#I don’t know why I keep fucking SAYING IT

[gojosconsort]

✴︎ VIRGIN!SATORU // college au

cw: afab!reader, virginity loss (satoru), unprotected sex, breeding, lots of cum and satoru has a big dick. this is nasty but i regret nothing.

satoru’s losing his goddamn mind in his dorm, pacing like a caged animal, white hair a mess from running his hands through it a million times. his glasses are fogged up—fuckin’ nerves—and he wipes them on his shirt, only smearing the lenses more.

you’re coming over. you.

his crush since forever—smart as hell, gorgeous, so far outta his league it’s laughable—and he’s about to have you in his space. his dick’s already half-hard just thinking about it, and he hasn’t even seen you yet. he glances at the clock—five minutes late. is that bad? good? fuck, he’s spiraling.

a knock. his heart stops, then hammers. he stumbles to the door, nearly tripping over a pile of manga, and swings it open. there you are, smiling, “hey, satoru,” all casual in a tight-ass shirt that hugs your tits and shorts riding up your thighs, showing off those legs he’s jerked off thinking about too many times.

“uh, hey—come in,” he stammers, voice cracking like a dumbass, pushing his foggy glasses up his nose. you step inside, scanning the chaos—textbooks stacked on the desk, comics spilling off shelves, empty ramen cup. “you ever leave this cave?” you tease, flopping onto his bed, legs crossed, shorts riding higher.

he laughs, shaky as fuck, “not much,” and rubs the back of his neck, blue eyes glued to you. he’s trying not to stare, but shit, it’s impossible—your shirt’s clinging just right, and he’s imagining peeling it off. his dick twitches again, and he shifts, praying you don’t notice.

you pat the bed next to you, “sit,” voice light but commanding, and he freezes for a split second before obeying, stiff as a board. his thigh brushes yours—soft, warm, fuck—heat shooting straight to his groin. “you okay?” you ask, tilting your head, and he nods too fast, “y-yeah, just—uh—nervous.”

“why?” you lean in, close enough that your breath grazes his neck, and he’s done for—dick fully hard now, straining against his sweats. no hiding that. “’cause—fuck—you’re you,” he blurts, cheeks flaming, “been wanting this forever, and now you’re here, and i’m—shit, i don’t know what i’m doing.” his voice cracks again, and he wants to die, but you just laugh, soft and warm.

“you’re cute when you’re freaking out,” you say, and his brain short-circuits. cute? cute? he’s about to fucking die. then you shift closer, knee brushing his, and his hands twitch, itching to touch you. “so, what’s ‘this’ you’ve been wanting?” you murmur, teasing, and he swallows hard, adam’s apple bobbing.

“you—fuck—just you, all of you,” he admits, raw and desperate, and your lips twitch up. “then do something about it,” you whisper and that’s it—game fuckin’ over. something snaps in him, and he grabs you, clumsy as hell, hands shaking as he pulls you onto his lap. you straddle him, thighs clamping around his hips, and he groans, feeling your heat through those tiny shorts.

he crashes his mouth into yours, sloppy, needy. lips mash, teeth clash, and he’s kissing you hard, like he’s starving for it. his glasses slip down, digging into his nose, but he doesn’t care, too lost in how you taste—sweet, hot, fuckin’ addictive. “sorry—shit—too much?” he pants, pulling back, spit stringing between your lips, but you shake your head. “keep going,” you breathe and he dives back in, tongue shoving into your mouth.

he’s groaning into you, hands fumbling up your shirt, brushing bare skin—soft, warm, fuck—and his cock throbs under you, aching to feel more. “you’re so—goddamn perfect,” he mumbles against your lips, voice thick, and he’s already a wreck, virgin nerves and all, but he’s not stopping now.

poor boy's a fucking wreck, heart slamming in his chest as you sit on his lap, your thighs squeezing his hips, and he’s trying not to lose it before anything even starts. his hands tremble, sliding under your tight shirt, fumbling like he’s forgotten how fingers work, and then he finds them—your tits, soft and warm and perfect.

“fuck.” he cups them, thumbs brushing your nipples, feeling them harden under his touch. “you’re amazing—shit, these are amazing,” he mumbles, squeezing gently, obsessed with how they fill his hands just right, like they were made for him. he’s dreamed about this—your tits, your body, you—and now it’s real, and his dick’s throbbing so hard in his sweats he’s scared he’ll fuckin’ cum right there.

you smirk, peeling your shirt off in one smooth move, tossing it aside, then shimmy out of those tiny shorts, leaving you bare. he’s staring—staring—mouth half-open, glasses slipping down his nose as he takes you in. your tits sit pretty, full and round, nipples begging to be touched, and your curves—fuck, your hips, your waist—drive him insane.

“you’re so goddamn pretty,” he chokes out, voice raw, hands hovering like he’s scared he’ll ruin you if he moves too fast. he’s dying to touch, but he’s frozen, like you’re some untouchable goddess.

“your turn,” you say, tugging at his shirt, and he snaps out of it, fumbling like an idiot—arms tangling in the sleeves, glasses nearly tumbling off his face. he yanks it over his head, revealing pale skin stretched over lean muscle, a faint trail of white hair disappearing into his sweats.

you hook your fingers in the waistband and pull ‘em down, slow, teasing, and—fuck—his cock springs free, long and thick, tip flushed red and leaking pre-cum, twitching just from your eyes on it. “satoru—you’re huge,” you mutter, half in awe, and his cheeks go scarlet. “i—uh—hope that’s okay?” he mumbles, scratching his neck. “more than okay,” you say, pushing him back onto the bed.

he flops down, propped on his elbows, staring as you climb over him, straddling his hips. your pussy brushes his cock—wet, hot, slick—and he jolts, a low “fuck” slipping out, hands flying to your hips, shaking like he’s about to explode. but then his eyes lock on your tits again, bouncing slightly as you settle, and he’s mesmerized.

“can i—shit—can i touch ‘em more?” he asks and you nod, leaning forward so they’re right in his face. he groans, loud, cupping them again, thumbs circling your nipples, and then he’s leaning up, pressing his lips to one. “so fucking perfect,” he mutters against your skin, kissing your tit soft at first, then harder, sucking the nipple into his mouth. his tongue flicks over it, sloppy and eager, and you moan, threading your fingers through his messy hair.

he’s obsessed—squeezing one while he sucks the other, lips smacking, spit shining on your skin. “been dreaming about these,” he pants, pulling back to watch them jiggle as he kneads them, “so soft, so—fuck—perfect for me.” he dives back in, biting gently, then licking like he’s starving, and your pussy clenches, dripping onto his cock below.

“satoru—c’mon,” you murmur, grinding against him, and he snaps out of his tit-trance, eyes flicking up. “wait—fuck—i’ve never—” he stammers, hands tightening on your hips, trembling harder, “don’t wanna mess up.” you lean down, kissing him deep, tongue sliding against his. “you won’t,” you whisper, pulling back to line him up, your pussy hovering over his tip.

you sink down slow—so slow—his fat head stretching you, burning in the best way, and he gasps, loud and ragged, “oh—shit—you’re tight.” his hands slide to your ass, gripping hard as you take him deeper, inch by inch, walls fluttering around his length. he’s whining now, high-pitched and wrecked, head thrown back, glasses fogging up again.

“fuck—fuck—you feel so good,” he babbles, hips twitching like he’s fighting not to thrust up. your tits bounce as you settle, fully seated, and he’s staring again, moaning, “god—you’re—fuckin’ perfect.” you start moving, up and down, slow at first, letting him feel every slick drag, and he’s a mess—panting, groaning, “you’re gonna kill me—look at you.”

“satoru,” you moan, voice shaky, and he loses it, hips bucking up—clumsy but hard—slamming deep, making you gasp. “sorry—shit—did i—” he starts, panicked, but you grind down harder, cutting him off. “no—do it again,” you beg, and he does, thrusting up with no rhythm, just need, hitting that spot inside you over and over.

your tits bounce wild, and he’s transfixed, hands roaming from your ass to your chest, squeezing again, muttering, “love these—fuckin’ love ‘em,” before pulling one back to his mouth, sucking hard as he fucks into you. “you’re so fuckin’ beautiful,” he babbles, sweat beading on his forehead, glasses slipping down his nose.

he’s nervous as hell, blue eyes darting over your body like he can’t believe you’re real, but he’s already buried inside you, and fuck—his cock’s massive. long, thick, a fat fucking cock stretching your pussy so wide it burns, veins pulsing against your walls, tip kissing deep spots you didn’t know you had. “always wanted you—fuck—dreamed of this,” he groans, hips twitching like he’s barely holding it together.

your thighs tremble from the stretch, feeling every inch of that huge dick splitting you open, tip bullying your cervix with every move. he’s clumsy, thrusts stuttering, but damn, he’s good—hitting right where you need it every fucking time, like he’s got some sixth sense for your body. “satoru—oh god,” you whimper, head tipping back, and he moans, loud, “love hearing you—say it again.”

he grabs your hips, fingers digging in, and thrusts up harder, desperate, like he’s tryna prove he’s worth it. that fat cock slams deep, stretching you ‘til you’re gasping, pussy fluttering around him, and he’s staring, sweat dripping down his pale chest.

“shit—look at you,” he pants, hands sliding up to your tits again, squeezing ‘em rough, thumbs flicking your nipples. “so fuckin’ perfect—been jerking off thinking about this forever.” your nails dig into his shoulders, heat coiling fast in your gut, and he’s watching you, eyes blown wide. “you gonna cum? please cum—wanna see it,” he begs, thrusting up harder, fat cock filling you so full.

“yeah—close—fuck,” you nod, breathless, and he groans, “so damn hot,” grabbing your hips tighter, slamming up—hard, deep and you lose it, cumming hard, pussy clamping down on him. “satoru—shit—” you gasp, shaking, walls pulsing around his massive dick, and he moans, “oh fuck—fuck—you’re perfect.” he feels you milking him, slick dripping down his balls, and his thrusts get messier.

“gonna—shit—gonna cum,” he whines, voice high and frantic, and you pant, “inside,” ‘cause fuck, you want it—you want him. his eyes widen, “you sure?—fuck—you’re too good,” and he’s losing it, hands trembling on your hips. one thrust, two—then he slams up hard, burying that fat cock balls-deep, and he’s gone.

“oh—shit—cumming,” he gasps, and it’s a fucking flood—hot, thick cum pumping into you, so much it’s spilling out around his shaft, coating your thighs, dripping onto the sheets. he’s groaning, unloading more than you thought possible, his dick pulsing with every spurt.

“fuck—there’s so much,” he mutters, dazed, watching it leak out, and he doesn’t stop—grinds up slow, pushing his cum deeper, obsessed with it. “gonna fuck it in you—shit—keep it all inside,” he says, thrusting again, sloppy and weak, like he can’t let a drop go to waste.

you’re trembling, overstuffed, feeling how heavy he is, how that fat cock sits inside you, still leaking, and he’s babbling, “you’re mine—fuck—so pretty like this.” his hands slide up, cupping your face, pulling you down into a kiss—soft, sloppy, spit-slick—gentle now.

he’s panting hard, glasses crooked, blue eyes soft but still hungry. “was that—uh—okay?” he mumbles, nervous again, like he didn’t just fuck you senseless. you laugh, breathless, “way okay—satoru, you’re good.” he smiles, shy but proud, “really? ‘cause—fuck, you’re everything,” and pulls you close, chest to chest, still hard inside you, his cock twitching like he’s ready for round two. “wanna keep going—can’t stop now,” he whispers, kissing your neck, loving you too much to let go.

[mina-org]

simon can't believe how far hes fallen.

Lurking outside high street underwear shops, stealing your phone, worst of all? He’s sipping tea in an overpriced coffee shop, you used to always want to meet him in the place opposite but he didn’t fancy a public indecency charge so he’d let you sit there for while, order drinks for the two of you and wait, when his tea turned told and yours had been drank you usually got a text saying to come over, he didn’t feel like going into town.

Your not even with him explaining that matcha is actually really good and he should try it, no your fawning over johnny and he’s watching his bird. He hopes this is rock bottom but he feels like it’s not.

"lass if I dinnae know better, I'd think ya' was avoiding me" his playful tone doesnt hide the hurt, he wants you to feel bad for ghosting him, and you do. Johnnys never been mean. Never mistreated you, why are you punishing him for Simon’s mistakes?

"im sorry, I know you and simon are close but he really did number on me and I just, I just don't wanna risk bumping into him." he can praticularly smell the the anxiety coming off you.

"Aye he’s been going mad, wants his wee bird back." Johnny says feigning sadness for his mate. in honestly Johnny was enjoying it, you were talking to him, looking at him, while simon gawked at you two from across the road.

you laugh, "no he wants a warm hole." you blurt out, causing Johnny to laugh, he expecting you to cry or something but not be that blunt.

“Lass hes just nae used to-” johnny tries to defend him but you cut him off, frustrated, you were what? a decade younger and knew how to treat people well.

“Used to what? He’s 40.” You snap back, Simon was old enough to know better.

“He’s nae 40 yet hen, and he’s not used to tiptoeing, ya know?” He laughs at you adding years to him, he’s sure Simon is seething but he can’t quite make out his expression

“Tiptoeing?” You question. You can accuse Simon of a lot of stuff but tiptoeing? Not fucking one of them, if stomping on people was an Olympic sport he’d be bringing home a gold medal.

“Yeah like your so sensitive lass and he’s nae really used to it.” Johnny says simply and when your face drops he knows his choice of words could maybe use some work especially when you excuse yourself to the bathroom.

Johnny cant help himself. he can see simon through the window, sipping on his tea as he watches this little pre date. So he calls him up, simon was saying earlier he misses that pretty voice well he actually complained about how much you used to talk at him and how the peace and quiet was actually nice.

However Johnnys an expert in simonisms and that means he miss you and wants you to come back to him, he gets the same treatment, they all do. telling him to be quiet.

when you rejoin the table his phone is face or screen down, speaker pointing towards you, next to a another drink for you.

How sweet of him:)

"had to keep ya here somehow," he explained as he asked how you were doing, you had left the flat so defeated. He hated to see a pretty girl so sad.

his eyes seemingly look pass you though, getting lost out the window. Usually he was attentive maybe he didn’t want to slag off Simon, but he keeps pushing, asking how you’re feeling, what you’ve been doing and though his eyes drift back to the window but you can ignore it, for now.

"I don't know,“ you stare into the drink you stir it, the ice clinking against the glass. “It just hurt and I feel so stupid.” It’s practically a whisper, you look like a kicked puppy and Johnny, Johnny’s staring out the window with a smirk on his face. Does he find it funny? Is he gonna tell Simon? Why would you slag off Simon to his best mate?

Anxiety starts to bubble, and you just wanna leave before you embarrass yourself anymore.

Your gaze follows his out the window, now you don’t have binoculars but that looks a little like Simon, weird. It would look too weird if you were to pull out your phone and zoom in with the camera. You start to feel for your phone but it’s not in your pocket, you must’ve slipped it into one of the bags.

“Johnny do you have the time?” You ask softly and before he can react, you’re flipping over his phone and greeted by Simon’s caller ID. What the fuck?

“Johnny what the fuck? “

“Lass-“ johnny doesn’t have time to concoct a lie, your up and glaring down at him, he’d never seen you angry but it was hot, he just wished it was in different, more come backable circumstances.

“No johnny what the fuck, has Simon been on the phone this entire time?” Your voice cracks and your lips tremble, embarrassed you opened up to him, Simon’s best fucking mate, embarrassed Simon knew how much he hurt

“No I don’t give a shit Simon can go fuck himself and so can you” you cut him off again, he can choke on whatever he was gonna say.

Before johnny can ask for his coffee in a to go cup you’re out the door, rushing home, tears stinging at your eyes once again. You just want to sprint home once you hear johnny belt out your name and you speed up, darting down an alleyway.

You wipe your tears before colliding into a wall you swore wasn’t there on the walk into town, a fleshy, human wall.

Its Simon.

Once again! How perfect .

part one- part two

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[lexiputellas]

Broken Vows - The After

Alexia.

Wife. Mother. Footballer. Multiple-time Ballon d’Or winner.

And a cheater.

If someone had told you ten years ago that you’d be in this situation, you would’ve laughed in their face. Alexia? Your dear, beloved Alexia?

A cheater.

A fucking cheater.

Her fingers are still inside you when you say it.

"Yeah, I know."

The words barely leave your lips before you feel the shift in her body. Her muscles tighten, her breathing halts, and her fingers—once moving with practiced ease—go still.

She doesn’t pull away.

Not yet.

She blinks, looking at you like she might’ve misheard. Like she needs you to say it again just to be sure.

You oblige.

"I know what you did."

Silence.

You can feel her heartbeat, pounding like a war drum. Her fingers twitch inside you, but she doesn’t move. Doesn’t pull out. Doesn’t push in.

Just stillness.

Your chest rises and falls with heavy breaths.

And then, finally, she moves.

Slowly, carefully, she withdraws her fingers from your body. The loss is sharp, sudden, and you hate yourself for the way your body clenches around nothing, for the way your skin still burns where she touched you.

You push past it.

Her face is unreadable. Jaw tight. Breathing shallow.

And she says nothing.

A bitter laugh escapes your lips. "Nothing to say?" You shake your head, your eyes burning. "Not even gonna gaslight me a little? Come on, Alexia. Don’t I deserve at least that?"

Her throat bobs as she swallows. Hard.

She finally speaks, voice lower than usual, rough at the edges. "It’s not what you think."

You laugh again. Sharp. Hollow. "Oh, really? Because what I think is that my wife—" You spit the word like it’s poison. "—was fucking someone else behind my back."

Alexia’s fingers curl into fists. "I—"

"You what?" you snap, leaning forward, invading her space now. "You slipped? Tripped and fell into someone else's bed?" Your head tilts. "Or was it a slow thing? Did you savor it, Alexia? Did you take your time?"

Her jaw clenches. "Stop."

"No, no, why would I stop?" You grin, cruel and mocking. "You didn’t. You didn’t stop when you let her touch you. Didn’t stop when you kissed her. Didn’t stop when you fucked her." You drag the words out, slow and deliberate, wanting them to hurt.

Her entire body tenses. "It wasn’t like that."

"Then what was it like?" you challenge. "Make me understand, Alexia. Make it make sense."

Her hands tremble at her sides.

You sit back on your heels, gaze never leaving hers. And then, softer, almost thoughtful, you ask, "Was she that good?"

Alexia’s eyes snap to yours, startled.

You tilt your head, feigning curiosity. "Good enough for you to risk it all, huh?" You shift slightly, rolling your shoulders. "Tell me, Alexia. Good enough for you to forget you had someone waiting at home?"

She stays silent.

You move again, this time letting your hands trail over your own body. Over your stomach, up to your chest. You arch your back slightly, watching the way her gaze flickers—her body responding.

"Did she touch you like this?" you ask, voice dripping with venom. "Did she make you feel like I make you feel?"

Alexia’s nostrils flare. "Para."

You smile. You lean in again, lips barely brushing her ear. "You like it dirty, don’t you?"

Her breath stutters.

You pull back just enough to see her face.

And you smirk.

"You know what’s funny? I could do it too."

Alexia stiffens.

Your fingers drag lightly over her arm. "I could find someone tomorrow if I wanted to. Someone who would make me forget all about you."

Her hands grip your waist before she even realizes what she’s doing. Like she’s trying to keep you there. Hold you still. Hold you hers.

You laugh again. "Oh, now you care?" Your voice is a whisper, almost tender. "Now you don’t like the thought of it? You don’t like the idea of someone else fucking me?"

She clenches her jaw, refusing to look at you.

"That’s the difference between you and me, Alexia." Your voice softens even more, almost affectionate. "I could. But I won’t."

Her body trembles, her grip tightening.

"I just want you to live with it."

Her lips part, but nothing comes out.

And then, finally, you say it.

"I fucking hate you."

She flinches.

Your voice breaks. "I hate that you made me feel unworthy of love. I hate you for living your dreams and never thinking about mine."

She tries to look away, but you don’t let her. Your hands are on her jaw, forcing her to face you.

"I hate myself for loving you so much that I lost myself in the process." Your voice is barely above a whisper now. "I hate that I let you bring me down so hard."

The words strike like a gunshot.

Alexia’s breath hitches, eyes desperate, searching.

And you can’t do this anymore.

You push off her lap, stumbling back as your vision blurs. The room feels too small, the air too thick.

You grab your robe, cinching it too tight, like that might hold you together.

Alexia is still sitting on the bed, looking at you, hands now empty in her lap.

You go to the closet, grab the biggest fucking suitcase you can find, and start shoving her clothes inside.

She moves quickly, reaching for you. "Please, let’s talk."

You don’t stop.

You open the drawer that used to hold your toys and dump them in the suitcase. "Here. For you to use with other people." You sneer.

