes down. You’re trying to hide it. After all, a girl like you with a man like him? Well, for others, it just wouldn’t do.

(Or maybe you were just looking at his skin. The skin that is currently healing from the burns you caused.)

“You get sunburned?” Your eyes are trained on his collar bones. “I don’t see you out in the sun much. Your kind ain’t meant for it.”

He grins. The kind of grin that doesn’t show teeth. “You’re right. Sun don’t like my kind much. It’s dark now. I’ll take you home.”

You shake your head, but the corner of your mouth lifts. “My daddy wouldn’t like it.”

“I reckon he wouldn’t.” You don’t say yes. But you start walking—and you don’t stop him when he falls into step beside you.

The night rises around you both, thick with crickets and the far-off hum of cicadas. And the burn of the sun is gone, Remmick doesn’t feel the burn.

Just the quiet.

And your footsteps, steady in the dark. Then he hears it. Faint screeching off in the distance—too sharp, too wet. The kind that clings to the bones. The vultures. Always nearby. Always waiting. He calls them his shadows, though they ain’t loyal. Just hungry. Well, it’s a bad night for them. He ain’t gonna kill you—least not yet.

(It’s too bad he never thought they were there for him. Though why would he ever think that?)

Not when he still ain’t gotten his answer.

The path ahead twists like a snake through the tall grass. Eerily silent, save for the screeching. No crickets. No wind. Even the trees seem to be holding their breath. He looks to his side—

You're gone.

Remmick stops cold. No one leaves him without him knowing. No one just slips away.

A hiss cracks the stillness from his right. He turns.

There’s a feeling, deep and primal, starting to claw at his insides.

Before thought can catch up, his left leg jolts back on instinct— Snap.

He looks down. A gator. Biggest one he’s ever seen. Thick-scaled, eyes yellow and slick like oil. The air reeks of rot and mud. It hisses again, low and mean.

Remmick backs up, slow, cautious. But the thing lurches forward, jaws snapping inches from his foot. Animals don’t attack him. They bark, they hiss, they flee—but they don’t dare come close.

Not ever.

Another snap. It lunges. Remmick stumbles, his boots losing grip on the moss-slick path. He goes down hard, the earth cold and wet against his back.

The gator charges.

Though just before Remmick could flash his teeth, there you were. Grabbed the gator by its tail. It hissed at you before turning around and running away.

“You alright?” you ask, voice low. Where you came from, he didn’t know. How you got here without him hearing, he couldn’t say.

But your chest is rising fast, and your eyes are wide, shining in the dark. The moonlight catches on your ring again, that jewel blazing like a second eye. He nods slowly, still on the ground, mud soaking into his shirt. “Yeah. I’m alright.”

But what he doesn’t say is— He’s never seen anything like that before. Not from a person.

“I didn’t see it,” Remmick said quickly, getting to his feet. “Where’d you go?”

“Oh, I saw a flower just a few steps back,” you said casually looking down. “Guess you didn’t hear me stop.”

“I didn’t,” he admitted, scanning the path behind you.

“Look,” you said, lifting the bloom between two fingers. You held it up—a red hibiscus, full and blooming like it had something to prove.

“It is pretty,” Remmick said, glancing from the flower to you.

Your brows furrowed, and your eyes drifted to his hands. “Did you hurt yourself?” you asked, voice tinged with concern.

Remmick looked down. One hand had a gash in it, smeared with blood and dirt. “Guess I…” he started, then looked to his right—You weren’t there anymore.

“Did,” he muttered, blinking. Then he turned left—There you were. Smiling.

You’d just been on his right.

“Let me help you,” you said softly. Your eyes stayed lowered. In the dark, they looked almost black and he swears he hears your veins pumping blood faster than he’s ever heard. It almost sounds like porcelain cracking.

“Did you always have that purse?” he asked, eyeing the little blue thing at your side.

“Yes,” you replied, almost laughing at him, the corners of your mouth twitching. “Here,” you said, stepping closer. You took his hand. You were warm. Still human-warm. But you smelled like fresh blood. Clean. Bright. Familiar in a way that made his fangs ache.

From your purse, you pulled cotton and gently dabbed at his wound. He’d have been healed by morning— But you’d never been this close before. And he’d never smelled anything like you.

Got him droolin’.

After you cleaned his wound, you moved with careful, deliberate ease—tucking the bloodied cotton back into your purse, the soft crunch of the material the only sound for a moment. Then came the bandages, pulled from some inner pocket like you’d done this before. You wrapped them around his hand, gentle but firm, your fingers warm against his skin.

Remmick licked the side of his mouth, wiping away what drool he could reach. “It’s a nice ring,” he said, voice low.

You pulled back slightly, your eyes flicking down. He watched you turn your hand, examining the jewel like you hadn’t noticed it before. “Yeah,” you said, tone light but layered, “an old friend was kind enough to give it to me.”

Your gaze met his, and for a split second, he could’ve sworn the whites of your eyes weren’t white at all—but tinged red, like veins swelling just beneath the surface.

“That, and she owed me a couple of favors,” you added with a smile, one that was more teeth than kindness.

Then your hand lifted—slow, soft, deliberate—and you wiped the edge of his mouth where he’d missed the drool. It was an intimate gesture. Too intimate.

Maybe if Remmick had been paying attention, he would’ve noticed the strange way your fingers lingered just a second too long. Maybe he would’ve caught the lack of sound you emmit. (Humans make all kinds of sounds.) Maybe he would’ve known that humans are supposed to be cold when they sweat, but you’re always warm, no matter how much your body sweats. (Though, has he ever seen you sweat?)

But he wasn’t paying attention. He was watching your eyes, trying to remember what they looked like the first time he saw you. Now your pupils were dilated. Then they weren’t. Then they were again.

Over and over, your pupils changed sizes. A flickering pulse. Like they were breathing. Like something was watching him from inside you.

“Well,” you said, breaking the silence, “I’d offer to walk you home, but…” — you turned your gaze toward the glowing windows of your house — “I have a curfew. And technically, you just walked me.”

Remmick chuckled, licking his bottom lip again, eyes still trained on you. “I’d never ask a lady to walk me home.”

You stepped up onto your porch, your weight light against the old wood, but before opening the door, you turned back with that same strange smile. The kind that made his stomach feel like it was turning over slow in his gut.

“Well, goodnight, Remmick,” you said softly.

“Goodnight, m’lady,” he returned, tipping his head just slightly.

You paused, hand on the doorknob, then added, “Watch out for them gators on your way home. Good rule of thumb—watch for the vultures. If they’re around, chances are something aiming for you is too.”

Then the door closed, and Remmick was left alone on the porch. He knows the rules well. He’s the reason why the rule exists.

…

You’ve been walking around with someone new. Someone like you. Remmick doesn’t say anything. He just watches.

You’re out every night.

Fancy that. Preacher’s daughter out every night, and with someone you’re not supposed to be with.

Remmick doesn’t know where this new feller is from, but he doesn’t have a beating heart. It’s only confirmed when the man is smiling at him through your window. Familiar red eyes and long fangs smiling at him.

Remmick hasn’t gotten his answer from you yet. He don’t want you dead just yet. So up he goes on your porch steps giving three knocks, just like he did the first time. The man answers the door. He opens it halfway and leans on the frame, shaking his head slowly.

“If you know what’s best for you,” Remmick drawled, voice low and steady, “you’ll come outside.”

The man’s smile never touches his eyes. “No,” he murmured. “If I know what’s best for me, I’ll stay inside. Where you’re not allowed.”

Then, right before Remmick’s eyes, the red fades from the man’s irises, shifting—smooth and eerie—into a milky white.

Like bone. Like rot.

The man’s name leaves your lips—soft, questioning—and soon enough, you’re standing at the door with one brow raised.

“Remmick?” you ask, glancing between him and the man beside you. The pale, unnatural glow of the other’s eyes fades, shifting back into something more human, though they still don’t quite belong to him. He looks at you, head slightly tilted, waiting.

“What are you doing here?” you ask again, voice quieter now, laced with something unreadable. Before Remmick can answer, the man steps beside you, all too eager, and starts to usher you back inside.

Remmick steps forward, his tone harder than usual. “I think you should let me in.” Normally, he’d take his time, work his way around the rules with a little charm—but that man behind you looks ready to take your head clean off your shoulders. Probably will, too.

“Look,” you say with a smile, one that doesn’t reach your eyes, “I know we’ve talked a few times, but that don’t mean we friends. You gon’ get me in trouble. Can’t be in this part of town, Remmick.”

As you speak, your smile fades, slowly, piece by piece.

“Now you ain’t gotta—” the man beside you begins, voice low and agitated.

“Go inside,” you cut in, voice firm, but you never look at him. Remmick watches as the man lingers. From behind you, he catches the snarl stretching across the man’s face—fangs glinting in the dim porch light, a string of drool slipping from the corner of his mouth. The man holds Remmick’s gaze for a beat longer, flashing one last jagged smile.

Then he turns and slinks deeper into the house.

“Look, I know you don’t much like my kind—me being white and all—but I really do think you should—” Remmick started, his voice low, edged with urgency. He turned back to you, his smile gone. All that was left was a plain, pleading expression. A silent beg for you to let him in.

“What?” you snapped, cutting him off. Your brows drew together, your tone sharper now. “It’s not about you being—” You stopped yourself, jaw tightening. You exhaled through your nose. “Alright then. Fine.”

You glanced toward the tree line, then back at him. Your voice dropped, the edge still there, but now it was weighed with warning.

“You can’t be out here right now, Remmick. The Klan ain’t too far from us. These woods have eyes.” You crossed your arms tightly over your chest. “I was bein’ nice the first two times, but you really have to go.”

Remmick didn’t move.

Didn’t blink.

Didn’t breathe.

Not for a long second.

“I’m not here to cause trouble,” he said, voice low. “But that man in your house? He’s not right—”

“I didn’t ask.” Then, slowly, without slamming it or snapping it shut, you closed the door in his face. The sound was quiet. Final. Remmick stood there a moment longer, staring at the wood grain, then turned and disappeared into the dark.

The vultures started circling again.

Turning on his heel, Remmick bolted toward the man you’d been speaking to that night—the first time he'd seen you together. It didn’t take much to con his way close enough. One slip of the mind, one slack moment in the neck, and Remmick had him.

He drained him fast, too fast. He didn’t have time to savor it or let the man ease into death. He needed him turned, and he needed it now.

He only hoped he wasn’t too late.

(A head was already hanging by a thread of skin.)

The man awoke with a gasp like he’d broken through the surface of a black river. Blood spilled from his mouth. His hands clawed at the air, confused and feral.

Remmick grabbed him, yanking him close, their foreheads pressing together. His voice was strained, shaking from urgency and the weight of too much stolen blood.

“Get in the house,” he ordered, “and kill the man in there.”

He let go, and the newborn vampire stumbled forward, but caught himself, his instincts kicking in quick. Off he went.

Remmick wasn’t far behind, keeping to the trees. His ears sharpened for signs of life, breath, movement—anything.

He heard you.

You were breathing hard. Annoyed. He could hear it in your exhale—like a tired sigh through clenched teeth.

Then came the knock. The turned man stood on your porch, calling your name in a voice full of false pain, begging for help.

Remmick watched from the treeline.

And maybe it was just the way the shadows moved—but your eyes looked darker now. Your cheeks, hollowed out. Something strange clung to the corners of your mouth.

Just before he could focus, really focus, you turned away. You opened the door. And let him in.

Not a second later, there was fighting.

Remmick strained his ears.

He could hear you. Yelling. Screaming. Pleading with someone—“Stop!”

Then a cry of pain.

But it wasn’t yours. And it wasn’t the vampire you’d let into your house.

It was his. The newborn.

Then your scream followed. Sharp. Guttural. Like you were being torn apart from the inside.

The back door of your house slammed open. A head rolled out.

Remmick’s breath caught as he saw his freshly turned vampire stumble after it, a stake driven clean through his heart. Behind him, you stepped outside—blood smeared across your arms, your dress, even your neck. From the treeline, Remmick could see your hands trembling.

You looked... lost.

Your eyes darted over the yard like they were searching for something, someone. Then, behind you, the vampire moved—clawed fingers outstretched, crawling toward you with his last breath.

“Move!” Remmick shouted, bolting from the trees. You didn’t. You stood frozen as the vampire’s claws sank into you. He heard the rip. The unmistakable sound of flesh tearing.

Remmick caught your wrist and yanked you away, pulling you both deep into the bayou. The vampire would die soon enough. That stake would see to it.

Branches cracked beneath your feet. Your breath came fast and ragged. You kept glancing behind you like you couldn’t believe what had just happened.

Finally, when you both stopped, panting under the thick night air, Remmick turned to you. “Your back,” he said, reaching for your shoulder. “Let me see—”

“No, no. I’m okay,” you said quickly, turning to him, your hands gripping your sides.

“Is it deep?” he asked, stepping closer, trying to look at your back.

You resisted. Surprisingly strong. Remmick narrowed his eyes and used just enough of his strength to turn you gently toward him. His brows furrowed.

Your back was clean—save for deep red marks down your spine. No torn skin. No visible cuts.

“See?” You smiled at him. Too easily. “It’s not my blood.” You turned away again, smiling wider. “Thank you, Remmick.”

But he had heard it.

He had heard the claws tear into flesh.

He’d heard it enough times over the centuries to know the sound. And what he’d heard back there…

That had been your skin.

But there was nothing on you. Nothing wrong with you.

Slowly, Remmick inhaled the air.

The blood—it smelled wrong. Stale. Old. Like dried rust left out in the sun. That scent clung to every vampire eventually, no matter how young or ancient. But on you, it didn’t make sense.

Because he couldn’t smell you. Not a hint of fresh blood. Not a whiff of that sweet, distinct heat that always made his teeth ache, that made the hunger curl hot behind his ribs.

You just smelled like something dead.

Old, rotten blood.

