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atlabeth · 5 months ago

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in over my head

masterlist

pairing: spencer reid x fem gideon!reader

summary: between all the arguments, you and spencer begin to understand each other a little bit more.

a/n: wauw.... out of nowhere i wrote 4k words and finished this chapter in one night... god bless spencer reid. i hope you all enjoy. r's cold heart is finally starting to defrost. title from the fray song

wc: 5k

warning(s): arguing, case discussions (stalking, murder, etc), talk of parental neglect, hurt w/o comfort then hurt/comfort. r lowkey freaking out this whole fic. the usual good time

You lean against the wall, trying to keep your breathing as quiet as possible.

You don’t really want Spencer to know you were eavesdropping on him the whole time. You don’t really want him to see the look on your face because he defended you to your dad.

He— he should expect it, shouldn’t he? He’s sitting out in the living room on the phone, and you’re you. It’s only natural you’d listen in on him.

Spencer defended you to your dad— mouthed off to him in very un-Spencer-like fashion.

Why?

From what you’d gathered, he practically worshipped the guy. Even if he didn’t, your dad was still his superior. It didn’t really seem like any kind of good idea to talk back to him.

But he did.

For you.

You thought Spencer merely tolerated you because he had to. You wouldn’t blame him, the way you treated him. So why would he do something like that for you?

You’re jarred out of your thoughts when you hear Spencer say your name. You blink back into yourself to see him standing in front of you, and you feel your face burn.

So much for not being obvious.

“I’m assuming you heard everything?” he asks.

You nod. You have the decency to not insult his intelligence, at least.

“That means we can go over everything,” Spencer says, already starting to walk away. “Come on.”

You frown. You expected him to be mad at you for eavesdropping, or use what he did for you as leverage for something, or— or do anything but act normal.

You shake yourself out of your thoughts once again as you follow him back to the living room. Spencer sits back down on the couch and you tentatively sit across from him.

“I don’t want what I said to scare you,” he says. “Hernandez may be our lead right now, but I doubt it’ll stay that way. Elle and Morgan are going to check him out, and I’ll get another call once they do.”

You blink. Of course he’d expect you to be focused on that part—your stalker, the threat against your life, the whole reason you’re in here. Not Spencer sticking up for you.

“Right,” you say. “Do you think it’s him?”

“Honestly? No.” Spencer sighs and shakes his head. “You heard what I said. He doesn’t fit the profile—he’s a man who made the worst choices of his life when he lost everything. If he’s been released, he might have actually changed. We’re only on him because he’s all we’ve got.”

“…Good,” you say. “Strangling wouldn’t be my top way to go.”

“You need to stop talking like that,” he says.

“I need to stop doing a lot of things,” you respond. “Any idea how much longer we’ll be in here?”

Spencer shakes his head. “We’re here until this case is solved or our cover is blown.”

You huff. “Like if this guy finds us again?”

He nods. “But that shouldn’t happen. Elle, Gideon, Hotch, and Strauss are the only ones who know about this place, and they’re obviously sworn to silence.”

“Strauss?”

“Erin Strauss,” he says. “The BAU’s section chief.”

“Ah.” You realize you’re still holding your mug, now empty, and you lean forward to set it on the table. “What happens if we’re made?”

“You’ve got to stop thinking about the worst case scenarios,” Spencer says. “Pessimism doesn’t just make anxiety, depression, and paranoia worse—it can raise your blood pressure, increase your chance of cardiovascular problems, and mess with your immune system. It’s literally bad for your health.”

“Well, what else am I supposed to do?” you ask. “I’ve got a stalker and we didn’t realize until he’d been watching me for a month. Your team has only got one lead and you don’t even think it’s the right one. That sounds pretty negative to me.”

“We’re still at the beginning of this case,” Spencer says. “It usually takes a few bodies for us to figure out what’s really going on and find the unsub in our regular cases.”

You stare at him, and he seems to realize what he’s actually said.

“Of course, there won’t be any bodies in this case!” he rushes. “You— you’re going to be perfectly fine!”

“You’re really not great at reassurance,” you say wryly as you pick up your cup and stand up, “are you?”

“Homicides only occur in two percent of stalking cases!” Spencer continues, his voice rising as you go into the kitchen. “A- and you might not even be the primary target! If anything, he might be going after your dad!”

By now you’ve finished filling your mug again. You stop at the edge of the hallway when he finishes, leveling a tired look at him.

“Thanks, Spence. That really helps.”

You walk back to your room, and once again, you only close the door halfway to humor his concerns.

If you’d lingered a little longer, you would have been able to see his frown.

“Spence?” he murmurs in confusion.

The rest of the day goes by smoother than you thought it would, largely because Spencer keeps his distance and you don’t fight it.

You busy yourself with more cleaning—you never finished it after your last outburst—and when you finish that, you read. You find Pride and Prejudice in the box of books the BAU provided, and it’s a good distraction. You’d much rather worry about the problems of the Bennets rather than your own.

You end up cooking first, and you offer Spencer some of your pasta when you finish. He initially looks shocked at the olive branch, but you figure you owe him something for all he’s put up with.

You don’t tell him that, of course. You just tell him he has five seconds to make a decision before you finish the rest, and he snaps out of it pretty quickly.

(“I promise I’m capable of cooking,” he says as he spoons a helping into his bowl. “I— I just don’t have much time for it. We’re always out on cases so we go to a lot of restaurants, and I get take-out at home because I get home at ungodly hours.”

“Just shut up and eat your food,” you say. “I don’t need to hear your opening statement.”

“Actually, I wouldn’t call this an opening statement. It’s more of—”

“Oh my god.” You pick up your bowl and walk off. “Goodbye.”

“I think it’s more of a witness testimony!” he calls out.)

A similar thing happens with dinner, where you pull out the old reliable of chicken and rice. Dressed up a bit with some of the vegetables that are somehow already on the verge of going bad, but still the same thing you’ve eaten a million times throughout your life. You don’t really feel like cooking, but you also don’t feel like having to hear Spencer set the smoke alarm again, so you settle for this.

(“You know,” Spencer says as he cuts into a chicken thigh, “I should really be trying everything first. Just in case there’s poison or something.”

You stifle your incredulous laugh. “How would there be poison in anything? You all bought and brought this stuff in.”

He shrugs. “I don’t know. But you can never be too careful.”

“You’re ridiculous,” you say. “I— I think that is the most ridiculous thing you’ve said since I’ve met you.”

“I hope you’re not challenging me,” Spencer says. “Because I can beat it very easily.”)

Between that, he calls out on occasion to make sure you’re still alive. You think it’s stupid, but it seems to ease his mind, so you play along.

He gets a call from your dad late at night, which he then goes on to relay to you—Agents Greenaway and Morgan paid a visit to Adam Hernandez, and they weren’t able to find anything suspicious. Penelope Garcia is going to comb through everything she can find on what he’s done since his release before they officially abandon the lead, but Hernandez is on parole and hasn’t violated it once—he seems to be clean.

You don’t know whether you’re thankful for that or not. On one hand, you want this to be over. Getting lucky on the first suspect would be great. On the other hand, having a face to all of this scares you more than not knowing. You still have the chance to deny that all of this is real, really real—when they find their guy, you can’t do that anymore. There’s actually someone out there that wants to hurt you.

The thought crossed your mind more often than not.

Other than that, he doesn’t really bother you. Another thing where you don’t really know if you’re thankful or not.

It’s close to midnight, and though you haven’t been able to sleep, you’re ready to accept this as another, thankfully non eventful day.

But then there’s a huge flash of lightning, visible even through your closed blinds, followed closely by a deafening crack of thunder, and your whole body freezes up. Your hands stop on the page you were on, and a chill runs all the way through you despite the layers of covers you’re under.

Rain has been pittering against the house for half the night, and you can deal with rain. You can’t deal with thunderstorms.

You let out a deep breath, trying to calm yourself down. The absolute last thing you need to do is work yourself into a panic attack and get Spencer involved. You don’t think you could take the embarrassment.

You attempt to go back to your book. You’d just arrived at Mr. Collins’ unsuccessful marriage proposal, but you can hardly focus. It doesn’t help when lightning illuminates your room once again, a clap of thunder sounding even quicker after, and your lamp flickers for a moment. This is actually the last thing you need—for the power to go out.

A knock on your door suddenly sounds, and you nearly jump out of your skin. You’re already on edge and the storm’s just barely started. You hear Spencer call your name and ask if you’re awake, and you clear your throat before you respond.

“What do you want?” You try to keep your voice as level as possible, but it wavers ever so slightly.

“Can I come in?”

You don’t want him to see you like this. “Is there something wrong?”

“It’s the storm,” he says, and he doesn’t wait for you to respond. “I’m coming in.”

You have all of two seconds to make sure you don’t look as pathetic as you feel before Spencer walks in.

He looks like he just got out of bed. He’s wearing a Caltech crewneck and sweatpants, and his glasses are about to fall off his face. His disheveled appearance is in stark contrast to his usual image, with dress pants and button-ups and sweater vests galore. One of his hands clenches around the doorframe, and he uses the other to haphazardly push his glasses up as he sets his eyes on you.

“You need to come back into the living room,” Spencer says.

“And good evening to you too.” You try not to look at him. You’ve learned that’s the best policy when it comes to him and those stupid glasses. “Why?”

“Because there’s a storm going on, and the power’s already flickered,” he says. “I don’t want to lose track of you if it does go out.”

“If the power goes out, we’re in the open out there,” you say. “If you’re so worried about it, you should stay in here.”

You expect a fight, but he just sighs and sits down in the chair across from your bed. “Fine.”

You frown. “That was easy.”

“I don’t feel like fighting with you over every little thing,” he says simply. “You might enjoy it, but I don’t. So I’m trying to take the path of least resistance.”

“That’s no fun,” you say.

“Well, you’re not very fun to be around,” Spencer says. He glances at you for a split second before his gaze goes back to the wall. “So.”

“Well, neither are you!” You don’t mean for your retort to come out so defensively, and you cringe as he looks back at you. It’s impossible to be around profilers without them knowing your every intent. You’d hate to know all the thoughts he’s had about you. “I might turn everything into a fight, but you turn everything into a drag.”

“You’re doing it again,” he says. You expect him to go on, but he leaves it that. You find your brows furrowing deeper.

“And?”

“Maybe if you recognize your patterns, you’ll stop,” he says. “Sometimes people don’t realize they're doing something until it’s pointed out to them.”

You huff. “How many times do I have to tell you not to psychoanalyze me?”

“I don’t choose to do it,” Spencer says. You don’t miss the slight bite behind his words, and it almost makes you smile. As much as he doesn’t want to give you a fight, he can’t really help himself. You tend to bring out the worst in people. “It just happens in my brain automatically.”

“Try to hold back,” you say. “It—”

Your words die in your throat with another crash of thunder, almost simultaneous with the lightning. It shakes the whole house, and you can’t help the full body flinch that wracks you, almost freezing completely. The power flickers again, and then it goes out altogether. You don’t even hold back your groan of annoyance.

“Of course,” you grit out. “Of fucking course.”

“Are you okay?” You look at him despite yourself, and even in the dark you can see the concern in his eyes. It makes your hands clench into fists beneath the sheets.

“Fine,” you mutter. “It doesn’t matter.”

Spencer frowns. “Of course it does.”

You scoff. “No, it doesn’t.”

“Why would it not matter?” he asks incredulously. “You— you’re clearly distressed, and holding it back isn’t helping anyone.”

“Maybe I just like silence.”

“Well, you clearly don’t like storms.”

“How’d you figure that one, genius?” you mutter. You wrap your arms around yourself and pull your knees up to your chest, trying to lessen the sudden chill you feel.

“...Normally, I would give you a real answer,” Spencer says. “But based on the lecture you just gave me—”

“You figured right,” you snap. It only takes a second—and those stupid, soft eyes of his to dart away again—for you to feel… bad.

He sighs and shakes his head as he stands up. “I’m going to get a candle. Stay put.”

You tense as he walks out. Your whole body does, actually. You don’t know what it is about him or those stupid eyes that always manage to skirt out sympathy from you.

You should feel gratified. At the start of this, you wanted to push Spencer to his limits—he’s too nice for his own good, and you wanted him to not only give you a more concrete reason to hate him, but get a reason to hate you back. Then you wouldn’t have to deal with this one-sided rivalry with the apparent saint of the BAU.

But you don’t. You feel bad, and you hate it. You hate it more than any reasonable person should, but then again—you’ve never been reasonable.

Spencer comes back in sooner rather than later, two lit candles in his hands. You can see the on-sale sticker plastered on the side of both, and you suppress a laugh. It’s something so small but so typical.

“One’s vanilla, and one is,” he squints as he shifts it in his hand to read, “beach escape. What does a beach escape even smell like?” He shakes his head, then looks at you. “Which one do you—”

“I’m sorry,” you interrupt. You blurt it out before you can even stop yourself.

This time, it’s Spencer’s turn to frown. His face is illuminated from beneath by the candlelight and it gives him an almost haunting beauty, highlighted with yellow and white along his jawline and cheekbones. The flames are mirrored in the lenses of his glasses. “For what?”

“For snapping.” You almost snap at him again out of instinct, and you let out a long, loose sigh in an effort to try and chill out for once. “Sorry. Again.”

“Oh.” He stands there for a moment holding the two candles, and it could be a laughable sight were you not near consumed with guilt. “Uh— it’s okay.”

“No, it’s not.”

“Fine,” he says, “it’s not. Which candle do you want?”

“Which one do you want?”

“This isn’t where you have to start the ‘being nice to me’ thing,” Spencer says. “They’re kind of starting to burn my hands.”

“Beach escape,” you say. He nods and sets it on your bedside table, then sits back down in his chair after placing the vanilla one in the window sill.

“You… seem a little pent up,” Spencer says after letting the silence dwell for a beat. His shoulders have relaxed some, not hunched up almost to his ears. Small victories, at least.

“I don’t talk about my emotions much,” you respond in equal fashion. “It’s not really my thing.”

He shrugs. “Why not start now?”

You laugh. “Why would I ever start now?”

“You said it yourself,” he says. “I have a psychology degree. I’m a good listener.”

“You interrupt me all the time to say stuff.”

“You interrupt me all the time too, so I guess we’re even.” Spencer shifts in his chair. “Besides, I can listen when it’s important. And this is.”

You stare at him. He stares back.

He has beautiful eyes even in the dark, and you hate that you can’t deny it. Deep brown like the oaks surrounding this place, that shine like pools of honey in the firelight, that always seem to soften just so when he looks at you.

You break first. You have to look away. You always have to look away.

“I don’t know what you want me to say,” you manage. “I was a latchkey kid. Storms happened a lot when I was home alone and they scared me. I guess they still do. Happy?”

“Believe it or not, your pain doesn’t make me happy,” Spencer says.

“I didn’t think it did,” you say, trying your best to snap.

He nods. “So we’re in agreement?”

“I—” you pause, a slight frown creasing your brows. “I guess.”

Spencer nods again, and he leans forward a bit. “Wasn’t that a lot better than fighting with me, getting upset, and isolating yourself?”

You scowl. “Don’t you dare therapize me.”

“It’s hard not to,” Spencer says. “Especially when you seem determined to make our conversations one-sided.”

You scoff. “I do not.”

“You act like talking to me is a physical pain.” He crosses his arms. “You locked yourself in the bathroom last night to avoid talking to me.”

“I locked myself in the bathroom so I wouldn’t lose my mind in front of you,” you say. “Just because I know everything about you doesn’t mean I want you to know everything about me.”

Spencer scoffs. “You don’t know everything about me.”

“My dad talks about you more than you think,” you say. “About your whole team—but especially you.”

“Where am I from?” he asks.

“Vegas,” you say. “He mentions it every time you beat him at cards.”

“That— that doesn’t really matter,” he says. “I know you’re from Fairfax.”

“The worst place in the world,” you say emphatically. You can’t believe you’ve been stuck in NoVa your whole life. “Doesn’t count, though. You’re an FBI agent—you’re supposed to know things like this.”

“So it counts when you know it, but it doesn’t count when I do?” Spencer asks.

You nod. “I’ve heard about Penelope Garcia. I’m more surprised you don’t know everything about me by now.”

“Me too,” he says. “Garcia can find anything. Gideon really did a good j—”

He stops in the middle of his sentence, his eyes widening slightly as he clamps his mouth shut.

“What?” You lean forward, looking him in the eye. “He did a good job doing what?”

“I don’t want to start another argument,” he says.

“Oh, poor you.” You don’t think you could sound more sarcastic if you tried. “You don’t want to hear me talk about my absent father that didn’t have time for me because he was too busy with you.” You glance away. “You don’t know what it feels like.”

“There’s something you don’t know about me then,” Spencer says. “Because I do.”

“Unless your dad’s ignored you all his life in favor of his job and the stray genius he found there, you really don’t.”

“My dad left when I was a kid because he couldn’t deal with my mom’s schizophrenia,” Spencer retorts. His words get you to look right back at him—they’re not overly sharp or exceedingly soft, just matter-of-fact. “I haven’t seen him since. So you’re right—I don’t know exactly what it’s like, but I know a hell of a lot more than you think.”

Regret hits you immediately, sour and spiny as it settles in your chest. You’ve been an asshole to him this whole time, and all along he’s held this inside of him? All along, you’ve been accusing him of stealing your life from you when he’s lost more than you have.

For a moment, you can only stare at him, at a loss for words. He meets your eyes in equal measure. You might know a lot about Spencer Reid, but you’re quickly realizing you don’t know Spencer Reid.

“Guess we’re a lot more similar than you thought,” he says in your silence.

“I’m so sorry, Spencer,” you murmur, finally managing to muster up words. “That’s awful. You didn’t deserve that.”

“No one does,” he shrugs. This time, he’s the one to look away. “But it is what it is.”

“How can you just say that?” you ask. You lean forward, a frown creasing your brows. “How are you not just— just angry all the time? That your dad doesn’t give a fuck about you or your mom?”

“For a while, I was.” He chuckles, but there’s no heart in it. “I was angry at everyone. My dad, my mom, the adults around me— I hated myself most of all. It’s part of the reason I was so good in school. I didn’t want to think about it, I didn’t want to deal with it, so I studied as hard as I could, read as much as humanly possible.” He smiles thinly at nothing in particular. “Turns out I’m very good at avoiding things when I want to.”

You shake your head with a scoff. “You’re a better person than I am. I would have hunted him down by now and given him a piece of my mind.”

“It’s not worth it.” Spencer looks back at you. “He decided he didn’t want to be a part of my life. I’m not going to reward him by letting him ruin it when he’s not even here.”

Is that what you’re doing? Letting your dad ruin your life by letting him occupy every part of it even when he’s not there? He’s influenced every part of your life, every part of you, and he hasn’t been here for half of it. Sometimes you’re surprised he didn’t miss your birth.

Another flash of lightning, another crack of thunder. You tense every muscle in your body to stop yourself from flinching as hard in front of Spencer. You think he notices anyway.

“I’ve been angry at my dad since I was a kid,” you say once you’ve recovered. “He missed my dance recitals and my gymnastics meets and my soccer games, but he signed the checks for all of the payments. He told me to take honors and AP classes and missed the ceremonies for the awards. He was never there for anything that mattered, but—” you laugh again, and you blink back the tears— “but he waited until I was eighteen to get a divorce so I wouldn’t have to deal with a custody battle.”

You bite down hard on your lip to force them back even harder as you look at Spencer. “Isn’t that fucked up? Neither of them have been there for us, but they’ve still shaped every part of us with their absence. We can’t escape it even when they’re not here, because them not being here is what caused it.”

“I refuse to give him that much power,” Spencer says. “My dad left. He chose to leave. He doesn’t want anything to do with me, so I don’t want anything to do with him. I mean, I’m an FBI agent. I work with some of the best profilers in the world. I could find him if I wanted to, but I’m not going to waste my time chasing some pipe dream of a father that doesn’t exist.”

“Your situation is different, though.” Both his eyes and tone soften, and something inside you stirs. “The only break I know Gideon’s taken was that six month medical leave that was practically forced on him. I think it would take an actual, life-threatening injury to get him to take another one. It’s a lot different having someone around and just… being neglected.”

“I’ve just always felt like such an asshole for it,” you mutter. “You all save lives every day. You’ve taken down a thousand sick criminals.” You shake your head with another mirthless laugh. “My dad saves women like me every day, gives them the chance to see their fathers again, and I’m mad at him because— because he won’t meet me for brunch? Because he missed my school band concerts?”

“It’s not that simple,” Spencer says. “It’s never that simple. You don’t need to feel bad for hating him, but you also don’t need to feel bad for loving him, too.”

You scoff. “There you go again with the psychology degree.”

“It’s the truth,” he says. “Just because you feel rightfully angry doesn’t mean you don’t still love him. It’s part of the reason why you’re so conflicted about him.” He gave you a wry smile. “It makes everything a lot more complicated, doesn’t it?”

You shift in your bed. “Far cry from everything you told me before all this started.”

“We see completely different sides of Gideon,” Spencer says. “I’m just… ashamed that it took me so long to believe you about all of it.”

You huff a laugh. “I’m the one that should be ashamed. I thought you had this— this perfect life, with my dad loving you on top of it. That’s why I hated you so much.”

He perks up. “Hated? As in, past tense? As in, you don’t hate me anymore?”

You try to bite back your smile. You barely succeed. “Call it a truce.”

Spencer grins and nudges his glasses back into place once again. “This might be my favorite truce since 1914.”

“Christmas Truce,” you nod. “Good one.”

“You know it?”

“Of course I do,” you say. “I’m a teacher.”

Spencer blinks. “You— you are?”

“Why is that such a surprise?” you ask.

“You’re so…”

“Mean to you?” You chuckle. “Trust me, I’m not like this with my kids. My job is one of the parts of my life that I’m actually happy with.”

“...Huh.” Spencer smiles at you, and you find yourself smiling back, subconsciously. “You should tell me about it sometime.”

“Sure,” you nod. “Maybe you can tell me about everything you do sometime.”

“You’re sure you won’t get bored?” he asks. “You might not realize, but I have a tendency to rant.”

You laugh. “Part of our truce.”

This time, he nods. “Cool. That— that’s cool.”

You roll your eyes as you look away, but your smile betrays you once again. Your gaze snaps over to the lamp as it flickers back on, and you realize you haven’t heard any thunder in a while.

“Looks like the storm’s passed.” Spencer separates two of the window blinds with his fingers and peers through. You’ve never really focused on his hands like you do now—with the way you feel your face burn, it’s probably a good thing. You look away as soon as possible. “Just rain, now.”

“Good,” you say, and you let out a yawn. “All our talking tired me out.”

“Good,” he echoes as he picks his candle up from the window pane. “You should get eight hours of sleep a night, and I know for a fact you don’t.”

You roll your eyes. “Whatever, professor.”

“You’re the teacher here,” he says. “I should be saying that to you.”

“And yet you’re so much more annoying than I could ever be,” you muse.

“Does our truce include this?”

“Naturally.”

Spencer chuckles and shakes his head. He starts walking to the doorway, but you speak up before he can leave.

“Night, Spencer.” You pause as you bite the inside of your lip, then continue before you can stop yourself. “I really enjoyed talking with you.”

He hesitates for a moment, his hand lingering on the doorframe. Then he bids you goodnight in the same fashion, actually saying your name. “I did too.”

It makes your heart skip a beat.

Spencer closes the door behind him, and you find yourself staring at the wood long after he’s gone. You jolt when you finally come back into yourself, and you shake your head to get out of the haze.

You glance at the clock on your bedside table, and blink when you realize it’s almost 1:30. You really do need to get to bed.

The smoke makes you cough as you blow your candle out, and you wave a hand around to dispel it before you turn the lamp off. You lay down and pull the sheets up around you. You end up having to switch positions at least five times before you start to get comfortable.

But the strangest thing is plaguing you despite your restlessness. You were freezing before the storm started, even when the electricity was working, but now there’s a strange warmth attempting to permeate within you. It almost helps you relax.

The room feels a lot smaller without him in it.

You exhale, long, slow, and deep as you close your eyes. The scent of vanilla lingers in the air.

You hope you don’t dream tonight.

#spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x you #spencer reid fic #spencer reid fanfiction #gideon!reader #spencer reid angst #criminal minds x reader #criminal minds angst #x reader #sadie writes #anyone that knows anything about george mason knows how upsetting it is that she went there instead of columbia LMAO #literally the most soul sucking commuter school

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rottingghosty · 4 months ago

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Sexiest Vigilantes of Amity Park | DC X DP

this was inspired by that one audio where someone says nightwing being gotham’s sexiest vigilante. all dp characters are aged up in this prompt, so the phantom team are 18-19.

once again, errors will be made because while im fluent in english, i make mistakes cause im a 23 year old who works full time.

prompt: Sam came back from a gala in Gotham and overheard some people talk about how Nightwing was voted as the sexiest vigilante in Gotham and well. She couldn’t resist being a mischievous best friend okay? All of Gotham finding out that a small town in Illinois has their own vigilantes and they’re the sexiest in one Sam Manson’s eyes.

One is her girlfriend, the other is her ex boyfriend. Sam isn’t blind especially considering how Danny learned to change his ghost form so he looks almost similar to how he looks like not transformed, obviously he’s learned to hide his features but it’s kinda redundant when everyone in Amity Park knows who he is but somehow the Fentons besides Jazz don’t know. Danny’s a lot taller, almost Jack Fenton’s height and he had a TOTAL sleeper build that was hidden underneath the baggy clothes he wore.

Sam was getting off topic, anyway.

“What do you mean you find the vigilantes of your hometown more attractive than Nightwing?” A girl Sam’s age asked with genuine shock, her green eyes wide as she tucked a strand of red hair behind her ear. Sam found her pretty but in the same way she found Jazz pretty, with no romantic interest.

“I mean I’m not from Gotham obviously, but we have two vigilantes back home and everyone has a crush on Red Huntress and Phantom.”

Instantly the group around Sam tittered excitedly at this new information, she let a smirk grow on her face. While she hated that her family dragged her to a gala again, she didn’t mind it that much right now when she can flex the knowledge about Danny and Val on people who don’t even know about them. Tucker and her are very much aware on how attractive the two vigilantes had gotten overtime especially with the new gear upgrades. They’ve witnessed fangirls and fanboys go rabid at any ghost fight just to see the way Danny’s muscles ripple or when Val pulls a move that shows off her flexibility.

The two weren’t afraid to say how hot the two became.

Sam pulled out her phone to show a photo of Danny as Phantom in the middle of fighting with Skulker— the ghosts attacks became less of a worry once the team realized they were basically trying to figure out how strong Danny was as a baby ghost and roughened him up to help him grow to protect his haunt.

The photo after Danny showed Val as Red Huntress, she was standing on her hoverboard going against Ember. The two mid battle with Val about to land a hit on Ember.

A low whistle was heard that caused Sam to snap her head to and the girls to jump with various squeaks. In front of her stood Stephanie Brown, a family friend of the Wayne family and Timothy Drake-Wayne. Sam’s eyes narrowed in suspicion wondering why the two were even here, before she can ask a voice spoke out.

“Personally I believe the person behind the scenes is more attractive, though I suppose Nightwing can keep the title he has since nobody knows how Oracle looks like.”

Sam turned to look at Carmilla Masters in surprise. She hadn’t expected to see Vlad’s heir at the Wayne Gala but she couldn’t be surprised either since Vlad was adamant on making connections.

“Ouch, abandoning Danny and Red Huntress like that?” Sam teased with a smirk, watching a flush settled on Carmilla’s tanned cheeks- her freckles prominent from the embarrassment.

“Oh shut it Manson.”

Before the two can delve deeper into their teasing, Timothy interrupted them.

“I believe Phantom deserves it.”

“Nuh uh, Red Huntress is better than. I vote Bat Girl also.” Stephanie says with crossed arms and raising an eyebrow at Tim who narrowed his eyes in response.

The group quickly began to debate, going only slightly louder as Sam watched with a wide smile and knowledge that this was being recorded and she’d get to embarrass the two back home once it was uploaded.

“You’re a devil.” Carmilla tells Sam, the older woman’s lips wrapped around the champagne glass to take a sip.

“I’ll send you the reaction.”

The woman sniffed delicately as she rolled the idea around in her head. “Deal. Tell Danny that he needs to come up with an excuse to get out of the family dinner that Vlad’s planning next week, we both know he hates them.” Carmilla says as she gives a smile, her canines showing briefly and Sam dutifully ignores the fact that they’re more like fangs than anything. She swears the Masters family come from a lineage of vampires.

“I’ll let him know.”

“HA! Phantom won in the group vote, so Nightwing isn’t the sexiest vigilante!” Timothy Drake-Wayne with an air of confidence that’s quickly shattered by Richard Grayson coming up with a confused puppy like look. Carmilla takes a sharp breath and looks away, it made Sam eye the two of them.

Only for her eyes to widen.

“Not a word.”

“What’s this about Nightwing not being the sexiest?” Dick Grayson curiously asked with a head tilt.

tldr: sam, in a good friend fashion- decided to bestow upon the rich kids the knowledge of phantom and red huntress after someone brought up nightwing being the sexiest in gotham. it quickly turned into a debate and a reluctant ally (carmilla masters, oc and heir of dalv co) shows up to throw her two cents in. sam of course calls out this betrayal and the two witness the argument on the sidelines.

this is implied reformed / redeemed vlad who decided to give the company to a relative and now just tries to feed his obsession with family dinners :)

#dc comics #danny phantom #dc universe #dc x dp #stephanie brown #tim drake #dc x dp au #dc x dp prompt #dc x dp crossover #dcu #sam manson #danny fenton #valerie gray

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cupofteatoyou2 · 3 months ago

Text

Sex Is a Luxury Item

(+18)

The nursery door closes with a soft click that feels louder than it should. You both stand there for a full ten seconds, like you're trying to will the silence to hold. Then—very slowly—you back away.