Her hands shake as she tries to stop you, tries to reach for you. But you’re sobbing now, broken and raw, and you shove her away.

Her voice cracks. "It was just sex."

You scoff, lips curling in disgust. "Right. Just sex." You take a step closer, eyes burning into hers. “Did she make you come so hard you forgot you had a family?"

Alexia’s jaw tightens, but she doesn’t answer.

She opens her mouth. Closes it.

Nothing.

And that’s all the answer you need.

"You can sleep on the couch," you say, voice empty. "Or you can leave. I don’t fucking care."

Alexia looks at you like she’s watching her whole world collapse.

"You don’t mean that," she whispers.

You meet her gaze, unflinching.

"Yes, I do."

She swallows, hard. "I never meant to hurt you."

A bitter laugh escapes your lips. "Right. You just meant to fuck someone else."

Her jaw tenses. "It wasn’t—"

"Don’t." You shake your head, biting down on the fury threatening to spill over. "Don’t you fucking dare try to make this anything less than what it is."

Alexia takes a step forward, hands reaching for you.

You step back.

She stops, pain flashing across her face.

For a moment, just a moment, you almost feel bad.

Almost.

But then you remember the messages. The late nights. The shift in her touch. The way her kisses started tasting like guilt.

And any softness inside you turns to ice.

You exhale slowly, steadying yourself. "I won’t forgive you. And I hope you never forgive yourself."

And with that, you turn away.

[leyavo]

Kinda part two of [this]

Ever since Bug joined the 141…

The guys keep going on about calling an exterminator whenever they see you hanging out with Roach.

“Looks like we’ve got an infestation.”

Roach as always doesn’t say a thing, scrolling through his phone and humming to himself.

You’re paired with him on most missions, something about being able to communicate with your own kind. Roach doesn’t speak, but you find your flow quickly, speaking up for him every now and then over the radio. *Roach whisperer*

Soap makes little antennas above his helmet with his fingers when he’s talking about Roach.

Gaz asking you what type of bug you’d be when you’re all bored out of your brains, waiting for the go ahead to move forward. “Roach is already taken,” he says pointing to Sanderson beside you.

“Why’s he called Roach?” You asked Price, knowing you wouldn’t get an answer from Roach himself.

Well you did ask, but it was like trying to guess at a game of charades. Roach’s hands swatting through the air, head bobbing and boot stomping as if you were fluent in whatever the fuck he just signed. Definitely not sign language either.

“Fuckers hard to kill.”

You start to understand him the more you’re around him. How he points to the floor when you need to crouch beside him, the darting of his eyes showing you his desired direction. His palm tapping your upper arm to get your attention. He might not talk, but his vocal with his sounds. A little screech when’s a bit too close to death, a whistle when he’s impressed or clicked his tongue when he’s annoyed. (He does talk but rarely).

Fuckers hard to kill.

“I give him two minutes,” Ghost mumbled over the radio. The guys placing bets on how long it’ll be till Roach crawls out crumbling building.

You’d narrowly missed an explosion, sprinting away from the blast. Only getting thrown forwards by the impact instead of stuck in the destruction.

And they were right. You don’t know how Roach emerged from the rubble in one piece. Simply patting a flicker of ash eating through the sleeve of his jacket. No cocky remark as he slipped back into formation and scanned his surroundings.

Part three

[earlgreylatte]

Unyielding

You’re usually at his mercy.

Omni Mark

It was hard to believe that there was once a time where Mark would unwillingly flush when just your shirt would ride up, especially now when he has you reduced to a trembling, overstimulated mess, every thrust slamming the bed post into the wall. You at least appreciate his restraint, knowing he could have ruined another bed frame.

With your brain feeling like mush, the only thing you could do was push yourself up by the elbows and attempt to crawl away from his unrelenting pace, only for him to press his hand between your shoulder blades, keeping you pinned as your moist cheeks rub against the covers.

You let out a noise of protest, Mark audibly scoffing in return above you.

He doesn’t falter, simply pressing down harder when you squirm, “Don’t back down now, you asked for this, after all.”

“It’s,” you gasp, burying your face into the sheets again when a particularly sharp roll of his hips has you blanking out, “too much! Mark—“

He hushes you, hand reaching out to brush against your forehead before moving down to grip your chin, fingers digging in your cheek as he lifts your face up to prevent you from suffocating yourself, “Breathe. We’re not done until I say we are.”

You whine pitifully, the ever present storm in your body growing, slack body tensing up.

“You still have more to give. You can cry and complain, but we both know that you want this; to be used by me until I’ve taken everything—“ his voices becomes more strained, cutting off into a shaky exhale when you tighten around him, “there she is…”

You jerk when his other hand slides down and draws taut circles on your clit, “I-I’m going to…die!”

He laughs, something you’d savour under any other circumstance, before pressing a kiss to the back of your head, “Then die.”

No Goggles Mark

If he wasn’t so unfairly good at sex, you’d have kicked the freak out ages ago.

Even after what felt like hours of him hammering his dick into you until you could feel him in your cervix, his eyes were still wide open, glued to your face, watching you pant and moan pathetically, legs straining and shaking from having them tossed over his shoulders.

“I’d fucking kill someone before I let myself be pulled away from you,” he grins, and if your mouth wasn’t already agape, you’d have groaned at the fact he was still saying crazy shit even while fucking you. “Are you into that? Feel proud you have a pussy that could start wars? Like Helen of Troy, but hotter—“

“Please,” you pant slapping a hand over his mouth, feeling him smile against your palm, “shut up.”

He only grabs your wrist, and presses his face against your hand harder, groaning into it with a satisfied look in his manic eyes. You try to glare at him, but his hand reaching down to press against your stomach as you writhing. Why does his dick have to be big enough to cause a tummy bulge? His ego is already insufferable enough.

He pins your trapped wrist to the mattress, stupid grin now fully revealed again, “After I’m done with you, you won’t even think about fucking anyone else because I’m not stopping until my cock leaves an imprint—“

He can’t even finish his rant before he succumbs to his urge to attack your mouth with his, licking and sucking until you’re even more lightheaded.

“I’m going to ruin you,” he whispers excitedly against your neck. Weirdo.

Omni mark…vote Omni mark the in the poll

Why are my top posts all for invincible, this was a dc blog😭

Masterlist

[plotwholls]

Clark has known Batman for roughly two years now, and in that time, he’s never cursed a living being more than he has that man. Now, if we’re counting collectives, then mosquitoes and viruses would probably edge Batman out, because— and no one can tell Lois this— Clark still sometimes cries about how many people they kill.

After tonight, Batman has secured a solid lead that Clark is sure will last for at least the next decade.

It started with him waking up to a fourth grader standing on his chest— not a great way to wake up, may Clark just say, even if he hadn’t noticed the weight. Mainly because… well. Clark nearly screamed. The only reason he didn’t was because the kid slapped a hand over his mouth and hissed the magic words that would have Clark cursing Batman into the next three centuries:

“B’s missing!”

“Who?!”

“Batman! He’s missing!” The kid wails, still standing on Clark’s chest. “I don’t know what to do!”

“You can start,” Clark says calmly, “by sitting on the bed.”

“What? No, that’s weird. OH MY GOD, SUPERMAN’S A WEIRDO!”

Clark palmed his face. Patience is a Virtue, Clark…. “Kid. Please… get off my chest.”

The kid pauses his wailing. “Oh. Yeah, right.” The kid backflips off of Clark’s chest, and onto the chest he keeps at the base of his bed so Jimmy stops complaining about the feng shui of his bed not being protected at the foot, and funeral positions. “Batman’s missing.”

“Okay? Go to your mom.”

“My mom’s dead.”

Clark stares. “Uh.”

“So’s my dad.”

Clark tries to find something to say. Nothing feels adequate.

The kid grins wildly. “Maybe I should go kill Zucco. B always stops me.”

Clark shoots up— “NO. NO MURDER, SMALL CHILD.”

The kid bursts into whining, writhing on Clark’s bed like a cat protesting medicine.

What the fuck is going on? Clark gets the distinct impression that he should blame Batman for this in more ways than the obvious, but, honestly, Clark is too sleep deprived and sleep addled to be worrying about things like thinking straight.

“I’m not a small child!” He protests. “I’m nearly in middle school!”

Okay, so he’s, like, ten-and-a-half. Noted. “Why are you here?”

The kid rolls over and straightens up some, grinning like a maniac. “B said I should come to you if I can’t reach him or A.”

Clark rubs the sleep from his eyes. “Does that make you C?”

“What? No. You’re C. I would be R. For Robin?”

Okay, so it’s either some arbitrary ranking system, or a semi-covert nicknaming scheme. Noted. “That’s a nice name,” Clark tells him. “Why did Batman tell you to come to me?”

“Thanks! My mom gave it to me!”

Clark takes a deep breath. “Why did Batman send you to me, Robin?”

“Well, more like he told me that I can trust you.”

“That’s… heartwarming. Why are you here?”

“Wow; you really are not a morning person, huh?” Robin flops down onto the bed.

“No,” He admits, ruffling the kid’s hair. “Not really. So.” Clark smacks his lips. “Can this discussion be had over juice?”

The kid tries to bolt up and immediately experiences the theory of immovable objects vs. very stoppable forces.

Clark just blinks slowly. “…If you just got a concussion, no you didn’t.”

The kid giggles.

Clark already knows this brat is trouble, and god damn him, Batman had been right to send the kid to him, because Clark would definitely help the kid. Damn him. Damn him, damn him, damn him for nothing in particular because Clark still doesn’t really know what’s going on.

He pours himself some orange juice. He pours himself another glass, because Robin stole the first. “So.” He blinks harshly. He sniffs. “Batman told you to come to me if you couldn’t get to him or A because he trusts me?”

“Nah, B doesn’t trust anyone. He sent me to you ‘cause you’re soft like him.”

He… has never heard anyone describe Batman as soft before, but okay. “And, Batman is missing?”

Robin nods furiously. “I can’t find him. He was supposed to come home and tuck me in, but he didn’t.”

Clark paused, cup inches from his mouth. He glances at the clock, and back at the kid. …Batman’s never late to anything. “When was he supposed to tuck you in?”

“Nine. He likes to tuck me in ‘cause he thinks it’ll stop me from sneaking out to be Robin.”

I— okay. “Did he go out before nine?”

Robin nods. “There was an alert, but he texted me at 8:30 to tell me to get ready for bed and that he was coming home to make sure I’m in bed.”

“So, whatever the alert is, he isn’t still busy dealing with it?”

Robin shakes his head, becoming more distressed. “No! I checked with Commish, and he said Batman left at eight for the cave— he should’ve been back within fifteen minutes of his text.”

Clark took a long, long drink of orange juice. It’s past 2AM— Batman wouldn’t freak his kid out like this. Right. He points at the costume. “Is that comfortable to sleep in?”

Robin pauses. “What?”

“I’m putting you to bed,” Clark clarifies. “Do I need to find you PJs?”

“But, I don’t wanna go to bed!”

“Too bad. You’re going to bed. In the morning, I’ll let you know if I’ve found Batman.”

“And if you haven’t?! You need me!”

“Yes, well rested so you can help me in the morning. BED.”

Situation where Clark has formed a tentative working relationship with Batman, but somewhere in that time, Batman acquired Robin and, naturally, didn't tell him.

Clark finds out about Robin's existence when a ten year old Dick Grayson in full Robin gear breaks into his apartment at two in the morning and shakes him awake because Batman's missing and Alfred's away and Bruce taught him that, in the case of emergency, Superman was one of the only people he could trust. Bruce just didn't think to tell Clark that he was, by all means, his son's emergency contact.

Clark: -wakes up to a small boy that he's never seen or heard of before in a cape and a mask with lenses that reflect light like a cat's perched on the edge of his bed in a pitch black room-

Dick, calmly: Hey, Batman's -- stop screaming -- Batman's missing. I need help.

[lilislegacy]

So here’s the thing: Percy is my guy. I’ll defend him till the day I die. I adore everything about him, and you guys know that. So this post might shock you because I’m about to call the fuck out of him.

I am so SICK of receiving ask after ask after comment after ask about Annabeth being the only goddamn issue in their relationship, meanwhile Percy gets made out to be some saint. You want to call out Percabeth? You want to be all heroic and talk about bad behavior? Allow me to join you! Let’s fucking talk about it!

The number one thing people complain about in their relationship: Annabeth making jokes about his intelligence. But let’s actually talk about this: we all know Percy is extremely intelligent, but why are we so hellbent on denying it when he DOES act like an idiot most of the time? Like, why is Percy saying things like he can’t tie his shoes or phrasing stuff to Annabeth like an 8-year-old when he’s nearly a grown adult? And now tell me this. Why is it always on ANNABETH to translate and explain everything when we know Percy can figure stuff out for himself? Why is it always on ANNABETH to make the plan? Why is it always on ANNABETH to figure out how to fix things that Percy and Grover usually messed up? 

After Wrath of the Triple Goddess, I spent so much time being angry at how Rick wrote Annabeth bossing Percy around. But then I took a step back and realized: it’s because he also writes Percy as always being so heavily reliant on Annabeth when she’s there. Instead of asking, “Why is Annabeth acting like his mom?” why isn’t anyone ever fucking asking, “Why does Annabeth feel like she HAS to act like his mom?” Because she doesn’t act that way with people like Thalia, Jason, or Reyna. So why is her boyfriend putting her in a position where she feels like she has to explain everything to him and tell him what to do?

Oh right, I forgot: because we must always blame the woman for “nagging” and “being controlling.” Silly me for forgetting.

You know, in The Demigod Diaries, Annabeth says she’s always known Percy isn’t dumb and that he’s actually very intelligent—but that he just ACTS super dumb. Then she says she thinks Percy does it just to annoy her. Annabeth has called Percy smart on several occasions—including one of my favorite moments in MoA where she calls him brilliant and kisses him—and yet she still makes those comments about his intelligence. So considering all that, let's think about it. Have you ever met someone who’s super smart but acts so dumb that they actually convince themselves they’re dumb? It’s infuriating. So imagine how that must feel to a daughter of Athena. And don’t you dare go, “Well, it’s because of Percy’s childhood and his abuse…” because Annabeth is ALSO fucked up from her childhood and suffered from abuse, but that doesn’t ever excuse HER, I guess. So why does Percy get a pass? 

It’s ALWAYS “God Annabeth is so controlling all the time” and NEVER “how come Percy puts Annabeth in a position where she always HAS to take charge and keep things under control?” How come he low-key DOES act dumb and useless (and then complains about it) when they both know damn well he can be smart and resourceful when he wants to? Let me guess. “He’s insecure ���😔.” YEAH, NO SHIT, SHERLOCK. So being insecure makes it all okay? Because Annabeth NEVER gets that benefit of the doubt. Or let me guess, “It’s Rick’s fault for writing him that way” okay cool, well then it’s ALSO Rick’s fault for writing Annabeth the way she is. You don’t get to pick and choose.

(Quick pause—does anyone else feel like Rick finally started writing Percy as a confident, secure, and assertive person in Heroes of Olympus—and found it so refreshing—only for Percy to regress back into his self-hating, insecure 12-year-old self again in the new books? Because it’s infuriating to me that he lost that character development. Anyway… resuming discussion.)

People are always so worried about Percy feeling inferior in their relationship, but never about Annabeth feeling frustrated when Percy doesn't act like the equally contributing partner that she knows he can be (and that he is a lot of the time). I mean, we know from her POV in MoA that Annabeth tends to feel like she has the weight of the world on her shoulders and has to figure things out for everyone else. And that she feels useless sometimes because everyone else, especially Percy, has all these amazing powers, and all Annabeth has to contribute is her knowledge. And yet, when she "shows off" with her intelligence, it's a "superiority complex?"

And another hot topic: Anti-Percabethers are always talking about Annabeth “bullying” and “physically abusing” Percy. (Despite him never feeling pain, flinching, or even expressing an ounce of discontent—in fact after she judo-flipped him, he laughed and smiled). And yet they never seem to want to talk about the fact that Percy has made Annabeth cry and been extremely insensitive to her on several occasions. And you wanna talk about physical violence? Let’s talk about how Sally, Paul, and Annabeth were all extremely nervous and tense when telling Percy that Sally was pregnant. You know why? It’s explained that they’re scared because his temper is brutal and they never know how he’s going to react—because he previously blew out the pipes of the entire apartment building when he got upset about something. How come everybody is SO worried about Annabeth playfully smacking his shoulder and him not caring, but NOBODY wants to talk about the fact that Annabeth is scared of making Percy mad because he can’t fucking control his temper or keep the world around him from blowing up? This is the guy who’s been kicked out of military schools for fighting. This is the guy who’s thrown his skateboard into a wall out of rage. This is the guy who got so mad at a goddess that he got pleasure out of torturing her. I’m not saying he’s wrong for any of that, but I am saying that Annabeth has never once done something like that.

Let’s talk about Piper’s perspective of him. I used to hate Piper because she was critical of Percy, but then I grew up. She is one of the few people who actually gives us an unbiased view of him, and you know what she says? She says she doesn’t know how Annabeth deals with Percy because Annabeth is constantly having to keep him under control. Annabeth keeps him from attacking/yelling at Leo after the canon incident. She has to diffuse his stupid, pointless “who’s is bigger” competition with Jason. She’s not there to keep him from pissing off Bacchus, and Percy rapidly escalates the situation and nearly screws them all over. I mean, in Wrath of the Triple Goddess, she had to tactfully handle him after Grover drank the strawberry potion because Percy was so angry that he was literally shaking (and btw Annabeth had to figure out the plan to fix everything that time, too). When she’s not there, Percy talks back to gods and superiors and gets everyone around him into bad situations with his temper and disobedience. Annabeth CONSTANTLY has to calm him down and keep him from losing his shit. Do you know how exhausting that must be??

So tell me—why is the blame ALWAYS on the woman here? Why is Percy made out to be some poor, abused wittle baby being picked on by big bad Annabeth? He’s a big boy. A grown man now, even. He is the most powerful demigod alive. He can fucking take care of himself, and so can Annabeth.

If you don’t want to like Percabeth? That’s fine. If you don’t want to like Annabeth? That’s fine. But STOP making it out as if Annabeth is the only one who causes problems in their relationship and Percy is completely innocent. Percy is just as bad—arguably worse, actually. Because despite everyone saying how bad Annabeth is to Percy, he never actually gets hurt, scared, or offended by her. Meanwhile, Annabeth HAS cried because of Percy’s words AND has been scared of him and his temper. So… what the FUCK?? How is Annabeth the one being villainized here??

Now, I can actively defend every single thing Percy has done. I love him for his flaws and they make him such a complex character. And I can do and say the same thing about Annabeth, but for some reason that’s “excusing bad behavior.” I love them both and think they are extraordinary people who’ve been dealt really crappy hands. They deal with things the best way that they can in the moment. But they BOTH mess up and hurt each other, and they BOTH have things to work on. They are very flawed characters, and we can point out and discuss those flaws while also being fond of those flaws because it makes them more realistic. 

Now, some of you might be thinking, “Lili, I thought you loved Percy and Percabeth.” I do. I love them so much that I pretty much have a whole blog dedicated to them. But I don’t love them because I think they’re perfect. I love them because, despite being extremely flawed, they make each other better. They love each other unconditionally. They build each other up and protect each other in the darkest of times.

They are best friends. They are battle partners. They are lovers. They are warriors. They are heroes. They are EQUALS. But they are NOT perfect. Not even a little. And their ability to overcome and work through those imperfections together is what makes them so extraordinary.

And yet, when Percy plays dumb, it’s blamed on Rick’s bad writing and excused as him being insecure because of his abuse. When Annabeth calls him out for it and jokes about it, she gets called an awful person who doesn’t value him. And when Percy loses his temper and acts out and gets everyone into bad situations, he’s excused because he inherited Poseidon’s temper and he can’t help it. But when Annabeth is extremely prideful and acts like she’s smarter than other people (which she inherited from Athena) she’s a selfish bitch who thinks she’s better than anyone else? 

How does that make any fucking sense? 

If you want to criticize Percabeth, criticize both of them. But don’t keep doing this “selective reading” bullshit so you can see Annabeth as the villain when she spends half her life cleaning up Percy’s messes and taking care of him. Percy is extraordinary and I adore him, but he is not a “saint” for “dealing with Annabeth.” He is damn lucky to have her, just like she's damn lucky to have him. 

Either be honest about both their flaws and cut it out with the double standards, or don’t bother pretending you care about the truth at all.

[leahkenobi]

hands

frank castle x fem!reader

word count: 777

summary: when things get heated, you just need a little something more from frank.

warnings: oral fixation, smut, kinda dom frank, kinda shy reader, a tad bit of praise

a/n: like the bio says, i am a slut for this man. if you want to be added to a frank taglist, let me know!

pic is from pinterest! credits to owner!