Remmick took a step back without realizing it. His eyes flicked over your face, down your arms, your legs. No cuts. No bruises. But his ears still rang with the sound of tearing flesh.

“You’re sure you’re alright?” he asked, voice low.

“Thanks to you, yeah, I’m alright, but…Remmick.” You looked to him. Looked to him with your doe eyes as if you suddenly realized his presence here didn’t make sense. Looked to him as if realizing someone just staked your friends. Looked to him as if you just saw a man be decapitated. “Oh god.”

Remmick simply stayed silent.

“What am I gonna do? Two men just died inside my house.” That’s where your mind went? Not the fangs? Not the blood? Not Remmick, who shouldn’t’ve been there in the first place?

S’alright. He’d take it.

“The police—oh god, the police.”

Slowly, Remmick reached out, patting your shoulder, shushing you gently as you stayed still. “Ain’t gotta worry about that. You can stay with me.”

You turned to him, one brow raised. “Two white policemen start lookin’ f’me. Two dead men in my house, my parents gone—and they find me in your house?”

Again, Remmick gave a soft shush. His hands moved to your shoulders, steady.

“Ya ain’t gotta worry ’bout all that. I’ll take care of it.” He rubbed your shoulder. Flakes of dried blood crumbled off your skin.

“Remmick.” You looked at him again. Firmer, maybe. Or maybe just tired.

“Said I’ll take care of it.” His hands slid from your shoulders to your cheeks. “Now you head on home. Pack some things. We’ll go.”

He stroked your cheek once, then looked toward your house.

You nodded slowly, still held in his hands.

Slowly, the two of you walked back until the soft glow of your porch lights cut through the dark. Just before you reached the yard, Remmick gently pulled you back, using his hand to block your view.

“Don’t look,” he murmured, voice low, shielding your eyes from the porch—where a head still lay and a body slumped, stake in heart.

Then again he was on the porch of your home. You opened the door and entered. Remmick stayed put. Just as you were half way in, he saw you turn around.

“What’s wrong?” You asked him. Under the porch light, Remmick could finally see just how soaked you were. Blood covered the entire front of your dress, dyed deep crimson. The fabric clung to your body, barely hanging on.

“Nothin’ just waiting for you to invite me in.” Instead of the grin he might’ve flashed at you any other time, Remmick checked himself. This wasn’t the place for a smirk. Not tonight. So he gave you the gentlest smile he could manage—something sweet, something safe.

“Ain’t you gentlemen, but my house is a mess. Think it’s best if you don’t see it.” Again you flashed him a smile before once more the door was shut on him.

Remmick was gettin’ real tired of this door.

…

Your scent returned to you eventually—once all that blood had been washed away. That sweet, unmistakable scent.

You slept through the entire day, and just like he promised, Remmick made the problem disappear.

(Though strangely enough, by the time he got there, all the questions that should’ve been asked… never were.)

Justice don’t run right here.

Remmick looked over at you—there you were, stretched out on his bed. The heat hung heavy in the room. Your nightgown clung to you like a second skin, and the thin sheen of sweat on your body caught what little light filtered into the house, making you glow.

“They come yet?” you asked.

Remmick shook his head.

You stared up at the ceiling, eyes dull. (Bored) Then you fell back on the bed. Remmick watched as your chest rose up and down. Swore he could hear your blood pumping, swore he could hear the slow beat of your heart.

“You want some water?” You hadn’t eaten anything. Hadn’t drinken anything either.

He watched as you turned your head slowly to him. “I wanna go home.”

“I’ll take ya tonight if you want.” Remmick offered, and slowly you nodded again before closing your eyes, sleeping once more and Remmick sat in his chair just looking at you.

All this for an answer. All this just to see what you’d do if the devil came a knockin’ on your door. See if you would turn to god. Hell, all those crosses in your home. By the time Remmick went to investigate the bodies, the only thing left was a singed cross.

He could just find out now. Maybe scare ya’ while you’re asleep. Slowly Remmick stands up. Your breathing is slow. He has to stop and listen. Breath so slow he almost thinks you're dead. But you’re not. A deep breath you take tells him you’re not.

He’s salivating at the mouth. Remmick smells you. A deep and long inhale of you. Fresh, sweet, blood.

There is a sound from you. Remmick looks down. Shit. You got him droolin’ all over ya. He wipes your cheek with the back of his hand. But your skin—it’s cold. Not just clammy. Cold like him. But you’re sweating, too. Humans sweat. Humans get cold. Remmick’s been dead too long, maybe he’s forgettin’.

Remmick stayed there, on his bed sitting down just inhaling your scent. It was nightfall. You’ve been absent for almost three whole days. Nobody’s come searchin’ for you. Not your mother, father, anyone. Today was Sunday.

You missed church today. Still not a word.

Guess this wasn’t the town he thought it was.

You move again and a light hits his eye. He looks down and it’s your ring. You still have it on. The band of the ring is silver and the stone is blue with golden specks. It’s on your middle finger. His hand slides under yours. Your fingers twitch, just slightly. Remmick freezes. Waits. You don’t move again.

Was it fake? Slowly the ends of his pointer finger elongated into a sharp claw. He was about to scratch the stone before you arched your back in stretch. Quickly he reverted his finger to a human one.

“What are you doing?” Your hand was still his and your brows were furrowed but the way you spoke was still laced with sleep.

Remmick looked at you with a smile. “Just lookin’”

“If you’re wonderin’ if it’s real.” You gently pulled your hand from his grasp looking at the ring. “It is. It’s lapis lazuli. Scratches easy. Lapis lazuli stones are considered the precious stones that ruled the sky and the seas or in other stories the stone combines the blue of the heavens and golden glitter of the sun. As such, it absorbs the sunlight.” You took off the ring and gave it to him.

Remmick held it in his hand observing the fine metal work. “That ones enchanted though. The friend that gave it to me? She was a witch.” Remmick looked at you. So much for a devoted christian. “Lapis lazuli is a rock. Nothin’ real special, but it’s what she requested. So I went and found the stone, which was hard. I was working on a limited time schedule.”

Why do you speak like that? Speak as if you’re older than you are. Remmick doesn’t know how old you are—after a while, that age of humans becomes irrelevant. Anyone under the age of 100 is young to him. You speak as if you’d have more years than what is visible on your face.

“But eventually, I found a rock and brought it back to her. She did her spells. I’d recite it, but it’s Latin and it was such a long time ago, can’t remember any more.” You shrugged. “Anyways, the spell was done and now it protects me.”

Ain’t god-fearin’ because of this ring? Ain’t afraid of the devil because of this ring? It’s laughable, but Remmick won’t laugh. We’ll see how well your ring puts up against him. “Protects you against what?”

“Curses put on me.” You stood up and Remmick remained on the bed. “Well—a curse, really. Bestowed on my kind, after we were given a gift of sorts.”

“Your kind? The words felt sticky in his mouth. The way you said it—so easily. Like the ones who'd step on your neck. Such a pity.

You simply nodded. “I suffered a long time under that curse. I was limited for so many years. That gift took something away from me, and I missed it.” There you go again. Talking as if you’re older. But you’re not. He knows you're not. “So I went out, and found someone who could fix me. I met my friend, though I don’t think she really thought of me as a friend like I did her, but she’s dead now, so don’t it matter much and in the end I s'pose she got even.”

“How d’you reckon?”

“Well she placed another curse on me.” You laughed sitting down in the chair he once sat at while he looked at you sleepin’. “It was worse than the first. She didn’t take anything away—just... enhanced what was already there.” You looked at him, and suddenly gooseflesh pricked up his spin. He knew that look. “It was hell. Year after year, I tried to break it. It just wouldn’t. Told me it was an eye for an eye. She helped me and I helped her.” You shook your head and Remmick was stuck on the bed listening to you.

“Old hag knew I’d live longer than her. I was young back then.” Still are. Still naive when you never ask him the questions you should be askin’. So why do you sound so old? Why do you sound as if you’ve lived lifetimes? As many as he had. “Gullible, if you will. I mean, why after all these years, I still gotta help a dead woman? Just ain’t fair.”

Remmick said nothing and you kept looking at him. Where does he know your look from? He knows it. He really does, but god it’s been such a long time, Remmick starts to forget faces. “Eventually though, I accepted it. Learned to live with it. Enjoy it even. In the end, I’m glad she gave me another curse—though I think it’s a gift now—maybe I did break it. Maybe I just like livin’ like this now.”

You gave a deep pause.

“It’s better.”

…

This damned door.

Remmick swears he could trace every chip in the paint with his eyes closed, just from how often he’s stood in front of it. The creak of its hinges, the uneven flake of old enamel—it’s all burned into him now. Yet here he is again, and here you come, opening it once more.

“Yes?” you ask, voice soft and languid. You’re backlit, the glow of your home curling around you in warm gold. Domestic light—safe, small, human. Remmick remains where the dark clings to him, just past the porch light’s reach.

“Came to say hi,” he says, flashing you that grin—the kind meant to be disarming.

“Hi,” you echo, a little smile curling at your lips as you lean against the doorframe. Casual. Inviting. That’s good.

“Hello,” he murmurs again, quieter this time, letting it linger in the air between you both.

“Is that all?” you ask, arching a brow. There’s a slight tease in your voice now, but your eyes flicker, cautious. Curious.

Remmick doesn’t answer. Instead, he steps closer, slow and sure, letting the threshold between you become the only thing left.

“What are you doing?” you ask, your voice dropping an octave—not quite nervous, but alert.

Then you take a step forward—just one—and it’s enough.

The scent hits him like a wave.

Fresh blood. Sweet, bright, and warm. How you manage to carry that scent with you, always just on the edge of being bitten, he doesn’t know. But it’s there, thick in his nostrils now. Remmick’s jaw tightens. His tongue presses to the back of his teeth.

“You’re salivatin’,” you say, cocking your head. It’s not accusatory. Just observant.

He wipes at the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand and gives you another grin—this one slower, hungrier.

“Just for you.” Slowly he feels his eyes glaze over, but all he’s looking at is your neck. His mouth is ajar just slightly and he can feel his venom drippin’ from the side of his mouth. Slowly but surely he leans in.

He can barely register your hand against his face again wiping away his venom. But just slightly, the move is enough to turn his head and his vision from your neck to your lips. Well, poison gettin’ in you one way or another.

His hand moved too fast for it to be considered human, but he doesn’t think you noticed seeing as your warm hand is still cupping his face. His hand held a tight grip on the back of your neck as he pulled you to him, kissing you, hard. His teeth clash against yours.

You’ll have to forgive him. It’s been a while since he’s really kissed anyone. He can feel as you nails scratch lightly on his scalp as you grip his hair pulling him closer to you. You feel so warm. So warm even on such hot and humid nights.

He feels his venom accumulating on his tongue, so he forces himself into your mouth. Your sound of surprise sounds wondrous. You gladly welcome him into you. His grip softens on your neck and both of his hands start to explore your back. Lower and lower creep but just before they can reach for what his body aches for you push him away.

The momentum of pushing him away sends you stumbling backward, feet dragging across the worn wood floor, until you’re safely behind the threshold—behind the invisible line that keeps him from you.

Remmick stands frozen on the other side, one foot still lifted, as if he could follow.

But he can’t.

He looks at you. Really looks. And there it is: his venom, glistening like spilled ink, trailing from the corner of your mouth. A small, damning shimmer.

Your hand flies up, trembling as you point at him. “No,” you whisper at first, then louder, firmer, shaking your head as if to shake him out of your blood.

“No,” you repeat, breath hitching, voice frayed. “I won’t do it. Do you even know what they’d do to you? To me?” You pause, chest heaving as though you’ve run a great distance. “No, Remmick. I won’t subject myself to that.” Remmick doesn’t flinch.

“Goodbye, Remmick,” you say. It lands cold. Then—just like before—you shut the door.

And again, he’s left outside, staring at the same damned wood. The lock clicks like a coffin shutting. Remmick doesn’t move. Just stands there, bathed in the hush of the porchlight and the slow creep of night. Crickets chirp.

He got his answer, alright.

You aren’t a god-fearin’ woman and you are afraid of the devil

And maybe what stings the most is—he thought you were braver than that.

But that’s alright. He was scared of the devil once too. But now that he’s got his answer, it won’t matter no more. He can save you. Make sure you never fear the devil ever again. Make sure you can do something with your life and it won’t be meaningless. You can be equal, and no man will be more equal than others.

He wonders what happens now. You’ve got his venom in you.

You should be dead—or dying—but you’re not. Not yet. He’s never left someone like this before. Never walked away with his venom inside them without finishing the job. Usually, it’s through a bite. That’s the way it’s supposed to go.

Well… first time for everything.

Remmick wipes the corner of his mouth with the back of his sleeve, smearing spit and venom across his skin. It glistens under the faint glow of your porch light.

He turns, about to step into the night, when something makes him look back. There you are, framed by the window. Watching. The light catches your eyes—wide, cautious, and just a little bit puzzled. Like even you don’t know why you’re still standing.

Remmick frowns. He doesn’t know either.

He raises a hand, then thinks better of it. Instead, he dips his head in a small bow, mock-formal, like he’s stepping away from a stage instead of your life. Turning on his heel, he walks off into the dark, boots crunching soft against the gravel path.

Still, he can hear you. Your breath, small and quick, just behind the glass. You’re watching him walk away. He knows it.

And depending on how this goes…

It won’t be long before you walk away too—with him.

…

You hadn’t been home when he tried to visit. There was disappointment in that. Maybe you did die and you just never woke up. He should’ve just killed you. Didn’t even need to be brutal. Just a snapped neck and you would have woken up 15 minutes later.

Such a shame. Off he goes then. Ain’t nothing here for him. That something he’s been looking for just isn’t here.

Another week passes. Then—three knocks. Firm. Familiar.

Remmick wakes with a start, the sun already high and hot. Midday. The time he hates most. With a crack of his neck, he drags himself to the front door, every step heavy. When he opens it, his widen in shock because there you are.

You’re radiant.