“Did she…?” Alexia whispers.

You hold up a single triumphant finger. “Out. Cold.”

Alexia’s whole body visibly deflates with relief. “Praise. Be.”

You tiptoe down the hall like you’re sneaking out of a haunted house. Once you’re safely in the living room, she collapses onto the couch with a dramatic grunt.

“I’m never using the word ‘down’ again unless it’s followed by ‘to clown’ or ‘for real this time.’”

You laugh, slumping beside her. “I sang the ABCs, and I did that swaddle shuffle thing you made fun of.”

“I don’t make fun of it. I fear it.”

She reaches for your hand, twining your fingers. Her thumb brushes over your knuckles and it’s the softest touch you’ve felt all day.

It makes your chest ache a little.

“I missed this,” she says quietly. “Just being able to… sit with you.”

You glance over at her. Her hair’s a mess, hoodie slightly damp from some earlier baby-related incident, but the look in her eyes is calm. Warm. Need.

“I missed you,” you say softly.

“I missed your mouth,” she says, just as softly—except hers is a little more direct.

You smirk. “Oh, we’re skipping right to that?”

“It’s been weeks. I’m done playing it cool.”

You shift closer, legs touching, your hand sliding to her thigh. Her eyes darken. “Don’t tease.”

“You used to love that.”

“I used to have eight hours of sleep and an immune system.”

You giggle, then tilt your head and kiss her.

It starts slow. Gentle. Careful. You haven’t had space for this in so long, and you both know it. Her fingers slide under your shirt. Yours tangle in her hair. It builds like a fire you’re finally allowed to light.

You shift onto her lap, her arms circling your waist like she never wants to let go.

“I’ve wanted this,” she murmurs against your mouth. “God, I’ve needed this.”

You kiss her again, deeper, slower, letting her feel it.

And just when her hands start to slip under your hoodie—

click.

Rustle.

A small sound crackles from the baby monitor.

You both freeze.

Then a soft sigh.

“Don’t move,” Alexia whispers.

“Maybe she’s shifting in her sleep.”

“Maybe. Or maybe she’s sensing happiness and preparing to destroy it.”

You both stare at the monitor like it's a horror movie screen.

There’s another soft grunt.

And then—one, single, high-pitched cry.

Alexia slumps back onto the couch. “She’s awake.”

You blink, heart sinking. “We didn’t even get a boob out.”

“I didn’t even make it past second base.”

You press your forehead to her shoulder. “What do we do?”

She sighs. “I’ll go.”

“No, I’ve got her.”

“You did bedtime. I’ve got her.”

You squeeze her hand. “Together?”

She looks at you, eyes soft and tired. “Always.”

You both rise like soldiers going back to war. As you pad toward the nursery, Alexia reaches back and flicks off the light in the living room.

“Tomorrow,” she murmurs.

“Tomorrow,” you promise.

Alexia was moving like a woman possessed.

You watched her storm around the house with a candle in one hand, wine bottle in the other, and the baby monitor clenched between her teeth.

“What are you doing?” you asked from the couch, half-laughing, half-intrigued.

She spat the monitor onto a pillow and said, “Tonight, I’m reclaiming my title as your wife. Not just your co-parent. Your sexy, romantic, occasionally sleep-deprived wife.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Should I be scared or impressed?”

“Both. I cleaned spit-up off my ear today. I deserve this.”

You tried not to laugh, but her eyes were wild with determination. She lit the candle dramatically and dimmed the lights.

“She’s fed, changed, burped, rocked, lullabied, and snuggled within an inch of her life. The monitor says she’s sleeping like a rock. We have—statistically—at least one hour.”

“And you used that hour to set the mood?”

“I used five minutes to set the mood. I plan to use the next fifty-five to ruin you.”

You flushed. “God, I missed you.”

She moved closer, cupping your face gently before kissing you, slow and warm. You melted into her, everything soft and familiar, her hands on your waist pulling you in.

“Tell me you want this too,” she whispered.

You grinned, leaning your forehead against hers. “Of course I do. But slow, okay? I just want to feel close to you again.”

Her lips curved. “Slow is my middle name.”

“No it isn’t.”

“Tonight it is.”

She tugged you down onto the couch, mouth finding yours again. Her hands moved carefully, like she remembered every part of you and needed to touch it all. Your shirt came off, hers followed. You gasped into her mouth, and her teeth scraped your bottom lip in that exact way that used to make your knees weak.

Her hand slid under your bra—

click.

You both froze.

Alexia’s eyes darted to the baby monitor. A tiny grunt. A rustle.

“Don’t you dare,” she muttered. “Do not wake up. I’m begging you.”

You pressed your ear to her chest, listening with her.

Another rustle. Then silence.

“She’s just shifting,” you said, exhaling.

Alexia didn’t move. “I’ve never wanted a mute button more in my life.”

You burst out laughing and pulled her back down. “Crisis averted.”

Your fingers went to the waistband of her joggers. Hers slid behind your back again—

And then—hiccup.

Sniffle.

You both slowly turned toward the monitor again.

“Maybe she’s just—”

WAHHHHHHHHH!

You both groaned in perfect sync.

Alexia flopped backward, dramatically throwing an arm over her face. “I love her so much, but she is truly the tiniest, cutest pussyblocker I’ve ever met.”

You were already pulling your shirt back on, laughing into the fabric. “We made her too powerful.”

“She’s weaponized her timing,” Alexia muttered, slipping on her hoodie. “We’re under siege.”

In seconds, you were back in the nursery. The baby blinked up at you both, looking thrilled to be awake again.

“I swear she’s doing this on purpose,” Alexia said as she rocked her. “She senses hormones like a shark smells blood.”

“Maybe she just misses us.”

“She sees me kiss your neck and goes, ‘That’s enough out of you. Stay away from my mommy’”

The baby yawned. Then sneezed directly in Alexia’s face.

You giggled so hard you nearly dropped the burp cloth.

“Still love her?” you teased.

Alexia wiped her cheek and said, “I’d take a thousand sneezes to the face if it means we eventually get to have sex again.”

Once the baby was back in the crib, snoring softly, you both tiptoed out like burglars escaping a crime scene.

Back in the living room, you didn’t even speak—you just pounced.

Alexia caught you, laughing breathlessly, and pulled you right back into her lap. Your lips locked, more eager this time, more desperate. Her hand slid down your thigh. Yours pushed up under her hoodie.

“I missed your skin,” she whispered against your jaw. “Missed the way you sound.”

“I’ll show you,” you murmured. “Just keep kissing me like that.”

Shirts peeled off again. Breathing got heavier. Her hand moved under your waistband—

BWAAAHHHHHHHH!

Both of you nearly screamed.

The monitor lit up again.

“She was asleep for eight minutes!”

“She sensed skin-to-skin contact!”

Alexia stood dramatically and pointed at the monitor. “You, young lady, are a menace to intimacy.”

You were crying with laughter as you stood. “She’s literally a baby, Lex.”

“A baby with an agenda.”

you both went in together again and took turns holding her. You whispered lullabies while Alexia made up dramatic Shakespearean monologues about interrupted foreplay.

“Sleep, my tiny villain. For tonight we are merely shadows of the lustful beings we once were.”

You were shaking with silent laughter.

Back to bed. Again.

This time, neither of you even pretended to go fast. You laid beside each other, fingers intertwined, foreheads pressed together.

Alexia sighed. “I love her so much it physically hurts.”

“I know.”

“But if I don’t get to see you naked soon, I’m going to lose my mind.”

You grinned. “We’ll get there.”

“You think when she’s in college we’ll finally have sex again?”

“Oh, I think we’ll be nasty empty-nesters.”

She laughed and pulled you close, tucking your head into her shoulder. “You’re still the most beautiful thing in the world to me.”

“Even covered in milk stains?”

“Especially then.”

Your baby snored on the monitor. Peaceful. Temporarily.

You kissed Alexia one more time and whispered, “maybe Tomorrow?”

Alexia yawned. “I’m scheduling it like a dentist appointment.”

Alexia stood in the kitchen, barefoot, holding a baby spoon like it was a laser pointer in a corporate meeting. Her hoodie was stained with milk, her bun was half falling apart, and yet she radiated authority.

“We need a new strategy,” she said, pointing the spoon at you with conviction.

You shifted your baby on your hip and squinted at her. “Is this about sex or war? Because your vibe is giving NATO crisis response.”

“Sex is war,” she muttered dramatically. “And right now, we’re losing.” She gestured broadly to the chaos around you: toys scattered across the floor, a bib hanging from the lamp, a rogue pacifier floating in someone’s half-drunk tea. “We are being outmaneuvered by someone who can’t even hold her own head up yet.”

“She’s a baby,” you reminded her, kissing said baby on the head.

“She’s a tactical genius,” Alexia said, narrowing her eyes at the infant. “Every time we so much as touch lips, she makes a sound like she’s being exorcised. She waits. She listens. Then she strikes.”

You snorted. “We’re being pussyblocked by someone who thinks her own feet are a conspiracy.”

“Exactly!” Alexia snapped her fingers. “It’s a psychological game. She doesn’t even know she’s winning, and that’s what makes her so powerful.”

You bounced the baby gently. “Okay, war general. What’s your big plan?”

Alexia marched over to the fridge, yanked off a magnet, and slapped a Post-it to the surface like it was a classified briefing. In bold, scribbled handwriting, it read

OPERATION: SEXY SUBMARINE

You stared.

“Tonight,” Alexia began, pacing, “we follow a strict schedule. No detours. No distractions. No Netflix, no chatting about the laundry, no doomscrolling while she naps. We do everything early—feed her early, bathe her early, snuggle her into a sleepy little puddle of baby bliss. Then we put her down.”

She paused dramatically.

“And then, we retreat. Bedroom only. Lights off. Curtains drawn. Door closed. Silent mode. Like a stealth mission. No candles. No ambiance. Just pure, uninterrupted—” she made an expansive gesture “—reconnection.”

You bit your lip, amused. “What’s with the submarine part?”

“Because we’re going under the radar. No noise. No trace. Pure stealth.”

“And because it’s been so long, we’ll probably have to dive deep into foreplay before anyone remembers how anything works?”

Alexia’s face lit up. “Exactly. See? You get me.”

You kissed her cheek. “Alright, Captain Putellas. I’m in.”

That night, you prepared like Olympic athletes warming up for a relay.

Dinner was served 47 minutes ahead of schedule. Alexia made airplane noises while feeding mashed peas, which ended up mostly on her shirt, but you were both undeterred. Bath time included the new sparkly bubble soap and a rousing three-minute duet of “Let It Go.” Your daughter clapped for you both like you’d just taken a bow at a Broadway matinee.

Book time came next. You sat side-by-side in the rocking chair, your daughter balanced across both your laps. Alexia read The Very Hungry Caterpillar with the dramatic timing of a Shakespearean actor on a caffeine high. Then she followed up with Goodnight Moon in a soft whisper, pausing between each “goodnight” like it was a prayer.

The final lullaby was sung in hushed tones. Alexia cradled the baby like she was made of glass, her voice wrapping around the room like a blanket.

“She’s out,” you breathed, watching her chest rise and fall in rhythmic peace.

Alexia’s eyes sparkled. “You ready?”

You tiptoed like trained spies out of the nursery. Alexia carefully shut the door with the reverence of someone sealing a tomb.

Once inside your room, she didn’t waste time. Her hands slid around your waist as soon as the door clicked shut. “No talking,” she whispered. “You might jinx it.”

Your lips met hers, slow and deep. She pulled you to the bed, her hand warm against your lower back, your knees already going weak. Clothes started to come off—carefully, quietly. Her hoodie hit the floor. Your shirt followed. Her hands traced your ribs like she was relearning you from scratch.

“I missed this,” she breathed against your collarbone.

You ran your fingers through her hair, tugging gently. “I missed you.”

She leaned in, kissing along your throat, one hand sliding up your bare thigh—

THUMP.

You both froze.

Then:

sniffle.

hic.

whimper.

Alexia slowly looked over her shoulder. “No. No, she’s bluffing.”

“Lex…”

“She’s testing us.”

A louder whimper. Then a soft wail.

Alexia flopped onto her back and buried her face in a pillow. “This is a conspiracy. A full-scale operation against our libido.”

You sighed but couldn’t stop the giggle bubbling up. “The Sexy Submarine has been compromised.”

“She’s too strong,” Alexia groaned into the pillow. “She’s outmaneuvered us again.”

You pulled on your shirt, patting her back. “Come on, soldier. We’ll regroup.”

“She doesn’t even like books,” Alexia muttered as she stood. “I read two stories. Two! With voices!”

In the nursery, your daughter greeted you with wide, innocent eyes.

Alexia lifted her gently, holding her close. “You are lucky I’m weak for cute things,” she whispered, nuzzling into her soft hair. “But seriously—do you have to wake up every time I try to get laid?”

You were laughing into your hand.

By the time she was back in her crib, you were both too tired for round two. You collapsed onto the bed fully clothed, limbs tangled together.

Alexia turned to you with the softest look in her eyes. “I love you,” she murmured. “Even if we never have sex again until she’s in preschool .”

“Preschool’s only few years away. We can make it.”

She groaned. “No. No we can’t.”

You reached for her hand. “We’ll find our way back. We’re just in the baby fog right now.”

Alexia smiled, eyes already drooping. “At least we’re in it together.”

You drifted off to the sound of your daughter snoring through the baby monitor.

The silence was golden. Sacred. A rare miracle.

Your daughter was finally asleep. For real this time—tiny limbs sprawled, cheeks flushed, pacifier bobbing softly with each breath. You and Alexia stood outside the nursery like two burglars about to flee a heist.

Alexia turned to you, eyes dark with purpose. “If she even makes a noise in the next hour, I swear to God—”

“Shhh,” you whispered, grabbing her hand and yanking her down the hallway like you were both escaping prison.

Back in the bedroom, the door clicked shut behind you, and Alexia’s lips were on yours before you even had a chance to breathe. Her hands slid under your shirt, warm, insistent, and you melted into her like it hadn’t been weeks of stop-starts and frustrated cuddles.

“God, I forgot how soft you are,” she whispered, mouth grazing your neck. “I feel like I’m kissing a memory.”

You laughed softly, tugging her shirt over her head. “You’re so dramatic.”

“I’m starving for you.”

The kiss deepened—slow and messy, teeth and tongue, her fingers dragging down your sides until she was pushing you gently toward the bed. You went easily, smiling against her mouth, thighs parting instinctively as she climbed over you.

She kissed down your chest, taking her time, teasing. You ran your fingers through her hair, tugging just enough to make her hum against your skin.

“You’re being mean,” you whispered, breath catching as she took a nipple between her lips. “You know exactly what you’re doing.”

Alexia looked up at you, grinning wickedly. “I’ve had four weeks to plan this.”

Her kisses trailed lower. Lower. Her hands slid under your thighs, spreading you open slowly, reverently. You moaned as her breath hit your inner thigh.

Then she paused.

“Lex—”

“I’m savoring.”

“You’re torturing.”

She grinned and lowered her head.

And then—

Then—

Just as her tongue touched you—

WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHH.

It was immediate. Loud. Gutting.

The baby monitor crackled to life like a horror movie villain.

Alexia froze. Lips still pressed against you.

You whimpered. “No. No, no, no—”

She dropped her forehead to your thigh with an actual whimper. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”

You stared at the ceiling, chest heaving, already mourning the orgasm you had almost tasted.

Alexia lifted her head, eyes wild. “She’s possessed. She’s got, like, a sixth sense.”

“She was dead asleep,” you groaned, covering your face with your hands. “I felt her soul leave her body. What even—”

Another scream. A hiccup. The unmistakable sound of a pacifier hitting the crib floor.

Alexia let out a strangled growl, crawled up your body, and collapsed on top of you. “I’m going to cry.”

“She’s probably just—”

“I don’t care. I’m staying here. She can put herself back to sleep.”

You giggled, threading your fingers through her hair. “You want her to self-soothe at nine months?”

“I want to finish going down on my wife, is what I want.”

You were still breathless. Still throbbing. Still too turned on to laugh properly. But you laughed anyway. “Five more seconds and I would’ve blacked out.”

Alexia rolled off you with a dramatic sigh and reached for her hoodie. “I hate how much I love that baby.”

You smiled. “You don’t hate her.”

“No, I just think she’s doing this on purpose.”

“She’s nine months old.”

“She’s a genius-level saboteur with a personal vendetta against my sex life.”

You groaned as you slid your shirt back on. “You going or me?”

“I’ll go. I know the look in your eyes. If I let you walk in there all flushed and dripping, she’ll cry for another hour.”

You made a face. “Rude but fair.”

Alexia shuffled out, still muttering to herself.

You lay there, legs still parted, body aching, mind spinning. You could still feel her mouth on you. You could still tastewhat you almost had.

Through the monitor, you heard her gentle voice:

“Shhh… shhh… no más drama, cariño. Mamá is this close to having a breakdown.”

More hiccups. Some giggles. A thump.

You closed your eyes and moaned into your pillow.

Fifteen minutes later, Alexia returned looking like she’d been through battle.

“She kicked me in the boob and laughed about it.”

You sat up, arms open, and she dropped into them with a full-body sigh. “I want you so bad it’s physically painful.”

“She’s asleep again?”

“Temporarily. Probably until I touch you again. I think it’s her new defense mechanism.”

You kissed her temple. “We’ll try again tomorrow.”

Alexia looked at you. “If I don’t eat you alive tomorrow, I might die.”

You pulled her close. “I’ll let you. But we have to move faster. Get in, get off, get out.”

Alexia laughed softly. “Operation Quickie Reloaded?”

You nodded. “Or just Operation: Don’t Wake the Baby.”

She smiled. “Tomorrow. We win.”

You’ve never seen Alexia this unhinged.

She marched into the bedroom like she was about to defuse a bomb, except the bomb was your daughter’s cry and the stakes were your sex life.

“White noise?” she asked, holding up the machine like it was the Holy Grail.

“Set to rainforest,” you replied.

“Doors locked?”

“Deadbolt and chair wedged under the handle.”

“Monitor?” she asked.

You held it up. “Battery: full. Volume: high. Vibe: non-threatening.”

Alexia exhaled like she’d just completed a NASA launch checklist. “We’re not being pussyblocked tonight. Not by our own baby. Not by fate. Not by a squeaky floorboard. Nada.”

You grinned, already lying back on the bed in just her Barça tee and a pair of lacy panties she hadn’t seen since the third trimester. “God, you’re hot when you’re this paranoid.”

She climbed onto the bed, eyes dark and focused. “Do not speak her name.”

“The baby?”

“She has ears like a bat. And emotional radar.”

You laughed, pulling her in by the collar of her hoodie. “You’re acting like we’re about to commit a crime.”

“We are,” she said, voice low and sinful against your neck. “We’re gonna fuck. And we’re gonna finish.”

She kissed you like it was her last act on earth. Her hands skimmed up your thighs, under the tee, finding bare skin and making you jolt.

“Oh,” you gasped, “we’re skipping foreplay?”

Alexia pulled back, scandalized. “This is foreplay. This is tactical sensuality. I’ve been edging myself emotionally for weeks.”

You blinked. “You’ve been… emotionally edging?”

“I’ve imagined going down on you while rocking the baby back to sleep.”

You choked. “That’s hot and disturbing.”

“Motherhood’s weird like that.”

You pulled her back down, breathless with laughter and lust. “Okay, tactical sensuality. Show me what that means.”

Alexia sat back on her knees, peeled her hoodie and tank off in one smooth motion, and tossed them over her shoulder. “Step one: remove barriers.”

You raised a brow. “Physical or emotional?”

“Panties,” she replied, and yanked yours off like she had a vendetta.

You gasped. “Damn, mamá’s not playing tonight.”

She grinned and ducked down between your legs. “Shh. You’ll wake the boss.”

The second her mouth touched you, your legs jerked up in shock. You slapped a hand over your mouth.

She laughed against your skin. “God, I missed how sensitive you get.”

You whined. “You’re not allowed to be cocky about it when we’ve been dry for, like, nine months.”

“I’ve been tracking your ovulation by instinct alone.”

You were laughing and moaning now, torn between arousal and actual tears.

Alexia licked a long, slow stripe, and your hips bucked. “Fuck—Lex.”

“Yeah?” she said, smug as hell, holding your thighs down with both hands like you were her personal reward.

“I swear if you stop, I will file for sole custody.”

She looked up, mouth glistening, smirk savage. “Not even God’s interrupting us tonight.”

You grabbed the pillow beside you and threw it at her. “Shut up and keep going!”

She did.

She devoured you like a woman who’d waited far too long, who’d dreamed about this every time she’d rocked a crying baby at 3 AM, who’d looked at your bare shoulder while brushing her teeth and thought, soon.

And now?

Now was finally here.

No interruptions.

No cries.

No disaster.

Just Alexia between your thighs, moaning like your pleasure was oxygen.

You threw your head back, already dizzy, and whispered, “Don’t stop. Don’t stop. Don’t—”

A pause.

A beat.

A quiet.

You both froze.

Alexia slowly raised her head. “Was that—?”

“No,” you said firmly. “It was the white noise. Wind in the trees. Jungle frogs. Shut up. Keep going.”

She stared at you for one more second—then dove back in with a muttered, “For the love of all things holy.”

And this time? You knew it.

She wasn’t stopping for anything.

Your thighs were shaking, and your hands were tangled in Alexia’s hair like you were holding on for dear life. Her mouth moved with slow precision, her tongue relentless and so smug about it, you could practically feel the grin in the way she licked.

“You’re gonna kill me,” you gasped, chest rising fast under her tee.

Alexia hummed like that was exactly the plan. You felt it vibrate against your skin, and it sent a shock straight through your core. The kind of touch that made your whole body lock up before melting again, like your nerves couldn't decide if they wanted to tense or just give up entirely.

“I haven’t even started,” she murmured between strokes of her tongue. She looked up at you with her chin glistening and eyes filled with that cocky, dangerous glint—like she had something to prove, and your body was her proof.

She flicked her tongue again, just a bit firmer now, and you jolted, moaning her name as if it was the only word your mouth remembered how to form. “Lex… oh my god.”

“Still so sensitive,” she said, half awe, half victory. “And still mine.”

You groaned, one leg twitching at the knee, a helpless spasm you couldn’t even stop if you tried. She wrapped her arms around your thighs to hold you steady, fingers digging into your skin in the gentlest kind of possessive grip.

Her mouth found you again, unrelenting, licking slow and deep before switching to short, tight circles over your clit—soft, then harder, like she was playing a rhythm only she knew.

You squirmed, unable to stop it, and she moaned low at the way your hips moved. “Fuck. That’s it. Just like that.”

Her hands slid up and found your chest, warm palms cupping you like she missed this just as much as you did. She squeezed gently, thumbs brushing over your nipples, and your body practically convulsed.

“Lex—Lex, I’m gonna—”

She pulled back, just barely, mouth still wet, panting slightly. “You better. I’ve waited months for this. You think I’m gonna let you off easy?”

You whimpered and bucked your hips up toward her mouth, needy and too far gone to care. “Alexia—”

“Say it again.”

“Alexia.”

She grinned—pure sin. “Good girl.”

And then she sucked.

Your whole body arched off the bed. Your hands tightened in her hair and pulled, not even on purpose. It was just instinct at that point—desperate, overwhelmed, chasing release like it was life or death.

You were loud. Too loud. But you didn’t care. Not until you realized what you were risking.

“Shit—the baby—” you gasped, eyes flying open, chest heaving.

Alexia popped off you with a wicked look, then licked her lips like she’d just finished dessert. “She’s sleeping.”

You reached for the monitor blindly on the nightstand. “We can’t be loud—”

“She sleeps through the dog barking, thunder, and your snoring. She can handle a little moaning.”

“I don’t snore.”

“Bebé…” she smirked, already crawling back up between your legs, “I love you, but yes, you do. It’s cute. It’s like tiny dinosaur growls.”

You were about to argue—but her tongue was already back where you needed her most. And suddenly, snoring didn’t seem like the hill to die on.

You tried, for a full ten seconds, to stay quiet. You bit your lip. You pressed your hand over your mouth. You even turned your head into the pillow.

But when Alexia slid two fingers inside you and curled them just right, you squealed.

“Fuck.”

You slapped a hand over your mouth like it was going to do anything at that point.

Alexia chuckled, not stopping for a second. “So much for quiet time.”

You couldn’t answer. All you could do was breathe fast and try not to scream as she fucked you with her fingers and sucked your clit at the same time, the kind of multitasking only someone with pure chaos in their DNA could master.

She kept her pace slow and steady, dragging you toward the edge in the most excruciating way possible. Your thighs started trembling again, tighter this time, clenching around her head like your body was trying to trap her there.

And the worst part? She loved it.

You felt her moan into you. Felt her speed up. Felt the smugness in every move like she was daring you to come and wake the baby up. Like this was some fucked-up game.

And you were losing.

“Please,” you whispered. “Please, Lex, I’m gonna—”

“Do it,” she said, voice muffled. “Come on. I wanna feel it.”

Her hand was gripping your thigh, holding you open, and her mouth was pure destruction.

You broke.

The orgasm crashed over you like a wave that had been building for weeks—months, maybe. You shook, you cried out, you grabbed the sheets and her hair and anything you could reach, and your whole body convulsed as pleasure took over. Every nerve lit up and then gave out all at once.

You were panting, a wreck, your limbs limp and twitching.

Alexia finally pulled back, face flushed and shining, looking like she’d just finished a workout.

“Goddamn,” she said, breathing hard. “That was worth the wait.”

You didn’t have the strength to speak. You just blinked at the ceiling, chest rising and falling, brain full of static.

Alexia crawled up next to you, her arms sliding under your body, pulling you into her chest.

She kissed your shoulder, then your neck, then your jaw. “You okay?”

You nodded slowly. “I think you broke something. Like… structurally.”

She laughed, full and loud, and you smacked her arm weakly. “Shh. She’s actually going to wake up if you don’t shut up.”

Alexia smirked against your skin. “Let her. I earned that orgasm.”

You rolled your eyes, still breathless. “You say that like you carried the baby for nine months.”

“I did carry the diaper bag for nine months. That counts.”

You swatted her again, and she caught your hand, kissing it sweetly.

“Tell me the truth,” she murmured. “Was it… okay? After everything?”

You blinked, turning your head to look at her. And for a second, all the teasing fell away. Her eyes were soft, warm, maybe even a little nervous.

You nodded slowly. “It was everything.”

Alexia’s face relaxed, and she leaned in to kiss you, this time sweet and lingering and full of everything unsaid.

“You’re everything,” she whispered.

And then—

crackle.

The baby monitor buzzed to life with a hiccup.

Both your heads whipped toward it like you’d heard a ghost.

Another hiccup. Then a whimper. Then silence.

Alexia narrowed her eyes at the monitor. “Don’t you dare.”

You held your breath.

Another soft sound. Then… nothing.

Alexia reached for the monitor, flipped it face-down, and muttered, “I swear, she’s got a sensor for sex.”

You laughed into the pillow.

“Next round?” Alexia whispered. “Face. My face. Ride it. I’ll even play with your boobs.”

You looked at her, amused and dazed. “You’re insatiable.”

“I’m starving.”

You rolled over, still dizzy from round one, and gave her a look. “Bathroom. Five minutes. Before she wakes up for real.”

Alexia perked up like a golden retriever. “You serious?”

You grinned. “You better bring the monitor.”

She was already out of bed, grabbing it with one hand and your wrist with the other. “Say less.”

The cold of the tile never stood a chance against the heat in your body.

You straddled Alexia’s face like you were born to be there, knees digging into the bathroom floor, one hand braced on the counter and the other fisting in her messy hair. She looked up at you with flushed cheeks, parted lips, and those dark, feral eyes like you were her next meal.

You barely had time to moan before she latched onto you—mouth open, tongue flat, licking one long, devastating stripe through your folds. Your whole body shuddered.

“Oh—fuck—Lex…” you gasped, already rolling your hips down against her mouth.

She groaned in satisfaction, hands gripping your thighs like she was anchoring herself. “That’s it. Use me, cariño.”

You did. Hips grinding down, thighs trembling around her head as she worked you over with slow, confident licks. She licked your clit with the kind of deliberate pressure that drove you insane—just enough to tease, just enough to ruin.

“You taste like heaven,” she muttered between strokes, voice muffled but smug. “Missed this pussy so fucking much.”

You let out a strangled moan, rocking harder. “Then shut up and eat.”

Alexia laughed, hot breath fanning over your core. “Bossy now, huh?”

But she obeyed, and when her lips sealed around your clit again, you almost lost it. She sucked hard, tongue flicking rapidly, her grip on your thighs tightening to keep you in place. You were practically sitting on her face now, and the way she moaned underneath you told you she loved it.

Then her hand slid up your thigh—and before you could prepare yourself, she sank two fingers into you.

You gasped loud, the stretch sudden and perfect. “Lex—fuck—”

She didn’t wait. Didn’t tease. Just started pumping her fingers deep and fast, curling them at just the right angle to make you see stars.

“God,” she breathed against your clit, “you’re so fucking tight—clenching like you’re trying to suck me in.”

Your head dropped forward, forearms now braced against the sink, body shivering under the weight of her mouth and hand.

“More,” you whispered. “Give me more.”

She obeyed without a word—three fingers now, pushing in with a wet, obscene sound that had your entire body jerking. Your moans were loud, shameless, bouncing off tile walls.

“That’s it, baby,” she murmured. “Fuck—you’re taking me so well. Look at this pussy—dripping all over my hand.”

You whimpered, hips grinding, thighs starting to shake.

And then she started fucking you with her fingers, hard and deep, curling with every thrust. Her mouth stayed latched on your clit—tongue swirling, flicking, licking with relentless precision.

You were coming apart. Muscles locking, breath catching, fingers digging into the counter.

“You gonna come?” she rasped. “Gonna make a mess all over my face?”