“fuck,” frank grunted as he slid in, the tight heat of you consuming his entire being.

he had started slow, he always did. pulling you onto his lap, attacking your lips with desperation. then he moved onto gently nipping at your neck. then your earlobe, letting you hear his low, heady groans.

you rocked your hips, squirming with need. he let you, god he would always let you. you were so beautiful like this, coming apart in his lap from his mouth on yours alone.

he knew you were getting impatient by the way you started bucking against his aching cock. unintentional whimpers slipped out of you, making way for your cheeks to heat with embarrassment.

you threw your face into his neck, attempting to conceal your embarrassment. but he would have none of that.

“shh.. shh baby, i’ll take care of you,” he soothed while rubbing your back.

“please,” you whimpered lowly.

“i’ve got you,” he said, turning you in his arms so your back was to his chest.

he pulled at the waist band of your sleep shorts, removing them from your body.

frank lightly grazed every inch of your body moving downward. his soft touch on your arms, across your stomach as he lifted your shirt, your thighs, was driving you out of your mind.

“god please,” you begged. it was too much, you needed him.

“you don’t have to beg, sweetheart. i’ll get there,” he chuckled. he took his time caressing you, getting you as needy as humanly fucking possible.

finally, finally, his fingers reached your core, running down past your slit.

“wow baby. got you that worked up, huh?” he said. you could almost hear the grin on his face through his voice.

he continued to warm you up, fingers slowly pressing into your core and working you open.

after what felt like hours in agony, you couldn’t wait another second.

“frankie please. i need you,” you said, hips bucking up as his fingers pumped in and out, his other hand splaying across your stomach to keep you from moving off his lap.

“need me baby? yea, yea i know. won’t make you wait anymore,” he said, flipping your body beneath his.

you were a mess. cock drunk and needy, panting and moaning for more.

god why was he going so slow tonight? you needed more than this. you needed something else.

“more frankie. need more,” you were near tears at this point.

but this was nothing new to him. in fact, it happened quite often. you’d work yourself up to this point and feel like you were missing something. and frank knew exactly how to fix it.

all you needed was him a little bit closer. a little more of him filling you up.

“shh, i know sweetheart. cmon, open up,” he said, bringing the hand that had been lying next to your head to your mouth.

you complied instantly.

his thumb slid just past your lips and you released a sigh of contentment.

“yea, just needed a little bit more of me, huh baby?” he said, enjoying the satisfied look on your face.

you swiped your tongue over his digit, soothing yourself as he continued to pound into you. your hand held his wrist steady, not letting him out of your clutches.

“that’s it. just a bit more,” he said as he felt you begin to flutter around him. it worked like a charm every damn time. like the second his fingers touched your lips you dissolved and became a puddle for him.

your body began to buck underneath his, his thumb still firmly in your mouth as you moaned around it.

“you got it, baby. keep taking it. you’re right fucking there,” he said. with another thrust, you were over the edge.

it’s like you were floating. the pleasure you felt at the hands of him was otherworldly. the only thing tethering you to this dimension was the weight of frank in your mouth.

“that’s it, you’re fucking incredible,” he said with a final few thrusts, emptying himself inside of you.

he grunted as his body fell nearly limp after expending himself, still hovering above you.

he rolled off of you, slowly removing his thumb from your mouth.

a soft whine escaped as he pulled it past your lips.

“aw i know, baby. needed that,” he remarked as you curled into his chest, embarrassed by your neediness.

“no need to hide honey,” he said, “i’ll give you anything you want. give you the whole fucking world if you wanted me to.”

you smiled against his stony chest. he always knew just what to do. and just what to say to ease your mind.

taglist:

@crumbledcastle28

[artstennisracket]

Request: thinking really hard about coach!dilf!patrick and how he'd spank bratty!tennisplayer!reader with his racket whenever she mouths off (and then fuck her with the handle. obviously)

tennis coach!Patrick x fem!reader

cw: nsfw (18+), spanking, object insertion, d/s undertones

You’ve gone through 15 tennis coaches in the past 5 years because you were “uncoachable”. But your parents knew the real reason why, your attitude.

You would question, fight back, and argue about every single little thing anyone tried to teach you. It’s exhausting for them but also for you. You never thought any of those coaches were good enough. They were too nice or too soft or too inexperienced or just too wrong.

No one really meshed with you or your playing style. You had non negotiables. One of those things being your serve. It was unique. You would bend down at an almost uncomfortable angle, bounce the ball twice, before you shoot up tossing the ball the air and hitting it.

It was weird and you didn’t know why you did it that way but you did and it worked. But every coach you ever had wanted you to fix it. Except for Patrick.

He coached you sure but never once mentioned your serve. Maybe it’s because his serve was weird too.

Your parents were surprised you kept this coach for so long, but Patrick just treated you like a real player. The part that really surprised your parents was that you never argued with him or mouthed off.

He was also just really hot. He would come over 5 days a week to your family home, and you guys would practice at your home tennis court.

He was older than you, by almost 12 years. He started coaching you when you were 18 and now you’re 20. You tried to make your passes and did your occasional flirting. Wore extra short skirts and made sure to bend over slowly when you had to pick up a tennis ball.

You were nothing if not persistent so this practice was no different.

You pulled out all the stops. You wore a short white tennis skirt that stopped just below curve of your ass and a tight pink polo top with the top buttons unbuttoned. You didn’t wear a bra so the outside breeze made your nipples perk up under your shirt. And whether or not you were wearing panties was questionable.

Patrick never acknowledged what you were wearing. He just kept his sunglasses on and a neutral face when he said, “Ready to get to work?”

Practice went on as usual until you decided to be difficult on purpose. Patrick had you doing drills serving to hit certain cones spread out on the court. So you just kept missing on purpose.

“Are you good? Feeling okay?” He asks from where he’s stood on the other side of net.

Okay time to turn up the brattiness. You scoff putting your hand on your hip, “What? I can’t miss a couple shots?”

He raises his eyebrows clearly taken aback, “Who pissed in your cereal?”

“I just don’t understand why you keep asking me questions, you don’t get paid to question me you get paid to coach me.”

“Well I don’t like your fucking attitude right now so i’m not coaching shit.” He says dropping his racket into the bin that holds all the tennis balls. He starts to walk off the court, taking his pack of cigarettes out of his pocket.

Fuck. You need to get him to come back here and take out his anger on you, not cool off with a cigarette.

You yell in his direction, “Yeah? Well you’re so old you can’t even coach for shit anyway!”

He stops in his tracks. He puts his unlit cigarette back in the pack, putting the pack back in his pocket. He turns back in your direction and walks straight to you.

He grabs your wrist and pulls you into the sports shed where your family kept all their sports gear.

He stops dropping your wrist. He pushes his sunglasses up to rest on top of his head. He turns around to face you, standing so close to you, your noses are almost touching. He says just above a whisper, “You think you can fucking talk to me like that? What the fuck do you think this is?”

This is the closest, physically, you guys have ever been. So naturally, you’re a little nervous but happy that your plan is maybe working? You stutter, “I-I um I didn’t think anything.”

He does a once over, looking you up and down. Then he continues, “You think I don’t know what this is? Acting like a brat to get my attention? To get me to fuck you?”

Oh. He saw right through you and somehow that just adds to the butterflies in your stomach.

“That’s not— I never, I didn’t—“

He cuts you off, “Don’t lie to me.”

You shake your head continuing your lie, “no I never— I swear I didn’t—“

Before you can register what’s happening, he sits down in the bench and puts you over his lap. Oh.

He lifts up your skirt and curses under his breath. You weren’t wearing panties. You could feel the rush cool air against your now exposed skin. He rubs his hand over your ass for a second before he picks up a nearby racket.

“You expect me to believe you weren’t acting up to get my attention when your wearing the shortest skirt you own, no bra so everyone can see your hard nipples through your shirt, and your not even wearing panties?” He asks, slowly dragging the tennis racket over your ass.

You nod biting your lip.

Smack.

“Ah—“ You let out a half gasp half yelp when the first smack of the tennis racket lands on your ass.

“Well if you’re gonna keep behaving like a lying brat, then I’m going to have to punish you like one,” He says before landing another spank on your ass.

Smack.

You moan this time as the racket collides with your ass.

“Parading around the court like a desperate slut. surprised you didn’t just bend over for me right on the court. That’s what you really wanted right?”

Smack.

You nod your head letting out another moan.

Smack.

“I asked you a question that means your supposed to answer me.” He says sternly before raising the racket again.

Smack.

“Yes fuck, that’s what I wanted. Wanted you to fuck me on the court, please.”

You anticipate that another smack is going to land on your ass but instead you feel two fingers sliding up your folds and pressing into your entrance.

“Shit, Patrick,” You whine as he starts to pump his fingers in and out of your tight hole.

“You’re already so wet. you really are desperate for me, aren’t you? How long have you wanted me to fuck you?” He asks while he curls his fingers inside of you, pressing against the spongy area.

You groan. It feels really fucking good, it’s hard to focus, “Ah- two years, when you became my coach.”

Now Patrick groans. He adds one more finger inside you, alongside the two that were already in there. “Fuck. Dressing like a slut for two years trying to get me to fuck you. I fucking knew it. Jesus. Made me feel like such a creep watching you. Had to start wearing sunglasses to practice so you couldn’t tell I was staring at you.”

You smirk at that, you knew your plan had to have been working all these years. From your place laid across his lap, you can feel him start to grow hard.

“Well I’m still not gonna fuck you, brats don’t get rewarded.”

You whine at that, “That’s not fair you just said you wanted to fuck me so fuck me please, please just fuck me.”

He bites his lip before he gets an idea. He pulls his fingers out of your hole and you whine at the loss. He grabs the same racket from before.

“Wait what’re you doing—“

He uses one hand to spread your folds, exposing your hole, while using the other hand to line up the handle of the racket. He starts pushing in it slowly, watching closely how your hole grips around the racket.

He groans, “Fuck baby, taking it so well.” He pumps the racket slowly, pulling it so the handle is almost all the way out before pushing it back in as deep as it can go.

You never felt this full before but every time he presses the racket in deep it feels so good. Eventually he starts pumping the racket a little faster. You start moaning uncontrollably, rocking your hips back against the racket.

“Your tight hole is so fucking greedy baby, jesus. Fucking yourself back on it like you can’t get enough.” He moves one hand to squeeze your chest, circling your nipple with his finger.

You can feel your orgasm creeping up on you. The volume of your moans increasing until you reach your release, “‘m gonna cum, oh fuck Patrick.”

He lets you ride out your orgasm before he pulls the wet racket handle out of you. It’s covered in your juices.

You think it’s all over until you hear him say, “Get on your knees.”

So you do. Still a little wobbly from laying down for so long but you get on your knees between his legs. You can see the tent in his shorts now. You’re hoping you’ll finally get to see his see his cock, feel the weight of it on your tongue. You just know it’s huge.

So you open your mouth, sticking our tongue to show that you’re ready to suck him off.

He smirks before he presses the tennis racket handle down your throat, “Good girls clean up their mess.”

You choke a little but try to relax your throat, sucking the handle to clean it off. Once he’s satisfied he pulls the racket out of your mouth, placing it beside him on the bench.

He stands up and you watch as he tucks his boner into the waistband of his shorts. He bends down to whisper into your ear, “Maybe next time if you’re a good girl for the whole week, then I’ll fuck you.”

He stands up heading to the exit the sports shed. He moves his sunglasses back down to rest on his nose bridge. Before he leaves he calls out, “See you tomorrow for 8am practice.”

[mommyslittlebird]

would puppy ever go through a little aggression phase? nothing too major but maybe pre heat when hormones are out of whack or just a little phase they have when they show territorial signs and little acts of aggression (never against wanda) maybe growling at people who get to close to wanda or nipping natasha’s fingers when she gets too close. little puppy resource guarding her mama❤️‍🩹

It all started one afternoon when Wanda came inside with a cut on her foot. It wasn’t anything major, she’d just cut it while she was doing some yard work with Natasha. It was, overall, a relatively minor injury.

But it had scared you in a way she hadn’t recognized.

You sat next to her while Natasha tended to the wound. You watched her blot the cut with gauze, covering it in dark and sticky blood. You could smell it. It made you sick to your stomach.

When Natasha poured some hydrogen peroxide onto a cotton pad, Wanda sucked on her teeth and whimpered.

“Stop it!” You barked. “You’re hurting her! Stop hurting my mama!”

“Baby it’s okay. She’s not hurting mama, she’s just making sure it’s all cleaned up so mama doesn’t get an infection,” she soothed, wrapping her arm around your head and giving you kisses. “Why don’t you go upstairs?” She knew you wouldn’t leave unless she gave you a job, so she made something up. “Can you go upstairs and make mama a nice little snuggle pile to lay down in?”

Reluctantly, you nodded and headed up to the bedroom. You made the bestest snuggle nest you could. You brought up all mama’s blankets and pillows from the couch. You laid all your favorite toys meticulously around the edges, and you arranged the blankets in a perfectly mama shaped circle.

Natasha helped her up the stairs, laying her in the nest before heading back downstairs. You laid on Wanda’s chest and kissed her face all over, hoping to soothe her discomfort. “You’re such a good puppy, always looking out for your mama. This is a beautiful snuggle pile you made us. Thank you so much, baby.”

You’d always liked Natasha. She played with you and wrestled with you in the yard. But when she came back up to Wanda's room and approached her, you just heard Wanda’s pained whimper and saw her scrunched up face. Something inside of you lit up. It was like your brain stopped and your body took over.

You positioned yourself between the two women, looking at Natasha with your teeth bared. You growled, low and dangerous, a sound Wanda had never heard from you before. When Natasha didn't back up, you lunged at her, nipping at her hand. "Get away from my mama! You can't touch her!"

Natasha backed up, putting her hands up in a gesture of surrender. "Okay. Okay. I'm not gonna do anything to hurt your mama." She held up a blue bag wrapped sloppily in a washrag. "This is an ice pack for her foot. It will help her stop hurting. Will you let me help her?"

You softened, but only slightly, retreating back to sit on Wanda's lap. You puffed out your chest, bolstering up your most threatening demeanor. "Fine. But if you hurt her again, I'm gonna... I'm gonna fuck you up! And... and once you're done, you're gonna go home!"

Wanda gasped. "Puppy!"

Natasha had to bite her lip to keep from chuckling. "Okay. I promise I won't hurt her, and I'll leave as soon as I'm done."

She gently secured the ice pack to Wanda foot and allowed you to back her out of the room. Your paws clumsily closed the door behind her, and you dragged your toy box over to bar the door. Only then did you relax, climbing up onto the bed and lying flat against Wanda.

She could feel you shaking, pressing your head against her chest as if monitoring her heartbeat. "Hey, baby," she started quietly. "What was that? Why did you bite Aunt Natasha? And you know you're not supposed to say bad words like that."

"I'm sorry, mama," you whined, licking her in a gesture of apology. She could tell how genuinely guilty you felt. "I just... she hurted you and... and I was scared mama! It was like... I knew I was being a mean puppy, but my heart was telling me you were in danger. I know I wasn't supposed to mama. Even when I was doing it, my brain was saying “don’t bite. Bad puppies bite.”, but my body was doing it anyway. Like... like you was gonna die if I didn't!"

Wanda kissed your head. "It's okay, baby. You're not in trouble," she gently reassured. "You that thing in your body that was telling you that we were in danger was your puppy instinct. Your body didn't feel like mama was safe, and it made you act out a little bit. But it's okay. Mama will help you learn how to deal with it, so you won't be so scared when something like that happens again."

You tucked your head under her chin, nuzzling against her. "Mama?"

"What is it, baby?"

"Can you call Aunt Natty so I can say sorry?"

Wanda smiled and chuckled. "Of course, sweetheart. I'm sure Aunt Natty would appreciate that."

Puppy Collection

[leyavo]

🐞Bug x TF141 previous parts here: [one] & [two] (I just keep thinking of this)

Bugs get crushed, so mind where you go. Wouldn’t want to step on you.

It had been drilled into your head since you’d earned the call-sign, Bug. Sure the names were never something nice, but yours was given you to remind you of your place. That no matter how good you were, there was always someone bigger trying to crush you.

So you tried your best to stay under the radar, never going above and beyond what ever orders were sent your way.

After one particular training session though, Captain Price pulled you aside. The guys winding down on the opposite side of the training ground, stretching their aching limbs. Roach, however trails close by as if he’s trying to listen in.

“Are you a dog or a bug?” Price said, his hands raising to cross over his chest.

You tense, bracing for his knuckles to drive into your shoulder, but nothing.

“What am I, Captain?” You don’t even bother picking from the lot, knowing that he’ll tell you exactly what you are either way.

Is this the question he’ll ask each time you do something he’s not fond of? Or whenever you mess up. Just like your previous captain asked you, what are you? Are you to say you’re a dog now? Someone made just to follow orders no matter the task.

Anything to make your life a little easier. You’re tired of trying to dodge your superiors anger and let them have at it.

The Captain sighs, dabbing the sweat dripping down his brow with the cuff of his fleece. “I don’t want ya to be a dog, there’s more to this task force than following my orders, Bug.”

You’re not sure if this is some kinda test, something for you to slip up on. So you remain silent, waiting for him to tell you what he really thinks. Used to the verbal lashings from anyone superior to you.

“Why do you think I put you with Roach?”

He’s hard to kill. Hard to kill, that’s why you’re with him. Someone to drag you out if you ever fuck up. Your gaze wanders to Roach and he looks away as soon as your eyes connect with his. Turning his attention the dirt beside his boot, toeing the gravel beneath it.

“He’s good at thinking on his feet, adapting and bending the rules in his favour to get the job done. He listens to his orders, but is also in tune with the variables around the situation.” The Captain’s voice lowered, he’d never outright compliment Roach as he gets a mixed bag of emotions. Doesn’t want to add to the weight he already carries, so Price leans in for just you to hear.

He knows his team, knows who needs encouragement or praise, but also knows that sometimes it’s not always practical.

A pat on the back and a nod of the head from the Captain is enough for Roach.

“You want me to ignore a direct order, Captain?”

“No,” he scoffs, “I want you to embellish them, think of them as a guideline. The nitty gritty details are down to you, Bug.” The captain lifts his hand, but drops it deciding not to give you a reassuring pat on the arm. He balls his fist and shakes it, a symbol for strength.

“Yes, Captain.” You watch him walk across the training ground, falling in line with Ghost as they make their way back to the main building. Soap and Gaz have disappeared, just a lone Roach kicking the gravel a couple feet away from you.

Your legs tremble, the last few training drills settling in your aching muscles. The sun burns your scalp and coats a thin layer of sweat all over you. You don’t care how you look though, your knees crashing to the ground. The shuddering rise and fall of your chest, faltered breaths easing as a flask wiggles in front of your face.

Roach’s gloved hand grasping the neck of the flask. “Tougher than we seem us bugs,” he said, crouching down in front of you and poking your t-shirt. He lifts his finger, showing a red little lady bug perched there before it flies off.

You’re a bug, not a dog.

Bug’s still trying to figure out what type of Captain John Price is and doesn’t have a past superior who was good to compare him to. So she’s thinking the worse (which is what she’s used to).

[aleskie]

hii!! hope you’re having a week day, i was wondering if you could write max verstappen angst after 2021 baku dnf?

HIIIII ANON! I actually don't remember what the lore with baku 2021 was ajnskskj so i hope you like this general DNF comfort fic instead MWAH

WHY DOES SHE GIVE A DAMN ABOUT ME | Max Verstappen x Reader

SUMMARY: Max is a winner. But when it comes crashing down, you've got him.

Warnings: None. Hurt with comfort!

He doesn’t say anything when he comes back home — just closes the door a little harsher than usual and heads straight to the terrace after making himself a gin and tonic. He needs to calm down. You know that. You don’t follow him right away. You give him space.

Max was a champion. He won. That’s what he did, what he was born to do, what he was trained to become. Losing took a toll on him — whether it was a DNF or finishing out of the points. It never felt good. But there were things to learn from it, things to improve on. Both on his end as a driver and with the constructor’s team for the car. He could live with that.

But having a car malfunction? Not finishing the race? And when you were in second place? That hurt. That really hurt.

The sun is sinking lower, casting long shadows across the terrace as he sips his drink. The ice clinks softly against the glass. It’s calming, a familiar ritual — but you can see the tension in his shoulders, the way his jaw stays tight. There’s a lot on his mind. What he could’ve done better. Where he’d be in the championship if he’d won. The what-ifs, the could-have-beens.

You watch him from the doorway for a moment before stepping outside. You don’t say anything. You just sit beside him, quiet and steady, while the sky turns gold and the weight of disappointment settles with the evening breeze.

“I hate myself,” he says, taking another sip from his drink. His words are slurred just enough to tell you he’s a little tipsy — no surprise, considering the drink he poured earlier was mostly gin with just the barest splash of tonic. “I’m a fucking loser. I lost.”

“Don’t say that,” you reply softly, keeping your voice gentle. “The car malfunctioned. It wasn’t your fault.”

