A Spell Gone Awry

Undercover Hearts

first and foremost, so sorry i haven't posted in forever. also, i desperately need to update my 'Fandoms I Write For' because i need to add some stuff and take some stuff off. im also sorry about the tags, im terrible at them ;-;

John Reese x Reader

they/them pronouns used

summary: the reader and john are going undercover for a mission and things go side ways. the reader ends up getting hurt and john helps them, although he is upset about it. while lecturing the reader, he accidentally let's his thoughts slip.

Undercover Hearts

The mission had started like any other, with John Reese and Y/N going undercover to infiltrate a secretive organization. John was the stoic, experienced operative, and Y/N was the brilliant yet shy analyst who had surprised everyone with their quick thinking and determination. As they blended into their new identities, neither of them could predict just how sideways things would go.

The air was thick with tension as they navigated the dimly lit room, surrounded by individuals who could sniff out deception with ease. Y/N's nerves were palpable, and John could sense their unease. He shot them a reassuring glance, his eyes locking onto theirs for a moment. Y/N's cheeks flushed, but the exchange gave them a small boost of confidence.

As the night progressed, they exchanged coded glances and played their roles impeccably, gathering valuable information. But in the midst of the chaos, a suspicious figure grew wary of them. Before they could react, a scuffle broke out, and shots echoed through the room. John managed to fend off the attacker, but not without a struggle.

Y/N, caught in the crossfire, had managed to avoid the gunfire, but they stumbled and fell, hitting their head against the corner of a table. John's heart raced as he dispatched the threat, then rushed to Y/N's side.

"Y/N, are you alright?" he asked urgently, his concern evident in his eyes.

Y/N groaned, their hand instinctively reaching for the throbbing pain on their forehead. "I-I think so," they managed to stammer.

But as John helped Y/N to their feet, he noticed the trickle of blood on their forehead. His jaw clenched, and anger flashed in his eyes as he berated himself for not protecting them better.

"We need to get you out of here," John said, his voice tight with worry. He led Y/N through a maze of corridors, his senses on high alert.

They finally found a safe spot, hidden from prying eyes. John's hands were gentle as he inspected the wound, his touch sending shivers down Y/N's spine. "You're lucky it's not too deep," he muttered, cleaning the wound with a cloth he had in his pocket.

Y/N winced at the sting, but the warmth of John's touch was oddly comforting. "I'm sorry things went wrong," they mumbled.

John's gaze softened as he looked at them, his fingers brushing a strand of hair away from their face. "It's not your fault. We'll get through this."

As he continued tending to their wound, John's lecturing began. He chided Y/N for not being cautious enough, for letting their nerves get the best of them. "You need to be more aware of your surroundings," he admonished, his voice firm.

Y/N nodded, their cheeks flushed with embarrassment. "I'll try to do better next time."

John sighed, his gaze meeting Y/N's for a moment. And then, almost as if it slipped out unintentionally, he muttered, "You know, I can't afford to lose you."

Y/N's heart skipped a beat at the intensity in his eyes and the weight of his words. Did he just…?

"What?" they managed to stammer, their voice barely a whisper.

John's expression turned slightly startled, as if he hadn't meant to reveal his thoughts. He cleared his throat, trying to regain his composure. "I mean, we're a team, and I need you to be on your game."

But Y/N could see through the facade. There was something more in his eyes, a depth of emotion he hadn't meant to show.

With a newfound courage fueled by the rush of adrenaline and the vulnerability of the moment, Y/N reached out and placed a hand over John's, which was still holding the cloth. "John," they began softly, their voice carrying a hint of hesitancy, "I appreciate your concern. And… I need you to know that I'm grateful to have you watching out for me."

A ghost of a smile played on John's lips, and his eyes softened. In that moment, their unspoken connection deepened, and amidst the chaos of their undercover mission, their hearts found a way to communicate what words had trouble expressing.

As John's fingers intertwined with Y/N's, he seemed to lose himself in their gaze. "Y/N," he murmured, his voice lower than before, "I never want to see you hurt."

Y/N's heart swelled with emotion, and a surge of courage overcame their shyness. "John," they whispered, their voice barely audible, "I feel safe when you're around."