“Don’t stop,” you begged. “Don’t you fucking stop.”

She moaned against you, her free hand slipping up to grope your boob, fingers rolling your nipple. “You’re everything, you know that?” she murmured. “My perfect girl. Let go for me.”

You choked on a cry, orgasm ripping through you like a wave—violent, pulsing, unstoppable. You came with your whole body, hips stuttering, thighs clamped tight around her head as her fingers drove deep and her mouth kept sucking.

Alexia groaned like she was the one coming, still moving inside you, still licking every aftershock from your body like she was addicted.

And then—just as your high started to ebb and you collapsed onto her chest, legs shaking, completely destroyed—

The baby monitor crackled.

“Waaaaawaaaa…”

You froze.

Alexia’s head dropped back onto the tile, and for a long beat… silence.

Then “Oh, come on!” she groaned, exasperated but laughing.

You buried your face in her shoulder, still panting. “Are you kidding me?”

“She waited,” Alexia said, wide-eyed and breathless. “She actually waited until you were done. That’s progress!”

You snorted into her neck. “She’s a pussyblocker with manners now.”

You both started laughing, tangled together on the bathroom floor, sticky, sore, and finally satisfied.

Alexia pressed a kiss to your cheek. “We made it, mommy.”

“Barely,mama” you whispered back, grinning.

Then the baby monitor made another soft sound—your daughter babbling like she knew exactly what she’d just interrupted.

Alexia groaned, rubbing her face. “We’re never gonna have sex again, are we?”

You kissed her, slow and sweet. “Not without a timer and industrial-grade earplugs.”

She smirked. “And maybe duct tape for the baby monitor.”

You laughed, standing slowly, legs wobbling.

“Come on,” you said. “Let’s go check on our pussyblocking miracle.”

Alexia groaned again, getting to her feet. “At least we got few orgasm. I’m calling that a win.”

You smiled, taking her hand. “A very wet, very loud win.”

And together, you padded out of the bathroom—laughing, limping, and still very much in love.

#woso #woso fanfics #woso imagine #woso x reader #fcbfemeni #fc barcelona femeni #woso smut #woso one shot #woso fic #alexia putellas x reader #alexia putellas imagine #alexia x reader #alexia putellas #fcb femení #fcb femeni #barca femini x reader #barca femeni #barca women

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dannyriccsystem · 2 months ago

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max verstappen 10 & 11 for the 1k special please!

THAT’S BECAUSE I’M A GOOD OLD-FASHIONED LOVER BOY!

1K SPECIAL - MV1

Awkward first date + Wearing their clothes

SUMMARY: A rather ridiculous first date ends with you crashing at his apartment. Whoops!

WORD COUNT: 680

WARNINGS: Very cringy first date, waitress flirting with YOUR man, borrowing clothes.

FEATURING: Max Verstappen x Reader

NOTE: MEOWWWW MAX VERSTAPPEN MEOWWW

YOU WEREN’T SURE WHY YOU AGREED TO THIS. You were close friends with Victoria Verstappen, the sister of a famous Formula One driver. The two of you met when you were adults, which meant you only heard about Max through stories and occasional pictures from their childhood. Other than that, you knew nothing about him, which was why you were somewhat surprised when she set you two up together.

You met at a quaint little restaurant with a cheap menu. It wasn’t the type of place he’d visit frequently with the fear of being recognized, but things seemed fine so far. Save the occasional fan walking up to ask for an autograph, or the waitress fawning over him.

Yeah, actually, it wasn’t fine. You sat there quietly, watching as Max awkwardly avoided every flirty remark from the woman taking your orders. She brushed against his arm, praising him endlessly for his four world championship titles, and his incredible, hard working mentality. You were getting tired of it.

“We should go,” He suddenly stated, his voice firm as he locked eyes with you. You blinked in surprise, sitting up straight. “Yeah, remember? You said you needed to be home in about…” He checked his watch. “Ten minutes.”

He raised his brows at you. You understood. “Oh, yep. Yep, I do remember. Too bad, I was really excited to eat here.” You huffed, standing up and collecting your things. In a fit of quiet rage, your waitress ‘accidentally’ knocked over your glass of water, sending it flying across your lap. You gasped, shuddering at the cold.

“Oh, no…” She cooed. “Let me go grab—”

“No need.” He grabbed your waist, pulling you to his side. Your eyes widened, but you tried to relax and look casual. “We were just about to go home anyway. I’ll clean her up.”

Your waitress stared with silent shock as you both exited the restaurant, giggling amongst yourselves. “Nice save.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll make you something.” He pulled you outside of the building, and you both groaned. It was pouring down rain, and you were both left without any sort of coverage.

“Damn. I parked far away… Where’s your car?”

“No, I walked. My house is just down the road. We can walk?” You hummed and nodded, though you seemed hesitant. You were already covered in water, so what harm could it do?

A lot.

You were freezing when Max ushered you into his home. Thankfully, it was warm inside, offering you some relief. He scurried off down a hall, emerging with some clean clothes. “Here, you can get changed. I’ll get you a towel and blanket.” He smiled at you gently, and your heart fluttered while you accepted the clothes. You entered his bathroom, in awe at the pristine interior.

When you exited the bathroom a bit later, you felt refreshed and warm. Max had laid out some blankets and a towel on the couch for you. You could hear him in the kitchen, shuffling around. “Can I help with anything?” You called out as you grabbed the towel, using it to dry your face and hair.

“Nope. I’m just gonna make something simple,” He replied. You were satisfied with that response as you sat yourself on his sofa, burying yourself in a pile of blankets and basking in the heat they provided.

Moments later he came out with some pasta on a plate. It likely came from a box, but you didn’t care. You were starving. He also offered some hot chocolate, which was a very exciting spectacle. You both ate on the couch, using the coffee table for support. When you were full and happy, you relaxed back against the cushions, leaning against him.

“It’s still pouring down rain,” You commented softly.

“I can drive you home, if you want.”

“Yeah…” You trailed off. You didn’t really want to leave, you were enjoying his company. Your eyelids grew heavy.

“Or…” He pulled up a fuzzy blanket, tucking it in at the sides. “You can stay here?”

He took your soft snores as a response.

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bonsubear · 3 months ago

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Reader loves Invincible but hates Mark┃Mark/Invincible x Fangirl! Reader ┃#1

Hi, I haven’t written fanfiction for a hot minute so I’m terribly rusty. So, if this isn’t coherent oops. Also, if Mark is OOC just close one eye and keep reading hehe.

Inspired by @/tiramissyoucake and the anonymous asker who requested a short story of Reader hating Mark but loving Invincible!!! I like that idea very much so I’m stealing it for a moment >:)

#1, #2

WC: 1.6k

He should probably feel annoyed about the fact that this girl in his biology class seems to hate him with each fiber of her being for no reason—her eyes always hard with disdain and her mouth quick to shoot an insult whenever he did an action or said something she didn't like (which was basically anything, even breathing) but oddly enough, he didn’t.

She had transferred to his school before his powers kicked in and before his superhero alter ego, Invincible, was born. She was in a couple of his classes besides biology. On some occasion his eyes couldn’t help drifting to her, noting one or two things about her.

From what Mark could tell, she was quiet and kept to herself. You’d think that she was a hard-working student who was diligently taking notes with how she would pretend to type something important on her laptop, but he always quietly chuckled at the sight of her on some shady website reading an obscure comic.

He would quite literally watch her browse through comics with long titles and choose the most outrageous plot then shift her laptop away from the direction of other students as if people (aka him) behind her couldn’t clearly see what she was doing.

Oh, and in English class she would tuck her air pods in her ears and try to cover them with her hair—playing some sort of audio book or a YouTube video. Even though she would try and hide her reactions, Mark could tell whenever something amusing happened. The small quirk of her lips, how fast she would twirl her hair, and the slight sway of her body as she stared blanky at empty air while listening intently.

Also, you were a fan of shopping for clothes and accessories. Nearly every day he would notice a brand-new item or piece of clothing on her. It could be a new, shiny necklace that fits perfectly on her chest or a new jacket that was too neat to be old. She also shopped for cosmetics like perfume that smelled differently from the last and a new subtle shade of lipstick that was applied perfectly on her lips.

Though her spending habits didn’t go well with her checking account. Mark caught the girl pouting multiple times looking at her bank account that was a little bit too low for anyone’s liking, refreshing the screen as if the number would change.

...

Okay, maybe he took note of a little bit more than one or two things. Whatever, sue him.

But for some unexplained reason, this girl had serious hatred toward him. The type of hatred you’d think Mark did something absolutely horrible. Like, shooting her childhood pet or punching her elderly grandmother.

He never did any of those things or anything else. However, he must've done something to piss her off at some point to declare him public enemy #1.

“I’m going to throw acid at your face and make you blind if you don’t stop staring at me.”

“Nerds are usually smart, thanks for going against the stereotype.”

“I went to Loserville and the residents told me you were the mayor.”

“Wow, you killed that, Mark! … Next time make it yourself.”

It was insult after insult every time he interacted with her.

“Dude, why do you keep trying to talk to her? It ends the same way every time.” William deadpanned after he witnessed yet another verbal attack on Mark, you walking away without sparing a single glance back. “Don’t tell me your one of those guys who get off on that sort of thing.”

“No! No! Why would you suggest that?”

“You’re seriously asking me that?” He flatly replied, raising his brow. “That girl clearly hates your guts! Yet everyday you try to talk to her as if she didn’t tell you to kill yourself the other day.”

“Eh, more like every day.”

“See! Hates you!”

“Your right, William. I’ll stop trying to be friends with her…”

“Atta boy!”

“… soon.”

“Come on, man!”

Then, when Mark’s powers kicked in and he became Invincible—he got busy and stopped trying to talk to you. Not that he lost interest didn't want to get to know you, but so much things were happening.

His eyes still wandered to you in class, noticing that your hair looked different so that must mean you went to another shopping spree and got a new shampoo or conditioner and other things—but Mark was busy trying to be the best he could be so interactions with you stopped.

That was until he saved your life during an attack as Invincible.

Holding the civilian in his arms tightly as he landed down, small bits of debris on his shoulders as he let out a small huff, he shifted his gaze around to see if any other civilians needed his attention. “It was a good thing I caught you in time.” Mark smiled, his eyes blinking behind his goggles as he looked down at the person he was holding in his arms.

His eyes widened in shock (though you couldn’t tell because of the goggles) when he realized who he had just saved.

Holy shit, it’s you.

And fuck, why were you staring at him so cute? Your eyes that would stare at him with hatred were instead filled with adoration and admiration as your hands were basically trembling holding your phone to your chest.

“I—uh—wow—um,” His voice was caught in his throat, his breath hitching as he wasn’t used to this type of look on you. You stared at him like he was the only thing that mattered in the whole world, and Mark could feel his stomach flip flop as he averted his gaze. “Are, are you hurt?” He squeezed the words out his throat, looking back at your wide eyes that were still filled with that adoration.

“Yes! Yes! I’m perfectly fine now, Invincible! Thank you so much!” You happily yelped, suddenly wrapping your arms around his neck. You squeezed tight, practically burying your face as if he was oxygen and you were trying to fill your lungs.

The scent of your shampoo filled his nose, and he recognized that it was the same one you used on Tuesday. It smelled good.

Play it cool, play it cool.

“N-No problem, citizen!”

“You’re the best Invincible, thank you so much! Thank you!’ You pulled away from the grip you had on his neck, “I’m going to follow you home!”

“What?”

“I-I mean, I’m so indebted to you!” You squealed like a fangirl. Your cheeks were flushed a pretty pink, your whole body shaking from not the adrenaline of almost being killed but instead because of the excitement of Invincible holding you. “Ever since you made your debut as a hero, I’ve been such a huge fan of yours! And now you’re here and y-you saved me!”

… You’re a fan?

He carefully let you down on the floor, your legs catching yourself as he turned around to hide the fact that his cheeks were burning a deep shade of red. “Please, uh, evacuate! It’s not safe in this area—I have to go, s-sorry."

“Anything for you! Stay safe Invincible!”

And anything for him indeed because after that day, you were always decked out in school with some sort of Invincible merchandise attached to you. Keychains, stickers, shirts, nails themed after his suit, and more. Jesus, you even changed the wallpaper on your phone and laptop to pictures of him!

“Wow, you really like that Invincible guy.” Will whistled, pointing out the chibi Invincible phone charm that was attached to your phone case.

“Of course I do! He’s the best hero ever. The coolest guy and the most handsomest!” You whipped around, bursting in happiness at the mention of Invincible. “You would be an idiot not to like him.” You eyed Mark at the ‘idiot’ part, before turning back to Will. “I always liked him when he first appeared on the news, but oh my fucking God after he saved my life, I had to make my love for him public!”

“W-What does that mean?” Mark asked, intrigued.

“What it fucking means, dipshit. It’s obvious.” You hissed, turning to him, “What fan doesn’t have a shrine to their idol? Their one and only? Are you stupid?”

That was not obvious—wait shrine?

“I have photographs of him, official and fan made merch, posters—everything! He’s basically my husband at this point.” You swayed in your seat, your cheeks turning pink with how you were shamelessly gushing about him. You continued to ramble as Mark Grayson stared in disbelief, the girl who hates him loves him at the same time.

You love Invincible but hate Mark.

That made Mark feel… weird. There were butterflies in his stomach as he continued to stare at you and his chest felt a little heavy. He was upset, but not at you—which is odd because it should be towards you—but instead toward himself? Towards Invincible that you were so excited at the thought of his superhero alter ego instead of him.

Was he jealous... of himself?

"How much do you like him?" Mark asked quietly, tilting his head.

"I'll let him crack me open." You sighed dreamily without a second of hesitation, and Mark choked on his spit as soon as he heard that. "Also, correct yourself—I don't just like him, I love him. Now, go away and stop bothering me, loser." You turned around in your seat before he could say that Will was the one to bother you first, not him.

He continued to stare at the back of your head, dumbfounded at how you were a big Invincible fan. A big fan of him.

The urge to turn you around and tell you that he was Invincible was strong. Not because he wanted to rub it in your face that the guy you actively hate on was actually your favorite superhero but because he wanted you to stare at him with those big eyes of adoration toward Mark Grayson, not Invincible.

...

Jesus, what was wrong with him?

This is kinda bad but uh, I tried :P Goodnight I have to wake up at 6 am dfjndfnsj

#mark grayson #mark grayson x reader #reader insert #invincible x reader #fanfic #kinda cringe sorry yall #i tried #i'll do better next time #maybe maybe not #bonsubearwriting

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invincibledc · 3 months ago

Text

꩜ .ᐟ𝐌𝐲 𝐀𝐱𝐞

𐬺𖦹꧁🃏꧂𖦹𐬺

𝐉𝐀𝐂𝐊 𝐐𝐔𝐈𝐍𝐍 (𝐎𝐂) 𝐗 𝐁𝐀𝐓𝐒𝐈𝐒!𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐄𝐑

⊹ ࣪ ˖͙͘͡★ Summary: due to his momma Harley, his only guardian he trust, she gives some new weapons. And he knows the only person he wants to show them off to. His only special person.

⊹ ࣪ ˖͙͘͡★ Genre: crack fic(?)/fluff

⊹ ࣪ ˖͙͘͡★ Info: this is an OC I thought of cause I got bored. He’s the son of Harley Quinn and joker. Full name, Jacklyn Oswald Quinn. Reader is the twin sister of Damian, but Damian is the older twin of course. Im only a writer so you can imagine who he looks more like but all I can is he is handsome canonically in my head and anything. Boy’s crazy but handsome. Yea the title is inspired by ICP. I love ICP.

⊹ ࣪ ˖͙͘͡★ Word count: 1,307

Rushing downstairs, you barely glanced at Damian, who raised an eyebrow. “Where are you going, sister?” he asked, pausing his ascent to watch you closely.

“To hang out,” you replied flatly, ready to bolt. You knew he would push back, and you were right as he grabbed the back of your shirt.

“Don’t tell me. It’s that sociopath heir of the Joker,” Damian said, disappointment clear in his voice. “You know father wouldn’t be happy to know you’re seeing him.” He released your shirt, allowing you to fix it while he maintained a firm stance.

“Damian, I doubt Dad cares who I’m dating. Plus, Jack isn’t like Joker, and you know that” you shot back, narrowing your eyes and crossing your arms, mirroring his stance. You both stood there, locked in a standoff, neither willing to back down.

“I’m only looking out for my little sister. That’s my priority,” Damian said with unwavering intensity. You scoffed, throwing your arms up in exasperation.

“Dames, it’s not that serious. He lives with Harley, and you know she’s changed. Let it go.” His gaze softened slightly, signaling a tentative victory on your part.

“Fine. But you better call or text me when you reach her apartment,” he conceded.

“Alright, thanks! Bye, Bubba, love you!” You quickly hugged him and stepped out of the manor, accepting your jacket from Alfred. As Damian watched you leave, Alfred patted him on the back.

“I assume you’ve put the tracker in her jacket?”

“Of course Pennyworth,” Damian replied with a smirk before heading upstairs.

☆

The reason you were headed to see Jack was simple—Harley had gotten him new gadget weapons, and he was eager to show you how they worked. He had called you, practically yelling with excitement, his raspy voice cracking as he coughed before calming down.

You could have taken a ride with Alfred, but who would suspect anything ordinary with a fancy limousine pulling up to a regular apartment complex?

Upon arriving, you entered and pressed the buzzer. A buzz echoed, and you recognized that familiar rasp.

“Is that you, puddin’?” His Brooklyn accent came through, and you could hear his mother chuckling in the background.

“Hey, that’s Y/n to you, mister,” you teased. You heard him chuckle in response. “Yes ma’am,” he purred. “Come up so I can see you, babe.”

You hummed in agreement and stepped into the elevator, enduring the strange elevator music. When the elevator jolted slightly and stopped, you instinctively steadied yourself, arms outstretched like in a scene from Jurassic Park.

Once it opened, you made your way to Jack’s door. As you reached to knock, it swung wide, revealing the blonde-haired boy with blue eyes. He swept you up, spinning you around, and laughter spilled from your lips.

“Well, hello gorgeous,” he said in a low voice as he set you down, wrapping his arms around you.

“Hello, Jackie-boy.” You cupped his face, feeling him melt under your touch. Just as he leaned in to kiss you, Harley’s loud voice interrupted you both. Jack groaned while you couldn’t help but chuckle.

“C’mon, sweetie pie, I know you missed your little girlfriend. But no kissing in front of Mommy.” Jack’s eyes widened, his face flushing with embarrassment.

“Mom!” He released you and pushed Harley out of the living room. “Okay, maybe it’s time to tell Aunt Ivy about your new nails.” Harley glanced at her nails as she was pushed into her room.

“You’re so right!” She exclaimed, slamming the door behind her as Jack sighed dramatically.

“Alright,” he said, turning back to you with a smirk. “Now let’s get to work.”

☆

“Okay, this is my axe,” Jack announces confidently, swinging a striking black and red axe that perfectly matches Harley’s aesthetic. He sweeps it over his leftover, resting a hand on his hip with a smirk as you settle onto the couch. He sets down an array of weapons on the table: a hammer, cards, small balls, and clown noses.

“Oooh, so lumber Jack. What's your new name, the lumberjacker?” you tease with a sly smile hiding behind your hand.

“Very funny, babe. But no,” he retorts, swinging the axe with effortless precision, twirling it in the air before catching it and placing it down. “Besides, this hammer can pack a punch.”

As he says this, he glances your way with a mischievous spark, then grabs the hammer. “Here, hold it.” He extends it toward you. You raise an eyebrow, accepting the challenge, but as you grip the hammer, you instinctively yelp, feeling its weight pull you down.

“Th-this is heavy!” you exclaim, glancing up at his smug expression. “Of course, it’s customized to my hand. It’s like phone touch ID,” he retorts, effortlessly lifting the hammer from your hands. He swings it behind his back, arms wrapped around the wooden shaft.

“And it’s inspired by my ma’s old tools,” he states proudly, placing it down next to the axe. He picks up the cards while you return to your seat, brushing your hands off and watching him keenly.

“Isn't that the same set of cards that explode?” you challenge, pointing at them. Jack chuckles, his voice resonating with amusement. “Nah, they blow smoke. If I find myself in a tight spot, I just toss these down and disappear.”

You hum in amusement, and Jack's smile widens at your reaction. “That’s right. I’d test them out, but my momma warned me against it,” he adds, setting them down beside the small white balls. “You know, because of the smoke detector,” he finishes, glancing at the clown noses with curiosity. You pointed with your head at it.

“What’s up with these? Looks like you’re becoming a real clown boy, Quinn,” you remark with a smirk.

“Oh please, these?” He scoffs in mock disdain. “They’re just bombs. I throw them, they stick, and BOOM!” he exclaims loudly, demonstrating the action with his hands, making you chuckle despite yourself.

You shift your focus to the balls. “So what’s the deal with those?” you inquire, pointing at the small, innocent-looking objects.

“Oh, those?” He scoops them up and begins juggling effortlessly, grinning as he spins around to face you. “These are flashbangs the size of ping pong balls.” He throws you a smirk reminiscent of that viral TikTok emoji.

“Wow, so creative,” you clap sarcastically, barely suppressing a grin. Jack frowns before blowing a raspberry at you. “Jeez, babe, so cold—colder than Mr. Freeze. But whatever,” he says, placing the balls down and moving closer to you on the couch.

He plops himself down beside you, pulling you closer until your thighs touch, his arm encircling your back. “I’m really glad you came over. I thought I’d have to drag you out another way,” he says softly, leaning in closer.

You lean in, feeling the chemistry crackle between you. His hand glides down to your waist, giving it a decisive squeeze. Your breaths intertwine as you gaze into his blue eyes, which soften before he closes them. You mirror his action, drawing closer…

“HEY!”

You and Jack jump apart, landing on opposite sides of the couch as Harley appears between you, phone pressed to her ear, her expression a mix of determination and mischief.

“Hey, kid, mind if I feed you some mac n cheese?” Harley asks, her raised brow demanding a response.

“Uhh… no?” you reply with a shrug, watching as her frown disappears. “Awesome! Won’t take long,” she says, striding away while you catch snippets of Poison Ivy’s voice from the other room. “I know, right?! How could she even say that when she’s on her fourth husband?!” Harley exclaims as she heads to the kitchen.

Jack sighs, covering his face with a hand, lost in thought. You glance at him, sensing his frustration.

When will he finally get the uninterrupted time alone with you that he craves?

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sailortongue · 1 year ago

Text

Lima Bean

pairing: kenji sato x reader

summary: kenji makes his intentions clear and a certain reporter is a little too committed to his job

an: ik the title is kinda dumb but bear with me i have an idea (title is still subject to change if the idea falls through). also tags are being kind of silly and I don't know how to get them to act right so if you asked to be tagged but didn't get notified I swear I tried 😭

wc: 2k

navi | prev | series mlist

--------

“I’m pregnant.”

Those two words changed Kenji’s entire demeanor in seconds. His face dropped and his jaw hung open in complete disbelief. “. . . Are you sure?” He asked.

“Positive test, missed period, morning sickness,” you listed off. “I’m going to make an OBGYN appointment anyway just to be 100% sure, but so far yeah I’m pretty sure.”

“Ah,” was all he could say in response, his mind both blank and racing at the same time. Had he really not used protection? Was he that drunk? He tried to think back to that night, but all he could seem to remember was a flash of you under him and his lips on your neck. His face immediately flushed scarlet.

“Are you angry?” You asked, noticing the rapid shift in his complexion.

He rushed to deny your assumption. “No! No, nothing like that. I'm just . . . not sure what to make of this.”

“I know how you feel,” you said wryly. “Just thought you should know, I guess.” You shrugged your shoulders, feeling almost hollow inside with the knowledge that your life was about to undergo a drastic change.

“I appreciate it, thank you. If you don’t mind, uh,” he hesitated, searching for the right words. “I'd like to be present. To be a father.” He thought back to when he took care of Emi and how much he came to love her. He was confident in his ability to take care of his own biological child, even if these weren’t the circumstances in which he imagined he’d have one.

You looked at him as if you were meeting him for the very first time, entirely taken aback by his willingness to step up. Truthfully you'd expected him to deny any responsibility, but there he was, asking to raise the baby alongside you—to step up to the metaphorical plate and be a dad. “Really? And you’re not going to leave at the first inconvenience?”

“No. You have my word on that.” His expression was one of utmost sincerity. “I want to be a dad. Granted, this isn’t how I expected it,” he laughed awkwardly, “but it’s how it happened, and I won't run away from it.”

You gave him a soft smile. “I'll be honest, I didn't expect you to be so noble.”

“Thought I’d tell you to get rid of it or just throw a check at you to never contact me again? I understand the concern, but I want to be there every step of the way.”

“Then, would you like to come with me for my appointment? I haven’t scheduled it yet but . . .” you trailed off, realizing you were asking a very busy man to take time out of his day to accompany you to a doctor's appointment. “Unless of course you’re busy or don’t want to,” you added quickly.

He laughed at how flustered you’d gotten. “I'll be there. No matter the weather, practice, or a game, I will be there. That’s my kid you’ve got in there after all,” he said with a broad grin on his face as he pointed to your abdomen. “And that takes priority over everything else.”

“Wow. You’re smitten with something that’s probably the size of a lima bean right now,” you teased.

“Woah now, that’s our lima bean and I’m going to be the best dad a bean could wish for,” he asserted, imagining teaching his future son or daughter to play baseball with him or helping with homework, even what it would be like to do his daughter’s hair, or perhaps teaching his son how to tie a tie.

He was snapped from his thoughts when you slid your phone towards him from across the table, the screen displaying a new contact. “If we're going to be coparenting we should have each other's numbers.”

He picked up the device to input his number and then checked his own phone. He showed you the screen, a message from your own number displayed there.

It was only when he handed your phone back to you that you noticed how late it had already become. “Oh wow, I didn’t realize the time. I didn't mean to keep you so late,” you apologized.

“No no, it’s fine. I'm glad you, or, Ami, I guess, insisted we have this conversation in person. Think if I had been told over text I’d still be sitting on the couch reading it over and over again,” he laughed.

“That was how I felt looking at the test. It didn’t feel real.” You had a smile that mirrored his own, and you couldn’t believe how fortunate you were that Kenji wasn’t the douche you expected he’d be when he found out. Quite the opposite, to your pleasant surprise.

“Do you need a ride back home?” He asked earnestly, not quite ready to say bye. After all, you hadn’t allowed him the chance the last time you had met.

You shook your head as you stood from the table. “No, I drove here, but thanks anyway. I guess I'll keep in touch?”

He hummed in affirmation, standing from his chair, his impressive height towering over you. He gestured for you to walk first, following close behind you, his hand lightly pressed to your lower back as he walked with you to your car. While the two of you were wishing each other good night, another patron of the cafe was typing furiously into his phone, notifying his boss that he had just overheard the sport's world's juiciest scandal in months.

-❀-

The first thing you did the following day was schedule an appointment with an obstetrician. There had been a recent cancellation so you were able to get a slot in just a few days. You sent Kenji a text to notify him when and where, a small part of you looking forward to seeing him again. He responded quickly, saying he would definitely be there.

When the day came, he called you to ask if you wanted to go together, rather than take two cars. You agreed and told him your address, choosing to wait for him inside due to the biting cold of December. When you heard a car pull up, you exited your home, and it took all of your willpower not to gawk at his car, which was probably worth more than your entire house. You saw the driver's door begin to open, and he stepped out, breathtakingly handsome as usual. He pushed his sunglasses on top of his head and waved, greeting you with a jovial “Morning!”

“Good morning, Kenji,” you returned, a smile gracing your features.

As you approached the car, he slid back into the driver's seat and looked over at you, taking in the sight of the mother of his future child. He'd lain awake all night, playing with the idea over and over in his mind. He was really going to be a dad. How different could it be to raise a human baby if he’d already done so with a 20-foot-tall kaiju baby?

You noticed his gaze in your peripheral vision, but as you turned to look at him he snapped his attention forward and made himself busy with inputting the name of the doctor’s office you’d given him into the GPS.

The ride was filled with pleasant small talk, asking each other how you had been since last time, basically avoiding the elephant in the room and talking about everything except the new life between you. After parking, he made sure to open the door to the office for you and entered after you, a rush of cold air enveloping you as you approached the front desk. You confirmed your appointment with the receptionist, and she directed the two of you to sit in the waiting room and told you your name would be called when the doctor was ready.

As you were waiting, you noticed Kenji’s leg bouncing up and down rapidly, showing his nerves despite it not even being his appointment. You took the opportunity that had presented itself and placed your hand atop his knee. He looked over at you, his brown eyes wide and his lips pressed into a thin line. “You can wait in the car if you’d prefer—“

“No!” He all but shouted, refusing to let you believe for even one second that he would run out. “I said I would be here for you and I will,” he said adamantly, placing his hand over yours where it was still on his knee and squeezing tightly, a physical reassurance that we was staying put.

“y/n l/n.” You heard your name called. You and Kenji stood together, his hand not releasing yours. Instead, he rubbed calming circles on the skin as you were escorted into the patient rooms, though you weren’t entirely sure if it was meant to ease his nerves or yours. Either way, it was a sweet gesture.

-❀-

The gel was cold as it was spread across your exposed skin, sending shivers up your spine. A grainy black and white image showed up on the screen, and the doctor pointed to a small grey object depicted on it, surrounded by a sea of black. “This,” she started, “is the fetus.” You looked at the screen in awe before glancing over at Kenji. He was seated in a chair against the wall, his elbows braced on his knees as he leaned forward, his attention rapt on the screen and his lips open in a small “o” shape.

The doctor chuckled at your amazed reactions. “Excited to be parents?” She asked.

You don’t think Kenji even heard her, so you answered. “To be totally honest, this was unexpected, but I think we can make it work. Kenji here made it very clear that he wants to be a dad.”