“Was it not?” He lets out a sharp, bitter laugh and takes another swig. “I can drive bad cars. I’ve done it before. I’ve pushed them to their limits and I made it work—I made it win. But I couldn’t drive this one? Couldn’t win in it? Fucking pathetic.”

You want to reach for his hand, but you don’t. Not yet. You know that right now, he’s fighting a battle in his own head — one you can’t quite pull him out of. So you stay close, your voice steady even when his isn’t.

“You’re not pathetic,” you say quietly. “You’re one of the best drivers in the world. Four championships, Maxie—that’s nothing to scoff at.”

“It doesn’t feel like it,” he mutters, his eyes fixed on the horizon. The sunset’s almost gone now, the sky bleeding into deeper shades of blue and orange. “Feels like I’m just…wasting everyone’s time. Wasting my time. Wasting yours.”

The ice clinks again as he lifts the glass, and for a second, you wish the drink would run out. But you know the problem isn’t the gin. It’s everything that’s come before it — the pressure, the expectation, the disappointment.

“You’re not wasting anything—especially not my time or my energy,” you say. “You had a bad day. That’s all it was.”

He shakes his head. “It’s never just one day. It’s every day that comes after it, every chance that slips away. And I—” His voice breaks, just for a second, before he swallows it down with the rest of his drink. “I don’t know if I can keep doing this.”

That’s when you reach for his hand. And this time, he lets you.

“That’s fine too.” You plant a kiss on the back of his hand. “You don’t have to prove anything to anyone.”

“But I do.” He pulls his hand away and runs it through his hair. “I have to prove it. To the team. To the fans. To dad. To you—”

“You don’t have to prove anything to me.”

He finally looks at you, and it’s worse than you expected. His eyes are red-rimmed, his face drawn tight with exhaustion and frustration and something deeper—something you don’t know how to fix.

“Don’t I?” he whispers. His voice is so quiet, but the weight of those words hangs heavy between you. “You think you’d still love me if I stopped winning? If I stopped trying?”

“But you aren’t not trying,” you say, your voice soft but steady. “You try your best with everything you do. And that’s one of the reasons I love you.”

He shakes his head, his jaw clenching like he’s holding back something that’s threatening to break free. “No. You love the champion. You love the winner. And that’s not who I am right now. This…this isn’t who you signed up for.”

“Don’t tell me who I love,” you snap, your voice trembling. “And don’t treat this relationship like it’s some kind of contract. I didn’t sign up for anything. I’m here because I want to be. Because I love you. Even now—when you’re hurting, when you’re in pain. I still love you.”

For a second, he just stares at you, and you can see the war happening behind his eyes—the fight between believing you and the doubts that have been eating away at him for weeks. Maybe months.

“I don’t know if I’ll ever be good enough for you,” he whispers finally, his voice breaking. “And I want to be. God, I want to be perfect for you. But I…I can’t.”

Your chest aches. That helpless, hollow kind of ache that comes when you want so badly to fix something — someone — and you know you can’t. All you can do is hold his hand tighter, like maybe that will stop him from slipping away completely.

“You are,” you say softly. “You’re perfect. Just like this.”

He closes his eyes, but a tear escapes anyway, sliding down his cheek. He doesn’t wipe it away. “It’s been a tough season,” he murmurs. “The car is fucked. And I—I don’t know how to keep you if I can’t even keep this seat. And I don’t even know who I am without the wins.”

“You’re a four-time world champion,” you remind him, your fingers brushing through his hair. “You’re dragging a seventh-place car to third place. That’s more than enough. You are doing so much—more than anyone should have to.”

You guide his head to rest on your shoulder, feeling the way his breath stutters against your skin. “You can rest for now,” you whisper. “You don’t have to carry all of this alone.”

For the first time that night, his body eases—just a little—against yours. The tension doesn’t vanish, not completely, but you feel the slightest shift, the way his weight leans into you like he’s finally allowing himself to stop holding it all together. And you hold him like you’re trying to keep him from falling apart—like if you hold him tight enough, maybe you can take some of that hurt away.

His breath slows, but every now and then it still catches, like there’s something inside him he can’t quite let go of. You press your lips to his hair, soft and reassuring, and whisper, “I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.”

“I don’t deserve you,” he says, voice rough and low.

“You do,” you insist. “And I’ll keep telling you that until you believe it.”

He doesn’t answer right away, but his fingers tighten around yours. And for now, that’s enough.

[jjsloverre]

best kept secret - jm

in which… jj is secretly dating pope’s sister, thinking he could keep it on the low; it showed to be harder than expected.

contains… angst, arguing, smut, unprotected p in v, getting caught, happy ending etc etc (not really proofread)

★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★

“fuck baby keep goin…” jj moaned as you bounced on his cock. he put his hand over your mouth to keep you from moaning out. “sh-shh ma, gotta keep you quit before your brother hears you… you don’t want pope to hear you moaning my name do you now?” he taunted as he put a smack to your ass.

“this ass is so fuckin’ fat baby.. shit i’m not gonna last long like this…” with a few more thrusts, jj pulled out of you, releasing his sticky cum all over your stomach. “i-i love you.” you whispered to him.

jj paused for a moment, realizing what you just said to him. “y-you love me? already? i mean it’s not a bad thing… i mean i like you so fuckin’ much don’t doubt that, just don’t know if i love you yet…” he stammered, the embarrassment filling the quiet stuffy room. “no i get it, i said it pretty fast huh?” you tried to play off the pained look in your eyes. “sorry jayj.. just forget about it!”

he immediately sensed how embarrassed you felt about the confession. without hesitation, he cuddled you into his arms. “don’t feel embarrassed sweet girl… i love how confident you are in telling how you feel, just like your brother a bit huh? don’t feel embarrassed ok? saying those words to me… mean the absolute world and i’m so happy you feel that way.”

there were footsteps at the door suddenly. then… you heard your brothers voice. “y/n? hey where are you? and have you seen jj?” he shouted. “fuck… i was supposed to meet them a while ago, i wish i could take care of you baby i’m sorry, ima make it up tho, promise.” jj whispered and quickly got up to hide in the bathroom.

“i’m in here!” you yelled back. quickly getting some clothes on you opened the door. “you look like shit! anyway we’re all meeting at the beach so are you coming?”

“yeah i am, let me just fix myself up since i somehow look like shit asshole.”

pope laughed and exited the room. jj emerged from the bathroom as you closed the door. “see you at the beach” giving you a few pecks to your lips and rushed out.

that boy was something else.

★

the beach wasn’t a great idea for jj, not by a long shot. looking at you, in that beautiful bikini, he secretly bought you that green one just so you both could match and damn did he do a good job.

a few surfs later and suggestive looks, jj had enough. when pope wasn’t looking, he took your hand. “baby i missed you.. i can’t fuckin’ take it…” he starts a trail of kisses to your neck. “jj my brother is right there!”

“then you just gotta bend over and take it quietly don’t you hm?” he takes you to the twinkie and immediately yanks your bottoms off and bends you over. “just gotta stay quiet, m’kay baby?” with that, he pulled his swim trunks down, revealing his hard, leaking cock. pumping it a few times he starts to push toward in your tight heat. “oh fuck oh fuck baby shit… just like that… cmon bounce that ass on me.”

“it’s so good baby!” you moaned, jj clamped his hand over your mouth. “m-ma shhh they’re gonna hear you.”

jj started to thrust his hips faster chasing his orgasm. he slipped a hand between your thighs and rubbed your puffy clit. with a cry of his name, you came hard on his cock. and before you knew it, your brother was right there; fuming. “what the fuck are you two doing?!”

“fuck… couldn’t even get my nut off…” he gently pulls out of you, careful not to hurt you. he grabbed his shirt and wrapped it around your bare bottom. “look pope just calm down and-”

“shut the fuck up! y/n. take a walk, now.”

“what why? why can’t i stay-”

pope interrupted again. “take a fucking walk.” you fell silent and began to walk away. before you went, jj gave you a quick kiss. “i’ll take the fall ok? you get questioned, don’t say shit, see you soon beautiful.” when you walked away pope looked at jj with full hatred.

“my fucking sister? you’ve actually lost your damn mind jj? end it now.” jj shook his head vehemently. “fuck no! she’s my girlfriend!” pope scoffed. “girlfriend my ass. for how long? we both know once you get bored you’ll just dump her and you won’t do my sister like that!”

“where’s the faith in your best fucking friend! we’ve been dating for like a year and i’ve been treating her with so much love and respect! i love that girl pope! i love your sister… i-i love y/n, if you can’t except that then i don’t know fuck you but…” he paused for just a moment to choose his next words. “don’t go off on her, just tryna show her happiness, and from the looks of it i’m doin’ a damn good job.”

pope stayed silent for a long time, then spoke. “end it.” then walked away. “fuck…” jj muttered. he’d hope pope would understand but that clearly wasn’t the case. he wanted to have a real and public relationship with you, loving you out loud and not in secret.

“is it bad?” you walked up to him and wrapped your arms around his waist. “nah baby, i got it under control. wanna go to the chateau for a bit? wanna talk to you.”

“he told you to break up with me didn’t he?”

“well yeah, don’t mean ima do it. i love you girl you know that.” oh shit. he realized he finally said those three words to you. “you meant that?” you asked him. he shrugged. “fuck it, yeah i did. i meant to tell you in a better way, was tryna get popes blessing before the words came out but looks like it was a different plan for us huh?”

“i guess so, i love you too!”

★

a week has passed since pope caught you and jj. he was more than the word angry, popping in on the both of you, making you distance yourself from jj, the overprotective brother kicking in. one day, jj snuck through your window. “ma… i can’t do this anymore…”

your heart broke into a million pieces. your brother had caused your boyfriend to finally see that his antics were too much. you were about to cry until he spoke again. “can i sleep with you tonight? i can’t stand not being under you 24/7, i miss you so much baby; so damn much i need you.”

“you made me think you were gonna leave me!” you spat.

“and what makes you think i’d leave you over what pope says or thinks? i don’t listen to anyone, why would i listen to him about who i decide to give my love to? and occasionally make love to.”

“you admit you make love to me huh?” he laughs. “ma you know that’s the only thing i do.”

after 30 minutes of laughing and catching up, pope walks in. “why the fuck are you here jj!” this time you spoke up. “pope stop it, he’s my boyfriend and he’s been my boyfriend and he’s gonna stay like that, he hasn’t hurt me, he’s a sweet guy and i love him… please support me in this one thing?”

a moment of silence passes by and pope finally spoke. “fine.” then he leaves.

“you are a work of art baby, i love you.”

“i love you more.” you replied and sealed your love with a kiss.

your brother finally accepted your relationship, you’re officially happy.

★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★

a/n: this one is a long oneeeee! but i love love! so chris fic tomorrow?

taglist: @sturniologirlzz @sturns-mermaid @chalahyung01 @eddxemxnson @bee-43 @kieeslove @ethanthequeefqueen @sophand4n4 @superlegend216 @anacamofficial @imsiriuslyreal @sttaejoon-blog @moonywhisp3rs @always-reading @maybankslover @slut4rafecameronn @leaseyes @glitterybombshell @aaliyahsturniolo @sturnioloenthousiast @coalicionees

[godmadeaterribleerror]

Chapter 12 - Watch You Work the Room

Series Masterlist - Main Masterlist

Author's Note: Dean in a suit chapter for the whores (me. I'm the whores). Enjoy!

Chapter title from The (After) Life of the Party by Fall Out Boy

Word Count: 17.2k

Chapter Summary/Warnings: You and Dean go on a mission, Sam breaks into some cars. Usual warnings.

Tags: Dean Winchester/Female Reader, enemies to friends to lovers, canon divergence, slow burn, angst, fluff, pining, action

Chapter 11 - Chapter 13

Read on A03!

“Are you-“ San cleared his throat from across the room, and Dean didn’t bother to look up. “Dude, are you reading?”

“You got eyes, Sammy?”

“You know I-“

“Use ‘em.”

Sam sighed. “I- Why are you reading?”

“Because I’m not fucking talking to you.” Dean grunted, glaring at Sam over the top of the book. “And it’s not like-“ He glanced at the bathroom door, and dropped his voice to a whisper. “How to get out of demon deals is going to be on the Cable TV.”

It wouldn’t be. Dean would know.

He’d already checked.

He’d been looking everywhere. He’d gone to libraries and bookstores, stolen Sammy’s laptop, and really started to fucking look. Anywhere that could be somewhere, with anything he could get his hands on. He’d called Bobby six times just this week, with possible leads that didn’t pan out, but could have.

Dean could get out of this. If he really fucking tried, he might make it out of this year alive.

Bobby and Sam had noticed the change. Bobby had been the one to bring it up—over the phone at midnight, when Dean was crouched in the parking lot—and Dean hadn’t been able to give a reason anyone wanted to hear.

“What’s the sudden change of heart, boy? You suddenly not borderline suicidal and stupid?” Bobby’s question had been firm, and Dean had run a hand over his face with a long breath.

“I was never suicidal-“

“You were all but rollin’ over and waitin’ to die, Dean. Now Sam’s tellin’ me you’ve been workin’ harder than he has. And I got a suspicion to what changed your tune, but I wanna hear ya’ say it.”

Dean had swallowed. “Bobby, there’s nothing going on-“

“Then why’re you defendin’ yourself-“

“Cause if I don’t, you’re gonna drive down here and put me on the barrel of a shotgun!”

“I’m only gonna do that if it’ss what I think.” Bobby had grunted. “And if you’re breakin’ her heart-“

“I’m not-“

“If you are.” Bobby had snapped, and Dean had flinched, pulling the phone a little further away from his ear. “You’re gonna end up a lot worse than shot. Demons are gonna have to find your body scattered ‘cross Montana.”

“Gee, thanks, Bobby-“

“I’ve been warnin’ you, Dean.” Bobby had let out a long breath. “Ain’t a single thing on this earth I wouldn’t do for that girl. And if what Sam’s sayin’ is true-“

Dean’s jaw had clenched, and he’d glowered at the pavement. “Don’t listen to what Sam’s saying. He doesn’t know what the fuck he’s talking about.”

There had been a brief, static pause through the speaker, and Bobby had let out a long sigh. “You boys still fightin’, huh.”

Dean had just shrugged where Bobby couldn’t see it, and kept the conversation moving back to the empty lead they’d found yesterday.

And they were. Still fighting. But telling Bobby why would’ve led to another fight Dean knew he wouldn’t win, and he’d be stuck with two people helping him that he wanted to strangle.

Because Bobby would always choose Her. And Dean understood that. She was awesome, and cool, and he was still a little haunted by Bobby’s expression when he’d seen Her bleeding out and infected in Dean’s arms. 

But Sam was supposed to choose Dean. He wasn’t supposed to keep tight-lipped and shut down about whatever the hell had happened in that motel room. About why Dean had come back to find Her trying to strangle Herself, why she’d collapsed onto Dean’s chest with ragged breathes and a small, strange sound that had been echoing around Dean’s head ever since. 

Dean knew better than to push Her about what had happened. She’d said she didn’t want to talk about it, and that meant she wouldn’t talk about it. He could’ve tried to drag it out of Her with a fight, but that had never really worked before, and She’d looked so small. Fragile and panicked, almost feral as he’d pulled Her back into bed, and she’d fallen asleep in his arms.

He didn’t want to fucking lose that. He never wanted to lose Her. It had been the final straw on the whole if he died, he died thing. She might be able to live a life where Dean was only a pained memory, but he’d fucking carve out his heart from his chest and ship it to Lilith in a box before he became another thing that caused Her pain. He was finally something that mattered to Her, even if it wasn’t everything She was to him.

And Dean could admit She was a little more than everything to him. Just in his head, he could acknowledge that when he looked at Her and crashed down into the depth of all Her silver light and furious beauty, it was because She was just more. The most. 

And he wasn’t going to lose Her. Not now. If have the short end of three months left to live was offering Dean anything, if was fucking clarity. He wasn’t going to lose Her. 

But Sam was going to get himself fucking punched. Because Dean had cornered him that night while She’d been showering, and demanded to know what the hell had happened, and Sam had given him fucking nothing.

“It’s-“ Sam had swallowed, rubbing the back of his neck and glancing around the motel room for an escape route. There wouldn’t be one. Dean had been really fucking careful about that. “Nothing happened, dude-“

“Bullshit.” Dean had hissed. “We both know those things don’t just happen-“

“I mean, they kinda do-“

“But there’s always fucking something. And that,” Dean had pointed to the bathroom door, his eyes narrowed. “Was the worst one I’ve seen in damn years, Sam. What the hell did you say to her-“

“We- uh, we were just talking about the arrowhead. She lost it, and we needed to figure out what to tell Ruby-“

Dean had scoffed. “She would not fucking cry about Ruby-“

“I don’t know what you want to hear, Dean, that’s what happened-“

“No, it fucking didn’t.” Dean had taken a firm step forward, and Sam had a least had the decency to look worried. “You fucking said something, Sam, and I’m willing to bet my Baby that it was something bad if you won’t even damn tell me-“

“So ask her.” Sam had his raised his chin, crossing his arms. “If you think it was that bad, she’ll tell you, won’t she?”

Dean had gone rigid, started to weigh how valuable Sam’s nose was, and the door to the bathroom had opened.

The fight had been put on hold as She returned. But it hadn’t stopped. 

Sam kept refusing to tell Dean what the hell had happened. Dean couldn’t—wouldn’t—ask Her.. 

But yhey were both keeping something from Dean. Something about that fucking arrowhead, something about Ruby, something about Her episodes that Dean wasn’t allowed to know about. And he wanted to loathe Her for not trusting him, but She did. She slept at his side and let him walk one step behind Her, let Dean order Her food at diners when she was too invested in a book and always smiled at him when he walked into a room.

He couldn’t hate Her. That was another piece of the near-death clarity. Dean really needed to stop trying to hate Her, because he was bad at it. She was too beautiful to hate. It was like trying to hate the stars for shining so bright and not just moving into Dean’s hands to be held. 

And She did let Dean hold Her. She let Dean touch Her, causally and without cringing or running away. So Dean couldn’t hate Her. He wouldn’t trust himself with something delicate and important either. And maybe, if he made himself a useful enough tool for Her disposal, She would tell him. 

It wasn’t like he wasn’t keeping a worse secret from Her, anyway. 

And fucking Sam kept reminding him of that. Kept telling Dean that they’d far past the point where She needed to know, and every day that stuttered by was another one that She could’ve been helping, but wasn’t.

Dean didn’t want Her to help. He didn’t want this to be Her problem. And he knew She’d disagree, and likely try to stab Dean for keeping it secret at all, but he didn’t care. Dean had cursed himself to go even deeper than the mud. He’d doomed himself to end up surrounded by fire and pain for the rest of time. 

So no matter what Sam said, Dean wasn’t going to fucking tell Her. 

And if they did their damn jobs, the deal wouldn’t even matter, and Dean would be able to bring it up as a joke in a few years. He’d poke Her in the side and tell Her funny story about 2008, Princess, and She’d shove him but be glad he was alive, and then he’d wrap his arm around Her shoulders and haul her over his body, into a long and deep kiss because he’d be alive and she would’ve stayed-

Dean couldn’t think about that now. He’d figure it out after he fixed this, but he couldn't cross the line until then. When he did—because he would, it was becoming more and more obvious as Dean's will weakened and She only grew more beautiful that Dean would end up damning it all and crashing into Her in a way that stuck—it needed to be when he could keep Her. When he could prove to Her over and over that he was barely more than a weapon, but he was Her weapon and not one single shining, stardust-forged son of a bitch would ever serve Her the way Dean could. He'd send the rest of his damn life proving that She'd been right to—for reasons Dean would never understand—stay, when it would've been so easy for Her to leave him. Dean would've left himself, if he could. And he would've hated Her for abandoning to be as he should be, alone, but She fucking hadn't. 

And when She'd run, she'd always come back. To Dean. 

So he'd prove, when this was done, that She hadn't been wrong. He'd dedicate himself to it, and he wouldn't have to mold or break at all because She'd only ever stayed for him as he was.

He didn't understand it. He'd never understood it.

He was kind of done fucking trying to.

So all that was left to do was find his way out of the deal, and figure out how to keep Her near him all the damn time. 

It was why he was reading. She'd gone into the bathroom to get changed for their next case, and he didn't have anything better to do, so he'd grabbed one of Sam's huge, dusty books and started to comb through it. Going page by page like a nerd, looking for some sort of highlighted sentence that told him this would be fine. That was a neon red exit sign out of a crossroads deal, and promised that He wouldn’t have come so close to having Her, only to have everything crumble and fall through his fingers.

At this point, part of him wanted to tell Her. Not because it was a good idea, but because Sam was, annoying, right. She’d probably have this worked out in an afternoon, pointing to a single sentence Dean, Sam, and Bobby had already read but citing it’s completely different meaning, making them all feel like idiots and fixing it in a heartbeat.