The vulnerability of their words hung in the air, a quiet admission that transcended the danger surrounding them. John's expression softened further, his walls crumbling in the face of their honesty.

And so, in the heart of danger and vulnerability, two souls drew closer, bound by more than just their mission. Their eyes spoke volumes, and as the night grew darker, the bond between them grew stronger, laying the foundation for something that neither of them could deny any longer.

thank you so much! i really appreciate the reblog! much love ❤

Heartbeat Symphony

AHHHH i love this man too much lmao. this is short and sweet so have fun my lovelies!

how have i not written for this man yet like-

Dean Winchester x Reader

No pronouns used

Summary: After a long day on the road, the couple finds solace in the comfort of the Impala. The story explores the quiet moments between hunts, emphasizing the deep connection and love they share. Back at the bunker, they unwind together, appreciating the simplicity of being a team both in and out of the field. The narrative highlights the strength of their bond and the sense of home they find in each other's company.

Heartbeat Symphony

Dean Winchester sat in the driver's seat of the Impala, one hand casually resting on the steering wheel as he glanced over at you. The rhythmic hum of the engine was the backdrop to the comfortable silence that filled the car. You had been on the road for hours, chasing down the latest lead on a case, and now the two of you were finally heading back to the bunker.

As Dean drove, he stole glances at you, appreciating the way the soft glow from the dashboard highlighted the contours of your face. The quiet moments between hunts were just as precious as the action-packed ones. He reached over, fingers brushing against yours, and a warm smile formed on his lips as he interlaced them.

"You doing okay, Y/N?" Dean asked, his voice a soothing melody that echoed through the Impala.

You nodded, leaning over to rest your head on his shoulder. "Yeah, just tired. Ready to get back and hit the hay."

Dean chuckled, the sound vibrating through both of you. "Well, we make a damn good team, don't we?"

You smirked, lifting your head to meet his eyes. "The best. Team Winchester."

As the familiar sight of the bunker came into view, Dean couldn't help but feel a swell of contentment. The two of you had been through so much together, and yet, every moment felt like a new adventure with you by his side.

Once inside the bunker, you kicked off your boots and flopped down onto the worn-out couch in the library. Dean joined you, sitting close enough that your shoulders brushed against each other. He reached for the TV remote, flicking through the channels until he found an old black-and-white movie.

"You know," Dean said, his arm finding its way around your shoulders, "we make a pretty good team in and out of the field."

You laughed, snuggling closer. "Yeah, we do. I wouldn't want to hunt monsters with anyone else."

Dean turned his head, planting a soft kiss on your forehead. "Me neither, Y/N."

The movie played in the background, but you found yourself more captivated by the steady cadence of Dean's heartbeat. It was a comforting symphony, a reminder that you were home, safe in the arms of the person you loved.

As the night wore on, you both drifted off to sleep on the couch, tangled together in a mess of limbs and blankets. The bunker echoed with the quiet sounds of the TV and the distant hum of the machinery that kept the place running.

In the darkness, Dean whispered words of love, promises, and gratitude, knowing that every day with you was a gift. And as you slept, you couldn't help but smile, feeling the warmth of his love surround you like a protective embrace. Together, you faced the challenges that came your way, hand in hand, heart in heart, a team bound by something stronger than any supernatural force – love.

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i loved writing this OMG!! i can't believe i haven't written for Dean yet. i absolutely adore him so so much lmao

Close Call

summary: after a high-stakes mission, the reader becomes angry at Root for not taking better care of herself when they discovers Root has been injured. To calm the reader's anger, Root surprises them with a passionate kiss, conveying both her apology for not being careful and her gratitude for the reader's concern. The kiss brings the reader's anger to a halt and strengthens their bond, with Root promising to be more cautious in the future and assuring the reader that she'll always come back to them.

Close Call

You had been partners with Root for a while now, working on high-stakes missions and trying to keep up with the enigmatic hacker's unpredictable nature. Tonight's mission was particularly intense, involving a dangerous group that could compromise national security. The two of you had just narrowly escaped a close call, and you were both panting, trying to catch your breaths in the dimly lit alley.