“That's wonderful to hear. Well, looking at the scan I'd say you’re about 7 weeks along and you can expect to welcome the baby around August 11.

Kenji was practically bubbling as you each took your seats in the car, and he kept stealing glances at your tummy even if you weren’t showing any visible change yet.

-❀-

These past few days of tailing the nation's sweetheart baseball player were so worth it, thought the man sitting in his car while browsing through the photos of Kenji Sato and a woman he’d never been seen with before entering and leaving an OBGYN facility together. Interesting. Very interesting. With those photos there was no denying that Kenji Sato, baseball heartthrob, was a soon-to-be father.

-❀-

Kenji put the car in park in your driveway. You made to get out of the car until he exclaimed “Wait!” You re-situated yourself on the seat, angling yourself towards him. He seemed almost at war with himself, like he wasn’t sure if he wanted to actually say what had prompted him to stop you from leaving. “Would you, uh,” he faltered, chuckling awkwardly. “Would you like to go on a date with me?” He gave you a hopeful look.

Heat flushed across your face and ears, and you beamed at him. “Doing things way out of order aren’t we?” You joked.

He laughed mirthfully as well. “Way out of order,” he agreed. “So, was that a yes? To go out?”

“Yes, that was a yes,” you giggled, finding his eagerness endearingly sweet.

He nodded his head. “Ok. Ok, great. Are you free this Saturday? I'll pick you up?”

“I’ll see you then,” you agreed cheerfully, and, deciding to take another risk since you were doing things all out of order anyway, you leaned over and placed a quick peck against his cheek before hopping out of the car and waving goodbye. He continued to wait in the car until he saw you safely enter your home, his heart threatening to beat out of his chest and his face crimson red, one hand placed lightly against where your lips had touched his skin.

----------

taglist: @mochminnie @lovingyeet @sassy-cat-in-town @hanachiiii @aise-30 @reivelmin @fcheung750 @breaddippedinorangejuice @lunaryasha @imsimping4life @boomboom-tanjiro2019 @f1uveryysblog @random-3455 @b3e-sat0 @retaaaa56 @casualburning

#ken sato x reader #kenji sato x reader #ken sato #kenji sato #ultraman rising #ultraman rising x reader

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cleo-fox · 5 months ago

Text

Conquer

Part 3 of 5

Series Masterlist

Series Summary: The king intends to take a bride. You just never thought it would be you. (Soulmate AU where Loki won)

Chapter Summary: Loki proposes a challenge and your plan goes very awry.

Pairing: Loki x Female Reader

Tag List: I don’t have a tag list for this fic, sorry! The best way to hear about updates is to follow me on Tumblr or subscribe to the fic on AO3.

Chapter Warnings: Smut, 18+, Minors DNI, enemies to lovers, dirty talk, praise kink, edging, teasing, p in v sex, vaginal fingering, orgasm delay, semi-public sex, light Dom/sub, light bondage, sex toys, oral sex (see series masterlist for series warnings)

A/N: Woof, sorry for the delay on this chapter. It was surprisingly challenging to write and it took me a minute to figure it out. But it's here! Lemme know what you think!

Loki only calls you ‘wife’ when he has sex on his mind—he knows it gets you riled up.

He doesn’t usually break it out at the breakfast table, though.

“I’ve noticed something, wife.” His eyes are glittering in a way that always signals he’s up to no good.

You cross one leg over the other and try to keep your expression neutral, even as your stomach jumps and your heart beats just a little faster. “What’s that?”

His gaze sweeps along your legs, the corner of his mouth twitching like he has a direct line to your thoughts. “You are an enthusiastic participant in our marital relations, but you rely entirely on me to initiate them.”

He waits a beat and your stomach drops. In retrospect, it was a bit silly to think he wouldn’t notice this. Loki always notices.

“Now, why is that?” he continues.

It’s a question that you don’t particularly want to answer. You suspect that he knows this, based on the laughter dancing in his eyes.

You clear your throat. “Maybe it’s because you unironically use phrases like ‘marital relations.’”

He taps a finger against his lips. “Interesting deflection.”

“It’s not a deflection.”

“You forget, my love, that I am the god of lies.”

You press your lips together and take a sip of water. “Have you considered that it’s maybe a little challenging being the soulmate of the guy who took over the planet?”

You expect him to be angry: you don’t expect the spectacular eye roll or the exaggerated sigh. “Are you really still upset about that?”

You raise your eyebrows. “Are you really going to pretend it wasn’t a big deal?”

“You can’t deny that things are much improved under my rule.” The way he says this suggests that he’s had a version of this conversation before. “Surely you’ve seen the statistics.”

“I’ve read your propaganda, yes,” you say, idly poking your fork at the fruit on your plate.

He scowls. “It’s not propaganda, it’s verifiable facts—”

“Conveniently hand-picked by your PR team. That’s kind of telling, if you ask me.”

He takes a deep breath, like he’s about to go into a lengthy monologue that he’s tired of having to recite, but as he looks at your face, his expression slowly changes from annoyed to something more amused. “You’re goading me.”

You shrug. “I’m just calling it as I see it.”

“Lies do not become you, wife.” His expression is sharp, but there’s a hungry kind of approval in his gaze that makes your stomach flip.

“I rather think you’re enjoying yourself, your majesty.”

You’ve only ever used his title sparingly—it’s his equivalent of calling you “wife” and it’s generally a surefire way to ensure that you end your conversation either underneath or on top of him.

For a moment, it seems like one of those outcomes might be in your immediate future—there’s a familiar glitter of hunger in his eyes as his gaze drops again to your legs.

He licks his lips. “One of these days, I will put you over my knee and punish you the way that you deserve.”

An electric kind of desire crackles through you as you contemplate the logistics of letting him fuck you on the breakfast table.

“But not today.”

Your gaze snaps immediately to his. He smirks like he knows that you were expecting this conversation to go in a very different direction.

“Today I’d like to propose a little experiment,” he continues.

You regard him warily. “What sort of experiment?”

“As I mentioned earlier, the burden of initiating our physical relations has fallen entirely on me.” He takes a sip of his water. “I am putting that burden on you for today.”

“So, what—we’re not having sex unless I start it?”

“Precisely. And you’re going to have to tell me exactly what you want in order to get it.”

Your heart pounds hard against your ribs, but you try to look completely unaffected as desire and annoyance wage yet another war inside you. “And what if I don’t feel like playing your stupid games?”

“You will.” He says it confidently as he glances at the clock. “I’ve business to attend to.” His smile is entirely too sharp as he rises from his chair. “I trust you’ll keep yourself occupied.”

You bite back a scowl as he leaves you alone with your thoughts and a dull, persistent ache throbbing between your legs.

The trouble is that initiating sex means admitting you want him.

Granted, you have begged for him many times during sex. But it’s one thing to admit that you want him when he’s been edging you for the better part of an hour; it's something else to admit to wanting him without that specific kind of pressure as a motivating factor. It requires acknowledging a vulnerability, something you are all too reluctant to do around Loki.

At first, you think you’ll just give up sex for the day. Worst case scenario: there’s no sex. Slightly better case scenario: he gives in out of sheer desperation and you get to have sex without admitting you want him. The second scenario seems most likely—if you had to pit your sex drive against his, you would wager that his is higher. It’s simple. Easy.

Later, you will acknowledge that this was perhaps slightly delusional on your part.

The fact that you didn’t really take into account is that your body is expecting sex. You’ve been getting it on the daily—often multiple times in one day—since your wedding. It probably should have occurred to you that quitting cold turkey would not go well.

Unfortunately, that seems to be a lesson that the universe is determined to make you learn through experience.

It’s early afternoon when you start to realize that you’re going to need a different plan. The dull ache between your legs has not abated and has instead turned into the kind of specific ache that you know you’re not going to be able to take care of on your own.

And if this were any other time, Loki probably would have already found some way to get you alone and mostly undressed—his ability to pick up on these moods of yours is keen to an inconvenient degree.

But there’s no sign of him today.

You pace your room for a while. The ache between your legs persists and you know if you don’t do something about it, it’s only going to get worse.

A plan slowly emerges in the heady haze of your slowly increasing desire. You could probably goad him into getting you off once or twice—enough to bring your desire to something more manageable. It wouldn’t be the same as sex, so you wouldn’t be admitting to any kind of vulnerability and it would clear your head enough to give you time to figure out the rest of the day.

Later, you will acknowledge that this was a very poorly thought out plan and doomed to failure from the start. Right now, though, it seems like a fine idea.

You put on a dress that you know he likes—a flowing green thing that clings to your breasts and hips in an appealing way. You don’t bother with underwear.

You’re not quite sure where he’s meeting or who’s in attendance, but that doesn’t worry you too much. You’ve found that your new status means that people don’t often question you, which makes it relatively easy to wander wherever you’d like.

You find him eventually in one of the rooms on the first floor, accompanied by an array of important looking people that you don’t recognize. His gaze finds you almost immediately, though he waits for a break in the conversation to address you.

“Darling, what a surprise.” The glimmer in his eyes tells you it is not at all a surprise.

“Sorry to interrupt.” You give the others an apologetic smile before glancing back at Loki. “I need to speak with you privately when you have a moment.”

“Of course, my love.” His eyes darken just a shade and your cunt pulses in a kind of answer. “Wait for me in the library and I’ll be with you shortly.”

You give him a perfunctory smile and stalk off to the library just a few doors down.

You can feel the slickness building between your legs, the muscles of your cunt flexing and aching in a blend of need and anticipation. There’s a couch by the window—that will suit your purposes well enough. You sit down and wait, fidgeting with the skirt of your dress.

You expect him to draw it out as long as possible, but he must be just as eager as you are because he strolls into the room five minutes later.

“What troubles you, darling?” His voice is gently mocking, his expression infuriatingly smug. He knows exactly why you’re here.

“Shut up,” you say through gritted teeth. “You know why I’m here, so let’s make it quick.”

“Oh, that’s not what we agreed on,” he purrs, eyes darkening with want as he approaches you. “You have to tell me what you want.”

As soon as he’s near enough, you tug him down to the couch and straddle his lap, guiding his hand up your skirt to your bare cunt. “I want you to make me come.”

You’re hoping that your boldness and lack of underwear will throw him off enough that he won’t notice that you’re being intentional with your wording and leaving yourself a very tidy out.

“Oh, darling, you’re soaking.” He drags his fingers along the length of your cunt, carefully circling your clit. “Poor thing, no wonder you’re so needy.”

You sigh, your hips rolling with his hand. “More.”

“Needy and greedy,” he muses, sliding a finger inside you as his thumb continues working your clit. “I love it when you’re like this.”

He pulls you into a deep kiss, tongue pressing into your mouth, tangling with yours. You moan, rocking your hips against his hand as he slips a second finger inside you.

“You need me, don’t you?” he breathes against your lips. “No one else makes you feel like this. Even when you touch yourself, your fingers can’t quite reach this little spot the way I can.” His fingers curl, pressing hard against that soft, aching spot that has been throbbing all day. You keen, fingernails digging into the leather on his shoulders as your hips grind against his hand.

“Yes, just like that,” you gasp.

“You need me so badly that you can’t even manage a full day without my touch.” His thumb presses just a little harder on your clit. “And interrupting a meeting of global importance to beg me to fuck you in the library where anyone might walk in—”

You’re entering the final stretch right before your orgasm and you can tell that it’s going to be good—the pressure inside you is too intense for it not to be.

And then Loki decides to up the ante.

“It just goes to show how much of a slut you are for my cock.”

It’s like trying to douse a fire with gasoline.

Loki’s fingers curl again and your mouth goes slack as you let out a low whimper.

“I know that noise.” His smile is hungry. “You’re about to come for me.”

You nod, rolling your hips in time with the wave that’s rising within you.

“Let me hear you.” He leans in and nips sharply at your earlobe. “Scream for me.”

It’s like being hit by a hurricane. You are dimly aware that you’re moaning loud enough to be heard unless he’s been a gentleman and cast a silencing spell on the room, but your capacity to care about anything other than the euphoria flooding your entire nervous system is somewhere below zero.

“Such a good girl,” he purrs, as he works you through it. “So fucking filthy,”

You’d intended to make your exit quickly, but you didn’t bank on how good his fingers would feel or how easily he’d be able to coax you to another orgasm. You claw desperately at his chest, and he gives you a self-satisfied smirk.

“What? Another one so soon?” he says, his brow furrowing in mock concern. “Is your poor little cunt really so needy?”

“Don’t stop.” Your voice comes out in a whine, but you don’t care. You can’t care about anything other than the rising pressure in your hips and the way your clit is thrumming with pleasure.

“Oh, I’m not going to stop until I’ve thoroughly claimed this sweet cunt.”

“Yes. Fuck.” You hold your breath as your orgasm makes its final ascent.

“That’s it.” His eyes are shining. “Come for me.”

The second one hits you just as hard and then blends almost seamlessly into a third that makes stars burst behind your eyelids and your thighs tremble. You lean into him, gasping and panting as he murmurs more filthy praise in your ear.

But you snap back to reality when he reaches for the buttons of your dress. You need to move quickly if you want your plan to work and you know that if he manages to get his cock out, it’s all over for you.

“Shall I take you on the desk?” He slips the first button, staring greedily at the exposed skin. “Or against that window?”

Both options sound too appealing, but you’re not going to tell him that. You reluctantly pull away from him and stand on legs that are much too wobbly. Remember the plan. Focus.

For once in his life, Loki looks a little baffled.

“Well,” you say, making a rather sad attempt to straighten your dress. “Would you look at the time.”

His eyes narrow almost immediately. “What are you playing at?”

“Nothing,” you say brightly. “I just didn’t realize it was so late and I don’t want to keep you from your meeting.”

He catches on right away—you can tell from the glint in his eyes and the slight twitch of his lips. He seems conflicted about how he feels about it, though, which you’re not expecting. There’s annoyance, certainly—that was always a given—but there’s also a kind of hungry delight, almost like you’d surprised him a little.

Almost like he finds it…attractive.

You weren’t expecting that at all.

He stands slowly, his gaze traveling shamelessly up and down your body, bringing still more slickness to your cunt.

“You may come to regret this little stunt, my love.” His voice is deadly soft and you’re reminded suddenly of a shark considering his prey. “I don’t like to be kept waiting.”

“Perhaps you should have negotiated more favorable terms this morning.” Your voice is calm and cool, but there’s an inferno of desire blazing inside you.

“I think I will particularly enjoy silencing that smart mouth later tonight,” he says, eyeing the open button on your dress.

“If I allow it.” You smile sweetly at him as his expression darkens even further. “After all, you did put that burden on me for today, your majesty. And I did only say that I wanted you to make me come, which you have.”

The look that he gives you is lustful in a way you’ve never seen from him before. Your cunt clenches tightly around nothing and suddenly the relief that you’d just found from his fingers doesn’t seem anywhere near enough.

And if you don’t get out of here soon, your entire plan will go up in flames in favor of riding his cock until you both collapse.

“I’ll take my leave,” you say, buttoning your dress.

His gaze trails possessively over your body. “Yes, you’ll want to rest up—I suspect you’ll be begging me to claim my prize by the time I return to our rooms.”

“We’ll see.” There’s no conviction in your voice and you can tell that he hears it, so you turn quickly on your heel and leave with a mumbled goodbye before he can convince you to change your mind.

This entire episode has given you new insight into why Loki is like this as his default. The control is heady and intoxicating and your head fizzes like you’ve drunk too much champagne. You feel sexy and desirable. Powerful. You think of him quietly stewing away in his meeting downstairs, plagued by thoughts of you and trying to hide it from the others. You think of him storming upstairs, control fraying, his cock rock hard and aching for you. You think about what he’ll do to you as payback for leaving him wanting.

The entire purpose of this exercise was to find an outlet for your arousal and clear your head; instead, you find that you’re hornier than you were before the library.

Your entire plan has failed rather spectacularly, but you can’t convince yourself to be mad about it.

The hours pass slowly. You’re not sure if he’s intentionally delaying his return or if he’s genuinely busy—either way, it does you no favors. You try reading, but you end up rereading the same paragraph and thinking about sex instead of following the story. As afternoon fades into evening, you undress and don a silk robe. The fabric whispers against your skin, only heightening your arousal.

The sun is almost fully set when you hear the door open and the heavy tread of familiar boots on the floor. You stay seated on the couch, staring out the floor to ceiling window, waiting.

“I suppose you think you’re very clever.”

Goosebumps spring up along the column of your spine. His voice is low and stern, his presence already commanding. Slickness floods your cunt in anticipation. You slowly turn to face him, your chin tilted up in slight defiance.

“I consider it appropriate payback for the gala,” you say.

He raises an eyebrow as he continues to walk closer. “And do you recall how hard you came after the gala?”

You mirror his skeptical expression. “Then wouldn’t I be doing you a favor by teasing you like this if it means you come harder later?”

The look he gives you is intoxicating. “You are disobedient and impertinent.”

You smirk. “And you love it.”

“Not as much as I love putting you back in line.”

You stand and walk toward him, stopping a few inches away. “Then why don’t you?”

He chuckles low in his throat. “You know that’s not what we agreed to, my love. The move is yours.”

Privately, you’re delighted that he seems prepared to continue to play the game.

“I didn’t take you to be so passive,” —you pause and lick your lips— “your majesty.”

Perhaps more extraordinary than the fire in his eyes is his stillness—save for the tight clench of his jaw and his sharp intake of breath, he is completely motionless as his eyes tell the story of a man who is barely holding himself back from his greatest desire.

“I’m a man of my word,” he says, finally.

You huff out a soft laugh. “Are you?” You lick your lips. “Perhaps I should test that.”

You pull the sash of your robe and let it fall from your shoulders to your feet in a heap. You stand in front of him, completely naked. His eyes devour you and his fingers flex against his thighs like he’s barely holding back from touching you.

“Still a man of your word?” you ask, your eyes wide and innocent.

The muscle in his jaw twitches. “Yes.”

You nod thoughtfully. “I see.”

And then you slowly sink to your knees.

You look up at him with wide eyes. “What about now?”

“Yes.” There’s a dark rasp in his voice and his fingers are tensed like claws against his thighs.

You’re getting to him. You love it.

You take your time undoing his trousers, letting your fingers graze against the hard length of his erection whenever the opportunity presents itself. You almost feel a little bad when you finally free his cock—he is desperately hard, the flushed and engorged tip already slick with precome.

“Oh, have you been like this all afternoon?” you say casually. “Poor thing.”

“Watch your tone,” he says sharply.

“I suppose that was rather inconsiderate of me to just leave you like that,” you muse, taking his cock in your hand and reveling in his sharp exhale and the way he throbs hot and hard as you begin to stroke him. “I didn’t realize you’d be so hard.”

“You are playing with fire, my love.” His voice is rough and husky with wanting.

“I don’t think it’s wrong to make you work for it.”

“You would dare to give orders to a king?”

You raise your eyebrows. “Am I not your queen?”

“My queen does not command me.”

Early on, you might have been intimidated by the hunger in his eyes and the sternness in his voice, but now you can’t help but find it arousing. Somewhere along the way, pushing him to his limit became like a drug and now you can’t get enough.

“And why not, your majesty?” you say, gently squeezing his shaft as you stroke him. “You tease me like this all the time. Isn't it only fair for me to have a turn?”

“I don’t need to justify myself. I’m king.” He says this with authority, but you can tell he’s fighting to keep his expression neutral. There’s a catch in his voice and his eyes flutter shut for a moment as his hips rock into your hand.

You look up at him again. “Perhaps you ought to,” you say. “Seeing as I’m currently holding your fate in my hands.”

He gives you a smirk that is entirely too confident for your liking. “I think you’re underestimating my resilience.”

You bring your lips up to the head of his cock, letting the very tip of your tongue brush against it. He inhales sharply.

“Am I?” you say, punctuating the question with a second featherlight kiss against his cock. “I’m not sure that you’ve considered all the tools I have at my disposal.”

He stares down at you imperiously and you return his look with wide, innocent eyes as you part your lips and take him into your mouth, slowly swirling your tongue around the head of his cock in a way that you know he enjoys. His fingers flex against his thighs and you hum as the sharp taste of his precome glides over your tongue.

“You are a wicked, disobedient tease,” he growls, one hand sliding down to cradle the back of your head. “And you don’t even care, do you? You just want to get those pretty lips around my cock.”

You draw back slightly to look up at him. “You could stand to be more flattering if you want me to let you come in my mouth.”

He chuckles, eyes darkening with want. “Is it not flattering to say that your mouth makes me forget myself?”

You press a kiss to the tip of his cock, letting your tongue flick against it, but not quite bringing him back into your mouth. “It’s a start.”

“You don’t know what effect you have on me, do you?” His hand strokes your cheek as you continue lazily kissing his cock.

“You certainly do your best to act annoyed with me.”

He laughs, a low, throaty sound. “Oh, half the fun of these little games are your attempts to outwit me. Chaos and schemes only add to my power, but when you are the perpetrator?” He gives you a long, hungry look. “That makes me rock hard.”

Your breath catches slightly as you stroke your tongue over the tip of his cock. “Keep talking.”

“I spent the rest of that meeting driven to utter distraction because I could not stop thinking about how good it was going to feel to sink my cock into your dripping cunt.”

You gently suck the tip of his cock into your mouth and release it.

“And then I come back here and you mouth off at me, strip, and get on your knees to suck my cock.” He hisses slightly as you tease the head of his cock with the very tip of your tongue.

“Are you going to beg for me, Loki?” You press a soft kiss against his cock.

“A god doesn’t beg,” he says hoarsely.

“But you could,” you say softly, teasing the tip of his cock again.

“You may force me to reconsider that notion, yes.”

“Do you want me to suck your cock, Loki?” you ask in that same soft voice. “Do you want to come in my mouth?”

There’s a beat of silence. “Yes.”

You intended to hold out for longer, but you didn’t expect him to say…well, any of that, really. And the other, less convenient reality is that your ability to deny yourself the pleasure of his body and touch is eroding well past the point of resistance. You’ve waited long enough. You want him.

You take his cock fully into your mouth and begin to move.

Loki groans, his eyes half lidded and lips parted as he looks down at you. “Fuck, you’re divine. I’m going to worship your cunt after this.”

You moan on his cock, widening your legs slightly. You slip your fingers between your legs, letting your index finger roll against your aching clit.

Loki stares down at you with a renewed hunger. “Are you touching yourself?”

You moan an affirmative, your fingers moving faster on your clit as you suck harder on his cock.

“Filthy girl.” His hand grips the back of your head, his hips jerking slightly. “After this, I’m going to make you come harder than you did after the gala. I’m going to make you come so hard you forget your own name.”

You moan again on his cock, flicking your tongue over the tip on every upstroke, making his grip on your head tighten. Your jaw starts to ache after a few minutes, but the little noises he’s making are so worth it. Your cunt keeps getting slicker and slicker under your fingers and you feel yourself starting to edge closer to your own end.

“Fuck.” Loki is panting, his composure completely lost. “If you keep—fuck—I’m so fucking close—”

You could be cruel and make him wait, but he’s so beautiful with his head thrown back and his green eyes fluttering shut against the wave of pleasure you’re building for him that you can’t help but want to give him everything. You hollow your cheeks and take him as deep as you can.

His hand tightens against your scalp and he groans deeply as his hot release fills your mouth. You swallow it greedily, slowing to a halt.

The moment you take your mouth off his cock, he’s pulling you to your feet and holding you flush against him, his mouth covering yours in a deep and slow kiss.

Something about kissing him seems to emphasize the building need of your own body. “Fuck me, Loki.” You breathe your plea against his lips, twining your fingers in his hair. “I need you.”

To his credit, he only smirks a little before sweeping you into his arms and carrying you purposefully toward the bed.

He sets you down on the bed and you expect him to follow you immediately, pressing his body against yours. Instead, invisible bonds curl around your wrists and ankles, gently tugging until you’re spread eagled on the bed. You barely repress a shiver as he kneels next to you. He means business and historically, that’s always ended quite well for you.

There’s a flash of green and a slim vibrator materializes in his hands. He runs the head of it gently along your exposed cunt, pausing just above your clit.

And it’s not until you feel the same invisible bonds wind around your hips to hold the vibrator in place that you realize that this is not going the way you thought.

As though he can read your thoughts, Loki glances at the clock. “Oh, dear, is that really the time?” he says lazily, his mouth curling into a sly smile.

“You wouldn’t,” you say, your heart pounding hard because of course he would.

“I’m afraid I can’t miss this meeting. Shouldn’t be more than an hour, though.”

“Loki—”

He clicks his fingers and the vibrator hums to life, close enough to your clit to stoke the flames of desire, but not close or strong enough to get you over the edge.

“I hate you,” you groan, rocking your hips up, searching for relief. “You are the worst.”

“Oh, I certainly hope your attitude improves by the time I return,” he tuts as he tucks his cock back into his trousers. “It’d be a shame if you had to wait even longer.”

“You said you liked it when I tried to outwit you.”

He chuckles, leaning in close enough to kiss you. “I do. I like seeing how clever you are and I love carrying out consequences.”

You scowl. “You’re awful.”

He smirks and kisses you, drawing back before you can try to pull him deeper. “Be good. I’ve heard that good things come to those who wait.”

“Loki—”

He casts one last smug look at you before turning on his heel and leaving the room.

He’s gone for a little over an hour, but it feels like an eternity.

The vibrator is enough to keep you wet and aching, but not enough to get you off. The bonds are comfortable, but there doesn’t seem to be any give that would allow you to wiggle out or adjust the vibrator, no matter how much you writhe against the mattress. Sometimes, the intensity seems to increase just slightly and you thrust your hips forward, trying to get more, only to have it diminish just as quickly.

It’s agonizing, certainly, but you know that the payoff is going to be nothing short of spectacular. And privately…you kind of like it, though you’ll never admit that to him.

You’re not quite sure if you should act relieved or annoyed when Loki returns, so you end up settling on a strange combination of both when the door finally clicks open and he walks in smirking.

“Well,” he says far too brightly for your liking, “have you learned your lesson?”

“Yeah, to check your schedule before I try something like that again,” you say before you can really think it through.

He tuts, lips pursing as he frowns. “Ooh, there’s that attitude again. Shall I leave you for another hour?”

You shut your mouth and look away, not quite able to hide your scowl. “No.”

He chuckles. “I thought so.”

He sits down on the bed next to you and runs his fingers along your cunt, his smile turning wicked. “I see that you enjoyed the little toy. You’re so much wetter than when I left you.”

Your scowl deepens. “Because you’ve been teasing me for an hour!”

“Teasing you?” He scoffs. “Nonsense. I left it running for an hour, you should be quite satisfied.”

“You know full well that you left it on the lowest speed and barely touching my clit.”

His eyes glimmer in the way that they often do when you've strolled right into his trap. “Ah, I see. So you needed something a little more like this.”

He places the vibrator firmly against your clit and the faint hum suddenly accelerates to a steady, throbbing pulse that immediately draws a strangled moan from your throat.

“And perhaps a little of this—” He slides two fingers inside of you and your eyes roll to the back of your head at the intense sensation.

“Oh fuck.” Any notion you had of acting aloof and cool has evaporated. Your body warms to him too quickly, too naturally. A casual stroke of his fingers has you arching into his touch, a whimper trapped in your throat.

“Oh dear,” he says, almost nonchalantly. “You seem to be reacting quite strongly. Are you sure I should continue?”

“Please don’t stop.” You say it all in a rush, like it’s one long word.

“Don’t stop?”

“Don’t stop. Please.” You whimper, your hips rolling so that your clit rubs right against the vibrator. Loki’s fingers curl and you arch as something completely unintelligible comes out of your mouth.

“You need this. You’ve needed this all day.” His eyes shine as his fingers thrust faster. “But not as much as you need my cock. You’re desperate for my cock.”

You nod, half lost to pleasure.

“You’ve been such a tease. Such a fucking brat.” The vibrator’s speed increases and you whine. “I ought to punish you, remind you who’s in charge. Make you get on your knees and beg and still leave you wanting for release.”

You whimper, now so deliciously close that you’re starting to shake.

“Luckily for you,” he says, “I have been thinking of you coming all over my cock for hours. So instead of leaving you wanting, I’m going to fuck you until you’ve milked every drop from my cock and you’re going to take it all like a good girl.” His eyes darken. “Now come for me before I change my mind.”

You don’t need to be told twice—you barely need to be told once. The muscles of your cunt flutter against his thrusting fingers and then your orgasm unfurls.

It’s spectacular, setting off a chain reaction of pleasure on every nerve ending, your body shaking as you cry out.

“There you go.” His gaze is hungry, roving over your body, the god of your undoing. He presses the vibrator just a little harder against your clit and you feel that familiar ache stir again just below your belly.

“Oh fuck,” you breathe.

“You’re going to come again, aren’t you?” He’s smirking, but there’s a flicker of awe in his expression, like he can’t quite believe his luck. “Once wasn’t enough for you. You need to come again like the greedy little slut that you are.”

The sparks inside you are fluttering and flickering again, until they catch and send you soaring back into the stratosphere. Your back bows and you cry out as you come.

You’re still shaking when he crawls between your legs moments later, peppering your thighs with messy kisses and spreading your cunt open. The bonds on your wrists and ankles release the moment his mouth touches your cunt and you bury your hands in his hair. You moan as he circles and sucks at your clit and his fingers thrust inside of you.

You look at him nestled between your legs, eyes glazed with desire and it almost sends you over the edge.

“God, I love your mouth,” you blurt out before you can think about it. “You’re so good at this, it feels so fucking good—”

You’re not sure if it’s the praise or his talent, but the moment you say that, your orgasm begins to crest.

“Fuck, Loki. Fuck, I’m gonna—oh fuck.”

It bursts like a firework and courses through your body like liquid gold, somehow simultaneously frantic and leisurely. You’re dimly aware that you’re moaning with every shuddering roll of your body, praising his mouth and tongue in a way that you know will embarrass you later.