Standing on his porch in your Sunday best, sunlight kissing your skin. And in your hands—a pie, steaming faintly under its cloth cover. You smell like warm fruit and something sweet beneath it. Something alive.

Remmick squints at you, blinking against the brightness. Best to ignore your absence. “Wasn’t it you who told me this—” he gestures between the two of you with a loose hand, a smirk curling his lip, “—was a bad idea?”

“Well yes!” you cut in quickly, chipper, too chipper. “But you see, my mother sent me over with this pie. Said you haven’t been to church for some time.”

Your mother? He hadn’t seen her in a while. Though she was dead. Your father too. He cocks a brow. “Aren’t you supposed to be in church?”

Your smile doesn’t falter. “I attended in the early mornin’.”

There’s a beat. Then, you shift your weight, pie still in hand. “Now, this hot… may I come in?” The words land like a stone in his gut. You still have that sweet smell of yours. Means you’re not like him. Not yet anyway. You walk in sunlight. Your skin doesn’t smoke. Your eyes still shine. Still, he doesn’t say it. Doesn’t invite you. Just opens the door wider.

And just as he suspected—you step inside without pause, without hesitation. Indeed you’re alive and kickin’. The light clings to you as you cross the threshold, but it fades, like it can’t hold onto you in here.

Remmick watches the sun blaze through the open door behind you, then gently pushes it closed. He turns to look at you as you set the pie down on his table. “How are ya’?”

“I’m good. Left for a week. Had to do some stuff.” You sat down at the table and again. Just like the last time you were in here, he expected to feel a prickle down his spine. But instead you just smile looking up at him with a slight tilt in your head. You look happy. Real happy.

He steps further in, slow and careful, like he’s approaching something skittish. Dangerous.

You. You, sitting at his table like you’ve always belonged here. Like there hadn’t been venom between your teeth and rejection in your breath the last time he saw you.

“You look different,” he says, voice low. Testing.

“Do I?” you hum, resting your chin in your hand. “Maybe. I feel different, if only a little.”

Remmick studies you—really studies you. Your skin’s got color, warm and soft, kissed by sun and not a hint of pallor. Your eyes shine like they used to, but something hums beneath them now. Something older.

“You were gone for a week,” he says, circling the table, watching how your eyes follow him. “And then you show up on my porch in the daylight. Dressed for church. Smilin’ like you’ve been saved.”

You laugh, soft and musical, but there’s something sharp hidden in it. “Ain’t that what Sunday’s for?”

He doesn’t sit. He leans against the back of the chair across from you, arms crossed, still watching. Still waiting. “You said you feel different?”

“I’ve been thinking. Thinkin’ real hard.” You stand up just as Remmick is behind you. “But I still have doubts.” You smell stronger today and the heat radiates off of you today. Almost too human. Enticing nonetheless. His teeth hurt.

“Thinkin’ bout what?” He murmured as he bent down trying to smell you. Fresh blood. Your blood is young.

“Well…what happened last time…” You trailed off. Remmick was right again. You’re not old. Can’t be. Not when your voice sounds so young. Sounds so impressionable. Sound so naive.

Slowly, his hands settled on your shoulders, firm but gentle, like he wasn’t sure if he was holding you or holding himself back. He drew you close. Close enough that the scent of your skin curled into his lungs and stayed there. It made his gums ache—dull at first, then sharper, the way they always ached right before his teeth came out.

(Though he ignored the sound of vein pulsing. The sound as if they hadn’t been used in a while and were stretching to being used once more. The sound of porcelain cracking.)

You didn’t stop him. Not at first. Maybe you knew what was coming.

Just before his lips could brush the edge of your throat—just before the hunger overtook the man—a knock sounded, sharp and sudden.

You flinched. The spell broke.

You tore yourself from him in one clean motion, never once looking back as your footsteps pounded against the floor and disappeared down the hall. Back to your mother. Back to the light. Back to safety.

Remmick stood there a moment longer, hand outstretched, the ghost of your warmth still clinging to his fingers.

It was fine. Nightfall would come soon. And tonight would be the final night.

The sun sank like a coin into the horizon, the sky stained in shades of fire and ash. Remmick stood by the window, watching shadows grow long and lean. The ache in his jaw had not gone away. If anything, it had deepened—moved lower, down into the bones. A hunger that knew your name.

He’d waited. He’d been kind. Patient, even.

But patience was running thin.

And you’d been marked now—by his venom, by your choice, by something neither of you fully understood.

No more knocks. No more interruptions.

Tonight he wouldn’t wait for you to come to him.

He was coming to you.

And so he did.

Just as before, Remmick stood at your doorstep, cloaked in the hush of twilight. The porch light cast long shadows across the wooden floorboards, and the scent of honeysuckle clung to the air. But this time, when the door creaked open, you stepped out to greet him.

Your figure cut through the soft light—barefoot, loose nightdress, a curl falling out of place near your temple. You looked like you hadn’t slept, but you were calm. Maybe resolved.

“Your parents?” Remmick asked, his voice quiet, cautious.

“Gone,” you replied, arms loosely crossed over your chest, but not in defense—more like you were holding something steady inside you.

He nodded once, stepping a little closer. “What is it that you want?” he asked, voice lower now, earnest. “I’ll make it happen.”

You tilted your head slightly, a skeptical smile ghosting your lips. “What can you do?”

“I can take you North,” he said, the words slow, deliberate, thick with promise. “North where we could be free. You wouldn’t have to worry about a thing.”

The porch light flickered once. The air between you buzzed with something unsaid.

“You’d do that f’me?” you asked, gaze flicking to his, voice smaller than before.

“’Course,” he breathed. “Do anythin’.”

“But what if they—”

“You ain’t gotta worry ’bout a thing,” he interrupted gently. “I’ll handle it.” His hand lifted, rough fingers brushing your cheek. His palm was calloused, but the way he held you was almost reverent.

“Remm—” your voice cracked around his name.

Softly, he shushed you. “Shhh,” he whispered, his thumb stroking just beneath your eye. Your skin wasn’t as warm tonight. That was alright. His hand lingered like he was grounding himself. “Just like I handled the last problem.”

There was a pause—one thick with knowing.

You looked at him. Really looked.

“Alright then…” you murmured, and a small smile touched your lips. You reached up, holding his hand in both of yours, delicate and sure. Then, turning slightly, your gaze flicked to the open door behind you. The threshold. The place where old lives ended and new ones might begin.

“Come on in, Remmick.”

And he did.

Slowly, Remmick crossed the threshold of your home. Each step he took felt heavier with meaning, soaked in anticipation. A grin stretched across his face—feral and proud—as he watched you move through the soft amber light of the kitchen, your silhouette framed by fluttering gingham curtains and the muted hum of a quiet house.

His eyes wandered along the walls. Old walls, wilted dried herbs. Then his gaze landed on another cross. This one wasn’t ornamental. Its angles were too sharp. Too precise. The bottom point gleamed like it had drawn blood before.

“Remmick?” you called from the kitchen, voice lilting, casual. Like this was any other day.

He hummed low in his throat, not trusting his voice. Not with what was coming.

Let’s see what your little ring was good for.

His eyes darkened and glazed over, vision sharpening until the fibers of the wood under his boots became crystal-clear. His shoulders drew back with a crack, his body shifting. Bones lengthened in his fingers, joints grinding as claws pushed through skin with an eager, slow stretch. His ears twitched, catching the creak of a cooling kettle, the soft rustle of your clothing. But nothing else. No heartbeat. No breath. Still, so still.

Strange.

Then the ache came. That sweet, gnawing pull in his gums as his canines extended, tearing just slightly at his lip. The rest of his teeth followed suit—each one honed to a razor’s edge.

God, it felt good.

“When was the last time you ate?” you asked suddenly. Your back was still to him, your hands fussing with something at the counter—tea leaves maybe, or pie slices.

His eyes flicked to your ring. It didn’t glow. Didn’t burn. Didn’t stop a thing.

But then again… maybe it was never meant to.

“A while ago,” he said, voice a rasp, thick with desire. He took a step forward, almost salivating. “Haven’t eaten proper since… well. Since your friend.”

He didn’t need to say which one. The silence that followed named her for him.

“So you’re hungry?” you asked, still without turning. Your tone was measured, smooth like syrup.

“Starvin’,” he growled, claws flexing.

“That’s good.” You turned. Slowly.

He bared his teeth fully now, ready to savor the shock on your face. But what he saw made something shift in his gut.

Your eyes did widen at first—but only slightly. There was no scream. No flinch. Just the ghost of amusement curling at your lips. And then… you smiled.

Not in fear.

In recognition. And Remmick’s claws twitched again—but this time, not from joy.

He didn’t like that smile.

Not one bit.

Then came the sound.

That sick, wet stretch of muscle tearing and reforming. The kind that always reminded Remmick of leather being pulled too tight—followed by the sharp snap of bone shifting just beneath skin. He knew that sound. Had heard it in the woods. Beneath moonlight. In his house. Only now… he knew exactly where it was coming from.

From you.

He froze, eyes locked on your face as something moved beneath your skin—quick, serpentine. Dark veins crawled up from your jaw like ink bleeding into paper, slithering under your cheekbones and reaching the corners of your bloodshot eyes. The whites of them turned red, slowly—almost deliberately—as if savoring the change.

And then, your smile twisted. Became something other. A grin, cruel and radiant, blooming with two sharp fangs that caught the light.

The grin that had lived on his face just moments ago? It was gone. Slid off like water on polished stone.

Now it belonged to you.

Remmick stepped back instinctively, his claws flexing in the air between you. Confusion struck first—then horror, slow and creeping. His lips parted, but no sound came out.

He watched you. He watched it—the creature you’d become. No… the creature you’d always been.

(That’s where he knew your face from that day. He had worn it so many times, though now it just wasn’t on him)

“Me too,” you whispered.

Note: Eh. Not my best work, but I wanted it out there. Took me forever to write💔

To be added on Tag list: !(•̀ᴗ•́)و ̑̑/Gen Masterlist

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venuslut · 1 year ago

Text

FANTASIZING ABOUT a needy Choso Kamo ♡︎.

He can’t help it. Ever since you first introduced him to sex, he just can’t get enough. It’s not his fault that your cunt is so addicting, so much so that he’s often begging you to let him fuck you on his cock. It’s not his fault that you moan so beautifully that he can’t help but thrust into you harder so you’ll make more of those pretty sounds for him. It’s not his fault that you taste so good and he has to have you on his tongue, drinking your juices until you’re shaking and crying. He doesn’t mean to be so needy, but you bring out this side of him he can’t control.

How is he supposed to control himself when you walk around in those skimpy clothes, showing off your plump ass and perfect tits? It’s impossible. He’ll try to resist, have some self-control. But it isn’t long before he’s hugging you from behind, dotting wet kisses along your neck and pushing his hard-on into your ass. All while he’s begging you let him feel your wet cunt. And of course you’ll let him, how could you say no to your cute desperate boyfriend.

The minute you agree he has you laid out under him as he fucks his big cock into your tight cunt. Moaning and whimpering about how good it feels to be inside you again, his face red as he pushes every last inch of himself into you. He uses his weight to thrust into you, which only made your head go dizzy. He has you in a lazy mating press and your plush thighs slap against his hips every time he comes down, the sound of Choso’s deep thrusts is so musical, his tip abusing your womb to the point your eyes roll back. His mouth is so filthy too, and the worst part is, is that he doesn’t even realize it. “Fuck, baby... you’re sucking me in... your pussy’s so tight.” He groans into your ear, sucking onto your skin and leaving purple marks behind, intent on marking you as his. Although there was no point since you still had the hickeys from your last encounter, but it was never enough for Choso.

The poor curse is so in love with your body that he’ll go on for hours and hours just playing with your body. If it was up to him, you both would never leave the bed. Who needs to eat when he can just eat your cunt and you can suck his cock? Who needs to sleep when there’s a new position he wants to try? This man will not stop because that’s how addicted he is to your cunt. You curse the curse’s stamina and sometimes wish you had a normal boyfriend, but he usually fucks those thoughts right out of your head before you can try and act on them. “Choso… ngh!— h-hold on, my body…” you mumbled, unable to fully say your sentence. He hits a particularly sensitive spot and you let out a strangled cry, bucking your hips wildly to try and get that same pleasure again. Choso eyed your reaction, angling his hips to continue hitting that spot over and over again til you’re seeing stars and screaming out his name. You had no thoughts about shame, or how you should lower your voice, not when your handsome boy was fucking you within an inch of your life.

“Right there? ‘s that the spot, dove?” He pants, voice hoarse from his overwhelming desire for you. You’ve lost track of time, to obsessed with the way Choso has you creaming around his cock for the nth time. Everything was too much, but you loved it, in an addictive way. The overstimulation was addicting. His words were addicting. The sound of the bed hitting the wall was addicting. His cock was addicting. He was addicting. You always tease Choso about his neediness when in reality, you’re just as needy and obsessed as he is. You can tell Choso is close by the way his cock twitched inside you and how he speeds up his movements, rutting into you with wild abandon and chasing his orgasm.

You throw your head back into a pillow, your vision almost going black as you were consumed with ecstasy. The air was knocked out of your lungs with every snap of his hips, your senses filled with just the pressure of Choso. It felt like you were gonna throw up, but not in a bad way. “Baby… babybabybabybaby! A-ah! Mgn…” you cried out in pleasure, clawing at the sheets below you. Choso’s hands tightened around your hips, his careful grip growing into a bruising hold as he was solely focused on reaching his climax. “Hah— you feel sososososo good, dove. I love you, I love you so much,” he whimpered. It was right there, he could feel it, just a couple more thrusts and he’ll finally have his release. He wants to cum so bad, he needs to cum.