Root had been her usual confident and fearless self throughout the operation, but something about tonight had been different. Maybe it was the way her eyes seemed more focused, her movements slightly less fluid than usual. It gnawed at the back of your mind, but you pushed it aside, too wrapped up in the mission to dwell on it.

However, as you both retreated to a safer location to regroup, you finally noticed it. A gash on Root's arm, oozing blood. You rushed over, your concern immediately taking over.

"Root, you're hurt!" you exclaimed, carefully examining the wound.

"It's just a scratch," Root brushed it off, but the pain in her eyes was undeniable.

"Just a scratch?" Your voice was laced with anger and fear. "You could have been seriously hurt! Why didn't you say anything? Why didn't you take better care of yourself?"

Root met your gaze, her own eyes softening as she realized the gravity of the situation and your genuine worry for her. She opened her mouth to respond but found herself at a loss for words. Instead, she did something unexpected. She leaned in and pressed her lips to yours, silencing your concerns with a passionate kiss.

The kiss was a mixture of relief and frustration, a silent apology for not being more careful and an expression of gratitude for your unwavering concern. As the seconds passed, you melted into the kiss, your anger dissipating as quickly as it had come. Root pulled away, her eyes locked onto yours.

"I promise to be more careful next time," Root whispered, her voice barely audible above the sound of your racing heart.

You nodded, your anger replaced with a newfound closeness. "Good," you replied, "because I don't know what I'd do if something happened to you."

Root smiled, her thumb gently caressing your cheek. "I'll always come back to you," she vowed, sealing her promise with another tender kiss, a promise that made your heart skip a beat.

The Grinchy Christmas Surprise

we all know Logan would be a grinch during the holidays! also, i know this one is a bit short but i kinda rushed it-

Logan/James Howlett x Reader

No pronouns used!!

Summary: Y/N buys a gift for Logan, but he isn't too keen on receiving it.

The Grinchy Christmas Surprise

Christmas morning at the X-Mansion was filled with festive decorations, laughter, and the scent of holiday treats wafting through the halls. However, Logan Howlett, known as Wolverine, wasn't a fan of the decorations. He grumbled to himself as he wandered through the festively adorned hallways, muttering about the unnecessary fuss.

Meanwhile, you had just woken up and decided to seek out Logan. Holding a nicely wrapped gift in your hand, you ventured through the mansion until you found him, scowling at a wreath hanging on the wall.

"Hey, Logan," you greeted, a soft smile on your face. "Merry Christmas."

"I told you not to get me anything," Logan grumbled without turning around, continuing his walk down the hallway.

You followed him, hurt by his dismissive tone. "Please, just take it. Whether you open it or not is up to you."

Hesitantly, Logan accepted the gift, looking down at it with a raised eyebrow.

"I know you said not to get you anything, but… no one else got you anything, and I didn't think it was fair," you explained, your voice quiet as you stared at the ground.

After a few moments of contemplation, Logan started tearing the paper. Your excitement grew as he unveiled a black leather jacket with two yellow stripes on each arm, reminiscent of his old one that he had lost a while back.

"I know you loved that jacket, so I—" you began, but Logan unexpectedly cut you off by hugging you. The shock quickly gave way to happiness as you hugged him back.

"You had to be the good one, huh?" Logan said, a rare warmth in his voice as he pulled away slightly.

"What can I say? It's my specialty," you joked, still hugging him with a large smile.

In the end, Logan couldn't resist your enthusiasm about the gift. As you continued excitedly talking about it, he kissed you, a way to shut you up but also an acknowledgment of the gratitude and affection he felt in that moment. The unexpected Christmas gift had managed to thaw the gruff exterior of Wolverine, leaving both of you with a holiday memory to cherish.

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i couldn't resist writing a christmas story for him!

If you disliked Ethan’s (crankgameplays) new video or are mad that he’s taking a break...

✨I hope you step on a lego in the middle of the night and someone hacks your Netflix account✨

this is everything i could have asked for and more ;~;

Exchanging Pleasantries / Cooper Howard Imagine

Request: Could you please do hurt/comfort with The Ghoul? Like, maybe you got hurt during a fight with Raiders and he's being mean while stitching you up. Thanks pookie bookie ily

Omg bb @itsyellow ily too I couldn't wait to write this!! Hit me with that hurt/comfort that's my jam son

Also did I make this full of unresolved sexual tension? Frick yeah I did

As always, if you enjoyed please drop a comment to help me out and let me know!