“I told you it would be worth it,” he says after he coaxes the last shudder from you a few minutes later. “I don’t think I’ve heard you scream like that before.”

You don’t even bother opening your eyes. “Bragging is an unattractive quality.”

He tuts. “There’s that attitude again. You know, you’re lucky I didn’t deny you after all your teasing and backtalk.”

You look up at him, eyes hazy. “You like making me come too much to follow through on that.”

He chuckles darkly. “That mouth is going to get you in trouble, wife.”

Sated as you are, the name still lights that spark in your belly. “If you say so, your majesty.”

Within seconds, he’s on you, mouth plundering yours. Your hands fumble with the buckles and clasps on his clothes.

“Help me out,” you say, shoving his surcoat off his shoulders.

“What was it you said earlier?” He smirks and rolls you both over so he’s on his back. “Ah, yes: work for it.”

You scowl and tug at the fabric. You could just undo his belt and take out his cock, but it’s not enough. You need to feel all of him, need the heat of his skin on yours as he presses inside you.

“You are such an ass.” You yank his shirt over his head.

He laughs. “You want me so badly, you’re shaking.”

He’s right, but you’re not going to concede it. “You want me just as bad. You’ve been holding back from me all day and you can’t stand it. You're desperate to be inside me.

His gaze darkens, but he flicks his wrist and you feel the fabric vanish beneath you.

“Well played, wife,” he says, propping himself up against the headboard. “Now ride me and show me why you deserve to come on my cock.”

You straddle his lap, guiding him to your entrance. “Oh, stop it. We both know you fucking love it when I come on your cock.”

You sink down on him and you both groan. After an extended day of teasing and delays, he cock feels like it’s pressing against every aching part inside of you, soothing a need you’ve felt all day. He nuzzles his face against your neck, nipping at the tender skin of your pulse point. His hands map the expanse of your back and skim down your hips to squeeze your ass.

His hips rock incrementally against you. He wants you to move, to fuck him, and for a moment, you feel drunk on the power.

You brace your hands on his shoulders and raise yourself up on his cock before sinking back down. Your pace is glacial, designed to tease, to drive him wild.

But on the third stroke, he smacks your ass, eyes blazing. “I said ride me.”

It sets off something inside you and you increase your pace before you can second guess it. You catch a glimpse of a feral smile before he pulls you into a rough kiss as you sink back down on him. Your teeth bump against his and you nip hard at his lower lip, which only seems to egg him on.

You’re supposed to be riding him, but his hips are driving up into you just as hard, his firm grip urging you on. Your head tips back as the pressure inside you continues to build. His head dips to your neck, teeth scraping along your collarbone and then down to your breast. He laves his tongue over your nipple and it plucks at the winding coil of pleasure in your hips, your cunt squeezing tighter and tighter on his cock. You whimper and he takes the bud of your nipple between his teeth and tugs ever so slightly.

Your cunt clenches as you creep closer to the edge. He lets out a sharp breath through his teeth as he starts approaching his own end.

“Fuck—”

With a snarl, he flips you to your back in one fluid motion, draping your legs over his broad shoulders. His pace turns rough and a little frantic but he’s hitting a spot that makes your toes curl and your pleas turn even more desperate.

“Fuck—please, please, please—”

His eyes are wild. “Show me what I’ve been missing all day. Let me feel you come. Soak my cock like a good girl.”

His fingers find your clit and suddenly, the rising sensation within you is blossoming into something more akin to a supernova. His hips snap hard against you and the feeling inside you swells and then shatters.

You are vaguely aware that you’re shouting his name as you quake in his arms and your cunt clenches around his cock. Loki moans above you, his jaw going slack and his brow furrowing, his pace slowing slightly like he’s trying to hold back, trying to make it last.

But another wave rolls through you and he shudders and before you can think about it, you’re slipping your legs off his shoulders and around his waist so you can pull him close.

“Come for me.” You whisper it like it’s a secret and he kisses you like he hears. His hips snap hard against you and then he’s kissing you in between Asgardian words you don’t recognize and words that might be your name until it all dissolves into a long groan that he breathes against your lips as he comes so hard that he shakes.

It’s a long moment before he finally eases out and tonight he gives you a long and lingering kiss before he does. Your legs shake as you lie panting on the bed, listening to him shuffle around the room. He must be getting ready for bed.

You always hate this part. It’s not that you expect or even want affection from him, but sometimes it seems so…businesslike, so transactional. Surely it’s not strange to wish it could be something more, even though it can’t be.

“Sit up.”

You turn your head to look at him, fully prepared to lay into him for telling you what to do, but instead, you find him standing at the side of the bed with a full glass of water.

Something inside you softens just a little.

“Oh, I’m okay,” you say. “It was just really intense.”

He gives you a dry look. “Humor me.”

Any other time, you might have shot back a sarcastic reply, but there’s something strangely disarming about seeing him standing there buck naked and offering you water. And maybe that little ache of loneliness you felt earlier has made you a little soft.

You sit up and take the glass from him. “Thanks.”

He sits down next to you on the edge of the bed. “I’ve sent for dinner as well,” he says, absently tracing a finger along your spine. “It’s quite late.”

You take a sip of water. “Do I have to get out of bed for it?”

“So long as you keep the crumbs to your side.”

You wave your hand at him. “You can magic them away.”

He rolls his eyes. “I’m not a circus pony.”

You give him a dry look. “What’s the point of having magic if you can’t use it to spoil your wife?”

He chuckles and presses a kiss against your shoulder. “Have I not spoiled you enough already today?”

“That stunt with the vibrator was pretty rude.”

He scoffs. “No more rude than getting off on my fingers and leaving me in a meeting for four hours.”

You lean against him and he drapes an arm around your waist. “You of all people should know that turnabout is fair play.”

You’re teasing each other, you realize. It strikes you as a quaintly domestic scene—a couple tangled up together and talking after sex. It’s…kind of nice, in an odd way.

Almost normal.

Much later, when he’s curled up behind you in bed and the lights are out, he asks a question that you suspect has been on his mind all evening: “What did you think of our experiment?”

You know there’s a reason why he waited until now to ask you this. You can hear it in the careful way he’s asking, how he’s trying to hide that little note of hope.

The urge to be sarcastic or sharp is suspiciously absent.

“Well,” you say, letting the word hang there in the dark for just a moment. “My legs still feel like jello. Kind of hard to argue with those results.”

It’s only when you feel him relax that you realize he was bracing himself for something sharper. The thought stops you. You’d never thought anything you said mattered to him like that.

“Perhaps it’s an experiment we ought to repeat.” He says it casually, but there’s a subtle note of hope that sparks a strange feeling of sympathy.

You nod before you can talk yourself out of it. “Yeah.” The silence prickles at you in a way it never has before. “Maybe Tuesdays, if that works?”

He’s trying to hide it, but you can hear the smile in his voice. “As her majesty commands.”

Next chapter coming soon

#loki smut #loki x reader smut #loki x reader #loki x female reader #loki x female reader smut #loki laufeyson smut #loki fanfiction #conquer

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sowerpatch · 4 days ago

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terms of play [chapter 10 - undefined play]

Paige Bueckers x Azzi Fudd

Summary: Azzi Fudd built the Golden Valkyries on a dare, but drafting Paige Bueckers was all strategy. Fresh off an NCAA title, Paige is everything the team needs—and everything Azzi shouldn’t want.

Officially, it’s all business. Unofficially, it’s glances that linger too long and touches that mean too much.

Author's note: this is an AU where Azzi owns the Golden State Valkyries and drafts Paige. Azzi's family are all original characters. Also, Azzi is three years older than Paige.

*CHAPTER LIST HERE*

Chapter Summary: Paige and Azzi aren’t defining anything—yet. But between late-night visits, borrowed clothes, and quiet moments that last too long, something begins to take shape. It’s not just flirting anymore, not just comfort. It’s the way Azzi watches her postgame, the way Paige never asks her to stay but always hopes she will. A midnight ice cream run turns into a public risk. A kiss becomes something more. And when they finally cross that line, it’s clear what’s between them is already more than just a moment.

Warning: Sexual content

Word Count: 4,741

Paige’s apartment, Oakland. July 2025.

Azzi lingered just inside the doorway, one hand still on the frame. The takeout bag swayed slightly in her grip. She looked at home in nothing at all that belonged here—perfectly pressed trousers, designer flats, a blouse with pearl buttons Paige could never afford but had imagined slipping off her once or twice. Her expression, as always, gave away nothing.

Paige tilted her head. “If you came all this way just to watch game tape, you picked the wrong night.”

Azzi didn’t smile, but her mouth quirked, just enough. “I was in the neighborhood.”

“In this neighborhood? With takeout from that overpriced Thai place I told you I liked three weeks ago?”

Azzi raised the bag slightly, like it answered the question. “You’re the one who said it was life-changing.”

Paige stepped aside, eyeing her with mock suspicion. “Fine. You’re lucky I’m starving. Come in.”

Azzi moved past her, too calm for someone who clearly hadn’t planned to leave anytime soon. Paige shut the door behind her, leaned against it, and watched as Azzi took in the space like she was cataloguing it.

She’d been here before—but never like this. Never at night, with the lights dimmed and the couch already folded out. Never with her heels off, hair down, cardigan sliding off her shoulders like she was letting something go.

Dinner passed in a blur of shared containers and offhanded commentary. Azzi ate with her usual elegance. Paige sat cross-legged on the floor, dipping spring rolls into peanut sauce and talking too fast, too loud, but Azzi didn’t seem to mind.

Azzi had changed into one of Paige’s old oversized sweatshirts, charcoal gray and soft with wear. It fell differently on her, sleeves pushed just past the wrist, collar slipping to one side every time she leaned forward.

Paige got up, sat beside Azzi and had made a show of pretending to stretch. Her arm thrown across the back of the couch like she wasn’t looking for any excuse to feel closer.

Azzi wasn’t playing along, but she wasn’t pulling away either.

“Comfortable?” Paige asked, nudging her thigh with a sock-covered foot.

Azzi didn’t glance up. “Barely.”

“That’s a lie,” Paige ginned “Five-star hospitality. Couch with the least amount of structural support. Ambience set to ‘early dorm room.’ I’ll be expecting a Yelp review.”

Azzi finally turned her head. Her expression was unreadable, but there was a hint of something lighter tucked into the corner of her mouth.

“You’re ridiculous.”

“And yet you’re here.”

Azzi looked away, but the curve of her smile deepened just slightly. Her fingers curled around the stem of the glass but didn’t lift it.

They sat like that for a stretch. The only sound was the low hum of something on TV neither of them were really watching. Paige rested her elbow on the arm of the couch, head tilted so she could watch Azzi without being obvious about it. The soft light brought out the fine shadows beneath her eyes, the angle of her cheekbone, the way her hair brushed against her jaw.

“You know,” Paige said, voice lower now, “you don’t have to leave.”

Azzi 's fingers tightened slightly on the wine glass before setting it aside.

“I mean,” Paige added quickly, “you can. Obviously. This isn’t a trap. It’s just... late. And you’re already wearing my shirt. Which, for the record, I didn’t offer. You just took it.”

Azzi shifted, turning more toward her. “You left it on the bed.”

“That’s not consent.”

“You left it folded.”

“Still not consent.”

Azzi gave her a dry look, but Paige caught the way her eyes softened around the edges.

“You could stay,” Paige said again, quieter this time. “I’d like that.”

Azzi studied her, lips parted like she was holding something back. Her posture had relaxed, but only slightly, like her body was still trying to decide how safe it was to let go.

“I wasn’t planning to,” Azzi said. “I didn’t bring anything.”

“You brought your pretty face,” Paige said. “Everything else is negotiable.”

Azzi laughed softly, a real one this time. Paige saw the way her shoulders lowered, the weight sliding off bit by bit. Azzi’s gaze dropped to the blanket stretched across Paige’s lap. Her hand moved toward it, slow and deliberate, brushing against Paige’s knuckles.

“I wouldn’t mind staying,” she said, almost under her breath.

Paige lit up like someone had flipped a switch inside her chest.

“I’ll get you the good pillow.”

Azzi was already leaning into her, her body folding into Paige’s side like it had always known the shape of it.

“I already stole it,” she murmured.

Paige pretended to be appalled. “Unbelievable. She breaks my heart, drinks my wine, and steals my best pillow.”

Azzi didn’t answer. She just rested her head on Paige’s shoulder. Her hand stayed where it was, fingers loosely tangled with Paige’s.

Paige closed her eyes and smiled to herself, her cheek resting lightly against Azzi’s hair. It wasn’t loud or messy or complicated. It was soft, simple, and steady in a way Paige had never let herself want before.

She could get used to this.

Fudd Holdings, San Francisco. August 2025.

The monitor on the wall played the postgame feed in high definition, and Paige looked like she always did after a win—flushed. Her hair still damp from the locker room with that crooked grin working just a little too well. Her tone with the reporter was flippant, easy, but her eyes burned with focus. She looked steady. She looked like herself.

Azzi sat at her desk, arms loose against the armrests. The binder beside her remained untouched. She wasn’t pretending to review it anymore.

Nika sat on the couch with her laptop open, though she hadn’t typed in minutes. She tilted her head toward the screen, but her eyes cut back to Azzi.

“You’ve been staring at her like that since tip-off.”

Azzi didn’t look away. Paige reached off-camera and said something to someone, laughing as she took her water bottle. The sound from the speakers wasn’t loud, but Azzi could hear her tone like it was in the room.

“She’s the face of the franchise.”

“Sure,” Nika said, voice lighter now. “And you’re watching her like she’s the reason your world turns.”

Azzi kept her expression neutral. She reached for her pen and turned it slowly in her fingers. The room carried a stillness that wasn’t empty.

“She played well.”

“She played fine.” Nika stretched her legs out. “But you’re playing yourself harder.”

Azzi finally looked at her, brows raised just slightly.

Nika grinned. “You two are a thing now?”

Azzi’s fingers paused on the pen. “What makes you think that?”

Nika sat up a little straighter, eyes narrowing in mock suspicion. “Because I know you. And because when I came by last week, you were wearing sneakers. Not designer flats. Sneakers. Like a real person. That only ever happens when she’s around.” She tilted her head, grinning. “Also, you had takeout containers on your counter that looked suspiciously like the kind Paige orders. And you were humming.”

Azzi didn’t deny it. That was the worst part.

Nika leaned in. “Azzi Fudd. Humming.”

Azzi let out a soft exhale. Not quite a sigh. More like the release of something she had been holding in longer than she meant to.

“She calls me her non-girlfriend girlfriend.”

That got Nika to straighten. Her smile sharpened with interest.

“Oh. So we’re at terms now. Non-girlfriend girlfriend. That’s—” she laughed, sitting back against the cushion, “—actually kind of adorable. Vaguely tragic, but adorable.”

Azzi’s lips curved faintly, almost in spite of herself. Her voice stayed level. “It’s not official. But… we’re seeing each other.”

Nika raised an eyebrow, then shrugged. “Okay. Then what’s stopping you from being not non-girlfriend girlfriend and just being actual girlfriends?”

Azzi didn’t answer immediately. Her gaze returned to the screen, though the video had ended, and Paige’s face was gone. But the memory of it lingered—the way she looked in a postgame win, unfiltered joy behind all the cocky one-liners.

She lowered her pen to the desk, hand resting flat beside it.

“I don’t know how to be someone’s girlfriend when I’m still owned by so many expectations.”

Nika was quiet now, but it didn’t feel like pressure. She stood and walked to the desk, resting her forearms on the edge.

“Maybe stop trying to be owned by anything at all,” she said. “You already know what you want.”

Azzi’s eyes met hers. The look wasn’t defensive. It wasn’t even uncertain. It was soft, like she had been cracked open but hadn’t broken.

“I just want to protect her,” Azzi said.

“Then don’t protect her from you,” Nika replied. “Protect her with you.”

Azzi nodded once, barely more than a movement, but it was there. Nika reached for her bag, her tone softening into something almost fond.

“She calls you her non-girlfriend girlfriend.” She smiled. “But she’s ready for the real thing.”

Azzi’s condo, San Francisco. August 2025.

Azzi had nearly finished her chapter when the sound of the bathroom door creaked open. She didn’t glance up right away, too familiar now with Paige’s rhythm around the condo. The sound of bare feet padded into the living room, followed by a low huff and the unmistakable thud of someone flopping dramatically onto the couch.

Paige sprawled out across from her, hair still messy from her game-day ponytail, a loose vintage UConn tee hanging a little too perfectly over her frame. The shirt had tiny holes near the hem, like it had survived a dozen road trips. She looked smug. She looked like trouble.

Azzi’s eyes stayed on her book.

“We’re going out,” Paige said.

“No,” Azzi replied calmly, eyes not lifting from the page.

Paige leaned forward, elbows on her knees. “Don’t you wanna know where?”

“I already know where this is going.”

“Wrong.” Paige grinned, proud of herself. “This is new and inspired. I’m taking you on a midnight ice cream run, babe.”

Azzi’s expression barely shifted, but her gaze flicked upward, slow and unimpressed. “You’re not serious.”

“I’m always serious about sugar and chaos.”

Azzi blinked once. “We have ice cream here.”

“But not the experience. Neon lights, weird toppings, the joy of watching me flirt with you too loud in public. That’s the real dessert, ma.”

“Absolutely not.”

“Come on. The shop on Seventh is still open. You love that boring vanilla.”

“I prefer simple.”

“You prefer denial.”

Azzi snapped the book shut.

Paige leaned over the arm of the couch, smile sharpening. “You’re scared someone’s gonna see us together.”

Azzi’s lips parted slightly, but she said nothing.

“That’s it, huh?” Paige stood, stretching with dramatic flair. “You’re worried we’ll be on some Twitter thread. 'Billionaire caught smiling at WNBA rookie. More at ten.'”

Azzi looked up at her fully now. The tension in her shoulders was subtle, but there. “You know what happens when people think they have something to whisper about.”

“Then let them whisper,” Paige said. “Or I can just go alone and pretend I’m heartbroken. One scoop of pity sprinkles, please. My non-girlfriend girlfriend left me in the cold.”

Azzi exhaled, but the edge of a smile broke through.

“I’m not dressed for outside.”

“You look like a Bond villain on her night off,” Paige said, motioning to Azzi’s perfectly draped cardigan and black joggers. “You’re more than fine, babe.”

Azzi stood with reluctant grace. She moved to grab her keys from the entry table.

Paige raised her brows. “Wait, that worked?”

“You’ve worn me down.”

“Like I planned.” Paige grinned, slipping her phone into her back pocket. “If we end up on DeuxMoi, I get to pick the picture they use.”

The walk was quiet, peaceful. Azzi kept her hood up, her hands tucked deep in her pockets. Paige walked beside her without touching, close enough for the warmth to reach. On the third accidental brush of their hands, Paige let her pinky hook around Azzi’s.

A test.

Azzi didn’t pull away.

The ice cream shop was near empty. Paige immediately ordered the most chaotic thing on the menu—brownie fudge sundae, caramel drizzle, sour gummy worms—and smiled smugly as she turned back to Azzi.

Azzi kept her order plain. Vanilla, one scoop, no toppings.

“You’re really living on the edge,” Paige teased, licking her spoon.

“Some of us don’t need our dessert to scream for attention.”

They ate on the bench outside, plastic spoons tapping gently against their cups. The city hummed around them but never too loud. Paige nudged Azzi’s shoulder with hers.

“You okay?”

Azzi hesitated. Then she nodded. “I didn’t expect it to feel this normal.”

“That’s because it is.”

Paige scooped another bite, then offered her spoon to Azzi without thinking.

Azzi took it. Slowly. Her lips brushed the edge, her gaze unreadable.

Paige’s breath hitched.

“I’m still scared,” Azzi said, voice quieter now. “But I didn’t hate tonight.”

“Good.” Paige smiled at her, soft and unguarded. “Because I’ve got at least a dozen more dates like this planned.”

Azzi rolled her eyes.

“You’re exhausting.”

Paige bumped her knee. “You’re really pretty.”

“You’re impossible.”

“And you still like me.”

Azzi didn’t reply. Instead, she held Paige’s gaze for a moment longer than she meant to.

It was enough.

The night held them still for a few seconds more. Paige kept eating. Azzi watched her, looking as though maybe—just maybe—being seen like this wasn’t the worst thing in the world.

Azzi’s condo, San Francisco. August 2025.

Azzi stood in front of the mirror, cotton pad in hand, smoothing a rose-colored toner across her cheekbones. She wore an oversized navy crewneck that hung loose around her hips, the sleeves pushed up her forearms. Her black lounge shorts barely showed beneath the hem. The scent of night cream and jasmine hung lightly in the air, mixing with the warm quiet of the condo.

Behind her, Paige leaned against the doorframe of the bathroom, dressed in light grey UConn sweatpants and a crisp white Nike tank top that clung to her frame. Her hair was pulled into a messy bun, damp at the edges from a quick rinse. She had that familiar smirk tugging at her lips, arms folded, eyes tracing every small movement Azzi made with idle fascination.

"You always look like you’re about to shoot a skincare commercial,” Paige said, chin lifting. “Do I need to dim the lights? Cue the wind machine?”

Azzi kept her focus on the mirror, a faint smile curving at the edge of her mouth. “I’ve seen your idea of skincare. You washed your face with hand soap last week.”

“It was eucalyptus,” Paige shot back. “Fancy. Exfoliating.”

Azzi turned just enough to glance over her shoulder. “It’s drying.”

“And you’re hot,” Paige said, stepping further in. “We can’t all be perfect.”

Azzi gave a soft laugh, lowering the cotton pad onto the counter. Paige moved to stand behind her, looking at their reflection. Azzi met her eyes briefly before glancing down.

“You missed a spot,” Paige murmured, reaching up to touch Azzi’s cheekbone gently.

Azzi stilled, her breath catching just slightly. “Where?”

Paige didn’t answer. She leaned in and kissed the corner of her mouth instead.

It was soft, like testing the water, like remembering how many times they’d almost done this and choosing not to wait anymore. Azzi turned fully into her, hands sliding up Paige’s sides as if pulled there without thought. Paige’s palms pressed to her lower back, grounding them both.

The second kiss was slower, deeper. Azzi tilted her chin up, lips parting to welcome the weight of it. She kissed like it was something sacred, like she didn’t trust the moment to last unless she carved it into memory. Paige felt her entire chest tighten as their mouths moved together in rhythm, steady and full of something tender and raw.

Azzi backed up slightly until her hips touched the edge of the sink. Paige followed her, hands slipping under the hem of her sweatshirt, fingers resting lightly on her bare waist. She could feel Azzi trembling slightly beneath her touch, not from nerves, but from release. It had taken so long to get here, through weeks of dancing around what they both knew.

Azzi kissed her again, this time with hunger. One hand curled into the fabric of Paige’s tank top, pulling her closer until there was no space between them. Paige groaned softly into her mouth, one hand rising to cup the side of Azzi’s face, thumb grazing her jaw. The other slipped down to Azzi’s thigh, fingertips brushing bare skin.

Azzi let out a breath against her lips. “Do you want to stop?”

Paige pulled back just enough to look at her. Her voice was low, sure. “Only if you tell me to, baby.”

Azzi didn’t answer. Instead, she pulled Paige in again, kissing her with everything she hadn’t said out loud.

Paige kissed her back like restraint had finally snapped. Mouth hungry, hands firm, tongue sliding past Azzi’s with intention.

She crowded Azzi back against the counter, her body pressed close enough that Azzi could feel the slight tremble in her thighs. Every movement felt deliberate. Every breath between them was charged.

Azzi clung to her, hands locked behind Paige’s neck, mouth parted as she met each kiss with growing need. The edge of her shirt slipping off her shoulder. Paige kissed there, then lower, dragging her teeth just enough to draw a sharp inhale.

“So beautiful, ma.” Paige muttered, her voice rough, her hands moving over Azzi’s sides, then gripping her hips. “It’s making me lose control.”

Azzi met her eyes, her lips still parted, her breath uneven. “I want you to lose control.”

That did something to Paige.

She gripped beneath Azzi’s thighs, lifted her with ease, and placed her on the bathroom counter. Azzi let out a soft sound, startled by the sudden height, her legs instinctively wrapping around Paige’s hips for balance. Her shorts rode up, smooth skin against the marble, her body fully exposed to the warmth between them.

Paige stepped in close, settling her hands on Azzi’s thighs. Her thumbs brushed the inside, teasing little circles higher and higher, never quite reaching where Azzi wanted her. She kissed her again, slower now, more drawn out. Her lips trailed from Azzi’s mouth to the corner of her jaw, down the line of her throat, then across her collarbone. She took her time as she lifted Azzi’s shirt.

Once the oversized cloth was thrown nearby, Azzi’s hands threaded into Paige’s hair. She was holding her close as Paige kissed down her chest, using her mouth like she was learning every inch.

“Still good?” Paige murmured, her voice low, nearly a growl.

Paige brought her mouth to bare skin, tongue tracing the curve of her breast, lips soft at first, then firmer. Azzi arched gently, her breath hitching when Paige’s teeth grazed her.

Azzi answered without hesitation. “Yes. Keep going.”

That was enough.

Paige moved her mouth down again, kissing her stomach, her hips, pausing just above the waistband of Azzi’s shorts. Her hands gripped beneath them now, thumbs hooked just inside the soft cotton. She didn’t pull them off. Not yet. She nuzzled into the space just above, breathing her in.

“You’re driving me crazy,” she whispered.

Azzi’s legs tightened around her. “Then do something about it.”

Paige laughed softly, but it cracked a little at the edges. Her restraint was thinning by the second.

She slid one hand between Azzi’s legs, touching her lightly through the shorts. Her fingers moved with care, exploring the heat already gathered there. The fabric was damp. Paige stilled for a moment, pressing in just enough to make Azzi gasp.

“God,” Paige muttered. “You’re already soaked, ma.”

Azzi exhaled a shaky breath, gripping Paige’s shoulders. Her thighs trembled against Paige’s ribs. She tried to rock forward, to chase the friction, but Paige only applied light, teasing pressure with the pad of her fingers.

She moved in slow circles, keeping the touch maddeningly soft.

Azzi’s head fell back against the mirror, her mouth falling open. Paige kissed the inside of her knee, then higher, and higher again. Her hand stayed steady, fingers never rushing, never greedy. Just steady heat, coaxing her open.

“You want more?” Paige asked, lifting her head just enough to meet her eyes.

Azzi swallowed hard, chest rising with each breath. “Yes.”

Paige smiled and finally eased her hand beneath the waistband, past the last layer between them, and touched bare skin.

Azzi jolted. The breath she took caught hard in her throat, and her legs flexed around Paige’s shoulders. Her body had already been warm, trembling, but this contact was different. This was bare. Direct. Intimate in a way that made her stomach twist and her hips rise without permission.

“Fuck,” Paige whispered, her voice gone low and reverent. “So wet for me.”

Azzi’s fingers gripped the edge of the counter, knuckles white. She tried to say something, but all she managed was a fractured inhale.

Paige kept one hand braced under Azzi’s thigh, steadying her. The other moved slowly, teasing her folds with two fingers, sliding through her with care, not pressing in yet. She watched Azzi’s face the entire time. The way her head tipped back again, the way her lips parted just enough to let out a quiet gasp, the way her entire body started tilting forward, instinctively chasing the pressure.

“I’ve got you,” Paige murmured.

She pressed in.

Just her fingers at first, slow and shallow. Testing the give of Azzi’s body, feeling the warmth already slick and pulsing around her. She worked her way in with delicate persistence, curling just slightly, coaxing her open with each stroke.

Azzi arched forward, legs trembling. Her hands reached for Paige’s shoulders without thinking, gripping her there like it was the only thing holding her upright. Paige stayed close, one hand still firm at her thigh, her mouth brushing soft kisses along Azzi’s stomach, just below her navel.

The first full thrust of Paige’s fingers made Azzi whimper—sharp and breathless. Paige paused, then did it again, a little deeper this time. Her thumb shifted upward, pressing lightly against her clit, just enough to make Azzi shiver.

“You okay, ma?” Paige asked, voice hoarse now.

Azzi nodded, but she wasn’t steady. “Don’t stop.”

“I wasn’t planning to.”

Paige set a rhythm then, slow and grounding. Her fingers curled with every stroke, drawing out a moan from deep in Azzi’s chest. She kissed along her thigh again, then moved higher, mouth finding Azzi’s breast, taking her into her mouth while her fingers continued their work below.

Azzi cried out softly, her body caught between two sensations—mouth and hand, tongue and pressure. She felt split open. Seen in a way that was dizzying. Her fingers slid into Paige’s hair, pulling gently, grounding herself as her hips started to move with the rhythm Paige set.

“Just like that,” Azzi whispered, barely able to speak.

Paige smiled against her skin. “I know, baby.”

She fucked her slow but sure, every thrust precise. Her thumb moved with more pressure now, faster as Azzi neared the edge. Paige could feel the way her walls clenched around her fingers, how Azzi’s breath had turned to short, broken gasps.

“You close?” she asked, pressing her mouth to Azzi’s neck.

Azzi’s response was a frantic nod, followed by her entire body pulling tight, thighs trembling, muscles locking as the pleasure crested and broke all at once. She came hard, her moan caught against Paige’s shoulder, nails digging into her back as she shook through it.

Paige didn’t pull away as she stood up. She kept her fingers inside, slowing her hand until Azzi was breathing again, her body softening against her.

Azzi slumped forward, arms slipping around Paige’s neck, holding her close. Her breath was hot against Paige’s ear. Paige kissed her temple and held her there, one arm wrapped fully around her back now, steadying her on the counter.

Neither of them spoke.

Paige let her come down slow, her fingers finally easing out. She helped Azzi rest back against the mirror, her thumb brushing gently over the inside of her thigh.

Azzi’s eyes fluttered open. Her lips were kiss-bruised, cheeks flushed, chest still rising fast.

“You good, baby?” Paige asked softly.