“Hey dove? C-can I fill your pretty pussy with my cum? Wanna cum inside you,” he begged, his voice broken as he pleads with you. “Please, my love… I want to stuff your pussy with my cum, wanna fill you up…” he continues, kissing your ankle and calf to convince you further. You didn’t need much convincing though, you were already to dumb and out-of-it to deny the poor curse. Frantically, you nodded your head, just wanting to feel his hot semen inside you. And you finally got your wish after a few more sloppy thrusts, before Choso goes still and empties his balls into your awaiting cavern. He lets out a guttural moan as ropes of cum spurt out. Slowly, he pulls out, his cock coated in a translucent white, his thighs and pelvis sticky from a mix of sweat and cum.

You both lay there in silence, the sounds of your labored breathing being the only noise echoing through the room. While coming down from your high, you remember that the reason you even got dressed today was because you had work. Annoyed, you lightly smack the upside of Choso’s head, complaining about how he made you late while you go to get out of bed and put your clothes back on. Choso rubs the area where you hit him as he watched you struggle to move and get out of bed, he looks at you like a kicked puppy and he knows he should be sorry for making you late but he can’t find it in him to feel guilty. Instead, Choso reaches out and wraps his arms around you, pulling you back further onto the bed and flushed against his sweaty chest. He buries his face in the crook of your neck and he lines soft kisses to your nape.

“I’m sorry, dove… Why don’t you call out and let me eat your pussy as an apology?”

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melaninforkings · 1 year ago

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a piece of me dies every time im reading a fic and taylor swift lyrics pop up😭 then i realize the description of the oc or “reader” are very white coded like OH! that’s not…

#black reader #x reader #x oc #LIKE PLSSS I PROMISE THERE ARE OTHER ARTISTS WITH BETTER SONG TO USE #austin butler x black!reader #timothee chalamet x reader #black!reader #carmen berzatto x reader #paul atreides x reader #jake sully x reader #austin butler x reader #kennedy talks #peeta mellark x reader #finnick odair x reader #poc!reader

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dulcebloodhnd · 18 days ago

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BABY, NO

pairing: jack abbot x reader

requested by: @orderoftheflamingflamingos

Could I submit a request about Jack dating an EMT/Paramedic and he’s like “You rappelled down a bridge, again?” Like she’s badass and independent but he’s her man and cares about her.

authors note: i tweaked it a little but i hope you enjoy it nonetheless :))

Jack was off duty and was not expecting a call from the hospital, it was his day off and he hoped it was going to stay that way. Dana was on the phone, most things blurred together but he heard her name and ‘injured on the job’. He grabbed his keys and left his apartment immediately and headed back into work.

Noise encapsulated the streets and continued way beyond into the emergency department. Bodies of doctors and nurses walked about, small chatter of patients and the distinct clinical aroma of a hospital. You sat perched on the cot, cradling your broken arm between two splints as you waited for a doctor to attend to you.

Dr. Collin’s breached the doorway with your chart listing off the tests that need to be done, ordering an X-ray for your arm and to conduct a physical examination of coordination to check if you had a concussion or not.

Collin’s excused herself after performing the exam and you were left alone in the bay. You overheard ‘where is she?’ and next thing Jack barged into the room.

“What happened?” Jack immediately went to your side.

“Work,” was all you could mutter. Your head rested against the fresh linen pillowcase.

“Don’t tell me you rappelled down a bridge again?”

Silence pursued his question. All you could do was give a guilty exchange of a smile in return.

“A young girl was dangling from below, a failed suicide attempt. The good thing is she is safe with minimal injury. Rather that than her take the brunt of what I got.”

Jack sucked in a breath, his shoulders tense and the crease between his brows prominent. Your uninjured hand grabbed his and rubbed soothing circles around his knuckles.

“I’m okay, baby.”

He sighed as you pulled him down to sit on the edge of the cot, gently tugging his arm to get his body closer towards you. A safe haven. You kissed between his brows then dragging the tip of your nose against his bridge before kissing him again on his lips.

“I’m taking you home with me after we get your sorted. You won’t be leaving my sight for the next couple of weeks,” Jack said.

“As long as I get to spend more time with you.”

“I hope this isn’t a newly developed tactic to spend more time with me.”

“What if it is?” You questioned cheekily.

“Baby, no.”

You laughed and kissed him in small successions until he smiled alongside you. God, aren’t you glad to have him by your side.

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slut4megantheestallion · 2 months ago

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⋆౨ৎ˚⟡ jjk characters w/ a pornstar!reader (nsfw)

Warnings ⚠️: NSFW & 18+ Content, Degradation & Praise Kink, Dom/Sub Dynamics, Jealousy/Possessiveness, Overstimulation & Edging, Choking & Hair Pulling, Aftercare Mentioned, Temperature Play, Public Teasing/Exhibitionism

→ pairings: satoru gojo, megumi fushiguro, sukuna, geto suguru, toji fushiguro, nanami kento, choso, yuta okkotsu, inumaki toge, yuji itadori, nobara kugisaki, shoko leiri, maki zenin, Urame.

☆Gojo

☆Oh, this man already knew who you were before you even met. He's your biggest fan and not ashamed about it.

●He brings up your work all the time, sometimes in public, just to watch you get flustered.

●"Babe, the things you do with that mouth.. Damn. Ever thought of giving me a private show?"

●Endless stamina. He will try to outlast you just to prove he can. You're a pornstar, but he's Gojo. His ego won't let him lose.

●He loves filming. He wants to make a "home video" but refuses to share it - "Exclusive content just for me."

●Loud as hell in bed. Moans, praises, obnoxious dirty talk - he wants you to know you're making him feel good.

●Has a corruption kink even though you're already filthy. "Damn, I could make you even worse, y'know?"

●Favorite position? He loves fucking you in front of a mirror so you can both watch.

☆Megumi

☆Embarrassed at first but secretly loves it. He acts unbothered, but he definitely checked out your work.

☆Jealous but in denial. He won’t stop you, but he hates knowing others see you like that.

☆Silent but deadly. He’ll act normal all day, then fuck you stupid when you get home. No words. Just action.

☆Loves hearing you beg. Since you’re a professional, he makes you work for it just to see you break.

☆Lowkey a freak. Loves degradation and rough sex. Will pin you down, grip your jaw, and fuck you until you cry.

☆Favorite position? Mating press. He wants to see your face when you fall apart.

☆Sukuna

☆Oh, you’re a pornstar? Cute. He thinks it’s adorable that humans worship you.

☆Possessive as hell. He doesn’t care about your career, but he makes it known who really owns you.

☆"They can watch, but they'll never have you like I do."

☆Fucks you raw, rough, and mean. Will pull your hair, bite you, and whisper filth in your ear.

☆Breeding kink unlocked. Doesn’t care if it’s possible or not—he just wants to ruin you completely.

☆Favorite position? Face down, ass up. He loves seeing you arch for him like a good little slut.

☆Geto

☆Pretends he’s unbothered, but lowkey brags about having you.

☆"They pay to see you. I get it for free." Smug bastard.

☆Slow, deep, and intense sex. He knows exactly how to break you down until you're crying his name.

☆Soft dom but dangerous. If you act bratty, he will edge you until you beg properly.

☆Loves pulling your hair and holding eye contact while he fucks you.

☆Favorite position? Cowgirl. He likes seeing you put in the work—but if you get lazy, he’ll grab your hips and take over.

☆Toji

☆Fucking loves it. He’ll even joke about becoming your co-star.

☆"Bet none of those guys make you cum like I do, huh?"

☆Size kink. He loves the fact that he’s bigger and thicker than anyone you've ever taken.

☆Messy sex. He’ll spit in your mouth, slap your ass, and fuck you so deep you feel it in your stomach.

☆Filthy dirty talk. "C’mon, pornstar, show me what you’re good at."

☆Favorite position? Full nelson. He loves how helpless you look when he has you folded up.

☆Nanami

☆At first, he acts like it’s none of his business, but deep down, he’s fascinated.

☆Won’t ever watch your work because he doesn’t like the idea of other people seeing you like that.

☆Possessive but polite about it. "You're mine. I don’t need an audience to know that."

☆Loves overstimulation. Will edge you until you’re shaking, then ruin you with his cock.

☆Doesn’t fuck—he makes love. Deep, slow, intentional thrusts that have you seeing stars.

☆Favorite position? Missionary. Not basic—he just loves watching your face twist in pleasure.

☆Choso

☆Surprised but supportive. He doesn’t understand human media well, but if it makes you happy, he’s fine with it.

☆However… if someone disrespects you, he will not hesitate to kill them.

☆Very gentle in bed. Unless you ask him to be rough, he’ll worship your body like a temple.

☆Loves body worship. He’ll kiss every inch of you, whispering how beautiful you are.

☆Big on aftercare. He’ll clean you up, cuddle you, and stroke your hair until you fall asleep.

☆Favorite position? Spooning. He likes holding you close while he fucks you.

☆Yuta

☆Embarrassed but obsessed. Will pretend he doesn’t know about your job, but he absolutely looked it up.

☆A switch but mostly submissive. If you dominate him, he’ll whimper and beg so sweetly.

☆Loves praise. Call him a good boy, and he’ll melt in your hands.

☆But if he takes control… He’s surprisingly rough. Can and will pin you down and fuck you breathless.

☆Favorite position? Against a wall. Loves watching your face as he fucks you hard.

☆Inumaki

☆Secretly turned on by your job, but will only speak in rice ball ingredients to hide it.

☆"Salmon roe." (Translation: "I love it when you moan like that.")

☆Loves giving oral. He’ll bury his face between your legs and not stop until you’re crying.

☆Very expressive in bed. Growls, grunts, and deep moans when he’s lost in pleasure.

☆Favorite position? Face-sitting. He wants you on top of his face, riding his tongue.

☆Yuji

☆Surprised but impressed. "Wait… YOU’RE that pornstar?!"

☆Biggest hype man. He genuinely thinks your work is amazing and doesn’t get jealous.

☆Eager to please. He wants to prove he’s better than anyone you’ve ever worked with.

☆"Tell me I’m the best, baby. I gotta know."

☆Soft dom but turns feral when turned on. One second, he’s sweet—the next, he’s fucking you dumb.

☆Favorite position? Lotus. He loves holding you close while bouncing you on his cock.

☆Nobara

☆Acts cocky but is actually kinda shy about it.

☆"Tch, whatever. It’s just sex. No big deal… Wait, YOU DID WHAT IN THAT SCENE?!"

☆Jealous as hell. "Ugh, why do those creeps get to see you like that?"

☆Takes out her jealousy in bed. She will ride you until you can’t think.

☆Loves being in control. She’ll pin your hands down, grind on you, and make you beg.

☆Favorite position? Cowgirl. She wants you at her mercy.

☆Shoko

☆Unbothered queen. "Nice. Wanna smoke after?"

☆Chill but secretly a freak. Will casually slap your ass in public.

☆Loves watching you fall apart. She’ll edge you with her fingers and laugh when you beg.

☆Filthy dirty talk. "C’mon, pornstar, show me how good you really are."

☆Favorite position? Lazy sex—spooning or against her desk after a long shift.

☆Maki

☆Pretends she doesn’t care but totally does.

☆"Hmph. Doesn’t matter to me." (Definitely looked up your videos.)

☆Dominant as hell. She will pin you down and take what she wants.

☆Loves making you beg.

☆"Thought you were a pro? Why’re you whining already?"

☆Favorite position? Full nelson. She loves how helpless you look beneath her.

☆Uraume

☆Does not care. At all.

☆"Hmph. Is that all?

☆"Surprisingly rough in bed. They will break you just to hear you cry.

☆Loves temperature play. Will lick ice along your body, then warm you up with their mouth.

☆Favorite position? Face-down, ass-up. They love watching you squirm.

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sohighonuu · 7 months ago

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they don’t have what we have. ⟢

pairing. nicholas chavez x poc!fem reader .ᐟ

synopsis. nicholas will always be there for you. ༘⋆

warnings. this might not make sense ! wrote this when i was half asleep ;3 ⭑.ᐟ

DATING NICHOLAS COULD be so difficult at times. everyone followed your every single step, & fans were just truly obsessed with you. (not that that’s a bad thing..)

and with that being said.. as you scrolled on instagram you saw a post that had a picture of you & nicholas with the caption " they’re so cute together! "

which of course made you smile, why wouldn’t it?

but unfortunately as soon as you got into the comments your smile faded. you saw people saying that you didn’t deserve him, you guys should break up, and that you were not pretty enough for him.

not pretty enough for him?? come on. you? not pretty enough? of course you didn’t let them get to you because it’s just petty comments.

they’re just jealous.

two weeks later, people were still going on and on about you and nicholas. honestly, you’d be lying if you said it wasn’t starting to get to you.

girls are constantly talking about you and being all in your relationship, how could that not get to someone?

it was just all tiring.

and now, you’ve gotten distant from nicholas because of it.

nicholas obviously noticed the change in you after the last time you guys hung out, your dry text messages, & the way you’d always try to make up an excuse not to go out.

for a whole week, you barely even talked to him. you didn’t know up to set like you’d normally do, and when you did show up to set, you kinda just avoided him.

he tried to give you your space even though he didn’t quite know what he did, assuming that maybe you were just tired from the week. but as the week passed, he began to become concerned.

finally he decided to go over to your house, just to check on you, see what was actually going on with you..

he knocked on the door softly. " i’m busy! " he hums before knocking again. you knitted your eyebrows together as he continued to knock.

" i’m busy! go away! " you said, rolling your eyes with a sigh. " hm? too busy for me? " nicholas said through the door.

there was a small pause as he continued knocking. you stood in front of the door, hesitating if you should open it.

finally, you opened the door and stood in front of him, your eyes puffy. " hi. " he said with a grin. " hi, nicholas. "

you never called him nicholas.. he could also tell that you’d been crying. " what’s been going on with you baby? tell me, are you okay? " he said, stepping through the door.

as you walked to the couch, he followed closely behind you. you finally told him everything that had been happening in the past week.