Warning: slightly NSFW/ making out, mentions of injury and violence, slight mention of a choking kink? and some strong language!

(I do not own Fallout or its characters, all rights go to creators. Gif credit goes to @goodsirs.)

☆.。.:・°☆.。.:・°

'Y'know, you may be one of the stupidest goddamn people left on this planet. And I've seen a hell of a lotta stupid people.'

You know better to think that the one and only Ghoul: the slinking shadow that steadily tails and entraps every inch of the starkly barren world he can reach, the infamous bounty feared in every town, from Philly to Rivet City, would be one for pleasantries. Yet, even during your brief period travelling with the man across the wake of the formerly 'glorious' West-coast America, his callousness often left you wishing for the sweet silence of a Nuclear Winter.

Even Cooper Howard himself recognises the fact that he doesn't exactly, well, radiate off anything that could be called close to a succouring nature. Hell, he would be happy to radiate off anything that wouldn't have you spending his valuable time making detours to wandering doctors holed up in blood-splattered tents to use his hard-earned money in bartering for caps off your next bottle of Rad-X. He supposes, as you had shaken the bottle in front of his frowning face and wandered back off into the crowning desert sun, that if he could work himself back up to being unenthused, he would be able to count it as his first win in over two hundred years.

'Well, if you tried to stop fighting every single person still left out here I wouldn't have to risk my ass stupidly running in to save you', you retort, gnashing your teeth and trying your best not to squirm against his chest as he rips a fragment of broken plate from the back of your shoulder.

It wasn't often that you were allowed to light a fire in the wilds of the Wasteland: far too many radroach nibble bites littered your legs, far too many gash-covered tentacles slashes from the repulsive Centaurs marked your outer arms. However, as the two of you had spent your seemingly so lovely afternoon out on the highway being ambushed by a group of bloodthirsty Raiders, you had browbeaten the Ghoul into allowing the two of you such a special treat. An empty bottle of Nuka Cola lies by your faded makeshift floor covering that acts as your mattress, and you sigh in relief as the warmth of the flames licks across your tired arms.

Your soon drawn out of your repose by the feel of The Ghoul's cowboy boots thumping against either side of your legs; he awkwardly tries to leave enough room that he's not straddling your back, but his legs won't quite dip down enough to be more than halfway off the floor.

It leaves him having to scrape himself forward until his groin is nearly pressed against your tailbone, and you can feel the hem of his hat brush up your neck as he idly surveys the extent of your injuries. As he fidgets the strap of your vest down past the joint of your shoulder, you have to breathe in sharply to stop yourself grunting at the sharp scratch of his glove's rough seams as he drags his hand down.

'You're right', he runs his tongue along the inside of his cheek, dragging a strip of musty cloth out of his satchel bag and pressing it against your oozing wound. 'Your ass really is fucking stupid if you think that you were helpin'.' You grimace as a flash of stimulation and mortification flashes through your body; whether the pain in your gut is from the flesh wounds or from the clutch of thick leather as the Ghoul tantalisingly rakes his fingers up the tender skin of your shoulder and grips, you're too distracted to try and find out.

Sweeping your eyes over the fire-brushed ground that cracked and and crumbled underneath your heel, you can understand his frustration at you. At the world. Scorch marks litter the dusty ground around your make-shift campsite, the plasma rifles and energy weapons the Fiends had managed to barter, steal, and smuggle out from the Van Graffs stock lying in blasted pieces around the fragments of rusted metal once shielding the long gone diesel pumps. The violence - the anger, it always seemed never ending. Gosh, what you wouldn't give for a canopy right now: to stop the sun burns from blistering your face, to hide the sudden hush of shame and embarrassment that rose flush up your face like a mushroom cloud.