Azzi reached up, touching her jaw with trembling fingers. “More than okay.”

Her breath was still coming in shallow waves when Paige pressed her mouth to her shoulder, lips lingering in the dip of bone and skin. Neither of them said anything, but the air between them was full—heavy with heat, the weight of what they’d just crossed, and the ache of what was still to come.

Paige’s hands smoothed along the outside of Azzi’s thighs, then under, lifting her gently from the counter. Azzi wrapped her arms around Paige’s shoulders as she was carried out of the bathroom, legs still trembling slightly around Paige’s waist. Her body felt loose and overrun, but she didn’t want distance. She wanted more.

The room beyond was dim. The bed was turned down but untouched, the sheets still neat. Paige lowered Azzi slowly onto them, kissing her once at the top of her chest before kneeling beside the mattress. She looked up at her—really looked—eyes raking over flushed skin, the bare torso, the shorts clinging to her hips.

Paige reached up and tugged them the rest of the way off.

Azzi lay back, her breathing just beginning to steady, but her eyes didn’t waver from Paige. There was no uncertainty anymore. Just want, thick and quiet between them.

Paige leaned forward and kissed her stomach. Then lower. Her hands spread across Azzi’s thighs again, coaxing them apart. Her mouth followed the line of her hip, then the sensitive skin just beside it. Azzi shivered under her, fingers gripping the sheets. Paige watched her, her voice a low murmur against her skin.

“You look so good like this.”

Azzi didn’t speak. Her lips parted, her eyes hazy as Paige kissed just above where she had touched her before. Teasing again. Slower now. This was about savoring. About learning what it meant to be wanted completely.

Paige slid her tongue through her folds, a soft, wet stroke that made Azzi’s hips lift from the bed. Paige held her in place and did it again, slower this time, tongue pressing deeper, flatter. Azzi moaned, head falling back into the pillow, one hand sliding into Paige’s hair.

Paige licked into her with the same rhythm her fingers had found earlier, steady and precise, drawing out sounds Azzi had never made. She dragged the tip of her tongue up to her clit and circled, teasing, then wrapped her lips around it and sucked gently, then harder when Azzi’s hips jumped.

“God,” Azzi whispered. “Paige…”

Paige responded by gripping her thighs tighter and going deeper.

Azzi fell apart again slowly, unraveling under each stroke of Paige’s tongue, every flick and pull perfectly paced. Her whole body arched when Paige flattened her tongue and pressed harder, dragging her mouth across her until Azzi could barely breathe.

She came again with a sharp, involuntary cry, thighs clenching around Paige’s shoulders, one hand fisting the sheets and the other still locked in Paige’s hair. Paige kept going until the spasms faded, until Azzi’s body slumped back onto the mattress, twitching with aftershocks.

Only then did Paige slow, her kisses softer now, mouth gentle as she kissed the inside of Azzi’s thigh, the space just above her mound, the curve of her hipbone. She moved up slowly, body skimming against Azzi’s until they were face to face again.

Azzi opened her eyes, dazed and soft, skin flushed and dewy. She reached for her, fingers sliding up the back of Paige’s neck.

Paige didn’t speak. She just kissed her, deep and quiet, letting Azzi taste herself on her lips.

Azzi’s hand moved to her waist, pulling Paige over her, wrapping both arms around her back. Her voice was low, nearly swallowed against Paige’s mouth.

“Your turn.”

Paige smiled into the kiss. “Yeah?”

Azzi nodded. “Now, you make me want to lose control.”

Paige kissed her again, then rolled her hips once, slow and firm, letting Azzi feel just how badly she wanted it too.

“Whatever you say, boss lady.”

#paige bueckers #paige buckets #paige x azzi #paige bueckers x azzi fudd #pazzi fic #pazzi #paige bueckers fic #paige bueckers fanfic #uconn wbb #azzi fudd fanfiction #azzi fudd #pazzi fics #terms of play series

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jijournal · 4 months ago

Text

MY VERY OWN CUPID | G.W

Summary: Valerie Valentine, known as “Hogwarts’ Cupid” for her matchmaking prowess, finds herself heartbroken upon finding out George Weasley, her crush since 4th year, likes Angelina Johnson. This leads her to abandon her romantic endeavors, only to later discover something unexpected.

Word Count: 2.5k+

Warnings: None

A/N: This is my first ever story on tumblr, I really hope you guys enjoy! 🫰

⊱ ─── ⋅ʚ♡ɞ⋅ ─── ⊰

Valerie Valentine lived for Valentine's Day. It was in her name, after all.

Ever since she was little, Valentine’s Day had been her favorite holiday—the chocolates, the roses, the handwritten love letters. She adored how, just for a day, everything seemed sweeter, softer, filled with endless possibilities. When she arrived at Hogwarts, she quickly made it her mission to bring that magic to the castle.

It started in her second year when her best friend, Hannah Abbott, had fallen hopelessly in love with Roger Davies.

“I can’t tell him,” Hannah had groaned, burying her face in her hands. “I’ll probably trip over my own feet and embarrass myself for life.”

Valerie, ever the romantic, had taken that as a challenge. With a carefully written anonymous love letter, a bit of strategic maneuvering, and the right nudge at the right time, Roger had ended up asking Hannah to Hogsmeade. By Valentine’s Day, they were sitting at the Hufflepuff table, sharing a box of Honeydukes chocolates.

“You’re amazing at this, Val,” Hannah had gushed. “You should be Hogwarts’ Cupid!”

And just like that, Valerie Valentine became a legend.

⸻

Valerie took on the title of Hogwarts’ Cupid with pride, dedicating herself to helping students find love. Over the years, she orchestrated dozens of successful love stories, each one becoming a fond memory.

One of her most ambitious plans involved a nervous third-year Hufflepuff, Andrew Macmillan, who had a crush on a Ravenclaw named Helena Clearwater. Andrew was a wreck whenever Helena was around, stammering through his words and turning bright red.

“She’s so smart, Val,” he had sighed. “She probably thinks I’m a complete idiot.”

Valerie had an idea.

“Girls love grand gestures,” she told him, handing him a crumpled parchment. “And you know what’s grand? A love song performed by the Hogwarts suits of armor.”

Andrew had stared at her in horror. “You cannot be serious.”

“I am serious.” She smirked. “I also may or may not have bribed the suits of armor to serenade her during lunch.”

Sure enough, the next day, as Helena was walking to the Great Hall, one of the enchanted suits of armor clanked forward, raised its sword like a conductor’s baton, and began to sing.

“O fair Helena, with eyes so bright,

You make my heart take glorious flight!

Oh, would you fancy a date with me?

For Butterbeer and cakes of treacle sweet?”

Andrew looked like he was about to pass out from sheer embarrassment.

But then—Helena laughed. A real, delighted laugh. “This is the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever seen,” she said, turning to Andrew. “Did you do this?”

He stammered for a moment before nodding.

She smiled. “It’s cute. I’d love to go to Hogsmeade with you.”

Valerie cheered from the sidelines. Another successful match.

⸻

By her third year, Valerie had students seeking her out for help. One of them was a shy Gryffindor named Ethan Wood, who had a major crush on Katie Bell.

“She’s so cool,” he groaned. “She’s an amazing Chaser, and she’s funny, and—and she probably doesn’t even know I exist.”

“Well, let’s change that,” Valerie had said.

Knowing Katie loved Chocolate Frogs, Valerie devised a plan. Ethan would send her a Chocolate Frog every morning for a week, each one accompanied by a tiny, anonymous note with a compliment.

The first note: You play Quidditch like a star.

The second: Your laugh is the best sound in the world.

By the time the seventh note arrived, Katie was determined to find out who her secret admirer was. She cornered Valerie at the common room, eyes shining with curiosity.

“You know, don’t you?” she asked.

Valerie grinned. “What would you do if I did?”

“I’d probably want to talk to him.”

So, later that evening, Valerie orchestrated the grand reveal. Ethan, nervous as ever, stood by the fireplace, hands fidgeting at his sides. When Katie walked up to him, Chocolate Frog in hand, she smirked.

“So,” she said, tossing the frog at him playfully. “You’ve been feeding me an unhealthy amount of sugar.”

Ethan stammered. “Uh—uh—sorry?”

Katie laughed. “Don’t be. Want to go to Hogsmeade with me?”

Ethan nearly fainted. Valerie patted herself on the back. Another victory.

⸻

For three years, Valerie had been Hogwarts’ Cupid. She loved it. She lived for it.

"Hogwarts' Cupid" had always been surrounded by love—not just romantic love, but the kind of warmth that came from friendships, from laughter, from the little things that made life feel magical. And yet, nothing had prepared her for the moment she realized she was in love with George Weasley.

She never meant to. It just happened—the way his laughter echoed through the common room, the way he always had a joke up his sleeve, the way his mischievous grin made her stomach flip.

⸻

It happened one evening in her fourth year, during the first snowfall of the winter. The Gryffindor common room was cozy, the fire crackling in the hearth, but Valerie had always been drawn to the magic of fresh snow. So when she saw the first flakes drifting past the castle windows, she slipped outside.

She didn’t expect anyone else to be out there, but of course—George Weasley never did the expected.

“Oi, Valentine,” he called from behind her as she stood in the courtyard, snowflakes catching in her hair. “Fancy meeting you out here. What’s a Cupid like you doing standing alone in the cold?”

She turned to find him grinning, his red hair dusted with snow, his cheeks pink from the chill.

“I could ask you the same thing,” she shot back. “Shouldn’t you be inside, plotting your next great prank?”

George put a hand to his chest, feigning offense. “I do have other interests, you know.”

“Oh? Like what?”

“Like this,” he said, before suddenly scooping up a handful of snow and launching it at her.

Valerie shrieked as the snow hit her shoulder. “George!”

“What? Cupid needs to learn how to dodge!” he teased, already gathering more snow.

She didn’t hesitate. She bent down, packed a snowball, and threw it at him with all her might—only for him to duck at the last second. It sailed past him and hit none other than Professor McGonagall’s window.

Both of them froze.

George turned to her, his eyes wide, and then—he grinned. “Run.”

Valerie didn’t need to be told twice. She bolted, George right beside her, the two of them slipping and sliding across the snowy courtyard as laughter bubbled out of them. They only stopped when they reached the covered bridge, breathless and shivering but giddy.

“That was all your fault,” Valerie panted, leaning against the railing.

George smirked. “Oh, definitely yours. I was just an innocent bystander.”

She rolled her eyes, but before she could retort, he reached out, brushing a bit of snow from her hair. It was such a small gesture, but it sent a shiver down her spine that had nothing to do with the cold.

Their eyes met. And for the first time, standing there in the soft glow of moonlight reflecting off the snow, Valerie saw him differently.

Not just as the prankster. Not just as her friend.

But as someone who made her heart race.

Someone she wanted.

The realization hit her so suddenly that she barely managed to breathe.

George tilted his head, a slow, teasing smile forming on his lips. “You alright there, Val?”

She swallowed, forcing herself to laugh. “Y-Yeah. Just cold.”

“Then we’d better get inside before you freeze,” he said, throwing an arm around her shoulders and steering her back toward the castle.

She barely heard him over the sound of her own heartbeat.

Because that was the moment she knew—

She had fallen for George Weasley.

⸻

By her sixth year, Valentine’s Day at Hogwarts was practically synonymous with Valerie Valentine.

The weeks leading up to the holiday were always the busiest. Students whispered in hallways, love letters passed hands, and Valerie’s name floated through conversations like a spell. As usual, she was in high demand—helping a lovestruck Ravenclaw compose a heartfelt poem, advising a nervous Hufflepuff on how to casually bump into his crush, and sneaking sweets into the Gryffindor common room for a surprise confession plan.

She should have been thrilled.

And yet, for the first time, Valerie felt tired. Something about it felt off this year. Maybe it was because, despite all the magic she created for others, she had never been on the receiving end of it.

Then, just a few days before Valentine’s Day, George Weasley walked up to her.

“Hey, Val,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck, looking almost shy. “Got a minute?”

Her heart gave a traitorous little flutter—an automatic reaction at this point.

“Of course,” she said, forcing herself to act normal. “Need help with a prank?"

“Not exactly.” He hesitated, then asked, “Do you know if Angelina’s dating anyone?”

The world seemed to tilt.

The words were a Bludger to the stomach, knocking the breath right out of her.

Angelina. Of course.

She was smart, confident, talented—his best friend. They were already close, always sitting together at meals, always joking and laughing in that effortless way that made Valerie’s heart ache.

And why wouldn’t he like her?

Valerie swallowed the lump in her throat and forced herself to smile. “I—I don’t think so. Why?”

“Oh, no reason,” George said with a shrug, a slight smile plastered on his face. “Just wondering.”

That was all the confirmation she needed.

She barely remembered the rest of the conversation. Somehow, she managed to act normal—laughing at all the right moments, nodding along as if her heart wasn’t shattering into pieces. The moment George walked away, she turned on her heel and fled to her dormitory.

She barely noticed the way her hands trembled as she grabbed the stack of love letters from her desk—the ones she had spent years helping craft, the delicate parchment filled with confessions she had helped others deliver.

With a shaking breath, she threw them into the fireplace.

The flames swallowed them up, turning love into ashes.

Hogwarts’ Cupid was officially retired.

⸻

For the first time in three years, Valerie refused to help anyone with their Valentine’s Day plans.

When a nervous fourth-year approached her in the library with a love letter, she shoved it back at them without a word. When Hannah Abbott asked for advice on which chocolates to get Roger, Valerie snapped, “Does it really matter?”

Hannah folded her arms. “Okay, what is going on with you?”

“Nothing,” Valerie muttered, burying herself deeper into her Potions textbook.

Hannah wasn’t convinced. “You love this holiday. It’s your thing.”

“Not anymore.”

Hannah stared at her, then realization dawned on her face. “This is about him, isn’t it?”

Valerie stiffened. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Hannah sighed. “Val, if you’re upset about something, talk to him. You never just give up.”

But Valerie shook her head. What was the point? George had already made his choice.

So, on Valentine’s Day, while the Great Hall buzzed with excitement, while couples exchanged gifts and friends laughed over ridiculous love notes, Valerie sat in the Gryffindor common room, alone.

She refused to look at the door. She would not let herself wonder if George had asked Angelina out.

Then, just as she was debating whether to go hide in her dormitory for the rest of the night, George plopped down beside her.

“Alright, Valentine,” he said, stretching his arms over the back of the couch. “What’s going on?”

Valerie scowled. “What are you talking about?”

“You’re usually running around playing matchmaker, making sure everyone has a perfect day,” George said, eyeing her closely. “And yet, here you are, sulking like someone just told you Chocolate Frogs were being discontinued.”

She crossed her arms. “Maybe I’m just sick of love stories.”

George blinked, clearly taken aback. “Alright, who are you and what have you done with Valerie Valentine?”

She huffed. “Why do you even care? Shouldn’t you be off with Angelina?”

George frowned. “Angelina?”

Valerie glared at him. “You asked about her.”

George tilted his head. “Yeah…? So?”

“So,” she snapped, “if you’re going to ask her out, just do it already.”

For a moment, George just stared at her. Then, suddenly—

He laughed.

A real, full-bodied laugh.

Valerie gaped. “What’s so funny?!”

George grinned at her like she was the biggest idiot in the world. “Oh, Merlin, you’re thick.”

She scowled. “Excuse me?!”

He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “Val, I asked about Angelina because Fred fancies her. I was helping him.”

The world came to a screeching halt.

Her mouth opened. Closed. Then opened again. “Wait—you don’t like her?”

George smirked. “Of course not. She’s great, but she’s not the one I wanted to spend Valentine’s Day with.”

Her heart pounded so hard she thought it might burst out of her chest. “Then… who do you want to spend it with?”

George raised an eyebrow. “Who do you think?”

She froze.

Everything—the endless matchmaking, the stolen glances, the little moments between them—it all suddenly clicked into place.

“You,” he said simply.

Her breath hitched.

For the first time in her life, Valerie Valentine was speechless.

George smirked, tilting his head. “Now, if our former Hogwarts’ Cupid is done sulking, can I take her on a proper date?”

Valerie stared at him, her heart pounding, before a slow, hesitant smile tugged at her lips. “I suppose…” She tapped a finger against her chin, pretending to consider it. “I could make an exception.”

George laughed, reaching out to ruffle her hair. “That’s my girl.”

And just like that, Hogwarts’ Cupid finally found herself caught in the love story she never saw coming.

⊱ ─── ⋅ʚ♡ɞ⋅ ─── ⊰

masterlist!

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saetoru · 2 years ago

Text

✩ ‧₊˚ ✩。TANGLED — GETO SUGURU.

contents. just suguru needing his hair brushed for him bc he’s def so me and gets mad over the knots lol—alternative title: princess suguru and his frog <3

suguru huffs in front of your mirror—and it’s quite the frustrated huff, too—before he slams the hair brush down.

you raise a brow, “you okay over there?”

“no. ‘s knotted,” he mutters, referring to his hair. there’s a quiet grumbling of something unintelligible under his breath before he glares at himself in the mirror.

suguru loves his hair—anyone would know that just by looking at him. most guys use two-in-one shampoo (like satoru) but suguru? he practically hogs your shower space with all of the products he owns. his hair is well maintained and perfectly neat every time you see him. but sometimes, like now, it’s also a pain to brush once it’s knotted. and, well, he doesn’t handle it very well.

“you’ve been brushing for—” you pretend to check your bare wrist for the time, “—like ten minutes,” you giggle.

“very funny,” he grunts bitterly. and then, more petulantly this time, “i’m cutting it off for real this time.”

“you said that last time,” you remind him, eyes glinting with amusement.

“this time i mean it.”

“no you don’t, sugu.”

“i do,” he insists, glaring at you through the mirror, “it’s getting too long, and i don’t have the time to brush all these damn knots every two hours. so, it’s getting cut.”

“okay,” you nod casually—anyone can tell you don’t believe him.

his expression sours. suguru gets in very bad moods when his hair doesn’t cooperate, it’s evident in the way he flares his nostrils and scowls.

“you still don’t believe me? i’m being serious.”

“okay, baby,” you snort, finally deciding to take matters into your own hands as you rise from your bed and walk over. you stand behind him, reaching around him for the hair brush before gently pulling him back to stand closer. “i’ll get it for you, don’t worry. wouldn’t want your princess hair gone.”

“stop calling it that,” he groans, but the tension leaves his shoulders as soon as you gently brush through his strands, starting at the bottom and working your way up. it’s quiet for a bit—nothing but the soft sound of your humming as you work through the tangles in his long (perfect) hair.

“you could’ve just asked if you wanted me to brush it,” you tease after a few moments, “no need to throw a tantrum.”

“glad to see you’re enjoying this,” he rolls his eyes. and then, when you’ve finished and set the brush down, he turns to face you, wrapping his arms around your waist as his face finds the crook of your neck.

you hum, pecking the side of his head before threading your fingers into his dark locks, stroking through the soft strands and silently marveling at the length.

“you’re so pretty, suguru,” you murmur, “did’ya know that?”

“oh yeah?” he chuckles into your skin, lips curling into a loose smile. his arms tighten around you, pulling you impossibly closer.

“yeah,” you nod, “like a princess. my prettiest princess.”

“i thought i told you to quit with that,” he says exasperatedly—you can feel the heat from his cheeks, and you grin to yourself knowing he’s blushing as he hides his face deeper into your shoulder.

“it’s true,” you insist, “i’m no liar. i’m a truther.”

“debatable,” he mumbles. you smack his shoulder playfully, and he squeezes your hips in response. “aren’t you going to tie it for me too?” he finally asks, and you’re sure there’s a pout curled on those lips of his. you ache to kiss them—and you will, just not right now.

right now, you’ll stay like this a bit longer.

“this is real princess treatment,” you sigh dramatically, “yes your highness. i’ll tie it too.”

“thank you,” he says, thoroughly satisfied. and then, quieter, like it’s a secret only you’re supposed to know, “i love you.”

“i love you too,” you happily murmur, “but that might change if you cut your hair.”

“are you only dating me for my hair?”

“yes,” you snicker playfully, “it’s the main appeal. the princess appeal.”

“you know what,” suguru says thoughtfully, “i’ll be your princess.”

“really?” you gasp in excitement, making him nod into your neck as he presses a delicate kiss to your skin.

“sure,” he grins slyly, “and you can be the frog.”

the moment is officially ruined—and for a second, you think you might just have to cut his hair off in his sleep after that one.

come join me in the most self indulgent drabble once again. also the title being tangled even tho the reference is the princess and the frog is a tad bit funny to me jdjsjd i did giggle i can’t lie

#teepods.writings #drabbles.#geto x reader #geto x y/n #geto x you #geto fluff #jjk x reader #jjk x you #jjk fluff #geto suguru x reader #geto suguru x you #geto suguru fluff #jujutsu kaisen x you #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jujutsu kaisen fluff

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godmadeaterribleerror · 6 months ago

Text

Chapter 1 - In My Brain and In My Blood

Series Masterlist - Main Masterlist

Author's Note: This story is non-canon compliant rewrite, but primarily plot wise. Think of it as we're cooking with all the same ingredients (i.e lore, characters, setting, and backstory) but with one change (you) that gets us to a drastically different ending.

What the means is that there will be a lot of similar plot points to the real Supernatural, but the further we go through the story the more it will diverge. I've also take some creative labor with the reader, adding lore that's defiantly not a part of canon, but crucial to this story.

If you have any questions about this, feel free to ask! If not, I hope you enjoy the story!

Chapter title is from The End by Halsey

Word Count: 16.3k

Chapter Summary/Warnings: See the Masterlist for a Summary. Contains usual tags.

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

Chapter 2

Read on A03!

You know a few things about the dark.

It’s alive inside you. It has been your whole life. It makes your words too harsh and your brain too sharp and your love too big. It’s makes you too fragile, but still too sharp, and raises everything to a dangerous height you don’t know how to come down from. It makes everyone move away because they can see it. You can see it, always.

It covers every corner of your body, and grows roots in something white in your chest. Something no one but you can see. You’d asked your dad once—does he feel it too, feel the strange glow and pull of everything beautiful around you—and he’d looked at you like you were insane.

You might be.

But it’s hard not to be, in this line of work.

Hunting. Monsters and ghosts and nightmares, all around you and calling to you in your sleep. It’s where most of the darkness lives, in the way that few monsters lay hands on you, no matter how much of their blood you shed. Ghosts will treat you like any other, but the monsters look at you like they recognize you.

Like you’re one of them.

And that’s something you’ve never told your dad. You never will. He already hates that you do this, and not a month goes by where he doesn’t glare at you from across the table, beer bottle in hand, and ask you to stop.

“Kiddo,” he’d grunted the last time, narrowing his eyes at you over dinner. “That was the last one.”

“You say that every time-“

“And you ain’t listenin’ to me every time!” He’d snapped. “You don’t have to do this shit, not with your-“ He’d made a face, giving you a pointed look. “Ya’ know. Thing.”

“Witch.” You’d sighed. “You’re allowed to say it. I’m a witch.”

“You ain’t a witch-“

“I’m not a normal witch.” You’d corrected with a frown, picking at the wood of the table. “But I’m still not human.”

“You’re human,” he’d muttered your name, and when you’d looked up, he’d been staring at you with an exhausted expression and you’d felt something eat at your tongue. “But you’re right. You ain’t normal, kiddo, and it’s gonna get you fuckin’ killed-“

“It hasn’t yet-“

“It will. It always does.” He’d stood, giving you one last, tired look. “And I’m not tryin’ to lose you too.”

You’d given him a close-lipped smile. “You won’t lose me. I’m being careful.”

He’d rolled his eyes—you were being careful, and he knew it, but it still pissed him off—and nodded. And that had been it.

It’s like that every time. He tells you to quit, because you don’t need to do this, and you tell him you have to. You’re good at it. You’re more resourceful than half the hunters he knows, smarter than all of them, and better by a mile. He’d trained you. He hadn’t wanted to, but he’d realized it was either him teaching you or you learning through trial and error, and he’d decided you being a pain in his freakin’ ass was better than you being dead.

Because—in the end—all he really cares about is that you’re safe. It’s why you know to be careful, why you know what hunts to call for backup on, and why you know that—if you need to—you can crawl back home with your guts in your hand and he won’t yell at you until you’re better. Keeping you safe is his job, more than hunting, more than research, more than cars. He’d chosen to do it when he’d found you—eight years old and starving on the side of a highway—and it had stayed that way ever since. It didn’t matter what you were, what seemed to be inside of you, or how you were certainly more trouble that you were worth. He always made sure you were safe.

Safe from your real family, for what you know and refuse to be. Safe from the worst of the monsters and ghosts, who don’t seem to care for that horrible kinship you don’t know how to stop. Safe from hunters, and how they’ll hate you for what you know how to do.

Safe from John Winchester, and how he’ll put a bullet in your brain without question for what you don’t know how to change.

It’s the top rule. Stay away from the Winchesters. When John comes around for a hunt, hide in your room. When he drops his boys off before vanishing for weeks at a time, sneak out and call your uncle. He’ll pick you up, keep you safe, and drop you back home when the brothers leave. They can’t see you, because they’re loyal to their father and will tell him about the witch-girl who made the wind howl louder than it should’ve. John can’t know about you, because he’s a complicated man with a good heart, but he’ll hurt you worse than any ghost or monster could.

But you have to say—at least from this distance—he doesn’t look that dangerous.

You know it’s him. You recognize his car in the parking lot from seeing it in your dad’s yard, and recognize his voice from the living room of your house. It’s clearer now—no longer muffled through a door you’d keep an ear pressed to—and you’re certain it’s him.

And he’s just a man. A broad-shouldered, tired man with a face that doesn’t seem like it’s ever smiledand dark hair that’s streaked with slight silver. He even sounds exhausted, his voice laced with a thin irritation he either doesn’t know how to hide, or doesn’t care to.

“Dean,” he grunts, and you can’t see who he’s talking to, the bookshelves of the library only revealing John’s cold, set face. “Go back to the morgue and look at the bodies again. See if you can get a blood type on the vics.”

“A blood type?” A second voice, this one so clearly younger, a little defiant and bright, asks. “Dad, why do we care about their blood type-“

“Because this bitch is spilling it left and right, and we need to work out what skin she’s got in that game.” John’s words are short, impatient. “And you’re not here to ask me questions, Sam, you’re here to get through these damn books. Dean, go to the morgue.”

“Yes, sir.” That’s a third voice. It’s pretty. Deeper than the second—Sam’s—but not as tired as John’s. Mostly just cautious. “Can I, uh, can I take Sammy-“

“No.” John snaps. “I need him here for the readin’. Take the car and go.”

There’s a soft sound of metal ringing through the air, a scrape of wood on the floor, and you almost don’t move fast enough. You almost don’t duck behind the shelf in time for the third voice—the pretty one, Dean—to pass you, humming something you’d recognize if you weren’t lost in your panic.

Dean doesn’t see you.

But you see him.

And it’s not just his voice that’s pretty.

You don’t know a lot about the Winchester brothers. Only what your dad has told you. Dean’s three years older than you, Sam’s a year younger. Dean likes music, Sam likes books. They’re both good boys—better than your dad seems to think John deserves, although he’ll never say that out loud—but Sam can be defiant and Dean can be trouble.

You hope Dean’s trouble. He has to be, when he looks like that.

Because in only a split second of his side profile, you’re sure Dean Winchester is the prettiest man you’ve ever seen. Will ever see. It’s almost ethereal, and a little unfair. All of his features are clean and strong, like someone carved him from marble, but there’s a scar you could see on his jaw and a cut on his lower lip that made him seem human. Made his seem tangible.

Touchable.

You’d like to touch him. You’ve seen him once, but everything in your body seems to think the world will collapse if you don’t touch him now. If you don’t at least talk to him. Hear his deep, charming voice directed at you. See at his face up close, see it’s clear resemble to John that feels pointless, because Dean looks like he smiles. He looks like he’s meant to smile, and you’d really like to find out if he’d smile at you.

And that white thing—the one you feel all the time—seems to really like him. Even the darkness is trying to reach out to him, move into him, and you’re not really sure what the fuck is happening. He’d just walked past you, and your body is suddenly trapped by something overwhelming and dizzying in your lungs, your every nerve prickling the longer your brain circles him. The longer it spirals around his beautiful face, and full lips, and the way his voice sounded like something even bigger than the darkness in your body-

“Hey, Dad?” That same voice cuts through your thoughts, a little raised as Dean calls between the shelves. “Are you feeling anything from the beer earlier?”

“No.” John’s voice is clipped as he responds, and you can hear the frown in his voice. “You feelin’ alright, son?”

“Yeah, uh-“ There’s a heavy pause, and you can hear Dean shuffling slightly just out of your sight. “I dunno. Must’ve stood up too fast.”

“Dad, if he feels light headed he might not be safe to drive-“

“I’m alright, Sammy.” Dean’s words are fast. Not frantic, but rapid. “Nothing’s gonna happen to the car, Dad, I promise.”

John grunts. “Better not. Get moving, Dean, we don’t got all night.”

“Yes, sir.”

You hear Dean shuffle away, sounds of flipping paper and scratching pencils re-filling the air, and you’re trapped in your spot. You shouldn’t follow Dean. Following Dean will almost certainly end in meeting John, and that’s the one thing you’re never supposed to do. Your dad doesn’t fight you when you leave for months at a time, or cross paths with other hunters, or run dangerous scams to keep yourself afloat. He’s okay with more than he probably should be, and he never tells you that you can’t do something.

But you can’t talk to John Winchester.

He can’t know who you are. What you are.

So you can’t follow Dean. Your brain is deeply aware that following Dean would be a truly horrible idea, and your body seems to be on board. There’s iron around your lungs when John mutters something to Sam, and a sore shot of electrically whenever one of them stands up to move books around. You’re really good at running. You know exactly when to call it and go. You can sense danger so easily—it’s the same chill of needles ice running up your spine, every single time—and John is dangerous. And you really shouldn’t follow Dean.