" sweetheart, at the end of the day, i’m in your arms and not theirs. "

#nicholas chavez #nicholas chavez imagine #nicholas chavez x reader #nicholas chavez x black reader #poc!reader #nicholas alexander chavez #nicholas alexander chavez x reader #black!fem!reader #𝒙𝒐𝒙𝒐𝒔𝒆𝒓𝒆𝒏𝒂୨ৎ

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zepskies · 9 months ago

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Touch Me

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Plus-size!Reader

Summary: Dean isn’t used to how “touchy” you can be, but he never said he didn’t like it.

AN: I had the Midnight Espresso series in mind for this, since it plays on a recurring theme in that series (how the reader expresses herself), but it can be general Dean x Plus-size!Reader as well!

(In the Espresso-verse, it would take place just a few months after the first story.)

Word Count: 2K

Tags/Warnings: 18+ only for smuttishness. Established relationship, hint of body insecurity, but mostly fluff and feels.

It takes him a while to get used to it, the way you touch him.

Even before you two started dating, you were like this.

You’re an expressive person by nature, always talking with your hands, full body animated when you tell stories. Sometimes you’d grab his wrist playfully, or brush your hand along his back when you pass by. Or you’d grab his shoulder to steady yourself and lean into him when you had too much to drink.

Dean liked it—all of it. In fact, he found it endearing as hell. That hasn’t changed, even after a few months of trying to figure out what this is. What you two are together, and what you could be.

It’s just that…his family wasn’t so touchy feely growing up. Hell, he can probably count on one hand how many times he hugged his dad. For Sam, maybe two hands.

Your hands are warm, even when they startle Dean a bit while he’s working on detailing his Baby. He sits on a stool low enough for him to get the grit and gravel out of the front right tire.

He jumps when he feels something slide across his shoulders and down his chest, but he chuckles, feeling you press into him comfortably from behind. Your breasts feel like a (sexy) pillow.

“You oughta wear a bell or something,” he remarks, even though he squeezes your arm in greeting, leaving a grease stain in his wake. Your smile presses against his cheek.

“Then how would I get the privilege of scaring the mighty Dean Winchester?” you tease.

He snorts in response. “You just surprised me. A little.”

“Mhmm,” you reply, beginning to lay a path of kisses along his jaw. “Need any help here?”

He takes a deep breath at your ministrations, smiling. “Got a feeling you just came to distract me.”

“Hmm, yeah,” you admit. Your lips wander down his neck, grazing the shell of his ear along the way. Pleasure laces down his spine.

“You know, I think we have yet to christen Baby’s backseat…” You tilt your head, chewing your lip. “Although, I wouldn’t dare imagine how many christenings have come before me.”

Dean chuckles again, but he turns to look at you over his shoulder with more than just desire in his eyes.

“Yeah, well, you’ll be the one that matters,” he says.

You pause, looking down at him like you’re trying to figure out if he means it or not. And he does.

After a moment, you smile. Dean swivels on his stool and tugs you down to tumble onto his lap, into his waiting arms. You yelp in surprise, but you laugh into his neck when he pulls you flush against him by your jean-clad ass and thigh. He’ll happily get a handful of either one.

You make yourself comfortable on his lap and take his face into your hands. They're gentle, despite what they can do with a Beretta 92.

“I like this,” you admit softly. “You and me.”

Dean quirks a smile. “I’d say it’s an improvement.”

This time when he steals a proper kiss, you’re left without a smartass retort.

Even Sam notices.

The first time he does, you’ve just cooked dinner for them on a slow day. When Dean takes in the spread of pork roast with his eyes, he grins up at you with a heartfelt:

“Thanks, sweetheart," he says. "Looks awesome. Smells even better.”

You brighten with a smile. You answer him by reaching out to cup his cheek, pressing a sweet kiss to the other. You stroke your thumb across his prickly stubble, and let your hand slip down his neck and shoulder on your way back to the kitchen for the bread.

Sam watches the way his brother is a bit surprised by the contact, blinking as his gaze follows you to the kitchen. Dean smiles to himself.

Sam's lips twitch upwards as well.

Is he actually blushing? he wonders.

Dean catches him staring. He raises his brows, clearing his throat.

“What?” he asks.

Sam shakes his head and sips at his beer.

“Nothing.”

After that, Sam starts to pick up on the other little moments, like the way you sit close to Dean while researching during a hunt, your arm or your thigh brushing his. And the way you run your fingers through his hair while watching a movie together, or raise his arm so you can curl yourself up against him on his corner of the couch, threading your fingers together afterwards.

Sam shoots his brother a secret smile of amusement for that one. Dean chooses to ignore him and puts on Porky’s II on the big screen projector with the remote.

You fall asleep about halfway through the movie. Granted, you guys just got back from a long hunt, and you’re all pretty wiped. You’re just the one who succumbed first. From his side of the couch, Sam reaches for a throw blanket you bought for them and helps Dean lay it over you.

Dean happens to meet his brother’s gaze, and Sam smiles.

“Things seem to be going well for you guys,” he says quietly, so he doesn’t wake you.

Out of habit, Dean downplays with a shrug and a noncommittal sound. He brushes your hair back from your forehead, and he makes sure you’re covered up to your shoulders with the blanket. Finally, he rests his arm around your waist and shifts his attention back to the movie.

That’s when Sam knows the truth. His brother’s actions have always spoken louder than his words.

You haven’t officially moved into the bunker just yet.

Dean hasn’t brought it up, since everything between you two is so new. You’re here more often than not though, sharing his bed, making rich espresso out of your little coffee press for him and Sam in the morning, helping them even more with hunts that crop up.

Dean’s still getting used to sharing said bed. Mainly because you’re a cuddler, even after a couple of hot and sweaty rounds between the sheets.

“Ah, heeey,” he says awkwardly, when you snuggle yourself up to his side. You’ve just finished cleaning up in the bathroom and going through your twenty-something mysterious bottles of night creams.

You smell good, he can’t deny. It’s that enticing combination of lavender soap and coconutty shampoo. It infiltrates his nose as you sigh and settle your head against his chest. He curls an arm around you on reflex.

But your hair is tickling his neck and shoulder, sweat is trying to cool on his skin, and there’s plenty of room on your side of the bed.

“G’night,” you murmur drowsily and lay a kiss to his bare chest, over his anti-possession tattoo.

“Night,” he replies, with a wan smile as he stares up at the ceiling. He goes over the options in his head. One, he can wait until you’re asleep and try to gently roll you onto your side. Two, he can just lay here and deal, even though his neck is itchy, and some uncomfortable sweat is pooling down his lower back.

Or Option Three, he can just ask you if you mind rolling back onto your side.

After a few beats to think, he quickly concludes that Option Three is not an option.

Instead, he goes for trying to be slick. He waits until he hears your breathing even out into slumber. When he thinks you’re conked out for sure, he slowly, slowly uses his arm curled around your shoulders to roll you over, back onto the left side of the bed.

There are a couple times where he pauses, worried you’re about to wake up. You just hum and sigh in your sleep. Dean's lips purse, and he continues his mission.

When he’s successfully shifted you onto your other side, he expels a small breath of relief. Now, here’s the hard part: taking back his arm.

He goes as slow as he can while sliding his arm out from where it’s trapped underneath your soft body. Part of him feels a little guilty for what he’s doing, but he’s in too deep now.

Almost there…

Your breathing hitches, and stills. So does he.

“Dean,” you say quietly.

Shit.

He looks down, biting the corner of his lip. He’s been had.

“Yeah,” he reluctantly replies.

You turn around and raise yourself up to free his arm. You sigh through your nose, finding his sheepish expression in the dim room.

“Sorry. Was I cutting off your circulation or something?” you attempt to joke.

It seems innocent on the surface, but you’ve made those kinds of self-deprecating remarks before—about your body, your voluptuous ass, hips, thighs, and perfect tits that Dean’s spent the past few months mapping every square inch of.

He frowns.

“No,” he says. “I, uh…was getting hot. Just wanted a little space, that’s all.”

Your face falls further, no matter how much you try to hide it. A small, proverbial oyster knife twists in his gut.

“Look, if…if you want your bed to yourself, I get it. Less room to go around,” you chuckle, again with that self-deprecating humor. It doesn’t reach your eyes. “I can find my old guest room—”

Dean’s brows furrow along with his frown. He reaches out and grabs your arm before you can even start to get up.

“Hey, stop. Sweetheart, that’s not what I said.” He tugs you back over by your hand. He raises his brows to level with you, conspiringly. “Truth is, I’ve got sweat heading toward the crack of my ass.”

Your face freezes, and then it breaks, spluttering with laughter. Dean smiles, even though he’s also a bit embarrassed.

“You literally got me hot and bothered,” he says, with a teasing gleam in his eyes. “I just need a little cool down. Else I might just wake you up for Round 3.”

You stare back at him in amusement now, tinged with affection. However, the longer your thumb brushes over his knuckles, the more that insecurity starts to creep back into your gaze.

“You’ll let me know if I’m overstaying my welcome, right?” you ask. “I want to keep exploring…well, us, but I don’t want to smother you either.”

He sighs, shaking his head. “You got all that from me telling you I want to fuck you later?”

You dissolve into laughter again, shoving at his chest. He’s known you long enough to figure out what you need though. He grabs your offending hand and pulls you in. Then he rolls you onto your back and traps you underneath his broad frame.

“You’re not going any-damn-where. Not if I can help it,” he says, his voice deepening to a timbre that makes a shiver run down your spine.

You look up at him, your eyes shining through your lashes with desire, and deeper things too. Things that just about make him putty in your hands, whenever you touch him.

So he touches you. He cups your cheek, traces your jawline with his thumb. The pad of it smooths across your full lower lip as you smile softly, and he realizes then just how far this could go for him. He knows it’s the real deal.

That knowing warms him further and makes his stomach churn at the same time. He’s reminded of the warning he gave you before you two started dating.

“I attract a lot of crap in my life,” he admitted. “Shit you want no part of.”

You grabbed onto the lapels of his plaid shirt and pressed a soft kiss to his jaw.

“Well, that’s a stupid reason,” you said.

“It’s really not,” Dean shook his head. “Truth be told…I’m no good for you either.”

You hadn’t given a shit about all that. He’s been trying to figure out why you took a chance on him ever since…but he knows his reasons.

Even though he still believes everything he said back then, it doesn’t change much of anything.

He’s in too deep.

He dips down and claims your lips. You kiss him back with the same fervor, sliding your hands around his back, feeling every smooth dip of muscle between his shoulders.

“Round 3?” you playfully ask, between kisses.

Dean grips one of your thick thighs and spreads your legs for him, so he can grind his hips into yours, pressing his risen length against your heated core through your panties. He earns your moan in response, and he swallows it up with a more devouring kiss. He doesn’t let up until you’re panting for breath, already squeezing on him with your thighs around his hips.

He breaks, just for a second. He gives you a cheeky grin.

“Try to keep up.”

AN: Yep, Dean tried to pull a Ross Gellar. 🤣 (AKA: the "Hug and Roll.")

I don't know why this little idea wouldn't leave me alone! I guess I just like the thought of Dean having to get used to being doted on, even through something as small as being touched affectionately. Not just during sexy times. 💖

(Also, if you've read Midnight Espresso, you'll probably notice a little excerpt from there included here.)

Anyway, I hope you liked this! Let me know what you thought. 😘

Keep Reading:

Next in the Espresso-verse is Devour Me:

Summary: When you and Dean start to press each other’s buttons, both of your tempers ignite. To make up for it, you give him an impromptu salsa dancing lesson…one he didn’t exactly ask for.

▶️ Next Story: Devour Me (Part 1)

Ko-Fi Me ☕

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Dean W. Tag List:

@hobby27 @kazsrm67 @jacklesbrainworms @foxyjwls007 @iamsapphine

@roseblue373 @this-is-me19 @deans-spinster-witch @deans-baby-momma @just-levyy

@samanddeaninatrenchcoat @lacilou @adoringanakin @midnightmadwoman @chriszgirl92

@lyarr24 @ladysparkles78 @deansbbyx @sarahgracej @kaleldobrev

@mimaria420 @fics-pics-andotherthings-i-like @waywardxwords @waynes-multiverse @twinkleinadiamondsky

@my-stories-vault @cevansbaby-dove @kayleighwinchester @rizlowwritessortof @syrma-sensei

@mrsjenniferwinchester @charmed-asylum @k-slla @jackles010378 @deanbrainrotwritings

@alwaystiredandconfused @deans-daydream @deanwinchestersgirl87 @rachiem4-blog @leigh70

@kmc1989 @ghostslillady @siampie @pieandmonsters @globetrotter28

@spnwoman @stoneyggirl2 @spnfamily-j2 @mostlymarvelgirl @artemys-ackles

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drowsyapple · 1 month ago

Text

Where the Sun Meets the Sky

Pairing: Caleb x Non!mc reader

Tags: University AU, tall/POC!reader, fratboy!Caleb, friends to lovers

Synopsis: After a crushing loss, your ride-or-die Caleb shows up with snacks, stats help, and way too much info about your life. Now he's making you go to his frat formal. Is he just being your overprotective childhood friend... or is there something he's not telling you?

(Yes. The answer is yes.)

Word Count: 5.6k

Warnings: This chapter is pretty tame, but there are hints of protective/possessive behavior, mild stalking vibes, and academic stress

Author's Note: I'm not a writer, I just like to write :) the reader is a taller tomboy girly who loves basketball and hates stats class... I plan on making this a multi-chapter fic (might already have the next chapter mostly done) so let me know if y'all want more :D enjoy!

Tag List: @rcvcgers @seasal-t

Comment if you'd like to be added to the tag list :)

The gymnasium was a cacophony of sound—squeaking sneakers, the rhythmic bounce of basketballs, and the occasional shout from Coach Jenna. The chill of the fall air seeped through the cracks in the old building, making you shiver as you wiped sweat from your brow. Your dark brown curls, most of it slicked back into your signature ponytail, clung to your forehead in damp tendrils, a few rebellious strands escaping to frame your freckled face. Your hazel eyes, sharp with focus, scanned the court as you sprinted down the hardwood, your 5’10” frame moving with the kind of fluid precision that came from years of training.