But that only managed to solidify that Dean could not tell Her. He had to work this out himself, if he was going to try and pretend to be worthy of Her. If She did this for him, there’d be no reason for Her to stay. She didn’t need Dean. Nobody needed Dean. So he had to bank of Her wanting him, and why the hell would She want Dean if he needed Her, if he craved Her and followed Her everywhere like a dog that only took Her scraps and never offered anything but gnashing teeth and pointless labor- 

It wouldn’t be pointless. Dean would make sure the labor he did for Her meant something. That every bullet shot was a promise that, when She started to breathe to fast and clawed at Her skin, he’d take care of her, keep her safe, and serve her however she asked.

Even if that meant reading old books that gave him a headache, and wearing this stupid tie, and fidgeting with the cuffs of his shirt like they were shackles. 

“She’s taking a while,” Sam muttered from his chair, frowning at the bathroom door. “You think she-“

“She’s fine.” Dean grunted, flipping another page. “It’s not like you’re in there to freak her out.”

Sam sighed. “Dean-“

“What.”

“We’ve talked about this-“

“I didn’t say shit,” he shrugged, shooting Sam a glare. “And she always takes this long. She’s doing girl shit, and unless you wanna get stabbed, I wouldn’t interrupt her.”

“What’s girl shit-“

“I dunno, I’m not a freakin’ girl-“

“Then how to do you know she’s doing girl shit-“

“Cause she walked in there with her fancy bag, and she’s gonna come out looking…” He shook his head, giving Sam a pointed look. “It’s fucking witchcraft, Sammy.”

Sam frowned. “You mean makeup?”

Dean didn’t know what he meant. Maybe that every time She’d go through Her whole girl routine, she’d come out looking pretty much the exact same, but with little features highlighted to make Her look damn near godlike. The witchcraft was mostly how the hell she knew how to use all the tubes and sprays and brushes that Dean had seen in Her hands. 

So Dean just glowered at Sam—trying to find a way to answer the question that didn’t sound stupid—when the door opened, and his heart stopped.

It made sense why She’d taken so long.

That was more than just some of Her features highlighted. Every already perfect part of Her had somehow been carefully enhanced, and Her hair seemed to be absorbing all the light in the room before throwing it out twice as bright, and Dean didn’t know where the hell She’d gotten that dress, but his brain was already memorizing every dip of the fabric and curve of Her body and-

“You look, uh-“ Sam cleared his throat, glancing at Dean with an almost worried expression. “Ready.”

“I am.” She shrugged like it was nothing, like She wasn’t half glowing, didn’t look exactly like that fallen star She always lit in the pit of his body, and Dean wasn’t going to lose his mind. “And look.” She raised the dress with a wide grin, revealing Her knife, strapped to her thigh. “You can’t even see it. I fucking love this dress.”

Dean loved it too. For very different, inappropriate reason that were going to keep him in his chair for at least a few more minutes.

“You’re, uh-“ He coughed, trying to force his voice back from a rasp into at least a casual drawl. “You gonna be able to run in those?”

He nodded to Her heels, and She rolled her eyes. 

“Of course I can, I’m not a child. Plus,” She kicked one heel off, catching it in Her hand with practice grace and pointing the stabby end at Dean with a grin. “That’s three weapons.”

Sam frowned. “Three-“

“Knife,” She pointed back to Her thigh, and Dean’s grip on his book became white-knuckled. “Two shoes. Are you reading?”

Dean blinked at Her, then scowled, slamming his book back onto the table. “Am I not allowed to broaden my horizons, Princess-“

“You are.” She hummed, crossing to room to stand only one tug of Her waist away, and She was so pretty, and She smelled so good- “But this is like, half in Latin. And about demons.” She raised Her brows at him. “Lilith?”

“I, uh- Yeah. Lilith.” Dean gave Her his best smirk, and pretended he couldn’t see Sam’s pointed glare. “I got bored, sweetheart. Figured I might as well try to get something before we headed out-“

“Which we should’ve done,” Sam jumped in, frowning at his watch. “Like, a half hour ago. We won’t be late, but I wanted to be early, while the crowd was small-“

She shook Her head, rubbing Her thumb over her palm. “No, that would be suspicious. Our backstory is already rocky, being early would draw attention we can’t afford. If we’re on time we’ll be just another pair of faces in the crowd. Easier to slip past everyone for Dean and I, easier for you to navigate around security. But we should go soon, are you guys-“

“Born ready,” Dean grinned at Her, pushing out of his chair and keeping his gaze firmly on Her face. He couldn’t look down at Her body—or else they’d be here another hour while he calmed himself down—and Her face was a better alternative, but She was still so fucking gorgeous, and looking at Dean, right at Dean, like She could really see him, but she wasn’t moving away-

Sam snorted. “You’ve been bitching about your tie for like, an hour-“

“It’s choking me.” He snapped, fidgeting with the knot around his neck. It was too much like a noose, too great a reminder of how stolen his every breath had become. “And it looks fucking stupid-“

“No, it doesn’t.” She said, waving Dean off with a hand as She scanned around their motel room, not noticing the way Dean’s heart started to burst out of his chest, how his gaze locked on Her like she was a magnet. “And you can take if off as soon as we’re out, but everyone’s going to be wearing a tie-“

“Why?” He half-whined, pulling at his shirt. It was white. Inappropriate for hunts, prone to being stained, almost see-through white. He felt like a piece of meat. 

She only shrugged, shooting him a small, world-ending smile. “Because, Deano. That’s what happens when we take cases with rich people.”

“I didn’t take this case,” he grumbled, letting Her start to herd him towards the door. “Sammy took it. I just got dragged along-“

“We can leave you at home,” She suggested, nodding to Sam as he grabbed his bag, and they all moved outside, “I can put on some TV, leave you some snacks until we get back-“

“Shut up.”

She giggled, pulling away from Dean as they reached the car and he wanted Her to come back. He didn’t want to do this case at all—it was a waste of time that any hunter could take care of, and a reminder that he would never have the gross luxury he was likely about to witness—but if he had to, he didn’t want to be away from Her side.

Not when She looked like that.

Dean had really never seen anything more beautiful. It was distracting. He looked in the rearview mirror far more than he needed to, but he couldn’t stop himself. Light would catch off of Her in all the best ways, and he’d fall a little further whenever She’d shift in her seat and her soft skin would almost shimmer in the dark. Like She was really just a spirit or vision or figment of Dean’s imagination, an incarnation of every single part of him that had ever dared to want something he shouldn’t be allowed to have. He’d think She was an early torture sent to fuck with him, but She was very real. 

He could smell Her perfume, and it was the sweet and sugary vanilla one She’d been using for years, but it still wasn’t strong enough to overpower the fruit. The fucking fruit. The only part of Her that haunted Dean more than her voice.

Her beautiful, musical, taunting voice that followed him on the wind, that called him down, down, down into wherever She’d stray or wander, and kept his attention on Her words, no matter how they confused him.

And sometimes, they’d really fucking confuse him.

“The Lord isn’t actually supposed to be in attendance, so as long as we remember our cover stories and keep out of larger conversations, this should be really simple.”

Dean frowned at the road. “What’d you mean, Lord. America doesn’t have lords, sweetheart, we got senators and the Kardashians-“

“It’s a British lord,” Sam explained, shrugging in his seat. “I told you already, dude, that’s the whole case-“

“What, killing him?”

“No, Dean-“

“Only if he gets in the way.” She cut Sam off with a grin, and Sam rolled his eyes.

“Don’t encourage him,” Sam said Her name in an almost scolding tone, and Dean had to bite down a chuckle as She wrinkled her nose in the backseat. “And no, Dean. We’re not killing anyone. This artifact is said to drive people to insanity, and it’s supposed to go on display at this party, so we need to get it out before the night ends in a half orgy, half bloodbath.”

Dean grimaced slightly. “Damn, Sammy, ease a guy into it-“

“I did, five hours ago, but you weren’t fucking listening to me-“

“Sam,” She said from the back, leaning over the bench with a wrinkled brow, and Her arm was half on Dean’s shoulder. He was going to fucking explode. “Did you ever work out what the artifact was-“

Sam shook his head. “I’ll keep trying while you guys get inside, but I think as long as neither of you touch it, we should be fine.”

She nodded slowly, and Dean could feel Her attention shift to him. “You don’t remember our cover, do you.”

He shot Her a glare, and Sam smirked like a little bitch in his seat. “You know, Princess, we need to have a conversation about how little freakin’ faith you have in me-“

“So you do?” She gave him a teasing smile—beautiful lips curling up and lashes fluttering slightly—and Dean felt his will fold in a heartbeat.

“No.” He muttered, scowling out at the street. She couldn’t be that pretty and be Herself. It short-circuited his whole fucking brain. “I was reading.”

She hummed, propping Her chin on the back of the bench. “That can be dangerous.”

“Shut up-“

“Are you paying attention now?”

He rolled his eyes. “I’m kind of a captive audience, sweetheart-“

“You could turn up the radio-“

“You see me reaching for the dial?”

He dared a glance at Her, raising his brows in a silent challenge, and he didn’t know how to deal with the bright, satisfied smile on Her face. It was mesmerizing, in the shifting and flashing lights of the highway, with Her hair perfectly framing her face and her makeup making Her look like a fucking goddess and this wasn’t fair. Dean wanted to grab Her and tangle his whole body into Her’s, forever, until he was always glowing, always full, always alive-

If Sam hadn’t coughed, he might have lost his mind entirely and crashed the damn car.

Dean turned back to the road and cleared his throat, his grip on the wheel almost painful and the shadows of the night only barely hiding his need for Her in his pants.

“Hit me, Princess.”

“You’re Dean Bishop, and I’m your wife,” She said Her own name, and Dean was going to crash the car. She couldn’t do that, couldn’t offer him that thought, because now it would plague him forever. “These people won’t have any idea who we are, so we can use our real names. You,” she poked his arm, shooting him a blinding smile that pulled at his own lips. “Work in stocks. And nobody knows what that means, so if people ask, just start saying words that sound like they’re related to money. You met Lord Appleton-“

Dean snorted. “Appleton?”

“Yep. British.” She shrugged. “You met him at Oxford. Oh, and I’m just a trophy wife.”

Sam sighed, shaking his head. “I still don’t think trophy wife is a good cover-“

“This is an old money, occult-obsessed family of fucking weirdos. Trust me, Sam.” She let out a long breath that stuck to Dean, crawling over his skin as Her voice dropped from a confident drawl to something heavy. “They won’t see women as people. Trophy wife will work.”

Sam shot Dean look he didn’t miss—he knew it was mirrored on his own face—but didn’t acknowledge, either. 

It was another thing Dean would work out when this was over. He knew Her family was old money. And he’d be consumed by the way She’d said that with an almost tragic, haunted certainty, but he’d have to live to fix that for Her. 

He would fix it. 

But after. 

For now, he needed to get this dumbass case over with, so he could go back to looking for his out.

The plan would be simple. Sammy would work out where the artifact was being kept—and, ideally, what it was—and She and Dean would slip out of the party and grab it the moment they had the chance.

Until then, they’d just be wandering through a crowd of rich douchebags, waiting for Sammy to do his job.

They stopped a few blocks away from the Lord’s mansion so Sam could switch into the driver’s seat and Dean could move to the back. She said rich people didn’t drive themselves, and this way Dean could keep Baby out of the hand of some random fucking asshole trying to park his car, and in the hands of Sam. 

“Listen,” he hissed as Sam pulled up to the entrance, leaning over the bench with a scowl. “I see one scratch, one stain, one fucking spot of dirt-“

“You’ll kill me, Dean, I know.” Sam said Her name, and his voice was not nearly afraid enough for how Dean was promising to dismember him. “I’ll text you when I have the location, and I’m going have to park close to the building to get a connection to their security system, so if you need me-“

“I’ll call.” She nodded, smoothing out Her dress as she frowned out the window. “De, are you- wait-“

Dean frowned as She leaned down, shifting through Her bag. He could see the shape of Her waist and small of Her back, and he wanted to touch Her-

They were on a case. They were working. He needed to keep himself the fuck together.

“What’s up-“

“Here.” She sat back up, dropping something in his hand and starting to move Her rings around on Her fingers. “For our cover.”

It was a wedding band. She was giving Dean a wedding band, and it was for their cover, but it felt pretty damn real—catching gold in the light and cool on his palm—and he was going to fucking die, from this alone and nothing else-

“You, uh, you just have these?”

She shrugged, sliding a matching one onto Her own finger. “I’m prepared, Winchester. Ready?”

He was not ready. No part of Dean was ready for how right that ring felt when She was wearing a matching one, for how She felt when she hooked her elbow into his and gave him a perfectly sweet and adoring smile—maybe for the show of the other partygoers, but still seeming so real—and for how She looked in full, shimmering light of candles and chandeliers. 

Heavenly.

There wasn’t another word for it. Dean didn’t believe in heaven, but he sure as fuck believed in Her, and that was the only word that came close to describing it. How the world more than moved for Her. How it was designed for Her, as if everything had only ever been made to make her more beautiful, more happy, more bright. 

She was so fucking bright. 

He was just a shadow in Her wake. Dean was leading her through the crowd, and he was really just a fucking stain or shell of a body, clinging to Her glory and there to spill blood in Her name. And he didn’t hate that. For what he’d been born, what he’d done, how he should’ve been stuck in the mud for the rest of his life and never spared Her glance, let alone Her trust and loyalty—because Her hand had move to hold his arm and Her body was leaning into his side, as if she was trying to shield Herself from the world with Dean and Dean alone—he knew he was long gone from hating Her for how simply awesome she was.

But that didn’t mean he could hate everything else about this. Hate how this crowd was filled with people who could be worthy of Her, who could steal Her attention and whisk Her away from Dean side with promises of the riches and luxury She deserved. She should have. She should be treated like a Queen, and all these assholes where literal fucking royalty—wearing dresses and suits that probably cost more money than Dean had ever seen, but still didn’t compare to the way Her dress looked like it was a second, colorful and shining skin—so why the hell would She ever stay with Dean. 

Maybe this would be the straw. It wouldn’t be a fight about a lie, or the consequences of the deal, or a fatal injury that tore Her away from Dean. It would be one of these suit and tie sons of bitches—eyeing Her on Dean’s arm like She was nothing more than food when She was a fucking predator, a force of nature that could probably kill them with a spoon—offering Her comfort hunting could never provide, riches Dean would never have, and most of the world to Her on a silver platter, and Dean would never be able to blame Her for choosing them.

If it was up to him, She’d have all the world. It was made for Her. It was only right that it belonged to Her too.

“How expensive do you think that champagne is?” She whispered, nodding to the sleek, polished bar, and Dean shot Her an amused look. 

“You drinking now, Princess?”

She rolled Her eyes, elbowing him in the ribs. “I’m bored. And we could probably buy like, a fucking house or something with just one bottle of it.”

Dean knew that face. Narrowed eyes as She bounced slightly on Her feet, watching the barkeeper with an intensity that could brand someone—Dean would know—and a spark in Her eyes that was almost like a flaring warning sign.

He ducked his head to mutter in Her ear, and forced himself to ignore how She shivered slightly against him. “You distract him, I’ll take three bottles. We’ll head to Vegas and triple our money.”

She turned to him with an adorably wrinkled nose, and fuck, She was so close. Dean could see Her pretty flush, and every undertone of Her skin, and all the hidden colors in Her eyes-

“We aren’t going to Vegas, De.”

“Not until after we steal the champagne-“

“We’re not stealing the champagne-“

“You were thinking about it.” He smirked at Her, and there it was. Hitched breath. “I know you, Princess, you were ready to kick that guys ass and run off with his fancy bottle-“

She scoffed. “I was not going to run off.”

“Yeah, you were-“

“I would’ve taken you with me,” She snapped, kicking Dean’s shin lightly. “It’s not running off if I stay with you.”

She’d won. Whatever fake argument they’d been having, She’d just won by a damn mile, because all Dean could do was stare at Her. She couldn’t keep just saying things like that. Over and over and over, like Her staying with Dean was a given, like he was as easy for Her as she was for him.

“You, uh,” he cleared his throat, trying to force his head back into focus. They had a job to do, and it needed to be done so Dean could get back to his real work. To finding a way to keep Her. “You want a drink?”

She glances at the bar, and shook Her head. “I-“

“I saw a Pina Colada on the drink list.” He raised his brows, offering Her a small grin. “I can make them mix it without the fun stuff.”

“The- Oh.” She swallowed, but nodded. “Yes, please. Do you want me to- I can go find some food?”

Son of a bitch, She was perfect.

Dean nodded, forced his body to detach from Her’s and moved to the bar. He managed to get through the order without tugging at his tie or losing Her in his periphery, right up until they served his drink, he turned his back for one damn second, and She was gone. 

He couldn’t see Her. It was a crowded room, and everyone was trying to take up more space than was owed, but Dean couldn’t see Her.

He grabbed the drinks with barely a nod in the bartender’s direction and started to shove through the crowd as his heart began to pound in his throat. She wasn’t in danger. Every bit of Dean’s logical brain knew She wouldn’t be in danger, because this was not a place where danger would pass unnoticed and She was more dangerous than vulnerable, but he still kept envisioning Her on fire on the ceiling, or bloodless and pale and choking on a green-eyed demons blade or Her own hand. Every damn time he’d ever lost Her had been after he’d left, during a fight or to buy something to just to grab fucking ice or coffee or- 

She was fine. Dean was just a pathetic, clingy idiot, and She was fine.

She was more than fine. She was cornered at the long table—full of food that looked more fancy that actually edible—by a man with a slick haircut, a straight nose, and suit that likely hadn’t been stolen from a rental store by his little brother. Haircut was flirting with Her. Leering over and smirking down at Her, angling his body to half cover her’s and matching her every pace down the table as she filled her plate-

One plate. Why did she only have one plate. 

Dean couldn’t move. He was truly fucking weak, truly fucking selfish. He wasn’t moving to take Her back to his side like Dad would’ve told him to—you see a pretty girl, you make sure she knows it, son—but his stomach was twisting because this was it, he’d have to go back to Sammy and tell him She’d gone to be mixed with diamonds and sand and beauty like She deserved-

Haircut said something, and reached for Her arm, and Dean felt fucking sick but he was frozen-

She shrugged Haircut’s touch away, turning to where Dean could see Her profile and saying something he could hear, but he still understood. Her smile was too sweet, too careful, too measured. It wasn’t the wide, happy one She’d always offer Dean that made him crash further into Her.

It was the one She used on every case. Sincere until you knew Her. 

And Haircut didn’t know Her, so he moved closer once more, and She took a step back. Held up Her hand for Haircut to see, scanned over the crowd, and met Dean’s eyes with a wide smile. 

A real smile.

And he couldn’t stop himself from grinning back.

It was like he’d just gone through a factory reset. His legs moved on their own, pulling him back to Her. He leaned down and kissed the side of Her head, passed Her the Pina colada, and grinned at Haircut like he’d won the fucking lottery.

He had. He’d kissed Her. Not fully, but more than She’d allow anyone else to. 

“Hey, dude.” Dean extended his now free hand to Haircut, and he didn’t think most rich people said dude, but he also had Her and she looked like She’d been made to be here, so he wasn’t too worried about blowing their cover. “Dean Bishop. I see you met my lovely wife?”

Haircut mumbled something Dean didn’t really care about and excused himself, and this case was awesome. The champagne was kind of shit, and Sammy was taking way to damn long on the detail they needed, but She was staring at Dean with wide, pretty eyes, drinking Her Pina colada with Her lips wrapped nearly around the straw, and swaying slightly on Her feet, so Dean got to wrap his arm around Her waist to keep her steady, and he never wanted to go back to normal hunts again.

“What a douchebag,” he grinned down at Her, jerking his head to where Haircut had disappear. “You think his hair was real?”

She swallowed, Her voice softer than usual and sparking right through Dean’s whole body. “I- What?”

“His hair, Princess-“

“I heard you,” She frowned, passing Her already empty glass to a passing waiter. “Why wouldn’t it be real-“

“I dunno,” He shrugged, shooting Her a wink. “I’m thinking we could start a real bet, though.“

She smiled, Her body relaxing slightly in Dean’s arms, and he’d never seen anything better. “Stop thinking, De.” She traded Dean’s glass for Her plate, but held the arm around Her on her hip. “You’re bad at it.”

Dean’s grin was almost painful on his face, and if anyone else had said that the words would’ve stung, but it was Her. She said them with a teasing smile, and She was so close, and he knew that nothing hateful or mocking behind them. If She was striking to kill, he’d know it. He’d feel it, cracking up his spine. And She never bit unprovoked. Every time they’d struck each other like that it had been because Dean was a fucking idiot, and couldn’t hold something beautiful as She was and not ruin it. Couldn’t have something so good and destroy it. 