'Yeah, well, I did come running- you're welcome, by the way-', you start, but the Ghoul, as venomous a man as he is, cuts short your reply by prodding the point of one of the needles holding the tail edge of his coat together into the hanging flaps of your skin. Your hand balls into a fist as you feel the sharp tip scrape over muscle; you try your best not to whimper as his poison slits through your veins and slithers down to corrode your very soul, but the relief. Oh, god, corruption has never felt so good as the Ghoul's free hand sliding down to cup your ribcage. His middle and ring finger took turns tapping against your waist, a slight huff coming from his mouth and tingling against the shell of your ear.

At first, you think the Ghoul is mad at you: pissed off that if any of the Raiders had survived and scampered off back to their chem-den to frenziedly retell their confrontation with a certain duster-clad gunslinger, a certain ruthless reputation - a certain long upheld persona, would be tarnished. That he was aggravated in having to waste his dwindling supply of bullets in wasting the spiky-hair fiend that had sprung out from the door of the thought abandoned Red Rocket Truck Stop just as you were busy body slamming his friend to the ground. That he was embittered at the fact that you had the incredibly anserine idea to stop off in the middle of goddamn nowhere: somewhere straight off your Pip-Boy map to nestle down for the night on your route to the New Vegas strip.

Enraged, indeed, by the fact that he may have to admit that he wanted to save your life.

'You call that running?', he puffs out a chuckle, unceremoniously wiping the blood of the needle by using the back of your vest. 'I call that leaping up yonder head over ass across that Nuka-Cola machine.' He lets go of your side, much to your disappoint, and looks at you disapprovingly as you turn around to face him. He's waving the syringe edge of a stimpak in your general direction, and you make sure to slap his hand extra hard as you grab it off him.

'You know, cowboy, you were the one that asked me to tag along. Not the other way round', you groan in exhilaration as you stab the needle into the knife wound on your thigh, and that first hit of the Stimpak courses through your muscle. Cooper has to clench his fingers into the leather of his fist to stop himself from going feral right there and then. He sniffs loudly, scrunching up his nose and casting his gaze to the fireside to try and hide his displeasure.

'Well', he manages to choke out between clenched teeth, gripping onto his own leg so harshly he wonders if he's drawn blood between his claws, 'you are such delightful company.'

For the first time in his life, Cooper Howard wants to just... ride away from his problems. That's all you were supposed to be: a solution. A resource. Another object to exploit, to foist upon his own callous needs so that he may survive another day in this merciless hell pit. A life for a hundred and fifty vials felt like a mighty fair trade in the disintegrating shit-show of post-apocalyptic commerce.

It had been easier that way, luring you away from the only small shack left among the rubble of the underground Subway Station that the Fiends hadn't left splattered with blotted rivers of crimson and half-mangled body parts. It had been so much simpler, as he had shoved the still fresh bodies of the murderers and cannibals off the side of the Metro escalator, that he was here to save you. That he had no knowledge of the bounty held over your head by the Enclave, or of the reasons that you had become so... acquainted with the New California Republic during your month long travels for the Crimson Caravan Company. As the door had groaned open, he was left pointing his pistol in your face: a towering penumbra, larger than life, that seemed to swallow every inch of swinging lamplight around your doorway in a veiled sinfulness. He had found it so much easier, as he peered down at your gloomy face and smirked as the unmistakable sound of a Ripper reared closer to his head, that he was here to be your saviour.

That's right. As he had offered you protection: a safe route away, a constant presence, your second shadow on your journey back to the Strip for only a measly few caps, he had found it so much easier to pretend that this wasn't personal. That the way you shook his hand hadn't made his skin prickle, hadn't been the first thing his nerves had alighted at since the last fading memory he had of caressing his wife. That the way you had strapped your leather armour pauldron around your left shoulder, and pulled up the hem of your trouser leg to strap a hidden knife to your calf didn't have him unconsciously dragging his tongue along the cracks of his bottom lip, and left him staring in bemusement. The incredulousness that had his eyes glazing over and the bottom of his stomach clenching as the two of you pried open the doors back up to the surface, and he had nonchalantly inquired as to who had... disposed of the Fiends before his arrival here. You had just shrugged, throwing a smirk at him from behind your shoulder, and he couldn't help but feel his own mouth twitch up to mirror your reaction.