The Linkon University basketball jersey, number 25, hung loosely over your athletic build, the fabric darkened with sweat. Your skin, kissed with melanin, glistened under the harsh gym lights, and the faint dusting of freckles across your nose and cheeks gave you a youthful, determined look. The sound of your sneakers squeaking against the floor echoed as you pivoted, your ponytail swinging behind you, as you gave it your all on the court.

“Hustle, ladies! This isn’t a tea party!” Coach Jenna barked, her voice cutting through the noise. She stood on the sidelines, her clipboard clutched tightly in one hand, her sharp eyes missing nothing.

Your teammate, Simone, shot you a grin as you ran side by side, her dark braids swinging with each stride. The squeak of sneakers against the polished hardwood floor echoed through the gym, blending with the sharp whistle of Coach Jenna. “Coach is on one today,” Simone panted.

“When is she not?” you shot back, your voice strained but laced with humor. You dodged around a cone, your legs burning as you pushed through the drill. The chill of the air made your breath visible in short, quick puffs.

The scrimmage against Skyhaven University had ended with a narrow loss, the opposing team’s star center sinking a buzzer-beater three-pointer that left your team groaning in frustration. As punishment for the loss, your coach had you doing line drills for each point difference and shot missed. Your muscles screamed with every sprint, every pivot, every jump, but you pushed through, determined to not fall behind your team.

After what felt like an eternity, you slumped onto the bench, your chest heaving as you chugged from your water bottle. The cool liquid was a relief, but it did little to ease the ache settling into your muscles, a familiar reminder of the grind. Simone settled down next to you, her face flushed and her two french braids damp with sweat. She quickly gathered her things, her movements efficient despite her fatigue. You wondered how she still had the energy to move so fast.

“I’m heading back to the bus first,” she said, slinging her duffel bag over her shoulder before glancing over. “Do you want me to save you a seat?”

Simone was your best friend on the basketball team, and as fellow freshmen, you’d formed a bond that went beyond the court. She was the first person to welcome you to the team, and her relentless optimism and dry sense of humor had gotten you through more than one grueling practice. You appreciated the camaraderie between you two and the unspoken understanding that you were both doing all you could to climb the team’s ladder.

“Yeah, that’d be great,” you said between breaths and sips of water. “See you in a bit.”

Simone nodded. “Don’t take too long. You know how Coach gets if we’re late.”

You watched as she walked away, her braids swaying with each step. The gym was quieter now, the rest of the team already heading to the bus or packing up their gear. You took a moment to catch your breath, your eyes scanning the empty court. The polished floor reflected the overhead lights, and the faint scent of sweat and sports drinks lingered in the air.

As you sat there, the weight of the loss settled over you. It wasn’t just the score, it was the missed opportunities, the shots you could’ve made, the passes you could’ve intercepted. You clenched your fists, the frustration bubbling up, but you pushed it down. There’d be time to analyze the game later, to figure out what went wrong and how to fix it. For now, you just needed to get through the ride back to campus and the inevitable scolding from Coach.

As the team continued to file out of the gym in groups of two or three, you lingered behind, taking time to stuff your gear into your duffel bag. Your muscles screamed with every motion you made accompanied by the sound of your growling stomach. The sound of the gym doors on the opposite end of the building creaking open drew your attention, and you glanced up to see Caleb leaning against the doorframe, his arms crossed and a slight smirk playing on his lips.

Caleb was impossible to miss. At 6’2”, he towered over most people, his broad shoulders and athletic build a testament to his dual life as a star basketball player and an aspiring pilot, currently majoring in aerospace engineering. His dark brown hair was tousled, falling slightly into his striking purple eyes, which gleamed with amusement under the fluorescent lights. He was dressed casually in a black hoodie and jeans, his orange and black flying jacket slung over one arm. The jacket was worn but well-loved, a fond memory from his high school days, and it suited him perfectly.

“Tough loss, pips,” he said, his voice warm but teasing.

You rolled your eyes, slinging your bag over your shoulder as you stood up, ignoring your protesting knees. “Don’t remind me. What are you doing here, anyway? I remember telling you I was riding back with the team.”

Caleb pushed off the doorframe and stepped inside, his boots clicking against the floor as he walked to meet you halfway. “I already talked to Coach. Told her I’d give you a ride.” He said shooting a quick wave to your Coach, and she, distracted by the notes on her clipboard, returned the gesture. Since when did they get so close?

You groaned at that, dragging a hand down your sweaty face. “Caleb, I don’t need a babysitter. I’m perfectly capable of taking the bus.”

“And miss the chance to spend quality time with your favorite person? Not a chance,” he said, his smirk widening. He reached out and ruffled your damp hair, earning a swat from you.

You muttered under your breath while slipping on your favorite hoodie, and followed him out to the parking lot where his beat-up pickup truck waited. The truck was a relic from high school. You and Caleb had found it abandoned in the neighborhood junkyard, its red paint faded and speckled with rust, but Caleb said it had character and fixed it up in no time. The man has always had a way with tools, yet you struggled using something as simple as a toaster. You climbed into the passenger seat, tossing your bag into the back, and noticed a small paper bag on the dashboard and a large Diet Coke waiting for you in one of the cupholders. The cup was filled to the brim with the crunchy, nugget ice you loved.

“After-game snack,” Caleb said as he slid into the driver’s seat. “Figured you’d be starvin’.”

You raised an eyebrow but couldn’t hide the smile creeping on your face. “You’re such a dork.” He always knew exactly what you needed, even without asking.

“Your dork,” he corrected while starting the engine, which earned a snort from you. The truck rumbled to life, and you two pulled out of the parking lot.

As your childhood best friend drove, you leaned back in your seat, sipping your drink and nibbling on the peanut butter protein bar that was in the paper bag. The conversation flowed easily, as it always did with him. You talked about the scrimmage, taking this chance to vent about the missed shots and the opposing team’s star player.

“You’ll get ‘em next time,” Caleb said, his tone encouraging. “You’re a shoo-in for a starter spot next year. Hell, you might even be captain one day, just like me.”

You snorted. “Don’t let it go to your head, Mr. Valedictorian.”

Caleb’s expression softened. “Please let that go,” he chuckled. “High school was ages ago, and I’m already a Junior. Seriously, though. You’re killin’ it out there. Just don’t forget to take care of yourself, okay?”

As you opened your mouth to respond, your phone buzzed, interrupting the moment. You pull it out of your pocket to see a text from your roommate,

Tara: Have you seen the back of my earring??? I’ve looked everywhere!

You sighed, typing out a quick reply of nope before tossing your phone onto the dashboard. “Roommate again,” you muttered.

Caleb glanced at you briefly, his brow furrowing slightly. “Everything okay?”

“Yeah, just… Tara’s a mess. I swear, I spend more time cleaning up after her than I do studying.”

Caleb’s jaw tightened a bit, but he didn’t press. Instead, he changed the subject. “You wanna come over for dinner? I made your favorite.”

You hesitated, the idea tempting. “I really should study. My stats class is kicking my ass, and if I don’t pull my grade up, I’m gonna lose my scholarship.”

Caleb drummed his fingers on the steering wheel, thinking. “How about this? You come over, we eat, and I’ll help you with your stats homework. I TA’d for Professor Lucius last year, so I know his style.”

You opened your mouth to refuse, but Caleb flashed you his signature puppy-dog look. Wide eyes, slightly pouted lips, the whole nine yards. You groaned, throwing your hands up in defeat. “Fine… but only because I’m starving.”

Caleb’s triumphant grin was almost too much to bear. Suddenly, a thought flickered in the back of your mind.

Did you ever tell Caleb you had Professor Lucius this semester?

The cold sweat of the cup bit into your palm as you searched your memory. No, you definitely hadn't told him. Between basketball drills and Tara's latest crisis, you'd barely registered the mid-semester professor switch yourself until the first confusing lecture. Yet Caleb had said Lucius' name like it was common knowledge, the same way he always seemed to know your schedule before you did, your coffee order before you spoke it, and when you'd need him before you knew you needed him yourself.

The realization prickled at you—you’d never told Caleb about Professor Lucius. Struggles with statistics, yes, but not who taught it. Not when six other instructors were teaching it this semester. Yet he’d known. Like he always knew.

Still, it wasn’t like Caleb to get details wrong. He was meticulous, almost annoyingly so. Always remembering the smallest things about your schedule, your preferences, and your life.

You shook your head, brushing the thought aside.

It’s nothing. Probably just said it in passing and forgot.

You removed the lid of your cup and took a long sip of your drink, the satisfying crunch of the nugget ice between your teeth pulling you back to the present. The familiar sensation was comforting.

You glanced outside the truck window, the campus of Linkon University beginning to roll by in a blur of autumn colors. The trees lining the pathways were ablaze with gold and crimson, their leaves fluttering to the ground in the crisp fall breeze contrasting the setting sun. Students bundled in scarves and jackets hurried to and from classes, their laughter and chatter faintly carrying through the glass. The clock tower loomed in the distance, its hands inching toward evening, and the faint scent of woodsmoke from a nearby bonfire drifted through the air.

You leaned your head against the cool window, letting the rhythm of the road and the hum of the truck’s engine lull you into a sense of calm. Caleb’s playlist, a mix of classic rock and indie tracks he’d curated over the years, played softly in the background. He was humming along under his breath, his fingers tapping the steering wheel in time with the beat.

You tore your eyes away from the passing scenery and glanced at him out of the corner of your eye. His profile was sharp against the fading light, his jawline strong and his amethyst eyes focused on the road. There was a quiet intensity about him, a steadiness that had always been there, even when you were kids. He was the kind of person who made you feel safe, even when you didn’t want to admit you needed it.

But there was something else there too, something you couldn’t quite put your finger on. A tension in the way he held himself, a flicker of something in his eyes when he thought you weren’t looking. You’d noticed it more and more lately ever since you started college, though you couldn’t explain why.

“You okay over there?” Caleb’s voice broke through your thoughts, his tone light but with an undercurrent of concern.

You blinked, pulling yourself back to the present. “Yeah, just…thinking.”

He raised an eyebrow, his smirk returning. “Dangerous habit.”

You rolled your eyes, “Says the guy who overthinks everything.”

Caleb laughed, the sound warm and familiar. “Guilty as charged.”

The conversation lulled again, but the silence between you was comfortable, simple. You turned your attention back to the window, watching as the campus gave way to the quieter streets of the neighboring residential neighborhood. The houses here were old but charming, their porches decorated with pumpkins and fairy lights. A group of kids played in a leaf pile on the sidewalk, their laughter ringing out like chiming bells.

You took another sip of your drink, the ice clinking softly against the sides of the cup. The thought from earlier nagged at you again, but you pushed it aside.

It’s Caleb. He probably just heard it from someone else.

You always have been the forgetful type, forgetting even your birthday one year.

Still, as the truck pulled up to his apartment building, you couldn’t shake the feeling that there was more to it than that. But for now, you decided to let it go. There were more pressing things to worry about, like surviving stats class and figuring out how to deal with Tara’s latest disaster.

🍎🍎🍎

Caleb’s studio apartment was small but cozy, a reflection of his no-frills personality. The brick accent wall gave the space a rustic charm, its rough texture softened by the warm glow of a single floor lamp. The room was dominated by a worn leather couch, its cushions dented from years of use from its previous owner, and a slightly cluttered coffee table stacked with textbooks, a half-empty coffee mug, and a pair of aviator sunglasses. A small kitchenette sat in the corner, its countertops surprisingly tidy except for a single pan soaking in the sink.

Photos of you and Caleb lined the walls, a timeline of your shared history. There was the one from your 12th birthday, where he’d surprised you with a basketball cake and a goofy party hat. Another from last year’s New Year’s Eve, the two of you bundled up in scarves, your cheeks flushed from the cold and the sparklers in your hands leaving trails of light in the dark. New Year’s Eve had always been yours—the two of you pressed shoulder-to-shoulder in a crowd or curled on a couch, watching the clock tick toward midnight with the same quiet certainty as the years turning over. No matter what chaos the year had brought, that moment always belonged to you both.

And then the candid shots, Caleb ruffling your hair after a game in middle school, you laughing as he tried to teach you how to cook (and failed miserably). Then there was a photo of you two during your high school graduation just half a year ago; you were clutching your diploma, and Caleb’s arm hung loosely over your shoulders, smiling bright. Each photo was a snapshot of a moment frozen in time, a reminder of how intertwined your lives had always been. And behind each photo was your adoptive grandmother, Josephine, always eager to capture the moments of her kids with her clunky camera.

You walked in and turned to the used couch. A deep red throw blanket was draped over its back, the vibrant hue a stark contrast to the muted grays and browns of the room. You flop down after dropping your bags to the side of the couch, stretching out horizontally and scrolling through your phone, your feet hanging over the edge. The leather creaked under your weight, and the faint scent of Caleb’s cologne, something woodsy and warm, lingered in the air.

Caleb disappeared into the kitchen, humming along to the classic rock playlist he’d put on. The opening chords of a familiar song filled the room, Over the Hills and Far Away by Led Zeppelin, and you couldn’t help but smile. It was one of his favorites, a track he’d played on repeat during road trips back in high school.

“Seriously, Caleb,” you called out, raising your voice over the music, “how do you still listen to this stuff? It’s so old.”

“It’s timeless,” he shot back, his voice carrying over the sizzle of the stove and the hum of the microwave. “You’ll appreciate it when you’re older.”

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t suppress a smile. “If you say so.”

You set your phone down on the coffee table and headed to the bathroom, leaving it behind. When you returned, Caleb was setting two plates of braised chicken wings on the table along with two cups of microwavable instant rice. The rich, savory aroma made your stomach growl, and you couldn’t help but feel a rush of gratitude. He’d remembered your favorite dish, just like he always did.