But he had Her—in the moist vague and loose sense of the word, Dean had Her—now. For at least this night, where She was right against him and had chosen to be there, Dean had Her. 

He’d be damned, further down than he already was, if he broke that. 

“You, uh,” he cleared his throat, glancing down to the plate in his hands. “This all for me?”

She hummed, nodding thoughtlessly as She started to sweep over the room. “Do you think Sam will be mad if we start to just search the mansion-“

“No.” He squeezed his hold on Her, and She looked up at him with wide eyes. “But I’m not letting you just fuck around, Princess, I’m taking this job seriously-“

She gave him a flat, amused look. “You just want to party, Winchester.”

“Gotta pass the time somehow-“

“I can search alone, you know-“

“And there’s no damn way I’m letting you.” Dean shoved the plate under Her nose, hold her gaze. “Eat a fancy grape, sweetheart. We’ll move when Sammy calls you.”

She narrowed Her eyes at him, but grabbed a grape with a pouting frown that made Dean feel things. “You think you let me do anything?”

“No,” he shrugged. “But I could tackle you and stop you from wandering. Gimme some of my champagne.”

“Get your own fucking champagne-“

Dean drawled Her name, giving Her an amused grin. “You’re holding my glass.”

She flushed, glanced between the champagne in Her hand and Dean’s hand on Her hip, and Dean was ready for her to shove him away. He was braced for it, for how he’d have to grab his glass as She shoved it into his hands, but he’d need to keep full balance because She’d—hopefully—loop their arms back together and drag him after Her, wherever She wanted to go-

Dean almost fell to his knees as She rolled Her eyes, muttered something under Her breath he couldn’t make out, and pressed Dean’s glass up to his lips. All while holding his fucking gaze, glaring at him like he’d broken something or done something incredibly wrong, and keeping his arm around Her body.

She stayed pressed right against Dean, and he didn’t need to damn champagne. He could get drunk on just Her, shining in the light and there and real and fucking intoxicating.

He didn’t know how he’d gotten here.

He never wanted to leave.

“You wanna stand in a corner and make fun of people?” She raised Her brows, taking the glass back from Dean’s mouth, and if the hellhounds came for him here, he’d die a happy man. 

She was so fucking awesome.

“Aw,” he smirked at Her as he said Her name, let the high feeling of Her overtake his body, and pressed anther kiss to the side of Her head. “I thought you’d never ask.”

She rolled Her eyes, but there it was. Flush. Hitched breath. Parted lips. 

“I’m not asking you to the prom, Winchester.” She muttered, starting to move them through the crowd but still holding on to Dean. “Calm down.”

“I’m perfectly calm, sweetheart. And I’ll have you know we would’ve killed it at the prom-“

She snorted. “Who’s we?”

“C’mon, Princess.” He wiggled his brows at Her. “You’ve got the bossy, hot, popular girl thing down-“

“I-“ She stared at him, and Dean couldn’t fully read the expression on Her face. “That’s- Never say that sentence again. To anyone.”

 “Yes, ma’am.” Dean frowned at Her as they stopped in a corner, scanning over Her hardened, beautiful features and tightened brow. “Did you go to prom?”

“I didn’t go to high school, De.”

“I- what?”

She shot him an incredulous look. “You knew that. I was a runaway, my family had a bounty on my head, I couldn’t exactly enroll in Sioux Falls public school system.”

“But you’re…” Dean trailed off, his words bubbling and dying in his throat as he searched for words he didn’t have. She was brilliant, and clever, and a genius who he’d bet on in every situation, She spoke so fast and with such power, She was the only person he knew who was close to as smart as Sammy, and that kid was a fucking genius. “You’re you.”

“I’m aware.” She drawled. “But I learned most of what I know by watching PBS and reading. I got bored. I wasn’t allowed to leave the house, it was like-“

“Bobby didn’t let you leave the house?”

“I didn’t let me leave the house.”

“Cause of, uh,” he cleared his throat, watching Her carefully. “The sickness?”

“Yeah.” She mumbled, frowning at Her own hands. “The sickness.”

“Did you go to like, elementary school?”

“I went up to the first half of third grade. Then I ran away.”

Dean nodded slowly, and he wasn’t sure where the line was. She’d never told him much about Her family. She’d never had the chance, after that fight in Colorado. He’d never grown the balls to push Bobby on it, and he knew that wouldn’t have worked anyway. 

All Dean knew was that Bobby had found her wandering. That She’d been sick. That whoever Her family was, they were hard to speak of. 

And he wouldn’t ruin the chance to hear about them. For Her to trust him like that, with skeletons She seemed to try and ignore and bury, but kept clawing out of the dirt to make Her scratch at Her skin and pick at Her nails.

Dean bumped Her hand with his plate, stilling Her picking without a word, and just watched Her. She’d say what She wanted, and Dean would—for Her—shut the fuck up.

“I, uh,” She cleared her throat, Her gaze fixed on a button of Dean’s shirt. “They were a lot like this. These people. Kind of worse, actually. A lot worse. And I- I still don’t understand most of it. Most of what they did, or why they did it, or-“ She took a shaking breath, running Her thumb over the scar on Her palm. “I just- I knew- I know it was wrong. That was why I got out, and- I don’t know. They were-“

She took another, almost too shallow breath, and there was a darkened expression on Her face. That wrinkle in Her brow as her fingers flexed against her and her hands shifted slightly, moving up before flinching down.

Dean needed to mend this. Whatever was making Her look like a hollow shadow, because She was supposed to be lit up from within and he couldn’t fucking stand to see Her in pain. 

He set down his plate without a thought, squeezed his arm around Her waist, and ran his thumb down the bridge of Her nose until the wrinkle was well and truly gone. Until She was blinking softly at Dean, still not smiling but nowhere near tearing at whatever seams held Her together. 

Dean gave Her a small grin. “You wanna play a game?”

She blinked at him for a second, but Dean knew She understood. That he’d heard enough, and She never needed to say more if She didn’t want to. Even if Dean was going to spend a long time—when he finally had some of it to spare—trying to track down Her family and introduce them to the barrel of his gun, She’d never have to say another damn word about them. Dean would stay here, with Her, no matter what.

She relaxed against his side, returning his grin with teasing words. “No, De. You never have real games-“

“This is a real game,” he shrugged. “Winner takes all-“

“What’s all?”

“Whatever they want.” He winked at Her, and she shook her head.

“I’m not betting my favor, Winchester. And you haven’t even said the fucking game-“

“I’m getting there. See all those assholes?” Dean jerked his head out to the crowd, and She nodded with a frown. “We’re gonna watch them, place our bets on their lives, and then go work out whatever we can. Closest bet wins.”

“Their lives?“ She stared at him, shaking Her head. “What-“

“Names, occupations, personal lives?” Dean suggested, and She nodded slowly. 

“Personal lives like marital status and kids?”

“Sure. Same first letter counts for the name guess-“

“And most correct guesses wins.” She finished. “We pose as the married couple getting to know people until we work out the information.”

Dean nodded, and a smile crept over Her gorgeous face.

“What are we betting?”

Dean knew what he wanted. It was an old desire. One that would be stuck on his brain until it was fulfilled. “I win, I get to hear you sing, Princess.”

“You- why?”

He shrugged, just shooting her a wink. Flush. Breath. Lips. “How about you?”

“I-“ She paused, a small smile crossing Her face, and raised Her chin. “I want to dance. Together.”

Dean scoffed. “No. I don’t-“

“That my bet, Winchester.” She raised Her pinky, giving him a pointed look. “Take it or leave it.”

He’d take it. He was fucking pissed about it, but it was Her, so Dean would take it in a heartbeat. 

He rolled his eyes, but hooked his pinky through Her’s.

“Bossy-“

“That’s rude, Dean.” She fluttered Her eyes at him, and if She wanted Dean mobile and functional, she needed to stop fucking doing that. “No way to talk to your fake wife.”

He shrugged, even as his traitorous fucking heart started to pound in his ears. “You’re the one who fake married me.”

“No,” She let out a dramatic sigh, pouting up at him “The man I fake married would’ve never called me bossy, you’ve changed, and I’m leaving you for the pool boy-“

Dean pinched Her side, grinned at the high squeak that escaped Her lips. ”You’re having too much fun with this, Princess.“

She shrugged. “Well, my husband’s neglecting me, I need to find fun wherever I can-“

“I think,” he drawled, leaning down slightly, unable and unwilling to stop himself. He was drowning in Her. Crashing into Her. So fucking close and for the first time he didn’t feel like She was going to vanish into air, and he could fucking smell Her it was a drug. “You will find that I’m the funnest son of a bitch here. I think you’re gonna forget about your pool boy by the time the night is over, sweetheart.”

“You-“ She swallowed, staring at Dean with slightly glossy eyes, and right fucking there. “Funnest isn’t a word.”

“Uh huh.” He smirked at Her, tilting his head with a grin. “You ready for target one?”

A small, pouting frown crossed Her face, and whatever spell Dean had managed to pull off there vanished in a second. “Why do you get to choose the first target-“

“Because it’s my game.”

“But-“

“Nope. Target one.” Dean pointed over the crowd to a man wearing what seemed to be a bowler hat, grinning down at Her. “Richard. Single. Failed supervillain.”

She giggled, “That’s not a real job, Winchester-“

“It is to me. Your move, your highness.”

Her eyes narrowing in focus, and Dean had a sudden feeling he’d made a mistake with this game. “Jonathan. Married but she’s not here, she’s home with the kids. Banker.”

They moved up to the man, acting drunk and dumb and asking carefully questions as if they were interrogating a vic, and She’d been on the money. 

James. Married with two kids. Not a banker, but not a failed super villain either. 

And Dean knew he’d made a mistake, because She was amazing at this. She was wiping the fucking floor with him, and Dean was starting to suspect everyone here was in on it. That She was somehow saying things that hadn’t been true an hour ago, but then She’d demand they were and they just… would be. She said everything with that mind-numbing, easy confidence like it was fact, and Dean was pretty sure if she looked him in the eyes and said the sun is actually blue, Deano, he’d believe it. Then he’d wake up in the morning tomorrow, and the sun would be blue.

And She won. By a fucking mile. They stopped in a small corner of the room, and didn’t even bother to compare scores because She’d won. And Dean could’ve said he was just off his game, but She was smiling at him and bouncing on Her feet, looking so fucking happy, and he didn’t know how to do anything but stare at Her.

She’d called him Her husband almost a hundred times tonight. 

It was going to haunt him, well past the grave.

“You owe me a dance,” She said, watching Dean like She always had, like he was worth looking at, and Dean would give Her anything.

“Guess so,” he took a long step forward, smirking at Her, and if he played this right he’d be able cast that spell on Her again. Make Her feel half of what he did, when he was trapped in Her orbit with no desire to escape. “You think you’ll be able to keep up?”

“Keep up-“

“I don’t like to dance,” Dean drawled Her name, leaning down. Just a little further down. Flush. Breath. Lips. “But I can. I’m gonna blow your mind, Princess-“

The ring of Her phone cut through the air, and they blinked at each other. Stuck time for a brief, infinite moment before She cleared Her throat, and outstretched Her hand.

Her phone was in Dean’s pocket. 

He didn’t remember putting it there. But he also hadn’t really been thinking about anything but Her.

“It’s Sam,” She muttered, frowning at the screen when he passed it to Her. “I’m gonna, uh-“

Dean nodded, fidgeting with his cuffs as he watched her, and something had grown. Dean wasn’t losing his mind, something had become suddenly heavy and potent in the air, and he knew She could at least feel that too. She was leaning forwards into him, Her fingers moving in an awkward motion on the screen where She was always so deliberate and careful, and She may have never felt the pull but Dean was damn sure She could feel this-

“Hey, what’s-“ She frowned into the air, and Dean could hear Sam’s slightly muffled voice over the speaker. 

He frowned, lowering his voice to breathe and holding Her gaze as he mouthed at Her. “What-“

She held up a finger, giving Dean a stern glare as she spoke to Sam. “Yeah, I guessed that, where-“

Sam started talking again, and Her brow drew into that adorable, concerning wrinkle.

“Are you-“ Sam said something, and She sighed. “Okay. Get the car started, we’ll probably have to make a run for it-“

“A run for it-“

She kicked Dean in the shin as Sam snapped something through the speaker, and She nodded, dropping the phone from Her mouth.

“Sam says to shut up.”

Dean scowled. “Tell him to shut up.”

She grinned, and raised the phone back to Her mouth. “Dean says you should shut up.”

Sam grumbled something, and Her gaze never broke from Dean’s as Her grin grew.

“Sam says you’re a child.”

“He’s the child-“

“Dean says you’re a child-“ 

Sam snapped, and She rolled her eyes.

“I am not encouraging him- Yeah, fine, tell me.”

Dean moved a step closer, trying to overhear what Sammy was saying to Her, but she went tense, and he froze.

“Sam.” Her voice had dropped to a firm, almost harsh tone, and that was never a good sign. “There’s no way- There’s not-“

Whatever Sam said sounded like an apology, and She shook her head, frowning at the air.

“Then I’m not-“

Another pause for Sam to speak. Dean was going to lose his mind.

She let out a long breath, the wrinkle fully on Her brow. “You’ve got to be fucking me.”

———

There were more of them. You’d destroyed the arrowhead and almost lost your mind over it, but there were more of them. 

Those stupid fucking solemn oath weapons. Jo had said there was an arsenal of them, but they were supposed to be rare. That had been a big part of your fight with Sam, after Dean had eased you back together and you’d fully adapted to Sam knowing.

“What about the arrowhead?” Sam had snapped, his voice hushed even though Dean was out getting food. “You just destroyed something that’s like, thousands of years old, and irreplaceable, do you not even care-“

“No.” You’d hissed. “I don’t, Sam, you know why? It was fucking dangerous, and we don’t need any more of that.”

“They’re rare!” He’d snapped, narrowing his eyes. “That might have been the only one discovered in our lifetime-“

“Good. I hope that’s true.” You’d raised your chin, not breaking your ground, and the fight had, eventually, waned off. 

Sam wouldn’t tell Dean. He was still a little pissed you’d broken the arrowhead, but as the weeks had passed and he still hadn’t told Dean, you’d decided he could know more. What the arrowhead did. What the episodes were, and everything you knew about the green demons, and why you couldn’t risk anything. Nothing could be a game, or a gamble, or a chance. You had to place bets you knew you’d win. 

Otherwise everything that was already hanging on such a thin fucking line would fall apart, and you lose Dean.

You couldn’t lose Dean. He’s annoyed that you and Sam won’t talk about the episode in the motel, but he’s still here. Still sharing your bed, in a way that’s not everything but still more than you’d ever dreamed. Handsome in the light of the party and making your knees weak, grinning at you when he says a joke, laughing at your side and making every Silver.

And you’d never said it, but Sam still knows. You can see it in his eyes—when he looks between you and Dean shoving and teasing each other with an odd expression—that Sam’s painfully aware that when you’d described everything to him, you’d glossed over Dean for a reason. Because he’s more. He’s golden and peaceful to exist in the gravity of, and you couldn’t lobotomize him out of you if you tried.

You can’t lose Dean. 

And there shouldn’t have been another solemn oath weapon.

But here you are, moving silently through the halls with Dean one pace behind you, and you keep checking over your shoulder that he’s still there, because you can never fucking get what you want. 

Dean hisses your name, grabbing your wrist and stopping you in your steps. “Sam said left.”

“I-“ You glance around the abandoned area, and shake your head. “He said left after the big cat painting-“

“Yep.” Dean points back down the hall, right to an oil painting of a massive, winged lion. “You’re off your game, Princess-“

“Shut up.”

You stomp past him, your nails digging into your skin, and he’s right. Your head is spinning around Dean’s warm, almost caring eyes on yours at the party and the fact that these weapons were supposed to be fucking rare, and you’re distracted.

Sam had been right. These things were supposed to be once in a lifetime. Not pop up every other month at the worst possible times, ruining your perfectly good chance to crash further into Dean, to make everything about him a little more permanent that just a mark of him on everything you see and a spiderweb of pure, iridescent light in your body. 

That was something you haven’t told Sam. Or Jo. Definitely not Bobby. Since the motel room, since the fractured pieces sealed back together and Dean stayed, the White hasn’t been aching and pulling for him. The pain is still strong and blinding and horrible, but the Darkness seems to have soothed by the light of Dean that moves through your whole body like blood.

You don’t know what it is. The spiderweb. You don’t really have time to figure it out, and it’s terrifying and amazing. It hums and refracts around all the time, and sings when Dean is near, and when he’s gone there’s no anguish or whining plea to be near him again. It like he’s stuck into it, and every bit of you is assured that he will come back. Dean, physically, may come and go, but he always comes back. He may glower and grumble about pointless things, and leave the motel with Sam to research Lilith without you, but he always comes back.

It’s like he’s faithful. He’s not even yours, but he’s still a geyser that you always know with burst up with cooling water and shifting colors in the sunlight, and he’ll come back. 

At least you have that. If you can’t have reasonable lack of dangerous weapons and one moment without some kind of pain in your life, at least you have Dean.

Still a pace behind you, walking in perfectly matching time with your steps and keeping his voice hushed as he says your name.

“You sure you-“

“I know where I’m going, Winchester.” You shoot him a glower, and he just shrugs. 

“Okay.”

“What does that mean-“

“It doesn’t mean anything. I’m just saying okay-“

“No, you said okay-“

Dean grunts your name, taking a large step forward until he’s right at your side, looking down at you with an annoyingly amused expression. “Deep breath, Princess. I said okay. And if you’re wrong, I’ll just pick you up and take you wherever Sammy said the, uh- Thing is.”

It’s impossible not to lean a little into his side when he’s grinning at you like that. Like it’s easy, and nothing is really all that wrong in the world, and he does trust you. You still haven’t told him what you are, and why this is making you lose your mind, but Dean trusts you and that’s going to kill you more than any weapon could.

And he’s baiting you. Giving you a reason to spar back and forth with him, and not dwell on how fucking annoying this is.

It’s never hard to fall for him. It’s impossible not to, when he’s all but asking. 

You raise your brows at him, your mouth pulling up slightly. “The thing?”

Dean shrugs, his attention returning to the hallway as he walks at your side. “You didn’t freakin’ tell me what it is, sweetheart, and I’m not a mind reader-“

“It’s a-“ You sigh, sorting out every word carefully before you speak. “Sam thinks it’s like the arrowhead.”

“Like the arrowhead?”

You hum, nodding slowly. “Same kind of weapon. He said it looks similar, on the camera feed, and the event invitation had a picture-“

“Invitation?” Dean frowns. “I didn’t see an invitation-“

“That’s cause we’re party crashers, De, we didn’t get an invitation-“

“Then how-“

You shrug, shooting Dean an amused look. “Sam can be sneaky. I think he might have broken into some cars.”

Dean snorts. “Don’t know how he ever manages stealth cases, he’s a freakin’ mammoth-“

“It’s easy to commit crimes when no one’s watching,” you shrug, bumping your shoulder into Dean’s with a grin. “That’s why we’re doing so well.”

He rolls his eyes. “And I thought we were just a good team-“

“Two things can be true, Deano. And Sam-” You scan around the hall with a frown. “Do you remember if he said left or right?”

“Right.” Dean’s hand rests on your back, turning you in the right direction as he shoots you a wink. “I thought you were leading us, Princess-“

“Shut up.”

“Bos- Shit-“

Dean groans as you elbow him in the gut, and you can’t stop the giggle from escaping your lips. 

“Do you want to hear about the artifact or not?”

“I thought we were done talking about it,” he grumbles, his hand finding your back once more, almost like a fucking magnet. “C’mon, we can’t stall.”

You shrug, but let Dean keep moving you down the hall. You’d let him move you anywhere. “I wasn’t the one stalling-“

“Artifact, sweetheart. What else is so damn important for me to know about-“

“If you don’t want to know, just say-“

Dean grunts your name, shooting you a glare, and you fucking giggle again.

This is fucking serious. This is, in several ways, your worst nightmare. But Dean’s here, and he’s adorable and touching you and here, and you can’t stop giggling. Not as the spiderweb seems to cling to every drop of his attention and grow stronger, and your head starts to feel light and easy as the pain eases, and the world blurs to Silver.

And Dean’s just watching you. Not snapping for you to focus or get it tougher. Just moving you down the hallway and scanning from door to door, his hand still on your back, and small grin pulling at his face. 

His gaze flicks between two doors, his brow furrowing slightly, and you tug on his arm.

“Three more doors.” You say, angling your head down the hall. “It might be locked, but I can pick it-“

Dean shakes his head. “I’ll just break it down-“

“Do not break it down, Dean.”

“Ooh, Dean.” He shoots you a wink, and you meld a little further into his touch. “You’re serious-“

“Shut up or you get elbowed again.” You mutter, he opens his stupidly pretty mouth with shining eyes, and you wrinkle your nose at him. “You say bossy, and you get stabbed.”