But the White thing keeps bucking around inside you. You can almost see it rush and roar in the air, feel it thrash deep down—past your heart chamber and embedded a little to the right—to try and follow Dean Winchester. And it feeds the darkness. It starts to twinge and pulse, seeping and infecting your muscles and blood, locking around your skull and making everything far too big. You can feel it all. The books on the shelves that all read Dean, and the squeak of the floors that say his name, and the lights start to flicker as the air turns humid and cool.

“Dad-“

“I’m seein’ it, Sammy, grab the gun-“

You raise the back of your hand to your mouth and bite. Hard. Grounding yourself before the flood can burst out of your body, before John Winchester could find out who you are in the worst way possible.

And when you run—out the back and to your stolen Lexus—you don’t even realize where you’re going until you’re halfway there.

To the morgue.

After Dean.

It’s a terrible idea. You have ten, long minutes of driving to figure out every way in which this is a terrible idea. You don’t know him. This will distract you from the case. John Winchester will try to kill you. Your dad will kill you. And there’s a high chance it will all be for nothing, because everything in you that’s calling to Dean belongs to that white thing. And that’s a part of you, and no one else. There’s a chance that this—whatever the fuck this is—is something driven by what you are, what’s wrong with you, so Dean won’t feel it at all.

You know all of that. And you still make it the whole drive without turning around. You park and rifle through your glove compartment for a fake ID, pull on your stiff, too-itchy well officer, would a fraud wear this? Jacket, and still don’t turn the engine back on and book it out of town. You even manage to justify it. You’re working this case too. You were here first. You’d noticed the blood thing from the start—it’s why you took the case—but you just hadn’t gotten to the morgue yet. You’d already been planning on it, and Dean just happens to be here at the same time.

No matter what, you’ll get through it. You always get through it. And this might be a horrible idea, but that knowledge won’t stop you from stepping out of the car and making your way to the morgue. Know something has never really stopped you, and no amount of twisting bile in your gut—telling you to run, because you don’t love life, but you’d really rather not be murdered today—is going to prevent you from doing this. Nothing is stronger than the White in your chest, and it wants to talk to Dean Winchester.

So that’s exactly what you’re going to do.

It is, as always, worryingly easy to get into the morgue. Half of the work is flashing the badge and saying the right words—Agent Smith, from the insurance company, I need to take a look at the autopsies for the claims—but most of it is the confidence. You carry yourself like a haughty, too-good-for-this-morgue insurance agent. Your chin is raised when you stop at the desk, and your words to the receptionist are impatient and clipped, and God, it makes you feel like the scum of the earth how she’s nervous and apologetic, but you get in the door. You always get in the door, because this is the simple part. The smiles with teeth, and the lies you spit through them are so fucking simple.

The hard part is always different. Sometimes it’s the ghosts that follow you after a failure, the ones that can’t be killed with salt and fire. Sometimes it’s long nights that you don’t have time tp sleep, and the tug and rot of that darkness in your chest tries to push to the surface. Sometimes it’s a puzzle you barely manage to solve, and it costs a little bit more of your flesh and soul each time.

But today, it’s Dean Winchester. Or, as the receptionist calls him, Officer Costello.

“Officer?” You raise your brows. “So the cops are looking into a serial killer.”

“I, um-“ The receptionist flushes, her eyes widening slightly. “I don’t know, he just said he was from a town over, and our Chief asked him to take a look, I’m not-“

“I’ll just ask him while I’m in there.” You shrug, the receptionist’s mouth opens in likely protest, and you call over your shoulder as you walk away. “I need to know for the report!”

You push through the doors—nobody chasing after you a sign of success—turn into the mortuary’s office, and freeze at the sight before you.

Dean’s hunched over the mortuary’s desk, frowning at the largest stack of papers you’ve ever seen, and shit, he’s even prettier up close. Spiky hair and slightly tanned, freckled skin, rough looking hands sorting through the files and full lips in a frown and what the fuck is happening to you-

His head shoots up, eyes widening—green eyes, deep and vibrant and you need to get a goddamn grip—and you stare at each other for a long, confusing second before he finally speaks.

“Ma’am, if you could wait for the doctor outside please, this is, uh, official police business-“

You scoff, even as your whole body hums from the deep, smooth sound of his voice. “Is that really the excuse you’re going to use?”

Dean tenses, dropping the papers on the desk and rising to his full height, glaring down at you. He’s really tall, and broad, and probably warm-

“Excuse me? If you don’t exit this office right now, I’ll have reason to put you under arrest-“

“What reason?”

He blinks at you. “Interfering in police business-“

“Fake police business?”

“I’m not, this isn’t-“ Dean shakes his head, eyes narrowing on yours. “Who the hell are you?”

“I’m a fake insurance agent.” You lift your badge up from him to see, giving a sweet, fake smile. “And you’re a hunter.”

“Lady, I don’t know what the hell you’re talkin’ about-“

“I think you do.” You step forward, dropping into a seat across the desk. “To start, you’re definitely not a cop. Cops don’t drive muscle cars and raid morgue documents.”

He frowns, still watching you wearily. “How’d you know that’s my car?”

You’d slipped a little. You shouldn’t know that’s the Winchester’s car. But you’re quick on your feet, and by the time you say the lie it might as well be the truth. “Only three cars in the lot. Mine, the black one, and a minivan. And you don’t really seem like a minivan guy.”

Dean grunts, his body still braced and words tense. “I could be allowed to drive whatever car I want on duty-“

You give him an amused expression, tucking your knees into your chest as you lean back in your seat. “You’re like, twenty. There’s no way they’d let you drive your own car. Or,” you raise your brows. “Ask you investigate a bunch of weird murders by yourself.”

Dean frowns, but drops in the swivel chair behind the desk. “I’m twenty-one,” he mutters, and you snort.

“Congratulations-“

“And you,” his eyes shoot to yours, voice dropping into a low drawl that felt like it could be dangerous, but mostly made you feel a little fuzzy. “Haven’t answered my question. Who are you?”

You say your full name—the real one, that you’d been given at birth and he’d never connect to your dad—and drop your feet back to the floor, extending your hand across the desk. “I’m a hunter too.”

Dean chuckles, but meets your hand with a grin. “Yeah, I figured that part out myself, Princess. Dean Winchester.”

You shake his hand, and your smile must make you look like an idiot. It’s far too wide just from him telling you his name and touching your skin—he is warm, and his hands are calloused and big and still so soft—but there’s something like lightning sparking and shooting over your skin, and the White inside you is shining like a star. Pulsing and glowing and molding with the darkness. Making nothing really seem that bad at all.

Dean’s smiling back. And you’d been right. His face is meant to smile. It’s meant to have this broad, cocky grin that’s full of teasing joy and a bright-eyed delight in something you can’t quite place. You really can’t tell if he can feel it. There’s a glint in his eyes that’s full of promises, but you can’t figure out if he can feel this. This raging tug in your body that keeps your hand in his longer than it needs to be, that makes his skin feel like a furnace and your heart feel right in your body.

He might. He really might feel it. His hand stays in yours as well, his grip a little tighter than it needs to be, and when you manage to pull away, he clears his throat—a small, adorable blush covering his pretty face—and stares at you like you’ve fallen from the sky, and you’re still covered in stardust.

“So, uh,” Dean glances down at the papers, then back to you. “You here for the autopsy reports?”

You nod, crossing your legs under your body. “Yep. You gonna share?”

“That depends.” Dean shrugs, shooting you another, very mind-numbing smirk. “You gonna help us out?”

“Us?” You tilt your head at him, twisting a ring on your finger. “You’ve got a partner?”

“Partners.” Dean corrects you with a grin. “My dad and brother. We always hunt together, it’s safer and Sammy’s still a kid, so-“ He cuts himself off, his face falling into a small frown. “Do you, are you hunting alone?”

“Mostly, yeah.” You shrug. “But I can help you out-“

“You, you shouldn’t be hunting alone.” Dean cuts you off with a shake of his head, his voice almost disbelieving. “It’s not safe. Gonna get you killed.”

“Uh huh.” You narrow your eyes, your voice becoming dry and bored. “Do you want my help, Dean Winchester?”

“Sure, but-“

“Then drop it, give me the papers, and let me help.”

He frowns. “You’re kinda bossy.”

“Yeah, well, you’re kinda-“

“It’s not bad.” He pushes some of the files across the desk, shooting you a wink. “Just making sure you know.”

“Oh.” You stare at him. He’s so pretty, and his smile does weird things to your gut and ribs and the White inside of you. “Uh-“

“I’ll take these.” Dean taps the files still in front of him, watching you with a strange expression. “You got those?”

“Sure.” You mumble, pulling the papers into your lap. “Um, thanks.”

“Don’t worry about it.” He shrugs. “More hands, we’ll be done faster. You, uh, you know what you’re lookin’ for-“

“Blood.” You flip open the first file, playing with the corner of a page as you speak. “Every vic’s been covered in it. It’s uh,” you grimace slightly, an image of a corpse painted red flashing in your head. “It’s been really gross.”

Dean hums in agreement, giving you a curious look. “You’ve seen all the bodies?”

“Most of them,” you look down to the file, flipping through it until you find the blood report “I’ve been here for like, five days.”

“Huh.” He frowns, looking down to his own paper. “We’ve been here four. Only seen two of them.”

“Well, maybe I’m just better at my job.”

He laughs, and when you glance back up, he’s grinning. “Sure, Princess.”

You kick him under the desk, and he makes a fake sound of pain.

“What was that for?!“

“Making fun of me,” you stick your tongue out at him, not looking up from your papers. “Not very nice, Winchester.”

“You made fun of me-“

“And if you wanna kick me, I won’t stop you-“

“I’m not gonna kick a lady-“

“Well then.” You shrug, unable to fight the smile on your face. “That’s not my fault, is it?”

He huffs, his voice dropping to a low mutter you can still defiantly hear. “Bossy.”

“That’s not being bossy, it’s-“ You cut yourself off, leaning down to re-read the file in front of you. “Shit.”

“It is shit,” Dean complains, and you can hear the pout in his voice as you grab the next file in your stack, rushing through the report to find what you’re looking for. “You’re lucky I-“

“No, that’s not-” you look up at him, your brain moving too fast to fully linger on why you might be lucky. “Give me your file.”

Dean frowns, but slides the paper over the desk. “What-“

You raise your hand, scanning over the file and grinning as you find what you’re looking for. “I’ve got it.”

“Got what-“

“That blood wasn’t only the vics. It was their’s, plus,” you turn the page for Dean to read, pointing to the words. “All the previous vics. Mixed together. That’s why there’s been more and more every time.”

“Oh.” Dean leans forward, scanning over the page. “Kinda like a really gross blood cocktail?”

“Exactly.” You grin at him. “I know what we’re looking for.”

He looks back up at you, raising his brows. “You gonna tell me, or-“

“It’s a moroi.” You drop the files, leaning back and pushing your feet back up on the desk. “It explains the messiness perfectly.”

“No,” Dean shakes his head. “My dad says it’s just a normal ghost with a weird thing for blood-“

“Your dad is wrong. It’s a moroi.”

Dean’s eyes narrow. “My dad’s never wrong. And he’s more experienced than both of us combined, he’d know if it was a moray-“

“Mo-roi-“

“And look,” Dean leans across the desk, pointing to the files. “All of them had the same blood type. That’s what Dad said to look for.”

“They have the same blood type because it’s a moroi.” You hold his gaze, because every single part of you might want this man in a way you can’t possibly begin to understand, but you’re also fucking right. “They’re Romanian vampire babies.’

“Vampire babies-“

“Evil infant spirits that didn’t get baptized. They’re really rare, but this-“ You tap the files with a smug grin. “Is their exact MO. Specific blood type that they’ve probably got a taste for, mixing it with their previous victims, incredibly sloppy.”

“Because they’re babies.” Dean mutters, frowning into the air. “And babies, uh, don’t know how to clean.”

You nod. “Because babies don’t know how to clean.”

“And you’re sure?” Dean looks down to the files, his tone cautious. “I mean, you said they’re kinda rare-“

“They are.” You shrug. “And that’s why I’m sure.”

Rare things are your specialty. Things that even the most experienced hunters don’t understand, that were hard to track and harder to kill. Things that were stranger than strange, darker than dark, worse than evil. Things that wouldn’t hurt you, and you’ve taught yourself every way kill. It’s why you’d taken this case in the first place. It’s why you’re fucking right.

“You, uh,” Dean’s words are slow, like he’s picking them carefully. “You know how to kill these things?”

“Yep.”

“You wanna come with me? To explain it to Dad and Sammy?”

“I, um-“ You start to pick at the skin around your nails, your skin suddenly itching and a weight forming in your lungs. “I mean, I can just tell you how, and you can deal with it, and I can go-“

“Go?” Dean frowns, his brow drawn. “Where are you going?”

“Out of town.” You keep your voice strong and even, because no matter how much the White inside you seems to be trying to move into Dean—no matter how much you’d really like to stay in this office and talk to him for a million years—you have to go. You cannot meet John Winchester. “If your Dad’s as good as you say-“

“He is-“

“Then you’ll be able to handle this. You don’t need me.”

“Well,” Dean leans over the desk, his voice dropping to a charming drawl. “If I ask you nicely, will you consider staying? Giving us a hand?”

You hold his gaze, unable to find enough willpower to shut him down immediately. “How nicely?”

“Please,” Dean says your name, giving you a taunting, boyish grin, and the White inside you ignites. You’ve heard your name said a million ways, but never like that. Never in Dean’s voice, never like it’s some sort of curse and prayer all at once, never like it’s bigger than just a name. “Please stay in town and help me out. Please explain this moroi shit to my dad, and help us kill the son of a bitch. I’ll buy you a beer, and be in your debt for a million freakin’ years. Please.”

He’s already got you. If the way he said your name didn’t make you fold, the shit-eating smirk on his face and gleam in his eyes that tells you exactly how he plans to repay that debt made you cave.

“I don’t drink.” You mumble, your face heated and eyes a little wide. “But I’ll take two million years and a promise that you’ll listen to me.”

Dean chuckles. “Awesome.” He grins, his eyes never leaving yours as he stands. “Let’s get outta here, I’ll drive you to our motel.”

That’s where you manage to draw a line. You’ll bow to Dean’s charming words and handsome face, you’ll follow him out of the office and into the parking lot, and you’ll agree to come meet John and Sam Winchester—no matter how stupid and deadly an idea it will certainly prove to be—but you’ll drive yourself. You didn’t steal that Lexus not to drive it, and when things inevitably go sideways, you’ll need a car to escape in.

“You sure?” Dean walks you to the Lexus, standing right at your side and watching you in a way the White seems to feel. “I mean, it’s not a problem-“

“I’m sure.” You grab your keys out of your pocket, stopping in front of the car. “All my shit is in here, and I can just follow you. It’ll be fine.”

“Well, how am I gonna know you won’t just drive off?” Dean doesn’t budge, barely sparing your car a glance. “Leave me to deal with the vampire babies alone?”

You give him a flat. “I won’t just drive off, Winchester-“

“You might.” He shrugs. “I don’t know you that well, you could be playing me-“

“I’m not- Fine.” You roll your eyes, shoving your badge into his hands. “You can hold onto that, and I’ll have to follow you to get it back. Happy?”

“Very.” Dean winks at you, flipping your badge open to read. “Agent Smith- Who’s Smith?”

“Nobody. Smith is the most common last name in United States.” You shrug, and Dean looks at you like you’re insane. “What?”

“Nothin’, I just-“ He shakes his head, huffing a low laugh. “It’s practical. Smart.”

You narrow your eyes. “But?”

“No but,” He says your name with a bright, cocky grin, and tucks your badge into his pocket. “Can I not call you smart?”

“Not when you don’t really mean it-“

“I mean it. You’re smart.” His grin grows, and it feels like it’s burning its way right into your heart. Kicking it up to a higher speed, warming it until your whole body feels lost in a misting haze. It’s so fucking weird. “Are all your badges Smith?”

“No.” You mutter, crossing your arms to try and stop your heart beating right out of your chest. “Smith is just insurance. Johnson does wildlife, Brown is a cop, and Miller’s FBI.”

“Huh,” Dean looks at you like he’s never seen anything more amusing in his life. It’s not really helpful. “Sammy’s gonna like you.”

“Sammy?”

“My brother.” Dean shrugs. “He’s smart too. Not half as pretty, but smart.”

You flush, leaning back to ground yourself against the cool metal of the car. “You don’t know me, Winchester. I might be a dumbass.”

Dean chuckles, shaking his head. “I don’t think so, sweetheart. Dumb people don’t know about vampire babies.”

“I’d argue vampire babies are the exact thing a dumb person would know about-“

“And I’d argue dumb people don’t say I’d argue.”

You scowl. “Touché.”

Dean laughs again. He needs to stop doing that. “Dumb people don’t say touché-“

“Shut up.” You kick him again, and this time his grin just becomes teasing and smug and a little fucking dizzying.

“That’s not nice, Princess-“

“I said shut up.” You mutter, turning to open your car door. “Go get in your car so we can actually do our jobs.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Dean’s still grinning at you, his eyes widening as they finally flick to the Lexus. “Holy shit, you drive this?”

“Yeah.” You shrug, dropping into your seat and pointing across the lot to his car. “Go.”

Dean raises his hands in surrender. “Bossy.”

You glare at him. “Winchester-“

He gives you one last wink you feel deep in your core, closes your door, and walks away without another word. But—right after he climbs into the driver seat—he pulls out your badge, holds it up to the window, and mouths Follow me, or this is mine.

You roll your eyes, flip him off, and watch him laugh as he pulls out of the lot. And you could leave. Badges are easy to make, you’re not emotional attached to Agent Smith, and this is your last chance to keep yourself away from John Winchester. To listen to your every instinct, to your dad’s stern voice in your head, and run. It would be so fucking easy to run. To turn around and never look back, never allow yourself to indulge Dean Winchester further than one conversation.

But you don’t want to run. You want to follow this odd pull to him, follow him to the motel, follow him wherever else he seems to be going. Which is fucking insane, because you don’t know him, he doesn’t know you, and he’s almost certainly better off without you. Most people are. Hell, you’d be better off without you, if you could figure out how to do that.

And you know all that. But you still don’t want to run.

So you follow Dean out of the parking lot, through the winding backstreets of the town, and to a backwater motel. You park your car right next to his, close your eyes to take a long, steadying breath, and try to rationalize to yourself how this could possibly end up not blowing up in your face. You’ll keep a hold on yourself. John won’t know who you are, or what you are, or who you know, or what you know, or-

“Shit!” You jump as something raps on your window, and hear a loud laugh from outside your car.

You’ll get through this. You always do.

“You yelped.” Dean tells you as you climb out of the car, a wide, teasing grin on his face. “Real tough of you, Princess-“

“Suck my dick, Winchester.” You glare at him, and his grin only grows wider. “And stop calling me princess.”

“Nah,” Dean places his hand on your back, steering you towards the motel. “Suits you too well.”

“I don’t know what that means-“

“You don’t have to.” He smirks at you, and it does something impossible good to your brain. Makes it calm. A little fuzzy, a little smooth, but so fucking calm. “C’mon, I texted Dad that I found you, he and Sammy’ll be in our room.”

Dean Winchester is dangerous. You should be scratching and clawing and fighting like a feral animal to go, to get back in your car and as far away from here—from John Winchester—as possible. But he says I found you with a proud grin and puff of his chest like he’s bragging, and all that your stupid body knows how to do is lean slightly into his chest and follow him wherever he takes you. Somewhere dark, or somewhere horrible, or somewhere gray or somewhere safe.

Or just a shabby, paint-peeling motel room, where John Winchester and a shaggy haired kid are sitting around a table, looking at you—standing awkwardly in the doorway, watching them wearily, your back straight but arms crossed in defense—like you’re the strangest thing they’ve ever seen.

“This is, um,” Dean glances at you as he says your full name, and you realize he’s more tense than he’d been before. Standing a little taller, his eyes a little more guarded, his expression impossibly neutral. “She’s the hunter I mentioned.” Dean says your name again, pointing to the table as he continues. “That’s my dad, John, and my brother, Sammy.”

“Hi.” The kid—he’s taller than you, and barely younger, but there’s something about him that still says kid—offers you a small smile. “Do you, uh, do you hunt alone?”

“Yeah,” you give Sam a smile back, trying to force your tone to be casual, your body to relax, and your eyes not to wander to where John is tall in his seat, just watching you. “He tell you that?”

You jerk your head at Dean, who frowns. “So what if I did-“

“So, you’re being a real dramatic bitch about that. You’re not my dad, Winchester, let’s calm down.” You give him a small grin, and feel something odd and bright inflate in your chest when his mouth tugs up for the first time since you’ve walked into the room.

Dean looks like he’s going to say something back, but John clears his throat, and something curls and rots in your stomach at how quickly Dean goes rigid, how fast his mouth snaps shut.

“You got a father, girl?”

You look at John, and he looks even more tired up close, in the dim light of the motel. More threatening as well, watching you like you’re prey, or a parasite, or a disease. Like you’re going to go feral and destroy everything in the room. It would sting less if he wasn’t right. If his attention wasn’t making your skin crawl and the White in you start to twist and pound to escape your body, the darkness rushing out as everything becomes big again. If you weren’t digging your nails into your palm to stop yourself from proving him right, and if you weren’t raising your chin in a weak attempt to be a little taller than you are.

“I do.” You hold his gaze, and wonder if he can see the darkness. If he already knows what you are, and is trying to work out how to kill you. “We’re really close, actually.”

“He know you hunt?”

“He does.” You shrug. “He’s fine with it.”

That’s a lie. Your dad hates that you hunt. You’re certain the only reason he doesn’t lock you in his panic room to keep you away from the monsters and ghosts is because he knows you’d escape, and he’d never see you again. But John doesn’t know that, and you’re a fantastic liar, so if he doesn’t believe you it’s not because you don’t sell the words, it’s because he just doesn’t trust you. Because whatever you say, he’s going to keep looking at you like he can see right into your horrible center.

John’s face twitches, and as he leans slightly forward, you’re not sure Dean’s breathing at your side. “Your old man a hunter too?”

You nod, realize this is getting a little away from you, and start to run your thumb over your palm as John narrows his eyes.

“What’s his name?”

You use your real father’s name—your biological father, who you’ll never see again if you can help it—and it stings on your tongue. You hate that you have to say it. You hate that you have to repeat it, adding your real last name, but it works. John grunts, and looks away.

“Dean.”

“Yes, sir?”

“How old is she?”

“I, uh-“ Dean looks at you with wide eyes. “How old are you?”

You raise your brows. “How old do you think I am?”

“Twenty…” Dean scratches his head slightly, looking a little afraid. It would be adorable if this wasn’t such an oddly volatile situation. “Twenty-teen?”

“Twenty-teen?”

“I dunno, I mean you gotta be old than Sammy, and you sound like you’re old, but-“

“I sound like I’m old?”

“Just cause of the words you use! You look like you can’t be old than me, but I don’t know-“

“Jesus Christ, dude.” You take pity on Dean—who looks like he’s about to have a panic attack—and pat his shoulder as you speak. “I’m eighteen. And,” you look back to John, cooling your voice and narrowing your eyes. “I can speak for myself.”

John doesn’t waver. You can’t really imagine a world where he would. “I don’t doubt that, girl. But I ain’t lookin’ for help on this case, and you’re barely votin’ age-“

“I’m aware of my age.” You interrupt, crossing your arms over your chest. “But I’ve also been hunting, alone, since I was fifteen, and this,” you gesture through the air, holding John’s cold gaze. “Is my type of case. So you need my help.”

John scoffs. “It’s a ghost, sweetheart, me and my boys will be fine without you-“

“She says it’s not a ghost.” Dean mumbles, paling as John’s gaze shoots to him. “It’s, uh, a moroi?”

You hum in agreement, offering Dean a small grin that John doesn’t seem to miss.

Sam raises his hand at the table, his expression open and curious. “What’s a moroi?”

“Romanian vampire baby.” Dean says, shooting Sam the first real, full grin you’ve seen on his face since you entered the motel room. “They never got a chance to learn who Mr. Clean is, which is why there’s been so much freakin’ blood everywhere. Right?”

Dean looks at you with a hopeful, bright expression, and it makes the White glow and sing as you nod.

“It’s a ghost.” John grunts, and when you look back to the table, he’s glaring at you. “We got freezin’ temperatures, EMF, and no break ins-“

“Because they’re death monsters. And they can shape-shift, into a guy, or a bug, or a cat.” You shrug. “Wouldn’t be that hard to get into a house.”

John scowls. “And you’d bet all our lives on this-“

“Yes.” You say, the words simple. You’re good at your fucking job, and there’s no doubt in your mind. “It is a moroi. I’ve hunted them before.”

“You have?” Sam’s eyes widen, his tone filled with something that might be admiration. “That’s so-“

John cuts Sam off with a raised hand, his attention never wavering from you. “Well,” he drawls your name, and it’s mocking and cruel and awful. The opposite of how Dean says it, in a way you hope to never hear again. “If you’re such an expert, how the hell do we kill the asshole.”

“Easy.” You shrug, as if there’s not something wired and painful in your muscles that’s trying to force you to run, run, run, far away from John Winchester and his cold voice. “You stab it in the heart with a nail.”

“With a nail.” John repeats, his voice flat, and you scowl.

“Well, that, or,” you stand a little taller, making your voice cool and bored. “We throw a Romanian funeral for it, and find a living relative to walk around its grave three times with a candle.”

Dean makes a choked sound from off to the side, and when you look, he’s staring at you like you’d fallen from space again. John doesn’t look half as awestruck. He mostly looks pissed.

“This ain’t the time for jokes-“

“That’s not a joke.” You snap. “There are multiple ways to kill something, and that’s one of the ways you can deal with a moroi. It’s that, the nail, or burning resin on a Tuesday, then a Saturday.”

John laughs, no amusement or joy in the sound. “You might think your smart, kid, but how about I see a plan. Stabbin’ something in the heart ain’t gonna be easy, and hell, girl, you said they shape shift. How the fuck are you thinkin’ we find them-“

“There will be blood in its nails and eyes.” You hold your ground, but your palm grows red as you break skin. “And there is a pattern to the tarbets, we’ve just all been looking in the wrong place.”

“A pattern?” Sam’s eyes are still wide, his voice a little eager. “But none of the vics have been the same age, gender, ethnicity, occupation-“

“Have they all been parents? Lived near graveyards?”

All three Winchesters gape at you for a second, and Dean looks at John with wide eyes.

“Shit, Dad, she’s right.” He mutters, running a hand over his face. “The one we looked at yesterday, the house had one of those baby gates-“

“And we’ve driven past a graveyard every time.” Sam adds, looking between you and John with a nervous expression. “So, uh, it could be-“

“I know what it could be, Sam.” John grunts, his glare fully focused on Dean. “You willing to bet on her, son?”

Dean looks at you, and he shouldn’t be—you’re a stranger, you’re a liar, you’re a monster that’s attracted to him like a magnet—but he nods. He stares at you like he doesn’t really understand what’s going on either, like he’s looking for a reason to not trust you and side with his father, but can’t find one. And—right before he looks back to his father—you see a flash in his eyes that makes you think he feels it. That whatever the fuck is happening to you, it’s happening to Dean too, and he’s just as helpless as you are to fight it.

“I am, sir.” He says, hands flexing at his side. “Sammy and I can do door duty, figure out who’s next on this things hit list-“

Sam frowns. “I don’t wanna do door duty-“

“Blame Dean,” John shrugs, giving Dean a curt nod. “Take my car and be back in two hours-“

You raise your hand, and John cuts himself off with a glower.

“What.”

“They don’t need to do door duty,” you say, your fingers running over your palm. “The moroi will only target parents of infants, so you can look for baby seats in cars. And it’ll all be near same cemetery. Five miles radius.” You catch Dean raising his brows at you, and shrug. “They don’t like to stray far from home.”

“And by home,” Sam jumps in, words slow as he connects the dots. “You’re talking about their grave.”

“Or their coffin.” You offer him a close-lipped smile. “But yeah. It’s already dusk, our best bet would be splitting up and patrolling a few streets until we see the thing. It’ll probably be in its regular form, at least until it spots a house.”

Dean frowns at you. “What’s that gonna look like?”

You wrinkle your nose. “Hairy. Bloody and hairy. It’ll be gross, you’ll see it.”

“And how,” John grunts. “Are you thinkin’ we split up.”

“We’ve got two cars.” You shrug. “Three if you have a second one-“

“We don’t.” John snaps. “And I took a fuckin’ taxi back here, ain’t no way I’m not driving my car, or lettin’ a little girl go off to hunt this on her own-“

“How honorable,” you mutter under your breath—careful to make sure Dean doesn’t hear you—and raise your voice back to a bored, flat tone. “Then you’ll take your car, and I’ll take one of them,” you nod between Sam and Dean. “So we’re off in pairs.”

“Dad, I could go with her.” Dean takes a small step forward, his tone slightly nervous. “I mean, it would be safer for you to take Sammy. And you know I’d be careful.“

John grunts, jaw ticking, and you can see he’s considering it. That, somehow, you’ve convinced him to go with this, and he hasn’t put a bullet in your brain. There’s a frantic, wired part of you along your skin that’s certain he’s just waiting for an excuse, but for now you’ll take it. You’ll take Dean volunteering to go with you, John not killing you, and everyone winning when you’re right, because you will be. You’re not good for much, but you’re good for this.

“I want you to drive.” John tells Dean, and you’ll allow it. If it keeps Dean near you—as you so confusingly and desperately crave—you’ll let him drive your stupid, fancy car. Fuck, you’ll let him run it into a ditch if he wants, as long as you’re there with him, and what the fuck is happening to you-

Dean says your name, and you blink at him as he continues. “I, uh, if you’re good with it-“

“Sure, I don’t give a fuck.” You toss Dean your keys, and he frowns. “I mean, try not to total it, or do donuts-“

Dean gasps, his face full of mock offense that pulls a smile onto your face. “Do I look like a hooligan to you-“

You raise your brows. “Did you just say hooligan?”