As you ate, the conversation flowed effortlessly, shifting from sports to classes to Caleb’s latest escapades with his frat brothers. He leaned back in his chair, a mischievous grin spreading across his face as he launched into the story. “So, last weekend, we decided to build a homemade drone,” he began, his eyes lighting up with the kind of energy that always came with his wilder ideas. “You know, just a little weekend project. What could go wrong, right?”

You raised an eyebrow, already sensing where this was going. “Famous last words, Caleb. What happened?” You asked as you took another bite of your favorite dish, a slight note of ginger hitting the back of your throat.

He chuckled, shaking his head. “Well, we got it all put together, or at least, we thought we did. But when we fired it up, the thing shot straight into the air, spun in a circle, and then nosedived right into the grill!” He exclaimed waving his hands around. “Next thing we know, the propane tank’s hissin’, and the backyard’s basically a fire hazard.”

You burst out laughing, nearly choking on your food. “You’re kidding me! Did you at least get it on video?”

“Oh, we got it on video,” he said, pulling out his phone and scrolling through his camera roll. He handed it to you, and you watched as the drone spiraled out of control, followed by a chorus of panicked shouts and the unmistakable sound of something catching fire. You were laughing so hard your sides hurt, and Caleb joined in, his laugh filling the room.

“I can’t believe you guys didn’t get kicked out of the house,” you said, wiping tears from your eyes.

“Oh, we almost did,” he admitted, still grinning. “But, you know, we cleaned it up. Mostly. And no one got hurt, so… win?”

“Barely,” you teased, shaking your head. “You’re lucky you’re still alive.”

The lighthearted banter continued, the tension from the scrimmage slowly melting away. It was easy, comfortable, the way it always was with Caleb. He had a way of making everything feel less serious, less overwhelming. For a little while, you forgot about the game, about the pressure, about everything except the sound of his laughter and the warmth of the moment.

But once you cleared your plate and pulled out your stats homework, the mood shifted as reality sank in once again. You groaned, staring at the equations like they were written in another language. The numbers and symbols blurred together, and you felt that familiar knot of frustration tightening in your chest.

Caleb noticed immediately, his grin fading as he leaned forward, resting his elbows on his legs. “What’s wrong?” he asked, his tone softer now.

“It’s this stupid stats homework,” you muttered, shoving the paper away from you. “I don’t get it. None of it makes sense. I’ve been staring at it for hours these past couple of days, and it’s like my brain just shuts down. Why do I need to know this? I’m a basketball player, not a mathematician.”

Caleb chuckled, leaning over to look at your notes. His arm brushed against yours, and you caught a whiff of his cologne again, distracting you slightly. He tilted his head, studying you for a moment. “You’re overthinkin’ it,” he said simply with a small smile.

“Easy for you to say,” you retorted. “You’re, like, a wannabe math genius or something.”

He laughed at that, shaking his head. “I’m no genius. I just don’t freak out about it like you do.” He reached over, pulling the paper toward him and scanning the problems. “Okay, look. This one’s not that bad. You’re just makin’ it harder than it needs to be.”

You sighed, leaning back in your chair. “Yeah, well, that’s my specialty.”

He smirked, glancing up at you. “True. But lucky for you, you’ve got me.” He grabbed the pen you were holding and started scribbling notes in the margins, explaining each step in a way that actually made sense. You watched him, the frustration slowly easing as his calm, steady voice broke through the mental block you’d been hitting.

“See?” he said after a few minutes, sliding the paper and pen back to you. “Not so bad, right?”

You looked down at the page, the numbers suddenly less intimidating. “Okay, maybe you’re a little bit of a genius,” you admitted, a small smile tugging at your lips.

He leaned back, looking far too pleased with himself. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“Don’t let it go to your head,” you said, rolling your eyes, but you couldn’t help the laugh that escaped. “Thanks, though. Seriously.”

“Anytime,” he said, his tone light but sincere. “You know I’ve got your back.”

And you did know. That was the thing about Caleb. No matter how chaotic or ridiculous things got, he always had a way of making you feel like everything would be okay. Even when the numbers didn’t add up and the world felt like it was spinning too fast, he was there, steady and sure, reminding you that you weren’t alone.

He walked you through a few more of the problems, his voice calm and patient as he explained each step. But your eyes drifted to your phone, which buzzed incessantly with texts from Tara. The screen continuously lit up from where it was placed on the edge table, and you couldn’t resist glancing at it. Huh, did you set it all the way over there before you headed to the bathroom?

“What’s so important?” Caleb asked, interrupting your thought, his tone light but with an edge of curiosity.

“Nothing,” you said, shoving your phone into your pocket. “Just Tara being Tara.”

Caleb raised an eyebrow but didn’t press. Instead, he reached over and plucked the phone from your pocket and proceeded to stand as tall as he could, holding it above his head.

“Hey!” you protested, standing up and reaching for it. But Caleb was a few inches taller, and you couldn’t quite reach.

“You said you’d focus,” he teased, his eyes sparkling with mischief.

“Caleb, give it back!” you demanded, jumping in vain.

He laughed, but there was a hint of sadness in his expression. “You know, it’s hard to compete with your phone for your attention.”

You stopped jumping, your frustration melting into a tinge of guilt. The look in his eyes—part amusement, part something deeper—caught you off guard. “I’m sorry,” you groaned with a slight eye roll. “How could I ever make it up to you.”

Caleb’s smirk returned, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Oh?”

You hesitated, then sighed, having an idea of where this conversation was headed. “What do you want?”

Caleb’s eyes lit up, and you knew you’d walked right into his trap. “Come to the frat formal with me. Tomorrow night.”

You huffed, but there was no way out. This was the grave you dug and now it was time to lie in it. He had been bugging you about his frat’s autumn formal for weeks. “Fine. But you owe me.”

Caleb’s triumphant grin was worth it, even as you mentally prepared yourself for the chaos of a frat party, grimacing at the thought of dressing in clothes other than your trusty knee-length basketball shorts, hoodies, and sneakers.

🍎🍎🍎

The ride back to your dorm was short, the silence between you and Caleb comfortable. The truck’s engine hummed softly, and the faint glow of streetlights flickered across Caleb’s face as he drove. His hands rested lightly on the steering wheel, his fingers tapping in time once again with the song playing on the radio. You glanced at him, noting the way his jaw tightened slightly whenever your on-campus dorm came into view. He hated this place, your co-ed dorm, and he didn’t bother hiding it.

When you arrived, Caleb parked the truck and walked you to the door, his hands stuffed in his pockets. The cool night air nipped at your cheeks, and you pulled the hood of your hoodie tighter around your head. The dorm building loomed ahead, its windows glowing with warm light, and the faint sound of laughter and music spilled out from the common room.

“Thanks for the ride,” you said, turning to face him.

Caleb’s eyes met yours, and for a moment, he just looked at you, his expression unreadable. Then he smiled, that familiar, easy grin that always made your stomach flutter, which you promptly ignored. “Anytime, pipsqueak,” he replied as he placed his hand on your covered head, his voice soft.

You turned to the entrance while reaching for your key card, swiping it swiftly to unlock the door with a soft click. The sound was barely audible over the hum of the dorm’s hallway, but it felt loud in the quiet space between you and Caleb. You opened the door but held it open with your foot. Pausing, you turned to him with an eyebrow raised. “Y’know, can you quit it with that silly nickname already?” you protested, though there was no real bite to your words. “I’m hardly small, and I could easily destroy you in a 1v1 any day.”

Caleb’s grin widened, that familiar, infuriating smirk that made your stomach do a little flip, which you ignored once again. For a split second, you thought he might say something…something real, something that would explain the way he’d been looking at you all night, like you were the only person in the world. But instead, he just chuckled, reaching out to ruffle your hair under your hoodie like you were still the scrawny kid he’d met all those years ago. “Wouldn’t dream of it,” he said, his voice light but with a hint of something you couldn’t quite place.

You rolled your eyes, brushing his hand away, but the warmth of his touch lingered. “You’re impossible,” you muttered, turning to head inside.

As the door began to close behind you, you caught a glimpse of him still standing there, his hands back in his pockets and his smile fading. His purple eyes lingered on you, intense and unreadable, and for a moment, it felt like the air between you was charged with something unspoken. But before you could say anything, before you could even process what you were feeling, the windowless door clicked shut, leaving you alone in the dimly lit hallway, the sound of the common room drowning out as it became overpowered by your thoughts.

You leaned against the door for a moment, your heart racing for reasons you couldn’t quite explain. Caleb was always like this. Teasing, protective, and just a little bit maddening. But tonight, it felt different. Like there was something he wasn’t saying, something he was holding back.

Shaking your head, you pushed off the door and headed down the hall towards your shared dorm, the sound of your footsteps echoing in the space. Whatever it was, you’d figure it out later. For now, you had a roommate to deal with and a mountain of homework waiting for you.

🍎🍎🍎

The dorm was a disaster when you walked in. Clothes were strewn across the living room, empty takeout containers littered the coffee table, and a half-finished puzzle sat abandoned on the floor. Tara was kneeling in the middle of the chaos, her dark hair a wild mess as she dug through a pile of laundry.

“What’s going on?” you asked, dropping your bag by the door.

Tara looked up, her eyes wide with desperation. “What took you so long?! I still can’t find the back of my earring! Please help!”

You sighed but knelt down to help, shoving aside a pair of jeans and a sweatshirt that definitely wasn’t either of yours. Tara had always been like this, chaotic, scatterbrained, but endearing. You’d met her during orientation, when she’d accidentally spilled her iced coffee all over your shoes and then insisted on buying you a new pair. You’d been inseparable ever since, even if her messiness drove you up the wall.

As you searched, Tara began peppering you with questions about your evening. “So, I figure you were with Caleb, huh?” she asked, wiggling her eyebrows at you.

“Don’t start,” you warned, but Tara just laughed and returned to digging through the pile of clothes in front of her. You continued, “I have to go to that stupid frat formal with him now just as I started to think I was in the clear. As if I don’t have anything better to do than put on a dress and be surrounded by drunks. Coach doesn’t even let us drink! What the hell am I supposed to do all night sober?”

“Oh come on. His frat holds, like, the most exclusive party of the year. You’re so lucky!”

You groaned, shoving a pile of socks aside. “You can take my place if you want.”

Tara shook her head, her loose curls bouncing. “Nope. I’ve got plans with that guy from my bio class.” You said a small ah under your breath nodding. You never understood Tara’s extensive roster and never bothered asking for specifics. She was with a new guy what seemed like every other week.

You finally spotted the earring back under the coffee table and handed it to Tara, who squealed in delight.

“You’re the best!” she said, pulling you into a hug before retreating to her room.

You did the same, tossing your phone onto the bed, and almost like magic, it lit up with a notification from Caleb:

Sleep well, pips. Don’t let Tara or your floor mates keep you up :)

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t suppress a small smile. Caleb had always been like this, a protective older brother figure in your life. He hated your co-ed dorm, and he made no secret of it.

“It’s not safe,” he’d said when you first moved in, his arms crossed and his jaw set. “You should’ve taken the single dorm I found for you.”

But you’d refused, partly because you didn’t want to feel like you owed him anything and partly because you liked the idea of chaos that came with living on the same floor with a bunch of noisy dudes. It reminded you that you were finally on your own, making your own decisions, even if those decisions drove Caleb a little crazy.

You threw off your shoes and plopped into bed, still wearing your outside clothes. As you laid there, staring at the ceiling and debating a shower, your thoughts drifted back to him. His teasing smile, the way his eyes softened when he looked at you, the way he always seemed to know what you needed before you did. He was infuriating, endearing, and entirely too much. But he was your childhood best friend, and you wouldn’t have it any other way.

Still, there was a part of you that wondered, what would happen if you let him in completely? If you stopped pretending you didn’t notice the way his gaze lingered on you, or the way his voice softened when he said your name?

You shook your head, pushing the thought aside. For now, this was enough.

#next chapter will be caleb pov #caleb x reader #caleb love and deepspace #caleb x non mc #caleb x non!mcreader #love and deepspace #lads caleb #caleb angst #caleb university au #l&ds #tall!reader #poc!reader

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solitaryearthperson · 16 days ago

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Weak

Summary: This couldn't happen. She promised herself she wouldn't be weak again.

(The reader is 18+ and is gender-neutral. The ethnicity/race is preferably Black/POC.)

You were a plaything. A toy. Nothing more than a small distraction for Ambessa. Something to play with after a long hard day of being a General. Nothing more, nothing less. Yet as she looked down at your sleeping form, tangled in her blood red sheets, she could feel her heart skip a beat at how soft and peaceful you looked. After a night of rough lovemaking, usually Ambessa would give you simple aftercare, then send you on your way, but tonight she couldn’t find it in herself to do it.

Is it happening again, she wondered, sitting up against her headboard, letting her cover slide down her body. She watched the slow rise and fall of your chest as you slept, the small twitch of your nose, and the soft little snores that left your mouth and felt another skip of her heart beat. Am I becoming weak again? Has this little creature made me weak and sentimental?

She remembers feeling this before. It had been years ago but she remembered feeling it only two times in her life, both being for her children.

She swore to herself that this wouldn’t happen again. She told herself that as she worked hard to protect Noxus and continue to spread their power, she would not make herself weak again. Then here comes you, slithering into her heart and making a home there. What will I do with you, she asked herself, softly caressing your cheek, making sure to not wake you.

I can’t be weak again. She knew it was bad but somehow she had already grown attached to you. But I won’t leave you. I can’t be away from you.

She had responsibilities, things that were more important than some plaything. But you were no longer just a plaything to her, she realized. You made her weak. You made her hardened heart soften and beat strongly for you.

Now when she made plans, whether it was for her army, to help Mel, or even to simply entertain herself, she felt she had to include you no matter what. She couldn’t be separate from you for too long.

Congratulations, Ambessa, she told herself, lowering her body back down to the bed and gently pulling your body close to hers, wrapping an arm around you. You’ve officially become weak again. Surprisingly, she didn’t mind it that much.