It had been so, so much easier to pretend that you were just another bounty. That you were the first person, since he had lost Janey in another life, that had made him feel something other than contempt. Or worse, nihility. Nothingness. Just a hodgepodge script of fabricated and fictional lines that he reeled off as if it were more than just second-nature; an amalgamation of everything hollow and horrid that he had spent so much of his long-lost life trying desperately to bury.

But Cooper knew better than anyone, that nothing, and no one, could stay buried forever.

And with every returned smile: every lingering brush of some Caravan Trader's fingers on your arm as they tried to sell you some over-priced snake oil, every repulsive simper of a NCR trooper as they tried to buy you a bottle of vodka during your rare stops at some remote barrack, had the rot he had constructed within his soul become that little bit more mutilating.

The silence between you is deafening. And so you do something really stupid: you decide to ask him about his dirt-stained outfit.

'So', you drawl, turning yourself around so your legs are crossed out by your side, doing your best to stay firmly seated between the tensing muscles of the Ghoul's thick thighs. He draws his spurs in a line across the sand, but to your astonishment, and wild delight, he doesn't pull his legs open any further. 'Did you rob a real cowboy or something? I didn't think they were real. The only ones we ever saw were those rugged, way too contrived looking ones on those old movies.'

Your fingers curl over the edges of his collar, tentatively letting your fingers drop to rest against the sharp gap against his breastbone.

A muscle in Cooper's jaw jumps.

Oh. Oh. You'd never seen him actually angry before, behind all that cowboy western shooter charade.

For a moment, you're worried you've offended him somehow; a faraway look seems to draw him into the pale billows that smoke up from the orange flames, and a look that you've never seen before- never could even contemplate drooping the face of the suddenly so haggard looking man sitting by your side flitted across his scrunching face.

Forlorn. He looked so forlorn.

Neither of you are sure if he's even conscious of his arm moving, snaking itself across the small of your back to clutch almost painfully against the meat of your hip. His thumb strokes against the outline of your bone: probing, testing, clawing and pinching as if he had repeated the action over and over and over again in his mind.

'This? This is as old as the dirt and the worms.'

He doesn't react, doesn't move the frozen stone of his stoic face when you hesitantly grip onto his fingers, and slowly... god, so slowly, pull his glove off and drop it on the ground. Suddenly feeling so exhausted, your droop your head down against the dried sweat on your neck and watch yourself place your hand gingerly over his own, holding him in a wary vice against your side.

'What... what's a worm', you tentatively ask, your eyes wide open in worry that your question might break the provisionary affinity of this moment.

Cooper actually... snorts, a smirk threatening to break across his face as he looks out of the corner of his eye at you. 'An 'ol creature that used to live under the soil.' His eyes burn a hole into your irises, and he finally cracks out in a sallow grin as he contemplates the fact that he has your whole, enraptured attention. 'In fact, almost a whole lot like you.'

You smack his shoulder, but he only tilts his head back with an inquisitive gloat on his lips. He tips his head down, moving his other free hand to grab and squeeze the other side of your waist, making you woefully buck back against the bottom button of his shirt as the pit of your bottom begins to thrum with a devastating heat.

'Now', you can hear the teasing in his voice as he dips his spine down to hover over the shell of your ear. 'The real question is, where in the sweet hell would you have seen such heinous films such as those?'

His hand crawls like sweet spiderwebs across to your bellybutton, taking your breath away as he cups his palm against your skin and carts you back till your resting against the side of his chin, entangling you against the last vestige of the man he's entombed within the Stygian shadows.

'My ma used to show them to me and my brother if we had been extra good. She spent a whole three months saving up whatever metal scraps she could scavenge to go trade over at the General Store in Goodsprings and buy ourselves a real life television. The picture was blurry as shit, and we only had one holotape that I swear I ended up being able to quote back to front by the time I was sick of watching it. But hell, if we didn't crowd around the floor in wonder and dream about being a mysterious, rifle swinging stranger that roamed around the wastes saving people.'

Cooper purses his lips, swallowing thickly as he lassos your words in a whirlwind around his mind. After what seems like an eternity of listening to the soft whistle blow through the cartilage of his nose, of noting the quiet scurry of Bark Scorpions barbing through the pale tufts of faraway brushes, and the sound of your own heart hammering against your ribcage, each hit cracking your ribcage open with a sledgehammer, Cooper grumbles a reply.