He chuckles—the sound rolling through your whole body—and looks back around the hall. “You actually gonna tell me about the artifact, Princess, or am I just that charming and distracting?”

He is. 

He doesn’t get to know that.

“Sam says we’re not supposed to touch it.” You hum, hitching up your dress as you move over the awfully dusty hallway carpet. “It’s- He said it’s like the arrowhead because it has all the same writing, and looks about the same age, and that means it’s dangerous. I brought a napkin.”

Dean shoots you an odd look. “Where-“

You reach over, patting his suit jacket, and he scowls.

“You know, sweetheart, in another life you’re a fantastic criminal-“

You grin at him. “I’m a fantastic criminal now.”

“So you are a criminal?” He smirks, stopping you in front a large, polished, wooden door. “Years of saying you’re not stealing shit, and-“

“Stabbed, Winchester. Gonna get stabbed.” 

He laughs, loud and echoing through the empty hall, and you’re too drunk on the sound to remind him you’re supposed to be sneaking around. You just roll your eyes, pull out the bobby pin you’d kept in your dress, and drop to your knees in front of the door.

“No touching anything.” You remind him as you work the door, looking up with your best stern expression. “I’m serious.”

“Yeah- uh. No touching. Got it.” Dean shifts on his feet, rubbing his neck and suddenly looking very uncomfortable, and you frown at him. 

“What’s wrong with you.”

He shrugs. It’s not convincing. “Nothing, Princess-“

“Dean.”

“I said nothing-“

“Liar.” You hum, the lock clicks, and you grin up at him. “Ready?”

He blinks at you, nodding, and you tilt your head at him.

“De, you’re being weird-“

“Just open the damn door.” He grumbles, fidgeting with the cuff of his jacket. “C’mon, Sammy’s waiting.”

You wrinkle your nose at him, but push to your feet, and Dean steadies you with a hand on your back. Your lower back. Right where the depression for his touch had never fully mended or faded, sending a rush of lightning up the spiderweb and making you stand a little taller. 

“Ready?” He grunts, his expression suddenly steeled and firm, and you nod a little stupidly.

“Yeah.”

You’re not. Dean gives a firm nod—his spare hand wandering to where you know he’s keeping his gun—and you didn’t think you could’ve been ready. Not as you open the door and see it.

It’s not an arrowhead this time. It’s a knife. Made in a blatantly similar style to the arrowhead, with all the same writing carved over the blade and handle, but clean. It’s not dusted and faded like the arrowhead was, it’s polished and shining in the low light of the room, and it’s like a flame. The words that you can read shift as they always do—the glint of the metal entrancing and bright—your breath catches in your throat as if the blade had been driven through your neck.

It looks like it was made to be held. The hilt looks almost identical to that of the knife on your thigh—the knife Dean had bought you, the knife that was yours more than anything else ever has been—and you think, if you held this knife, it would fit perfectly in your hand. No callouses or oddly places fingers. An extra limb, easing everything further to Silver. 

The Silver wants to feel it. The knife is calling you forward, and you can vaguely hear someone important and golden and critical calling your name, but you can’t look anywhere but the knife. The closer you move, almost gliding across the room, the more you know that you have to hold it. You can’t read the Latin that well, or the Hebrew and Arabic at all, but the shifting words are all familiar too.

For the Woman of the high, promised of Him. 

Your brain feels as if it’s being muffled. Thoughts of woman, not women, and Him flash over your brain with brief scrutiny, but they shrivel up within a second. Every part of you feels like it’s being suffocated by the almost glowing knife, and the spiderweb is bursting like fireworks through your body, trying to vault you back where you belong, but you have to keep moving forward. It’s like there’s a phantom behind you, pushing you forward, whispering in your ear that it’s yours, made for you, take it because it’s been waiting thousands of years for you, and He’s been waiting longer, and all of this is made for you so take it-

Something louder shatters the spell. For half a second there’s a roar of your name from something that feels weaker than the phantom—but louder than your heart and more vital that the blood in your body—rushing your vision into focus and that’s Dean, colorful and running through your blood and over your bones and a little to the right of your heart and Dean-

You almost turn to see him, almost stop moving to the weapon, but the phantom shoves you forward, and you’re gone.

Your hand wraps around the knife, the Silver flares and flashes and consumes your body. You feel some part of your body give out—you’re not sure, everything feels like you and you don’t know what’s your body and what’s just the rest of the universe—and right before it all gets too big you see a flash of white, radiant light dissipate into the air.

And then you’re gone. 

The whole world booming out and out and out, and you’re the gravity of the earth and the heat of its core and the flood and turning water in every ocean and the infinite loneliness of every star, and everything is-

It’s too much. Too big. You can’t bear it. You can’t really see anything, but you can see everything and you feel thin, stretched apart, not your own. 

There’s no pain in your body for half a second, and you grit your teeth and squeeze your eyes shut to drag yourself back down as something curses and shouts around you and you crash back down into your own body like a comet. 

And the pain returns. It hits you, blows right into your guts and rips at your skull as you choke on the Darkness, and it’s still too much. The knife is still in your hands and you can’t drop it, and someone is grabbing you and they feel right but something is wrong-

You choke out a word, and you don’t know what it means but it’s a prayer. A name. 

Dean. Where’s Dean-

“I’m here,” the same low voice says your name, and a rough finger in pressed to your brow, running down your nose and easing the world back together. “I- Shit, we gotta go, there’s an alarm-“

You shake your head, repeating the word because it’s making things better. Dean. Dean. Dean-

“I know, I’ve gotcha, just- c’mon-“ Something steady grabs your face, and everything keeps mending as the spiderweb catches the touch and spins it into illuminating color in your body. “Son of a- Sammy said not to touch it, Princess, why’d you-“

You grab the hands over your face, keeping them where they’re supposed to be, and you can see him. 

He’s beautiful. Golden. Better than the Sun, or that strange white light from before.

“Dean.” You whisper, and it pulls you a little further down. “You’re- Dean-“

“Yeah, I got that. Sweetheart, we need to go and if I gotta carry you, I will.”

You think he’s scanning over you for injury, but you can’t really tell because he’s just Gold.

Almost just Gold.

There’s something else. Something you’ve never seen on him before, even when he’s only been this same, striking Gold. It’s like a stain, or a scratch, or a wound. A mark on the Gold that’s wrong, because it’s seeping and pulsing like an infection, and it’s not yours. All of the Gold feels like it’s a little bit you. This dark red, bloodied mark doesn’t belong to you, it belongs to something steel gray and wrong and demonic-

Something clicks in your brain. Snaps into place and rushes through your whole body, and the sound that leaves you isn’t fully human. 

“Dean.” You choke out, and you think your nails are digging into his skin but you don’t care, he’s going to turn to ash and blood but you need him, you can’t fucking lose him, not now, fucking God, no-

He mutters your name, and you shake your head frantically. 

“What-“ You swallow, your gaze fixed on the brand. It’s a brand. 

A claim. 

“What did you do.” You whisper, and you can’t really hear yourself over the blood in your ears, but you know he can hear you. You know because he freezes. Because the spiderweb is aching and howling, and- 

“I-“

“What did you do?!” You’re half screaming. You don’t care. “Dean- you- why?! Why the fuck-“

He grunts your name, but there’s no fire and fight behind his voice. He sounds pained and worried, and it’s too much-

“I don’t- You’re freakin’ me out, I need you to tell me what wrong-“

You shake your head, almost clawing at his skin. “Why. Dean, why-“

“I don’t-“

Something bursts through the ringing and pounding in your head. Something loud and blaring, and Dean freezes again, turning away from you, and he’s going to leave, you’re going to lose him, he’s going to go away and you’re trying to grab at the brand and remove it but everything hurts and you can’t fucking breathe-

“No.” Something drags your hand from your throat—you don’t even remember putting it there—with a firm grip, and suddenly you’re rising. Not on your own legs, shaking and weak and not fully yours, nothing in you is yours but the Silver and the spiderweb, and they’re whining with pain because why, why the fuck would Dean do something so stupid- “We’re not doing that, we need to move. Hold on.”

The words feel like a commandment, and you listen to them without thought. You wrap your arms around Dean’s neck, and everything slowly begins to come back into focus as he holds you. 

He’s warm. Solid and warm, panting slightly in your ear as he hauls you down the flashing hallway, and there are red lights flashing around you but they’re not as bright as Dean. 

Still Golden. 

Still about to be lost.

His touch and the smell of grass and spice are grounding you in your body, but the Silver won’t stop roaring. The Gold isn’t all yours. It’s supposed to be twined and fit with you, but Dean’s marked to be taken away, and it’s all you can do not to burst into tears. Every breath is forced and mechanical. You know you might strangle Dean with your grip, might mark him with your nails sunken into his skin, but then maybe you’d get to keep him. Maybe your stain would be greater than the one on the Gold, and you’d get to keep Dean. 

You don’t notice when the blur begins. Not until it’s too late, and the only thing louder than your blood in your ears and the pounding of the Silver against your heart and ribs is the Darkness. Tearing from the Silver and reaching out, an instinct engraved deep onto your nerves that something is wrong, there’s a danger and it’s coming and Dean-

The first one arrives before you can screech and choke a warning in Dean’s ear. All you’re doing is blinking in a frantic, rapid double-pattern, but he’s looking ahead at the hall and can’t see you anymore that he can see the demon. Almost materializing out of the blood-red shadows, raising a knife from Dean’s back and grinning at you like it knows, like it can see what’s making you fall apart and it’s reveling in it. 

The blur slams into you full force, and before you can think you’re scraping out of Dean’s hold, shoving him away just as the venomous, raging and violent shape of green crashes into him. 

It’s close, but the demon misses. Just barely. It stumbles forwards but recovers fast, and you’re still too much and not enough, feeling all the demons fury and the frantic pulse of the alarms and the ache of the creaking floor under your feet. 

Dean shouts your name, and you hear it over the blur, but you can’t move. You’ve pressed yourself up to the wall as the Darkness starts to rip out of your control, you weren’t ever supposed to stop moving but you’re frozen. Everything hurts. Dean is roaring for you but you’ve already lost him and you’re horrible anyway, you never could’ve kept him, but it just fucking hurts-

He’s fighting. You can hear gunshots echoing in what sounds like the distance, but is barely a few feet away, see through the blur that Dean is swinging punches and slamming the rioting green into walls. They’re attacking him. Not you. None of them are even sparing you a glance, they’re all focused on Dean, and you can’t lose him. You need to get to him but you can’t move. You’re going to lose him and you’re not you and he’s not yours but you can’t fucking lose him, and you’re caught in a loop but you don’t know how to pull yourself out without letting the Darkness over take you, and if you do you’ll hurt Dean, and you can’t hurt Dean, not like this, not with the cancerous pain that always infected him but never made him leave for good, but you’re going to lose him for good and you can’t lose him and he’s gone but he’s right there and you can’t fucking breathe, can’t lose Dean, can’t hurt him, can’t move-

The blur freezes. For one quick second everything is captured stasis, and you can see everything so clearly it feels fake. 

Three wrathful shapes of green, backing Dean into a corner as he swings a vase he must have grabbed from one of the pedestals in the hall, his face set in determination but something flashing in his eyes that you recognize. 

A crack in the armor.

Fear. 

But it’s not aimed inward. It’s not caving into and crushing the Gold, not a knowledge that he’s surrounded, the vase isn’t useful against the demons, and his gun is lost down the darkened hall. It’s fear that’s screaming and reaching to get to you, sunken back down to the floor and choking yourself with a firm hand.

He’s not looking at the demon that has its knife raised, aimed right for his chest. 

He’s looking at you.

And when everything rushes back, it moves to fast. You’re not breathing enough, so you can’t scream. You’re frozen, so you can’t move.

The demon’s blade sinks into Dean, just a little to the right of his heart, and you don’t care that you’re not you anymore. You don’t need to be you for this. 

The Darkness is let out with your will. You urge it on, letting it turn you into more than just a panicking girl in a corner.

You don’t really know what you are. You don’t really care.

All that matters in the weak noise of pain that left Dean when he fell to the ground, and the fact that you want something to suffer for it. 

You’re more than the Darkness this time, though. The White is just as savage, and violent, and righteous. You’re something that makes the Green balk. Cower. Fucking retreat.

They don’t get three steps away before they’re nothing. Not killed. Not exorcized. Eliminated. Crushed and folded and turned into just another part of the sheer power you can feeling, rushing through the world and bigger than anything. It’s a part of you. It’s too much and you don’t care, because it more than you should be able to handle, but you’re not overwhelmed. It feels right. Whatever you’re meant to be, it’s this. Silver and vast and furious and- 

The spiderweb in your body pulses weakly, and something smaller and concentrated makes a noise that sounds like your name. It sounds important. It’s golden and barely a spot on everything you can see, but it’s the only thing stronger than you are and you’re looking through everything for it—even as something pure and White tugs your further into whatever you’re turning into—because you need it, more than anything you need whatever is calling you-

The noise repeats, and the spiderweb is white-hot with pain, and you see him.

Dean. 

Everything falls back into you. And it’s loud—alarms blaring and people shooting from somewhere in the distance—but it’s just you and Dean in the whole world. You fall to your knees at his side because there’s never anywhere else to be, and you don’t know if you’re choking on the darkness, or the air, or your own heartbeat when you see the blood over his chest.

He’s supposed to have time. You’d seen it, on the mark, that he had time. Not enough time, but time. You still need to scream at him for being an idiot, and you need to pretend you hate him for doing this to you when it really just hurts, and you need more time- 

He’s making strained sounds that still sound too much like your name, but he’s so pale, and his eyes are barely open, and when your hand finds his brow he’s already cold.

And the Darkness is still bubbling at the surface. And you might hurt him but he’s always half-gone, and you won’t lose him. Not like this. 

“Dean,” you whisper, and you think you can feel your heart cleaving in half at the moan that escapes his lips. “I- I’m sorry. I didn’t- You’re- If this hurts, I’m so sorry. Just don’t leave. Please don’t go- I- Here-“ You grab his hand, and his fingers through your like it’s an instinct, but his grip isn’t as tight as it’s been before. “Don’t go. You’re not allowed to go, so fucking don’t. And I-“ You take a shaking breath, and you’re choking on the pain. The Darkness rotting and molding around your lungs, trying to claw out and fix this. 

You’ll let it. Just this once, to keep him, you’ll let it. 

“I’m sorry.” You whisper, and you know he doesn’t hear you. He doesn’t even move. “I’m sorry, Dean. But I won’t- I won’t.” Another stronger breath. No other way. 

You just need more time.

Your head bows to his chest, you press your brow to his shoulder, take a ragged breath that’s just to keep yourself together, and you let go. The Darkness falls out of you, right into Dean. Not just a drop. All of it.

It’s not painful. It takes you a second to realizes, but there’s no pain at all. 

And it’s not the Darkness, it’s the Silver. Flowing out of you like a breath and rushing through the Gold—driven on by the spiderweb and moving a little deeper into Dean’s body than you’ve ever known existed—as the stench of metal fades. 

When you lift your head back up, Dean’s eyes are fully closed, but his wound is gone, his breath is even, and his heartbeat is steady under your hands. 

But there’s something new. You blink at him, looking so peaceful—his face relaxed and full of color like nothing ever happened at all—and right next to that brand, there’s something that hadn’t been there before. 

It grooved and running over him like little cracks of iridescent color. Glowing and pulsing and rushing through his whole body, and they don’t look wrong but there something deep, deep under them. Shifting and humming and-

Silver.

You marked him. More than just one small spot, more than just condemnation. There’s Silver in the Gold because you’d lost control and marked him, and it doesn’t seem to be painful but you never should’ve fucking lost yourself, you should’ve found another way, should’ve tried harder to only let less of the Silver out, should’ve just called-

Sam shouts your name, and you hear him barreling down the hallway behind you. Dean shifts a little against you, leaning closer to your body, and you don’t know what to do. 

The knife is discarded on the floor, the hilt pressed right against your shin. 

All you can work out is that Sam can’t touch it. You remove your own knife from against your thigh—keeping one hand tangled in Dean’s—and replace it with the new, dangerous one, right as Sam stops at your side.

This is going to be hard. And complicated. And painful.

But you don’t know what to do. 

So you’re glad Sam is here.

“What the hell happened?” He breathes, and you take a deep breath, brushing your hand over Dean’s brow. 

He’s warm again, and something loosens in your chest. 

“We got jumped,” your voice is soft, but you’re afraid that you’ll wake Dean, and he needs rest. “The Assassins. But they went for Dean, and he got hurt.”

Sam drops to your side in a fraction of a second, and you don’t need to look at him to know he’s panicking. “Fuck- Where’d they-“

“He’s fine.” You mumble. “I fixed him.”

“You-“ You can feel Sam’s gaze on you as he says your name. You don’t really care. You don’t want to look away from Dean. “What did you do.”

“I fixed him.” You repeat, and Sam sighs.

“You didn’t use the-“

“I did.”

“And the demons-“

“I destroyed them.” You don’t like how passive you sound about it, but they hurt Dean. He’s the world, and they hurt him, and no guilt festers in your gut.

You hope it hurt. You hope that they didn’t end up wherever dead demons go. You hope that they spend the rest of eternity sufferings as a million disbanded particles, feeling the pain of everything the same was you always have.

Sam repeats your name, and there’s a caution in his voice that he’s not very good at hiding. “I thought you said you weren’t going to use it-“

“I know.” You shrug, finally tearing your attention for Dean’s pretty, consuming face and meeting Sam’s eyes. “And I don’t care.”

“Look, I-“ Sam glances down at Dean, running a hand over his face with a shake of his head. “I know you care about him, a lot. Like, so much I don’t really understand it, but-“

“Sam.” You say, keeping your voice so neutral it rots on your tongue, because this is going to kill you, but you can’t let it. Not when you still have time. “When is it going to happen?”

He blinks at you, his expression faltering slightly. “When-“

“When is his time up.” You whisper. “When are they coming for him.” and Sam flinches, but doesn’t deny it. You’d prayed you were wrong. 

You’re not that lucky. 

“I- did he tell you-“

You shake your head, and every movement is too much. “I saw it. When.”

Sam just stares at you, and you swallow. 

“Please, Sam.” You’re begging. There’s nothing else to do. “I- I need to know. Please.”

“Three months.” He mutters, and he won’t meet your gaze. “We- We should go. We can’t stay here, and this is-“ He sighs, shooting Dean’s sleeping body a glower. “This isn’t the place to do this.”

You nod, everything in you feeling a little numb, and help Sam haul Dean up between your body, shuffling him out a back door to the Impala.

Sam could’ve carried him. Dean’s not small, but Sam’s bigger and stronger, and it might have been faster to just toss Dean into Sam’s arms. 

But you think Sam knows now isn’t the time to pull Dean from your side. Not as your head continues to spin around three months. Dean has three months.

You can’t lose him.

But he only has three months.

You’ve never been so purely numb like this. There’s still the pain—increased tenfold and almost knocking you to your knees as the Darkness shreds itself apart—but everything else is numb. Not numb like nothing. Numb like too much. Numb like the spaces between the stars, filled with something but too big for it to be identifiable. The world suddenly too much in a way you’ve never experienced before, where it’s vast and cold and lonely like a pit left in your chest by something you’d never know was removable in the first place.

It’s numb like grief.

But Dean isn’t gone yet. He has time. You’d marked him in a way you know you’ll never forgive yourself for, and you’re almost strangling the Darkness to keep yourself upright—with nails and bitten lips and held breaths, by fucking force because there’s no other way—but you’d bought Dean more time.

And he’s here. He’s still here. Just for now Dean is slumped into your side on the Impala’s back bench, his head pressed into your stomach as he holds you like you’re a buoy in an invisible storm, breathing heavily but still breathing. 

You can hear him breathing. You can feel him holding you. You can run your fingers through his hair and feel him almost relax from the movement, and you can see every shadow of the road dance over his handsome face. You don’t need to grieve him now because he’s here, and he has time. 

You have time.

“I got the blade.” You mumble, tracing over the line of Dean’s cheekbones. “It’s in my- fuck-“ Your breath catches in your throat, and you look up to Sam as panic start to seize over your chest. “Sam, my knife-“

“I grabbed it.” He mutters. “It’s in my jacket. I know it’s important to you. It’s- Dean got it for you.”

You nod, hoping Sam can feel your gratitude, because you don’t know what to do. To say or figure out, and you’re stuck in loud noise and too much color like a broken TV, and you’d talk to Sam but you really can’t look at him, because he’s still one shade wrong, and you don’t know what to do-

“How’d you work it out?” Sam asks, his voice barely audible over the engine, and you swallow.

“I told you, I saw it. It was like a- sort of- I-“ You take a shaking breath, shaking your head. “I don’t want to talk about it. Please.”