#arcane #arcane imagine #arcane x reader #arcane x you #arcane x y/n #arcane x black reader #ambessa #ambessa medarda #ambessa imagine #ambessa medarda imagine #ambessa x reader #ambessa medarda x reader #ambessa x black reader #ambessa medarda x black reader #poc!reader

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novascharms · 4 months ago

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no boys allowed! — rafe cameron

no boys allowed at the sorority house after 7 pm. of course, rafe sneaks into your window a couple of days a week.

content — fluff, smut, p in v w.c — 2.7 masterlist

monday — 11:32 p.m.

being in a sorority was your favorite thing in the world. the sisterhood, the living arrangements, the benefits. it was everything you could wish for and more. you even loved your president and rush chair despite their sometimes strict-ish rules. it wasn't too bad; good grades, good behaviour, mandatory attendace at all chapter meetings, events, and rituals, dress a certain way, talk a certain way. blahblahblah. those were all things that had been ingrained in you long before you came to university but the no boys after seven o'clock rule? that one was a little tougher to swallow. a girl has needs.

you weren't sure how quiet you were being, you never could really focus when rafe had you like this, ass arched up, face roughly stuffed into your frilly off-white anthropologie pillow. you could vaguely hear the moans coming out of your drooling mouth but most, if not all of your focus was on rafe pounding his thick cock into your gummy walls, abusing your aching pussy, "quiet, baby..emily will rip me a new one if she hears us," rafe's voice barely broke through the sex haze you were in as you rutted into your sheets.

how could he ask you to be more quiet but fuck you even harder? "rafe..! mm, p-please.." you blubbered, tears in your eyes as his hands gripped your waist still and kept you from sinking into the bed from sheer lack of strength. he let out a low groan when you pushed back into him at every thrust, "that's it, that's my girl."

“oh god, oh god, rafey..!” you whimpered when rafe’s tip hit your cervix and slammed against it over and over driving you completely silly. he buried himself deep inside of you whilst holding your hips and relentlessly pounded into your sweet cunt. “doin’ so good, baby.” he grunted against your neck as your cunt sucked him in eagerly. “look at that pussy suckin’ me in..”

his hips drove against you, fucking into your hole and hitting that fuzzy spot that made you delirious every time. rafe had to shove your head into the pillow to muffle your whines that were only getting louder as he drilled into you.

just then, a quiet knock on your door. "hey, you okay in there?"

your eyes widened, panic taking over your body when you recognised the rush chair, aaliyah's voice. fuck, fuck, you were screwed. even more screwed considering rafe was still pounding your pussy relentlessly. "rafe.." you whispered with the hope that it would sound like a warning but it just sounded like the most pathetic, quiet whine.

"mm..mhm..y-yes!" you cried, your eyes fluttering from the pleasure and you arched your back even more, gripping your pillows for support.

"you sure, girl? you don't need a medic, right? because steffi was vomitting yesterday so we had a medic for that and i just don't want the board to think we're milking all their resources for—"

"yes!" you screamed out, the feeling of pure ectascy taking over your body and your vision went all white. you could hear rafe quietly groaning as he pumped his load into you only a second after you came.

"yes, you do need a medic?"

tuesday — 9:08 p.m.

it wasn't usually every day. the sneaking in. this week was just going to be a stressful one, for the both of you. you had a midterm in the morning, class from 8 to 6 on thursday and you had to squeeze a manicure inbetween one of those classes so you wouldn't even get to eat lunch with rafe (tragic), friday morning rafe was going away until saturday morning which you truly saw as a crime against you, saturday you had a mandatory sorority event that would take the whole day but atleast rafe was coming as your date and then sunday rafe had a frat thing where you could unfortunately not be his date because it was members only. so, basically, everyone hates you and the world is against you.

"rafe, i have to study..!" you gripped the edges of your desk and planted your feet to the ground as rafe tried to tug you away from your notes and laptop. "you've been studying all day, it's time for a break." he said firmly and his arms came around your waist, lifting you from your chair. you almost screamed but closed your mouth upon realising emily would come running and see rafe here two hours past curfew.

rafe threw you onto your bed in the least graceful way he could and you bounced into the pillows with a gasp. "it's clear you've never studied for a statistics exam. breaks don't exist in the land of statistics." you say and roll your eyes when he sits on your bed with this stupid smile on his face that made it impossible not to love him.

"i had statistics in my first year. pretty sure the prof had a thing for me." he laid his head down on princess peach's head. not her actual head. a plushie of her head which he was crushing with his even more massive head. "mm." you hummed and gave him a nasty once-over. he laughed so hard you had to smash the nearest pillow on his face with wide eyes. "rafe, quiet!" you hissed, with your body almost toppled over him with how quick you jumped to silence him.

he was still smiling when you removed the pillow 10 seconds later. "you enjoyed that." he said and he was absolutely right, you did enjoy that. "it felt very liberating to shut a white man up, yes." you smiled like you had just done something to be truly proud of. "well, that was my break—" you were halfway across the bed when rafe grabbed your ankle and tugged you right back where you were. luckily the sheets muffled your shriek. "you're going to break your brain, doll." he sat up and pulled you between his legs.

"i'm going to break your bones if i fail my exam tomorrow." the threat was empty, hollow, transparent even. on a bad day, you couldn't even open a jar of peanut butter and you knew the two-ish hours you still wanted to study probably wouldn't make much of a difference BUT what if? what if maybe? just maybe it did? then you'd blame rafe and you'd be forced to bring harm to this beautiful boy you loved so dearly. just because he wanted you to rest instead of working yourself to death.

"in that case, my bones are fine." he murmured pulling you against his chest, his warm hands slowly travelling up your blue loveshackfancy pyjamas. your head dropped onto his chest as his hand gently cupped your tits, the calluses on his palm brushung against your sensitive, hardened nipple. he kissed along your ear, the tip of his nose grazes your earlobe before quietly asking, "you just need some rest, don't you?" your hand rested lightly on his arm as he fondled your tit in his hand and you sighed with a subtle nod, body melting like putty in his hands.

his other hand travelled down to your pyjama shorts, his fingers teasing your clothed slit, pushing gently against that warmth yet making sure to not push all the way in just yet. your back arched, a whimper escaping your lips at the fleeting feeling. "rafe.." you whined, eyes fluttering, bracing your neck and he hummed leaving kisses along your exposed skin. "n-need you." you murmured, your hand still on his forearm, praying he'd just slip it down your shorts already.

"yeah? you need me? my sweet girl needs my fingers?" your eyes close and the fluttering that takes over your body makes you wonder if you didn't just cum at just his words. it wouldn't surprise you.

"help me out, sweetheart." he says and you were confused for a moment until your eyes opened to his fingers inches away from your lips. you didn't hesitate, eased his digits into your mouth in desperate need to just empty your brain, stop the overflow of thoughts and this was the perfect solution.

your tongue coated his fingers in spit and held onto his wrist to slowly push his fingers deeper down your throat. you whined around his fingers, pupils dilated, completely lost in the motion and rafe's hand comes up to wrap around your throat, pushing up just slightly so your head was tilted up giving him the perfect view of you greedily sucking his fingers. "shit, baby, that's perfect.." he sighs and you can feel him hardening against your ass, you have this burning desire to push back, to grind slowly and drive him insane but you feel too weak to do anything, focus on anything with his fingers inches deep in your mouth.

the moment ended entirely too soon but you had no time to utter out a whiny complain because his hand was down your shorts and fingers between your folds, grazing your slit and thumbing your clit. you gasped and arched away from him the moment his thumb made contact with your slit. "c'mere." he pulled you right back in, flesh against his chest. he made sure your legs were nicely spread apart before he started circling your clit, "rafe..rafe!" you moaned, head dropping on his shoulder as your hips bucked against his fingers.

he focused his attention on your clit, thumb rubbing circles on the sensitive nub that absolutely drove you. you writhe in his arms, his hand covering your mouth so you didn't alert anyone with the whines coming out of your mouth.

you were constantly trying to close your legs and then spread them wide again, unsure of what you really wanted. rafe made sure to keep them open. "oh, god, rafe, god!" you cried and a gasp escaped your lips when you felt his fingers push inside of you. your toes curled on the pink bedsheets, fist tightened around the princess peach plushie rafe was resting on earlier.

rafe kissed down your neck, sucking on your skin and the pleasure from both his lips and his fingers made it impossible for you to think straight at all, you whined, writhing against his fingers, broken moans coming from you. "f-fu.." you stammered and gripped rafe's wrist, "f-fu..dge." you cried, eyes rolling back and you vaguely heard rafe's quiet chuckle at your inability to curse even in these moments due to years of sorority drilling. "m' close.." you whined feeling his fingers thrust into the deepest parts of you, digits angling just perfectly whilst his fingers gave your clit all the attention. "gonna cum for me, princess?" he rasped and you moaned, nodding furiously and pushing your hips against his fingers, "please, p-please..!" you felt that overwhelming sensation, the stars in your vision, the arch of your back and then your pussy was creaming all over his fingers.

you went limp in his arms, exhaustion taking over completely as rafe slowly pulled his fingers out. he slowly hoisted you up, arms under your thighs and on your back. "where r we goin'.." you mumbled sleepily, "the bathroom for a shower, baby." he says and you were shaking your head knowing very well that there was no way you were going to stand on your two legs right now. "ah, so you'd rather sleep all sticky in a dirty bed?" he asked and you stiffened, immediately shaking your head.

shower it is.

thursday — 7:09 p.m.

he was here again but today was seriously, totally justifiable. yesterday after your midterm, he had class and then he had to pack so you didn't see him at all. then today had been a marathon of misery: classes from 8 to 6, a meltdown in the middle of the day over your botched nail set—because you’d been too timid to correct your nail tech—and now you were stuck with these nails for weeks. you’d cried, teary-eyed and embarrassed, brushing off questions about your distress because admitting to crying over a nail set seemed absurd.

on top of that, the awful weather wrecked your hair just two days before an event and three days before wash day, leaving you utterly defeated. you’d called rafe in tears, your voice breaking for barely two minutes before he was on his way, determined to make his girl feel better.

now, you’ve claimed your rightful spot on rafe's lap, straddling him with your arms wrapped securely around his neck. it started innocently enough—soft kisses and tender words murmured into your ear—but quickly escalated. his hands settled on your hips, guiding them in a slow, languid figure-eight motion.

his lips moved against yours, soft and deliberate, as though he had all the time in the world. it didn’t take long for him to coax your lips apart, drawing him closer. you focused on the sensations grounding you: the feel of his hair between your fingers, shorter at the back, and the way he groaned when you tugged. the fresh, clean scent of lemons and lavender lingered on his skin, a sign that he’d showered after the gym—he’d never ever come to your room without making sure he was clean.

when you finally pulled back for air, your breaths mingled, and his forehead rested against yours, his patience infinite as he waited for you to catch your breath. “you’re tired,” he murmured, his voice low and soothing. and he was right. you were exhausted—up since 8 a.m., crying once already without the reprieve of a nap (criminal), and now it was 7 p.m. but you didn’t want to admit it, didn’t want to let today end because tomorrow, rafe would be gone.

“m’not,” you whispered, stubbornly shaking your head. his eyes narrowed knowingly, and he began to trace slow, calming patterns along your spine. you peppered his lips with soft kisses, each one met with gentle reciprocation, but your resolve didn’t last long. your eyelids grew heavy, and eventually, your head dropped onto his chest, his warmth lulling you into much-needed rest.

sunday — 10:11 p.m.

apart from sex with rafe, wash day was probably the most intensive part of your whole week. it was not only hard on your arms but also very, very time-consuming. you enjoyed it—most of the time. it could feel therapeutic and you did love getting clean but then other times it was frustrating and tiring and you just wanted to give up and shave your head. you didn't though.

it was in the middle of rinsing your hair that rafe invited himself into the bathroom. you could see him through the foggy shower glass closing the toilet lid and sitting down. "you're taking too long."

you rolled your eyes and slid open the shower door, "i should just shave my head, right? i could totally pull off the britney look." your hand reached for your towel and you wrapped it around your body tightly before getting out of the shower and slipping into your fuzzy slippers. "or jada pinkett smith." you stared at yourself in the mirror trying to imagine yourself bald and rafe scoffed, "you'd have a mental breakdown within ten minutes of doing something like that."

you couldn't dispute that. "you would still love me, right? if i was bald like britney and jada?" you looked at rafe, brows raised and he hesitated for just a second, not even—a millisecond. you gasped at him and violently threw three rolls of toilet paper at his head. he held his hands out, "woah, no, no! i was just imaginging it, baby, fuck." he stood up, pulling you into his chest even though it was getting him all wet. "of course, i'd still love you."

you watched him through the mirror, arms crossed over your chest, completely unconvinced by his confession. naturally, he started leaving kisses along your shoulders and neck, making sure to not leave a single spot unkissed. "i'd choose you every time, over and over." he quietly says, those blue eyes boring into yours and you’re really not sure how it happened. it just..kind of did.

10:19 p.m.

"you're so goddamn tight, fuck," rafe grunted as he thrusted his cock inside of you, pounding into your tight cunt over and over. "p-please! h-harder.." your voice was high and breathless, head resting against the cool sink, holding onto the edges tightly. rafe could hardly believe how much you were clenching around him.

“rafe! rafey!” you whined, hoping your voice didn’t carry despite how loud you were being. your head rested against the damp sink, fingers curled around the sink as rafe pounded into your cunt, snapping his hips relentlessly. “my needy girl..”

“y-your girl..” you repeated with misty eyes as rafe’s thick cock slowly brought you closer and closer to that fuzzy place. “come on, doll. cum for me, sweetheart..” rafe fucked you until you creamed all over his cock, legs trembling and barely conscious.

masterlist

#novawrites #noboysallowed #sorority!reader #rafe cameron #rafe x reader #rafe x you #smut #rafe smut #p in v #rafe cameron x female reader #rafe blurb #pet names #fluff #blackgirl! reader #blackgirl #poc!reader #blackgirl!reader #dividers by cafekitsune

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