'Y'know, there's an old saying back where I'm from - one that those folks in those movies you... respected use' to say. Feo, fuerte y formal. It means you're ugly, strong, and dignified. And shit, I can say for sure that you've got ugly ticked off that list.'

'You cheeky shit-', you start, but you can't help but shove your hand against your mouth to stop yourself from laughing. With a jolt forward over your stomach, you wince at the pain that flashes through your body at your only recently closed wounds. The Ghoul snarkily utters a tut tut, making you actually fucking whimper aloud this time when his hands grab your love handles, lifts you up, and slaps you down atop his lap. A faint slip from the curve of your buttocks sliding down to settle against his inner thigh has him hissing against the back of your head.

Even though there was no chance of it ever occurring, the Ghoul loosely clenched his fingers around your throat and tilted your head back until your throat went dry, as if daring you to move away from him again.

'Ain't your fault darlin'', he twangs out in that hoarse voice of his, his tongue flicking as smooth as molasses against the shell of your ear: his pointed edge darting a sticky trail up to your inner ear. 'It ain't your fault that you look like a molerat.'

You snort, and Cooper finds himself smiling at the sound of a noise he hasn't heard since his daughter was... since his daughter was...

'You remind me of someone I used to know, you know that? She was... she was far too sweet. Far too good for all this shit too.'

'Aha, there he is.' You wrestle out of his grasp and turn your head disbelievingly. The Ghoul looks almost taken aback, before he draws back into himself and fixes himself to stare you down. 'Finally making an appearance after all this time, are we? Good to see I'm finally getting through to you.'

'Now what the hell is that supposed to mean?', he bares his teeth, gnashing them together almost instinctively.

'I mean, I think that was as close to an honest exchange with the man inside you I'm ever going to have.'

That makes him start.

Pensively, he watches you, assessing and appraising the quirks and emotions that wander across your face as he waits for you to finish your accusation.

'And unless you stop sticking your blaster in the face of every creature that walks and talks, probably your last as well.'

The Ghoul swallows thickly, doing his best to seem as straight laced as usual, but growing more and more discourteous in his manner by the almost sinful way he's darting your eyes down to your lips and allowing them to hover there. 'Now darlin', I'm only exchanging pleasantries.'

'Is that really what you'd call yourself? And here I thought it was cantankerous.'

'Considering the literal crap-hole you grew up in I'm surprised you even know that word, now.'

'The sewers are empty, Cowboy - I'd say there's more piss on you from Dogmeat than down there. Besides, I lived in a Subway Station... asshole', you spit out at your feet, hitting the fragmented remains of one of your assailants helmet spikes.

A jab pokes at your inner thigh; the clenched thumb of the Ghoul branding into your skin as he finally looks you dead in the eyes with a cold stare. 'And there you are.'

And yet there's something. There's something lingering there, in the dark. In the swirl of his irises. In the only part of his body that still remains fully intact. Fully him. Something valorous. A convolution of steadfastness and pride. An imploringness.

'Suppose...', you inhale sharply, not realising that the two of you have managed to claw and scrape and crawl inch by inch closer to each other during your... showdown. 'Suppose', you buck your knees forward until you have enough leverage to haunch yourself up and turn, using the exertion to swivel yourself round and straddle the Ghoul's legs. Your gaze dips down to watch the purse of his strangled lips, his head slowly raising itself to unmask itself from the murk. 'That we aren't so different after all.'

Before you have time to regret your words, the stout pressure of clashing thumbs and fingers have jerked against your chin and pulled you down to smash against Cooper's mouth. Gnashing teeth pull at your bottom lip without a moment's warning, slicing down to draw blood. Cooper pulls back to snarl, before diving back in and licking away the thin trail of blood driplets that dribble down your chin dimple with the flat edge of his impoverished tongue.

Your chest rises and falls in quick succession as the man leaning his weight eagerly against your stomach ravishes you, growling as he reaches down to pull at the bottom of your thighs, and raise your knees up so he can cup your ass and knead the sweet flesh.