Sam grunts, and time stretches so slow. You don’t speak again until you’re parked back at the motel, until Dean’s hauled back into bed—your bed, the bed you share, if you lose him you’ll have to learn to sleep again without Dean, and you don’t think you ever really knew how—and Sam drops in a chair, running a hand over his face with a long breath.

“I wanted to tell you.” He mutters, and you look up from the dresser with a frown. 

“What?”

“I swear,” he says your name, and there’s something in his voice that so desperate you can’t look away. “I told him, over and over again that he needed to tell you, but he- It’s Dean and he, I think he was worried you- Shit, he thought you’d leave-“

“I know.” You pull out the new blade from your thigh, turning it over in your hands. The words are still shifting, they still read the exact same, and the Darkness wants it almost as much as the White and the spiderweb are screaming for you to return to Dean’s side. “I have a theory about something. I’ll need to run it past Jo and Bobby, but I think I’m right.”

Dean would laugh and say you always think you’re right.

Sam just blinks at you. “A-“

“Theory.” You shrug, grabbing a spare, dirty shirt from the top of the dresser. “I’ve told you about all the colors, like with the arrowhead-“

“Yeah, but-“

“I think I worked out what they are. It- It really makes a lot of sense, and I don’t know how we’d confirm it, but-“

Sam says your name, his voice firm as you wrap the Blade in the shirt. “Why are we talking about this?”

“Because.” You whisper. “I- I need to.”

“But now that you know, you can help us-“

“I don’t know how, Sam.” You flinch at your own tone, and you have to brace a hand on the dress to keep yourself from the ground. “I- I can’t fix this, I’ll make it worse, I’ll make Dean worse-“

Sam mutters something, and you can’t hear him over your own short breaths or the ringing into your ears.

“I hurt him, Sam. I’m going to hurt him and I don’t know what to do- I don’t know what to do-“

You can’t breathe. Sam moves like he’s going to try to help you, but he’s too slow and too hesitant and you stumble back with a strangled, weak sound.

“I can’t- Please- I don’t- I can’t-“

You’re pressed back into the wall when Sam reaches you, and you’re too tired to fight. Too frozen to claw and scream, only able to take uneven breaths and sob into Sam’s shirt as it sinks further into you.

You’d hurt him, and you needed him like he could never need you, but you were going to lose him. Forever. No coming back, no spell or ritual or scream of his name to the sky bringing him back to your side. You marred Dean with the Silver, you’re going to lose him, and he didn’t trust you-

That one’s new. Dean didn’t trust you, and the broken sound you make is almost inhuman. Sam knew. Bobby probably knew. And Dean didn’t want you to know. 

He thought you’d leave. He didn’t trust you enough to know you couldn’t drag yourself away from him—not permanently, not in a way that razed every piece of your body more that it hurt him—if you tried. 

“I don’t want to talk about it.” You whisper, leaning a little further into Sam’s hold. “I- If we talk about it, it’s real. Please.”

Sam sighs your name, and when he pulls back his expression on yours unreadable, but he nods all the same. “You need to promise you’ll talk about it with him. For my sanity. Please.”

“I will.”

You’re not lying.

You will. You need to.

Because you kick your dress of like it’s poison on your skin, and take a burning shower until your skin is raw, and scrub your body with sugar until everything stings, and the Darkness is totally under your control, but there’s a thin layer of grime over your organs that’s made of Dean. 

Dean didn’t trust you. He wants you enough to keep you around, but he didn’t trust you. He thought you’d leave. He obviously can’t feel he pull—if he did, he know truly leaving is impossible—and that should remind you that you can never really have him, but it just hurts. 

It worms and whines over your heart, and it hurts. More than just pain in your body, pain in something deeper, a little to the right of your heart and bursting will dulled colors because this hurts. 

Dean’s right not to trust you. You wouldn’t trust you. You still haven’t told him about how wrong you are, but that knowledge doesn’t help. Knowing never helps. 

It just makes this hurt more. 

And you should get through this. You’ve always gotten through it. 

But you can’t say that with certainty. This is too much, and you don’t know what to do. 

You’ve always known what to do. And sometimes it was pain and isolation and suffering but it was something. And you’d known Dean was fine. Safer, even, without you there.

But you hadn’t been there, and you’d lost him without knowing it. If you’d been there you might have stopped it. You don’t know what it is, but you could’ve found another way because there’s always another way. You’ve always gotten through it, and you’ve always found another way, and you’re caught in the loop again, but you don’t know what to do-

You don’t know how you end up there—the world blurring in and out as you shuffle around, trying to find something that can keep you busy—but you’re lying flat on the bed, right at Dean’s side. Staring up at the ceiling and caught in the loop with no sign of breaking out. 

Sam said he was going out for a drink, and to call him if you need anything.

He just doesn’t want to be here when Dean wakes up. 

When you hear a throat clear, and a low groan escape his lips, and turn your head to find him already watching you. Looking right through your neutral expression with a small frown, shattering whatever composure you’d had in a just a second, just by existing.

Dean opens his mouth to say something. 

He doesn’t get the chance. 

“Why didn’t you tell me?” 

He blinks at you, frown deepening as he scans over your face. “I- uh-“

“The demon deal.” You whisper. “I know, Dean. I- Why?”

You don’t know what you’d expected him to do. Fight. Deny. Lie and spin his way around it. 

But he just… caves.

“Sammy tell you?” He mutters, and you’ve never heard him sound more hollow. No charm lining his tone, no fury laced through his every word. Just heavy exhaustion. “I told him not to tell you.”

“Why.” You repeat, pushing up on your palms to stare down at him. “Why, Dean, why didn’t you want him to tell me- I-“

“You didn’t need to know-“

“You don’t get to make that choice for me!” You half scream, and he doesn’t even flinch. “I- I don’t know why, Dean, I just need to know why-“

“You didn’t need to know. It’s not like you’re the one that’s dying, Princess.” He snaps, but there’s still no fight in it. You wish he would fight. 

Because you want to scream at him. You need to tell him that you’re furious because you are the one that’s dying. Some part of you that you’ve never understood is going to fucking die because Dean’s- 

You can’t say it. You can only be caught on repeat, curling into yourself as you shake your head over and over, repeating the only thing you can think of.

“Why-“

“Why what?” He grunts, and it’s still not angry enough. “Why’d I do something so stupid? Why’d I sacrifice everything for the one person I got left? Mom’s been gone, Dad was gone, you left-“ He pauses, blinking at you with a small shake of his head. “I- It was just Sam, he can live a life-“

“You can live a life!” You protest, digging your nail into your skin to keep yourself from reaching for him, and he scoffs.

“Yeah, okay-“

“I mean it-“

“I know you do.” He mutters. “But that’s not how this shit works-“

“I don’t care! I don’t care how anything works, I don’t care why you did it, I care that you didn’t fucking tell me-“

“Why, you gonna save me, Princess? Gonna work one of your best hunter tricks and pull one over on Lilith for my soul?” He raises his brows at you, and blink.

The Darkness is riot in your body, but caged all the same, and the Blade is over on the dresser, but you can see Dean. Right into him. Past the skin and bone and tissue, right into him. 

He’s vulnerable. There’s something that’s deep, deep in his eyes that you’ve never seen in full light before, but something is shifting and it’s like a floodlight has pushed right through it. As if all the stars concentrated into one thing and aimed to the ocean, looking right down into its trenches and pits and seeing every bit of life hidden under. 

There’s so much color. It’s luminescent and strange and lonely, but there’s so much. It’s beautiful. Dean’s beautiful. Even when you want to fucking murder him, he’s beautiful.

He’s waiting for you to leave. You can see it. How he’s tensed to build up some barricade to prevent a flood of burning gold. How those cracks you’d left on him are already festering, preparing for your departure. 

And that’s something you can do.

You can prove him fucking wrong, and keep him, and save him. 

He’d said it like it was a joke.

You mean every single word that spits out of your mouth.

“You’re not going to die.” 

He grunts, still just staring at the ceiling, and you lean over to eclipsed the ceiling light. He needs to see you.

“I’m not fucking leaving.” You hiss, and he stares at you with a slightly parted mouth. He’s Golden. He’d have to toss you away with his bare fucking hands and bullets, and even then, you’d still crawl back. 

Dean says your name slowly, and you shake your head.

“Partners, Winchester.” You snap. “Safer together, remember? You’re not dying on my watch, so suck it the fuck up.”

Something strange flashes in his eyes, and his voice slightly hoarse. “You should go. Now. Before Sammy gets back.”

“No.”

“It’s your best shot-“

“I don’t fucking care. You’re fucking stuck with me, asshole, and we’re getting you out of this if it kills all fucking three of us. Got it?”

He scans over your face, then down your body, and you don’t understand the expression on his face at all. 

“No.” He mutters, his gaze stealing slightly as it meets yours, and there it is. The fucking fight. “You’re not dying, Princess.”

“You’re not the boss of me-“

“Yeah, I got that, but if you die, and I’m dragging you to hell with me. Swear you won’t die.”

He raises his pinky, and you blink. He looks like he wants to kill you. 

He’s making you pinky promise.

You raise your own slowly, but narrow your eyes and yank it back at the last second.

“Anything else you need to tell me, Winchester?”

“Nah.” He shrugs. “Deal’s kind of a limit one per customer thing.”

He’s smirking. You don’t laugh.

“We’re doing this my way.” You snap. “Got it?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“You keep something like that from me again, I’m killing you myself.”

“Got it. You gonna just keep making demands about my death-“

You hook your pinky through his, and shake it firmly.

“Stop calling it your death.” You snap, leaning back to lie at his side. Keeping your pinky hooked. “You’re going to be fine, you fucking idiot.”

He chuckles. “Bossy.”

You roll your eyes, and decide to strangle him later. After this is done, you’ll shout at him all you want. 

But you have three months, and it’s not enough time, but you’ll make it enough time. The only thing you won’t do is use the Darkness—you won’t hurt him further, and he still doesn’t know, and that’s too fucking dangerous and complicated to touch—but you won’t need it.

You only need Dean. And he’s not allowed to die. 

So you’re not going to fucking let him.

End Note: That might have been the most Babylon chapter I've Babyloned yet.

Thank you so so so much for reading!! If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3

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[luv-lock]

Angeellll my dearest writer♡ I hope you're doing well, if there's any haters not giving you a peace of mind. Just remember that a lot of us likes you!!

Okay so here's my question!

How would Alien!Reader reacts to Anissa? Cus y'know what she did to Mark in the comic- you can ignore this ask if you're not comfortable to write it❀♡

BUT if you do write about it! I would really love to see Reader going Qu mode on Anissa and 'fixes' her cus Mark didn't deserve that :'((

Okay, so first off—thank you! That means a lot, really. People like you are the reason I keep sharing my stuff.

Now, onto your question. How would Y/n react to Anissa?

So, here’s the thing—Y/N’s entire race doesn’t operate on the same moral framework as humans do. To her, sex is just another function—something as instinctual and necessary as eating or breathing. Males don’t get a say, because in her mind, that’s not how things work.

Like, imagine trying to explain to her why what Anissa did to Mark was so disgusting. Y/n wouldn’t understand why that’s bad—because in her species, the males don’t get a say in whether they want to mate or not. They’re brainless slaves. They exist to serve. To be used. She literally wouldn’t comprehend why Mark would be against sex if he was meant for it.

At first, when she hears what happened, she’d just stare at him blankly, trying to figure out why he’s so affected. Maybe it’d even irritate her a little, because what the fuck does he mean by “I didn’t want it?” Like. That’s not how it works.

But when she actually sees his reaction—sees how much it broke him, how he flinches at her touch instead of leaning into it, sees the cracks in him that weren’t there before—ohhh, that would piss her off.

Like, yeah, it pissed her off, but more in a “How dare you take what’s mine” way. Not in a moral “that’s horrible” way. In her mind, if a male is strong enough, he fights off anyone weaker than him. That’s what’s supposed to happen. The fact that Mark didn’t fight back just tells her how pathetic he is—but pathetic in a way that makes her mad rather than disgusted. How dare he let someone other than her do that to him? He’s supposed to be hers. No one else should have been able to touch him, let alone violate him. She doesn’t get why it made him upset exactly, but she understands enough to know that it enrages her.

Because, see, Y/N is a monster in the truest sense of the word. Sure, she’s intelligent, but emotionally, she’s an animal first and foremost. Cold, cunning, but still ruled by primal instincts. She knows how to act like a human when it suits her, but at the end of the day, she doesn’t empathize—she claims people, consumes what’s weak, and destroys what angers her. And Anissa? She’s a rival predator, a lesser one, one that dared to lay claim to something Y/N sees as hers. That’s the part that gets under her skin the most. The idea that Mark is hers—her pet, her mate, her property, her obsession—and someone had the audacity to steal from her? Yeah, no, Anissa just signed her own death sentence.

And that’s when she decides Anissa needs to suffer.

Does she rip her apart right then and there? No. That would be too easy. Too merciful. She’s the apex predator, the undisputed top of the chain, and this? This arrogant, lesser creature dared to touch what’s hers? She’d take her time.

And Anissa gets something special. Y/N tears her apart and rebuilds her into something that’s more to her liking. Her bones extend and curl, her limbs break and reform, her mouth stretches wide in a silent, soundless scream as her body becomes an amalgamation of all the failures that came before her. Clawed hands twitch, a second head nearly forms and then melts back into the grotesque new flesh as Anissa loses herself in endless, endless pain. A writhing, grotesque, ever-changing form of flesh and bone that never settles—never finds peace. A perpetual state of transformation. She molds Anissa into something that can’t even understand itself anymore. Because really, who does this bitch think she is? Did she really thought she could do whatever she wanted to him and get away with it? No, only Y/N is allowed to ruin Mark.

And then Y/N leaves her like that. Not dead—because that would be a mercy. Just awake enough to feel it, to be it, a distorted creature of twitching muscle and glossy skin that drips with its own existence.

[boyfiechan]

Since you asked for a request... bang chan discovering he has a pain kink. I thought about that just now and I fear I will be thinking about it for the rest of my life

Here it is, you little life saver <3. It somehow turned into him receiving pain, and being almost whiny with it, I... don't know how. Also, thank you for sharing the ideia—now I will think about this for the rest of my life.

It starts as something careless. A moment edged in hunger, sharp and breathless, your body pressed to his, mouths colliding, heat threading through every frantic touch. His hands grip your waist, firm, grounding as you straddle him, hips grinding down in slow defiance, and he groans like it's breaking him open.

Maybe that’s why you do it, why you bare your teeth and sink them into the slope of his shoulder, biting hard, deep, until skin gives beneath you and he jerks, flinching under the sharp sting. You expect resistance—a curse, a shove, the rough pull of retreat—but it never comes. Instead, he stills, breath catching ragged in his throat. And it’s the sound that follows that stops you, not pain, not exactly, but a low, guttural groan, torn from somewhere deeper, somewhere darker. His hands don’t let go, they grip harder, nails biting into your skin, breath coming faster, sharper, like the pain has split, shaken something loose inside him. Something he’s been holding too tight.

Your nails tentatively drag slow down his chest, carving red lines into pale skin, marking him deep and his muscles twitch beneath the sting, but he doesn't pull away. He takes it, lets it burn, head tipping back, a ragged curse slipping from his lips, low and broken, and the sound claws at something sharp inside you. You press harder, digging in, watching how his body strains under your touch, how he shivers with it, how he gives into it. He whispers your name, rough and raw, like it hurts to say and you kiss him hard, open-mouthed and biting, teeth clashing, breath stolen. You taste it—the edge of his pain, the heat of it, the hunger that spirals deeper with every rough scrape, every desperate pull. His body is all sharp edges and heat beneath your hands, a canvas painted in marks that belong to you.

He doesn't stop you, he doesn't want to.

You cage his wrists, pinning them hard above his head, trapping him beneath you, helpless and trembling. There’s nowhere for him to go—nowhere to hide as your fingers slide into his hair, gripping tight, yanking his head back until his throat is bared, exposed, vulnerable and you crush your mouth to his skin, teeth scraping, lips dragging over the sharp line of his collarbone, the curve of his neck. You suck deep, hard, merciless, pulling bruises to the surface until they bloom dark beneath your tongue. Until his whole body bows beneath you, a gasp tearing loose—rough, strangled, breaking apart in the space between you. He writhes, desperate, hips shifting, lip caught between his teeth, bitten down hard enough to bruise. He doesn’t fight it, doesn’t want to, and you don’t stop either. You keep going, relentless, watching him fall apart beneath you, watching him tremble and shake, helpless in your hands.

And he’s perfect like this. Ruined. Undone. Messy.

Does it hurt? you ask, low and dark, voice curling with something dangerous. Your hand tightens in his hair, tugging harder, forcing his head back, throat bared beneath your mouth. He nods, sharp and shaky, but it’s not enough. Not for you. Tell me.

His eyes flutter open, dazed and heavy, pupils blown wide and black. It hurts, he breathes, voice wrecked, raw—but his hips are already grinding up, chasing friction, chasing pain, chasing more. But it feels so—fuck—it feels good. And you feel it in the way his body shudders beneath you, in the twitch of his muscles, the tremble in his hands where they strain against your grip. He won’t meet your eyes, but it’s not fear, it’s not regret, it’s the burn of being seen too closely, touched too deeply. It’s the heat of being ruined and claimed, not with softness but with something sharper, something brutal, but still care, still love, in a way that hurts and heals all at once.

And his body—God, his body reacts like it’s starving for it, arching into every scrape, shivering beneath your hands. His breath comes in ragged bursts, caught between pleasure and pain, his hands claw at you, pulling you closer, holding you down. His lips are red, bitten raw, and his eyes are wet when he finally looks up at you. You pull back just to see it, the marks, red and claiming. And lower, the proof of how deep it's sinking into him—his cock straining against the fabric of his shorts, already wet at the tip, the fabric dark where it soaks through. His hips jerk, needy, but his teeth sink into his lip, sharp enough to sting, holding back the sounds that still slip free, breath stuttering apart.

You don't ask. You don't give him time to think.

Your fingers hook into his waistband, yanking his shorts down rough and fast, watching how his cock springs free, flushed and leaking. The sight of it wrecks you. Hard, throbbing, needy. The head glistens, dripping, smeared along his stomach where he's already too far gone as you palm him first, just to feel the weight of him, the heat, before your hand wraps around, firm and unforgiving. His gasp is sharp, helpless, his hips jerking like he can't control it, like it's instinct, need. Your grip is hard, rough, dragging over him, slow at first, feeling every twitch, every pulse, watching how his muscles tense beneath you, how his body strains. His head falls back, throat bare, vulnerable, his breath shaking out in broken, shallow bursts.

And still—he doesn't pull away.

You bite down again, lower, harsher, and his whole body jerks, a strangled noise ripping free. His nails dig into you, desperate, but there's no protest, just more, always more. You stroke him faster, rougher, unforgiving, watching how his hips lift, how his breath shatters in his chest, how his body chases the edge like it'll kill him if he doesn't fall over it. His cock twitches in your hand, leaking, smearing against your skin, filthy, desperate.

He gasps, chokes, but still moves into your hand, grinding up, frantic, like his body belongs to you. And maybe it does, maybe it always did. He tries to speak, tries to hold back, but it breaks out of him anyway, torn and ragged. Please—, the word is barely there, barely formed, but it's enough. It's everything.

He's falling, already breaking. His body bucks into your hand, his skin damp, flushed, undone, his mouth opens in another plea, another broken sound, but you swallow it, biting his lip until it stings, until you taste him. His moan is raw, wrecked, helpless, his hands clawing at you like you're the only thing keeping him together, the only thing keeping him from falling apart completely. And then he’s gone.

He comes hard, hips jerking, release spilling hot and desperate over your hand, his stomach, the sheets. His whole body seizes, every muscle taut, every sound torn from his throat, wrecked and raw, but you don't let him go. You keep stroking, dragging him through it, through every twitch, every shake, until he's trembling, gasping, whimpering from the overstimulation. His cock jumps in your hand, leaking, hypersensitive, twitching with every rough drag of your palm. His thighs shake, muscles straining, but his hips still move, shallow, desperate, chasing after what little's left, even when it's too much, especially when it's too much.

His moans break into sobs, small and sharp, his body moving like it's trying to escape and beg for more all at once. His nails dig into you, weak, trembling, but he doesn't say stop, he doesn't say anything at all. Just takes it, lets you ruin him.

And when you finally pull back, he's wrecked. Breath ragged, skin flushed and damp, throat raw from the sounds torn out of him as the bruises stand out stark and red, your teeth still burning into his skin, claiming him. His lips are swollen, bitten, shining where you've marked them, and his eyes are glazed, half-closed, dazed. He's ruined, boneless. Fingers trembling where they cling to you, knuckles white and his body is still, but his skin is alive, burning, marked.

And tomorrow, he'll feel it. The bruises, the ache, the sharp, sweet sting left behind. Proof that he wanted it, begged for it, let you take him apart and left him there, shattered and wanting, with nothing but the ache and the memory of it.