Part of you wants to rip his clothes off him right there and then, part of the recesses of your mind worries about the impending danger of the Wastelands: a roaming gang of looters, the unlucky shimmer that forewarns the arrival of a Nightstalker, but all of you wants to slam your hands around the side of this man's face and knock him straight to the ground with the ferocity of your kiss.

Before you can even make it past the squishing his cheeks phase, you’re distracted from your plan by the pressure point of his fingers teasingly prodding against the outline of your inseam. You can't enact your plan - you can't, not when you can feel the tip of his finger run slowly... slowly... god! So agonisingly slowly up your inner thigh. Can feel the warm, almost ruinating nibble of his top teeth against the pulse point of your neck, before he leaves an apologetic slide of his inner lip against it: something bright and burning and beautiful making the nerves of his body scream as it gnaws away at their rot.

Perhaps, perhaps there was still time for the Ghoul to exhume the mouldering remains of Cooper Howard after all.

i’m so sorry everyone :,( i had a shit ton of exams and stuff for the end of this term so i wasn’t able to finish the second part for the Logan H x Reader. i’ll try to get it down some point this week!! thank you all so much for the support throughout the last 6 months <3

no bc i cried so much during this scene

I am Loki of Asgard. And I am burdened with glorious purpose.

i love this. i love this just a bit too much lol

You hug solider boy

Solider boy: what in the actual fuck was that?

You: affection

Soldier boy: disgusting.

You: …

Soldier boy: …

Soldier boy: do it again.

Christmas Tides

i have an early Christmas present for you!!

Sam Winchester X Reader

No Pronouns used!!

Summary: Sam Winchester surprises the reader with a heartfelt gift and invites them to share a quiet and cozy night together away from hunting. The two exchange stories, laughter, and meaningful glances. As snow falls outside, they find a moment of respite and connection, sealed with a sweet kiss under the mistletoe.

Christmas Tides

'Twas the night before Christmas, and all through the bunker, not a creature was stirring, not even a monster. The stockings were hung by the chimney with care, in hopes that Saint Nicholas soon would be there.

Sam Winchester was nestled all snug in his bed, visions of hunts dancing in his head. You, his favorite partner in all things supernatural, were in the room next door, dreaming of a peaceful Christmas and maybe a little more.

The Winchesters had faced many dangers and foes, but tonight they were taking a break from hunting those crows. The Impala was parked, the weapons were stashed, as the brothers settled in for a much-needed rest.

As the clock struck midnight, a soft knock on your door woke you from sleep. You opened it slowly, wondering who it could be. To your surprise, there stood Sam, a small smile on his face, holding a cup of hot cocoa, a gift wrapped with grace.

"Hey," he whispered, his hazel eyes warm, "I thought we could enjoy a quiet night, just you and me, away from the monsters and the things we can't see."

You grinned in response, inviting him in. The room was dimly lit, the only source of light coming from the Christmas tree's shimmering bin. Sam handed you the cocoa, its warmth seeping through the cup. You took a sip, the rich flavor lifting your spirits up.

"I got you a little something," he confessed, handing over the gift with a bashful smile. You unwrapped it carefully, finding a pendant with a charm—a tiny silver angel, a token of his charm.

"It's beautiful," you said, touched by the gesture. Sam blushed, his cheeks turning a shade of rosy red. The room was filled with a warm, cozy glow, as the two of you sat side by side on the bed.

The conversation flowed like a gentle stream, tales of Christmases past and dreams that did gleam. Sam's laughter echoed through the room, a sound that chased away any hint of gloom. You shared stories and exchanged glances, creating memories that time enhances.

Outside, snow began to fall, a soft blanket covering the ground, muffling the world's sound. The two of you watched the flakes dance, a moment of peace, a sweet romance. In that quiet night, under the Christmas light, something shifted, a connection so right.

As the clock struck two, you exchanged goodnights, knowing that tomorrow brought new fights. Yet, for now, in this silent night, Sam Winchester and you found a moment of respite. Underneath the mistletoe, he pressed a gentle kiss, sealing the night with a promise of bliss.

So, in the bunker, where dangers reside, love blossomed during the Christmas tide. Sam and you, a duo so true, faced the darkness with hearts anew.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

i just love him so much 🥺