“Yeah,” he grins at you, and nothing else seems that real. “It’s a fun word, don’t bash it-“

“I am not bashing it-“

“Kinda sounds like you’re bashin’ it-“

“Well, it kinda sounds like you’re going to try and do donuts in my car-“

“Princess, I would never-“

“Winchester, I don’t believe you-“

John coughs, loudly, and you and Dean fall silent. That keeps happening. You talk to Dean, and everything fades until you’re just smiling like an idiot and watching him like he’s the sun, and you’re just existing in his orbit. And he does the same thing. Dean’s face is red, and he’s staring at the floor as John glowers at him, but you keep catching his eyes darting to you, a small furrow on his brow that you wish you could ask him about. You wish you could ask him a million things. About his life, about his likes and dislikes, why his whole family hunts and what he thinks of your dad—the one he’d know, the one that’s going to murder you when he finds out what you’re doing right now—and if he can feel this too. He must. It’s like a drug, and it’s flashing and loud in the White, and making the darkness blur into something you think would be better. Into something you wouldn’t hate, molding with something that feels foreign but right, strange but just as powerful and certain as gravity. Something secret, that you think you should be fighting but can’t bring yourself to raise a weapon against.

Something bigger than you. Bigger than him. Bigger than the White inside your chest and the darkness that’s pushed down, down, down as you force yourself to stay in place, and not either grab Dean’s face and scream—shout at him in a begging question of do you feel this, or am I going fucking insane—or run. Flee as John Winchester gives you one last look like he’s imaging your blood on the floor, and you climb into the passenger’s seat of the Lexus.

But you manage to keep it together, and you’ll have to settle for this. For talking to Dean as you patrol up and down a darkened suburban street with white-picket fences, your knees up on the dash and your fingers growing bloody as you pick at them to keep the darkness down.

“So, uh,” Dean taps his hands on the wheel, staring out at the road. “Hunting.“

You blink at him, raising your brows. “What?”

“I just, mean how’d you end up doing it? You’re young-“

“You’re literally only three years old than me-“

“But I got Dad and Sammy.” He scowls. “You’re alone.”

“Yeah, we’ve establish that.” You cross your arms, curling slightly into your seat. “I’m really good at my job, Winchester, I’m not that worried.”

Dean chuckles, glancing at your half-pout with an amused expression. “Still Winchester? When am I gonna get the honor of her majesty using my first name?”

You glare at him, and it just makes his grin wider. “Shut up.”

He clicks his tongue. “Bossy.”

And he’s so confusingly adorable and handsome—in the soft, shimmering light of the streetlamps and fog—that you speak without even thinking. “You have to earn first names, Deano.”

He freezes for a second, and his grin becomes his whole face. Wide and charming, sweeping you off your feet and knocking the breath from your lungs without even touching you.

“So,” he drawls, still smirking like an idiot. “Nicknames you’ll pass out like party favors, but I need to work to just be Dean.”

“Seems that way, doesn’t it?”

“Well, can I at least shoot down Deano?”

“Maybe,” you hum. “On what grounds?”

“I dunno,” he shrugs, eyes flashing in the low light. “It kinda makes me sound like a birthday clown?”

You giggle. A small, soft giggle that he pulls out of you with barely any effort, that you want to hate but can’t figure out how to. “Maybe you are a clown-“

“Birthday clown.” He corrects, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel. “Don’t drop the birthday part, that means I’ve got a job. And I can’t be a clown, Sammy’ll never speak to me again.” Dean glances at you, his voice dropping slightly. “He freakin’ hates clowns. Might shoot me before I explain that a pretty lady turned me into one against my will.”

You raise your brows, trying to push down the flush on your face from pretty lady. How he’d said the words like they were teasing, but still so serious, and looked at you with a small smirk when they had his intended effect. You can barely remember how to clear your throat and use words, let alone tease and spar with him when the White is blinding in your body.

“Unfortunately,” you manage to speak, nudging his shoulder with your own. “All sales are final. You’re Deano now.”

Dean rolls his eyes, but his grin doesn’t falter for a second. “Until I earn Dean, though, right?”

“If you earn Dean.”

He hums, shooting you another, oddly heated glance. “And what do I need to do for that?”

You only shrug, running your fingers over your palm to sooth the darkness. It’s starting to eat over your nerves and heart, trying reach out and touch Dean in a way you can’t allow, in a way that will end whatever this is before it begins. Dean only gives you a strange look, his smile still wide on his face.

“Well,” Dean says your whole name, over-pronouncing each syllable. “Am I allowed to return the favor?”

“What favor.”

“Callin’ you a nickname.” He winks at you, and it settles—warm and soft and strong—in your core. “It’s only fair.”

You shake your head. “No. I don’t even have a nickname.”

“Bet I could fix that.”

“Would be a losing bet. I wouldn’t take it.”

“Whatever you say, Princess.”

And just like that, you’ve lost. You’d seen it coming, too. It was too easy a solution for him to have, to easy a path to allow him to take, too easy to let the small part of you—that had wanted to hear him call you Princess again, because it soothed something that was always feral inside of you and blurred the darkness into the White until nothing hurt inside you—allow Dean to coax you where he’d clearly wanted you, and follow with a smile on your face. But all of this was too easy. Talking to Dean was too easy, because the conversation seems to flow and ebb without effort, and you’re almost always in danger of saying too much. He seems to know how to—without any obvious intention—get you to tell him anything he asks, leaving you biting your tongue to keep down bits of the truth that could prove deadly. But he doesn’t push you to speak—which is perfect and terrifying all within itself—and when you fall into silence it’s easy too. It’s easy to control the darkness, calmed only by your thumb and long breathes, and easy to keep everything small. Just you and Dean in the soft silence of the car, just you and Dean in the whole world.

“My mom died.” Dean says suddenly, frowning out the window. “It’s why I’m hunting. And,” he adds, his voice growing a little firmer, a little more defensive. “It’s why my dad’s so careful. I know he can be tough, but we’ve only got each other, and he’s just tryin’ to-“

“I get it.” You whisper, something deep in your chest aching for him. For this pretty, impossible man who might be bigger than the whole word, and how his brow is knit in a confusing kind of hollow pain as he defends his father. Goes to arms for him without prompting, like it’s a reflex. And you really do get it, but even if you didn’t, you somehow care too much about him to force him to rage and spit fire in John’s defense. It looks like it might rip him apart, and you never really want to see him go. So you just offer him a gentle, full lipped but toothless smile, and place your hand on his arm. “And that really fucking sucks.”

He lets out a dry chuckle, and doesn’t try to move his arm away. “It does really fucking suck. Thanks.”

“My dad’s wife died.” You offer, as if that would somehow make this better, and Dean gives you an odd look.

“Dad’s wife? Not your mom?”

You swallow. You did it again. You slipped when you’re usually so fucking careful. “It’s complicated.”

“Ah.” Dean has a little furrow between his brow that you’d like to run your thumb over, but he drops it. “Are you, you gonna tell me why you hunt? If it’s not your Dad’s wife?”

You sigh, a feral instinct of survive shoving the truth just a little further down. “That’s complicated too. I mean it’s not,” you glance up at him, his eyes fixed onto the road. “It’s not like yours. I didn’t lose anyone.”

“Is it a family thing? Like, your dad brought you in?” Dean’s every word is careful, like he’s afraid he might spook you. But that’s another thing that’s too easy. Staying next to Dean and not bristling or fleeing is far too fucking easy.

“No,” you say, watching the light and shadows shift over his face in a strange, perfect dance. “He tries to stop me from doing it all the time. Shit, he called me last night and asked me to come home.”

Dean frowns. “You-“

“Dean!” You cut him off with a hand over his mouth, and he slams the breaks with a screech. You can see his staring at you from the corner of your eye, but you barely spare him a glance, your eyes locked over his shoulder, out the window, at a shifting figure in the dark. “Look.”

He turns his head, prying your hand from his mouth as he glares out the window. “I don’t-“

“There,” you hiss, leaning a little further forward. “See the-“

“That might just be a shadow,” Dean mutters, his voice dropping to a whisper as he scans over the dark. “Or a fox-“

You turn your head, giving him a flat look. “Do foxes look like babies covered in blood?”

“No.” He grins at you. “But I’ve seen weirder shit, Princess.”

You’re suddenly aware of how close you are. How you’d leaned over the console and started to practically hang off of Dean’s body, how your faces are barely a breath apart and you can see every deep color and fleck of gold in his eyes. He really only gets prettier, and he’s so warm, and there’s molten silver in your chest trying to tangle into him. He smells like fresh grass and spice, his eyes are dilating—but maybe just from the dark—and everything seems to be slowing down as the silver looks for other places to leak out. Places that wouldn’t hurt anyone, like the mist of the night that seems to glow and the wind that seems to bend and creak the trees in your direction, and the golden streetlamps-

Dean’s eyes shoot to the road as the lights start to flicker, his body tensing against yours. “Shit. We should, uh-“

You nod, push yourself away, and try to pretend your body doesn’t grieve the loss of his touch.

John and Sam are taking too long to arrive. You’re tense and bouncing on the sidewalk as you wait, turning a sharp nail between your fingers, and Dean keeps a hand around your wrist as he frowns down the street. You think he can sense that, if he looks away for only a second, you’ll dart into the house and deal with this yourself. You could. This nail has killed three moroi before, and you’d been completely alone then.

“Winchester.”

Dean looks at you with a frown, and you tug your arm slightly.

“Let me go.”

“No,” he grunts, his grip tightening. “Dad said to wait.”

“He’s not my dad-“

“Doesn’t matter.” Dean mutters, his gaze moving back to the empty, dark fog. “We’re waiting.”

You scowl. “Fine. Can you let go-“

“No.”

“I swear to god, Dean Winchester-“

“If I let you go,” he snaps, his glare shooting back to you. “You’re going to run in there. So no.”

You narrow your eyes. “You don’t know me-“

He chuckles, shaking his head slightly. “Look me in the eyes,” he drawls your name, holding your gaze. “And say you won’t run.”

It should be an easy lie, but it gets caught in your throat and you can only gape at him. Dean raises his brows as you continue to stare, and the White inside you starts to thrash as you clear your throat, forcing the words out.

“I’d handle it.”

He scoffs. “There is no way you’re gonna be able to handle it alone-“

“So, come with me,” You hiss, leaning forward until your face is only an inch from his. “And I won’t be alone.”

You don’t know why it breaks him. But something flashes in his eyes, he groans—running his free hand over his face and giving you a look of disbelief—and he caves.

And from there it’s mostly a blur. It’s always a blur. The darkness inside of you latches onto something primal, and it’s all only a blur.

Usually it’s all but a blackout. Like something overtakes you and you become just as monstrous as what you’re hunting, your brain only holding onto what you’ll need in order to survive next time, and a sticky smell of blood to haunt your sleep. But Dean’s here now, and things come into focus. Time is still a rush, and you’re still moving on pure instinct, but you remember Dean’s body being pressed to yours as you crept through the suburban house. You remember to set look on his face as you swept the rooms, figuring out what the moroi could be, where it might be hiding. You remember seeing it first, and the sound of flesh tearing as it launched at Dean—over you—and you swatted it with your arm like a baseball.

You remember Dean shouting your name as you raced forward with the nail in your hand, and how it sounded like his chest was being ripped open. You remember finding that small patch of soft flesh on the moroi’s chest, driving the nail home, and tasting bile when it vomited blood up into your face.

You remember Dean passing you his shirt on the curb a few blocks down, because the very ungrateful almost-victims threatened to call the cops, and you were covered in blood. He’d faced away as your changed—zipping up his own jacket and humming while he waited—and you could’ve sworn he was blushing when he turned back around.

Then John Winchester had arrived—looking at Dean like he’d just sprouted a second, hideous head and you like he was imaging how amazing you’d look in a casket—and everything grew sharp as they drove away.

More of it comes together as you drive yourself back to the motel. Dean had dumped the body in the gutter, and you had given him your motel address. John had snapped at you to meet them tomorrow for a debrief, and told Dean that they’d talk back at the room. Sam had smiled at you, and it was a nice smile. There hadn’t seemed to be anything beneath it—just a kind smile for the woman sitting on the curb next to his shirtless brother, her hair matted in blood and fingers covered in monster hair—and you’d liked that.

When you enter your room, it suddenly feels too small. Nothing is big enough for how strange this is, how you might need all the world and a little more to figure out what the fuck just happened. You miss Dean. You’d met him today, and you miss him more than you’ve missed anything before. You keep looking to the side to see if he’s there, when you know he won’t be. The White is bucking and keening inside of you, the darkness falling out of your body—you can feel the pain of the water as it becomes steam in the shower, and you’re almost knocked to your knees by the ache of the phone to be closer to the lamp—and you need to find out if he could meld them together again. If it had been a fluke, or an accident, or if you were simply losing your fucking mind.

You have to be. You must be going mad. It’s the only explanation for why you take a long shower and change into your own clothing, but you still smell grass and leather and spice. It’s purgatorial. You go through your whole routine—scrubbing all the blood off your body with rough sugar that bites into your skin, running your hands under white-hot water that leaves your skin raw but the darkness pushed down, tending to your hair until it frame your features easily, and you don’t look like a bruised and battered animal—but you still smell him. You toss his shirt off to the side, but he’s clinging to the sheets. You change into sleepwear, but your body can still feel a strong, warm touch. You turn your empty flask in your hands, watching light catch off the steel, and someone’s knocking on your fucking door-

Dean hisses your name through the wood, and you freeze.

“I know you’re in there!” He’s half-shouting, and the whole world feels more colorful, and what is wrong with you. “C’mon, Princess, open the door. It’s me!” He pauses, the knocking faltering. “Uh, Dean Winchester.”

He sounds a little defeated, and you can’t stop the smile on your face as you toss the flask back into your bag, cross the room, and open the door.

Dean gives you an adorable, almost nervous grin and scans over you. Slow and deep and appreciative—taking in your sleep clothes, how your whole body is more relaxed than it had been all day—and his smile grows as his eyes find yours once more.

“You look pretty wearing normal stuff.” He leans a little on the door frame, and it’s so effortlessly and perfectly rouge-cowboy-white-knight-and-knave that he has to have practiced. “Better than that old-lady jacket you hand on before.”

You roll your eyes. “That’s my professional jacket, Winchester. What do you want?”

The words are harsher than you mean them to be, and his grin falters slightly. “I was, uh, I was wondering,” he rubs the back of his neck, clearing his throat. “I got my dad’s car. I was gonna ask if you wanted to go for a drive or something, but you’re obviously ready to turn in, so-“

“Do you want to come in?”

You’re not sure how he’s doing this. Making you speak without thought, making your words reckless when they’re usually so carefully chosen. You have to be careful with your words, because you’ve spent years weaving a web that shows everyone everything, but not from every angle. And he’s fucking unraveling it. Dean just looks at you, and you pull at a thread so he can see whatever he wants, and you can’t understand how the fuck he’s doing it.

It must be on purpose, but he looks just as shocked as you are—gaping at you slightly, his features open and uncertain—and you don’t think it’s an act. Especially not as his voice becomes slightly hoarse, his feet restlessly shifting his weight as he speaks.

“Yeah, if you want, but I’m good to just head out if you-“

“Do you want to head out?”

Dean’s grin becomes bright once more, and the shake of his head sends a spark of lightning through your body.

“So,” you step to the side, offering him a small smile. “Come in.”

He shuffles inside, scanning over your scattered possessions and stopping at the side of the bed.

“I can,” he looks back to you, his eyes a little wide. “I can sit on the floor, or we can go outside-“

You shake your head, moving to his side. “There are bugs outside. Sit on the bed.”

Dean glances at the mattress like the sheets might leap up and strangle him. “Floor looks good-“

“Winchester.” You point at the bed, giving him a stern glare. “Sit.”

“I am not a freakin’ dog-“

You place a hand on his chest and push him—just enough for him to get the message—and he sit on the bed with a wide happy? gesture.

You drop at his side, watching him carefully as you try to work out what is happening. Why he’s here. If he’s looking at you like that—like you’re more than a human, but that’s hypnotizing, and he’d love to find what you actually are—because he can feel this too.

But Dean beats you to it.

“Can I ask you something?”

You tilt your head at him, pulling your knees into your chest. “Can I ask you something?”

“Huh.” Dean hums, the smile creeping back onto his face. “How about we trade? I ask you a question, you gimme an answer, then we switch.”

You give him an amused look. “That’s just a conversation.”

“Nah, because if I ask you something and you answer, now I owe you a question. You can turn down a question, but you’ll still owe an answer.”

You frown. “What happens if you owe an answer?”

He shrugs, flopping onto his back. “Then the other person keeps asking questions.”

Dean looks so real. He’s grinning up at you, light dancing as his eyes as he obviously baits you into whatever he’s trying to do.

And you fall for it. Despite your best judgement, you fall.

“I’m going first.”

He chuckles, but raises his hand for you to shake. “Deal, Princess.”

The moment your hand folds into Dean’s he pulls you down, leaving your smushed slightly against him and his face only inches from yours once more. And your yelp was undignified, and he’s such an asshole—laughing and grinning as you shove his chest—and you’re smiling too.

Because this is easy. And you have a feeling that, if this strange man—who’s too pretty, and that’s making you feel like you’ve never really been alive before this—dragged you right down to hell, you’d still be laughing and smiling at him. And that’s so fucking dangerous. And you know that, but you still can’t stop looking at him, and you can’t roll away. And you decide that, just for tonight, you’re going to indulge this. You’ll dedicate hours when he’s gone to figuring out what the fuck this is. Right now you get to laugh and smile and act like nothing in the world has ever—could ever—hurt you.

“So,” Dean says your name, and it still sounds too good. “You have a question to go first with? Or were you just bein’ bossy-“

“Shut up.” You swing your leg to kick his shin, he laughs, and it’s like music. Making you high and dizzy as you watch him, running your thumb over your palm. “I’ve got it, Winchester. You ready?”

“Born it, sweetheart,” he winks at you, and that’s dizzying too. “Hit me.”

“Why are you here?”

“I told you already, I wanted to talk to you-“

You hum, holding his gaze with a small frown. “Why?”

Dean chuckles, shaking his head. “That’s two questions-“

“It’s a ride off of the first question-“

“Well, I still gotta ask my first question before you get a second one.” He raises his brows at you, bump your knee with his. “We shook on this, Princess, you don’t get to change it now.”

You glare at him, but you think he knows it’s fake, because his grin becomes almost blinding. “Fine. Go.”

Dean rolls onto his side, holding your gaze as he speaks. “How’d you get that car?”

You frown. “The Lexus?”

He nods, and you sigh.

“I borrowed it.” It’s not a lie, but it’s a half-truth. It’s a half-truth that will keep him here, at your side, for a little longer than you might deserve. “For the hunt.”

“Well, it’s freakin’ awesome.” He grins at you, and your face might burst into flame. “Your move.”

“Why are you really here?”

Dean lets out a dry chuckle. “Will you let it go if I say to talk again?”

“Nope. Answer me.”

“It’s, uh,” he rolls flat on his back once more, running a hand over his face. “Tomorrow’s gonna be Dad telling us about safety and Sammy asking you a bunch of questions.” He shoots you a small, amused grin. “I think he’s been writing them down. He’s into all that geek-shit too-“

“I am not a geek-“

“Yeah, you are.” He shrugs. “Don’t worry, I think it’s adorable. But Sammy thinks you’re the coolest person we’ve ever met. So after Dad finishes, he’ll try to use you like a freakin’ library, and I just figured I’m the one who found you, so I should get a night of you all to myself.”

You gape at him for a second, and you’ve defiantly burst into flames. He wants you all himself, and he thinks you’re adorable, and he doesn’t know you, but he doesn’t seem like the type to say all that just to get in your pants, and if he was, he’d be there already. He’d just have to roll on top of you, but he’s only looking at you like you’re something sacred instead of a disease or trophy.

He must feel this too. He has too. And you want to ask him, but you don’t know how, because you don’t even know what this is. It’s magnetic and infinite and bigger than anything, forging something you don’t know how to name between where the White and darkness live in your body. And Dean might not even have the White and darkness. Nobody else does—that’s something that’s wrong with only you—so if you phrase it like that he’ll think you’re insane-

“My turn.” Dean says, and you’re dragged back down to earth, grounded in his smooth voice. “What’s up with your hand?”

You blink at him. “What?”

“That one.” he reaches over, tapping the back your hand. “You’ve been touching it all day, and I kinda, uh,” he gives you an apologetic look. “I saw the scar. If you wanna pass on this one, I’ll drop it, but-“

“No, it’s,” you take a long breath, because this would be an easy one to refuse to answer, but his fingers are lingering on your knuckles and setting off little sparks over your skin, and you want to tell him. It takes a moment of just staring at him to you find the words, and his eyes never leave yours, and everything about him seems to drug you into a loose-lipped, trusting ease. “I’ve have it since I was really young. There was, um, an incident.”

Dean still doesn’t look away, his voice slightly lower. “Hunting incident, or-“

“No.” You swallow, turning your hand for him to see the long, clean scar on your palm. Running through it in a neat, raised line. “Just an incident.”

He looks like he’s going to say something. Not push, but say something, and you blurt out your next question before he can get the chance. It’s not what you wanted to ask—you hadn’t offered yourself enough time to find the right words for something really fucking weird is happening to me, and I need to know if it’s happening to you too—but it’s dragged out of you in desperation to learn a little more about him. In a plea for him to only know that you’re marred where he can see, and never discover that you’re twisted where he can’t.

“What’s it like?” You watch him carefully, your fingers starting to trace over the scar. “Hunting with your family?”

“It’s fine.” He shrugs. “I mean, Dad’s a freakin’ genius at it, and it’s awesome to watch him work. Plus I get to keep an eye on Sammy like this. Know he’s safe.” He frowns. “I mean, it’s better than sending him off alone. Letting him be in danger.”

You hum, scanning over the wrinkle in his brow, your thumb starts to itch to press on it, sooth his whole face into a relaxed smile. “You guys are close?”

Dean nods eagerly. “Yeah, I mean, He’s a freakin’ loser, but he’s all I got. He’s a weird little geek-“

You laugh. “He’s taller than you are, De. I wouldn’t call that little.”

“He’s little in spirit-“ Dean cuts himself off, and his grin looks almost manic. “Did you just call me De?”

“No.” You hold his gaze, even as your face warms. “Shut up.”

“I heard you, Princess, you can’t lie to me-“

“Well, is that your question?” You grin at him, your body leaning a little further without you moving it, and Dean eyes flash.

“You gonna tell me the truth if it is?”

You nod, and he smirks.

“Then yeah, it was.”

“Okay. I did call you De.” Before he can gloat, you push on. “Why do you call me Princess?”

“I told you already, it suits you-“

You narrow your eyes. “Try again, Winchester. Real answer this time.”

He sighs, shaking his head at the ceiling. “You just,” Dean waves his hand through the air. “You’ve got a thing going. You don’t look like a hunter.”

“What’s that supposed to mean-“

“It means,” He gives you a strange look you can feel flash through your blood, melding the White back into the darkness, turning every simple and bright as he continues. “That if you asked me what I thought you were, I’d have said something fancy.”

You open your mouth, but he’s not done, and he won’t look away from you.

“I dunno, you just seem too pretty to be down here in the mud with us. You should eating caviar and wearing those poofy dresses-“

You snort. “Poofy dresses?”

“Yeah, like in movies, when they dance around like douchebags-“

“So you’re saying I seem like a douchebag-“

“No, I’m saying you should be somewhere that’s not here.” Dean’s attention is washing over you like a rising tide—slow and natural and deep—and you still can’t read that expression on his handsome face. “The mud.”

He’s so close. And if he thinks you’re pretty, he’s a work of art. You’ve never see someone look like him. Like he was created, and not born. Every freckle on his face is more like a star than a flaw, and there a slight crook to his nose that tells you he’s been punched there before, but it only makes you want to run your finger over the bump and see if his pretty eyes flutter or flash. His lips are chapped but they’d still be soft. His hands look rough, but that just means he uses them.

You think it would be nice to let him use you.

“I like it in the mud,” you whisper, daring to inch a little closer, until you’re sharing a breath. “It feels real. And,” you grin at him, everything blurring around you but pretty green eyes and shining silver in your chest. “I’ve got good company down here.”

There it is. The flash in his eyes as they darken slightly, a warm breath fanning over your face, and he looks golden. In the warm light of the lamp, glowing soft on his tan skin, Dean looks like something more than human. You feel like something more than human, and for the first time in your life, that’s not a curse. And he’s still so fucking close, and this is a terrible idea, but you can’t bring yourself to move away.

You should. He’s John Winchester’s son, and you’re not sure how you forgot that. It’s past midnight, and you have a feeling he wasn’t supposed to be here at all, and this is the worst idea you’ve ever had.

But you still can’t move.

“You should, um,” you swallow, and your lips might have brushed over his. “You should get back. It’s late, and your dad-“

“Shit,” Dean mutters, but still doesn’t try to move away. “Yeah.”

Your eyes dart down to his lips—full and pink, just a small movement away from yours—and you decide you don’t care what’s happening to you. This is—Dean is—too good to care. You don’t need to know why this is happening, or what it means, or if you should be trying to run from it. You just need Dean. You think that—if the world ended and time began to move slowly—you might plant roots in the motel floor and grow into Dean until the world flooded and you were both washed away.

“I have one last question,” he mutters, breath ghosting over your lips. “If I leave you my number, will you use it?”

You nod without thinking, he grins, and you’re so fucked. You can’t kiss him. You might fall from a million feet if you kiss him. Down, down, down, clinging to him as you both try to find an end to whatever this is and likely fail to. But Dean sits up slowly—like the movement is painful—and when he helps you to your feet you think you might ascend from just his hand in yours. Touching him feels like it’s making you pure and worthy of something, and you have to know what kissing him will do.

Not on the lips. You still have enough of your willpower and caution to not crash all the way down, at least not right now. But you kiss his cheek, and that’s tragedy enough. It snaps something into place inside you, soft stubble and warm skin too much for your entire existence to handle. It’s all too much to handle, and if he hadn’t mumbled a low promise of seeing you tomorrow and left when he did, you would’ve jumped on him to chase whatever this feeling is. How it’s the only thing you’ve ever felt that might belong inside you, and the only easy thing that the darkness has ever bended for.

And when you sleep, that’s easy too. It’s dreamless and deep, no nightmares, no waking up in a cold sweat, no darkness wrapping around you and leaving the sheets only ash when you wake up.

But when you do wake up, something is wrong. You feel it first, gnawing at your nails and blood. And when you roll over to check the time, your phone is gone.

It had been on the bedside table, a scrap of paper with Dean’s number under it, and it’s gone.

The paper is gone too.

You shoot out of bed, and Dean’s shirt is still in the corner, because he’d told you to give it to him in the morning, to trade it for your Agent Smith badge. But your phone is gone.Your window is open—cool breeze rushing through the room—and your phone is fucking gone.

You’d been smart to pack the night before. You’d been smart to keep your keys in your jacket, and park right outside your room. You can shove everything in the passenger’s seat and screech out of the motel lot in a second. You don’t know why, but you’re heading to Dean first. Something is wrong, and you don’t know what, but the White is trying to strangle your heart and the darkness is already eating up your spine and over your skull.

John Winchester’s sleek, black muscle car—Dean told you it was an Impala, and he’d said it with a pride in his voice that had dragged a smile onto your face—isn’t parked in the lot. And when you knock on the door nobody answers. All the lights in the room are off, there’s no shadows moving through the window, and the door is locked.

You move to the front desk and ask if the men in that room had checked out. And when the clerk gives you a weary look and says that they’d paid for another two nights, but dropped the keys off that morning, your gut twists.

They were gone. Dean was gone. And something fragile and new shattered inside you, leaving small pieces lodged through your whole body. You stumble back to your car, the darkness moving out of your body and the whole world too fucking big, and you don’t know what’s wrong with you. You’d known him a day. He’d known you a day. Nothing was owed, but you can still feel it. How the White seems to be howling from the loss of him, and the darkness can’t stop growing as it sinks in.

He left. You don’t know why, but Dean left. He’d probably taken your phone, taken his number, and just fucking left you. Maybe he’d seen you last night, really seen you, and realized what you were. Maybe he’d just been playing you the whole time for some sort of scam. Maybe you hadn’t kissed him, and he’d decided you weren’t worth the chase. And that would mean you had been going crazy, and he hadn’t felt anything at all.

The thought lets the darkness move over you, and you can feel everything everywhere. The electricity in the wires over your head, the wear of painted lines in the parking lot, the hope of the grass peeking through the concrete under your feet.

The grass that smells like Dean.

It breaks through you before you can stop it. Reaching past your body and down into the pavement, cracking it open with all the force of how much this hurts. How it shouldn’t hurt, it doesn’t make any sense that it hurts, but you’re still breaking and bowing and bending to the way you feel like you’ve been fucking shot. You fall down to the curb, curling into yourself as the ground shakes under your feet, and the wind picks up until—in the forest across the parking lot—a branch falls to the ground.

Then a second one.

You manage to bring your hand to your mouth, to bite down hard and force all the darkness back into your body, and you still don’t know what to do.

This hurts so much, and you’re alone in the middle of nowhere, and Dean’s gone.

You still have your burner phone. Your dad makes you keep it in your jacket, just in case something happens, and it only has his number. You dial him with shaking hands, the darkness still trying to climb back out of you, take a deep breath as you raise it to your ear.

He picks up on the second ring.

“Hey,” He says your name, his voice already edged with worry. “I didn’t think I’d be hearin’ from you until after that blood hunt thing-“

“Hunt’s over.” You mumble, staring at the cracked pavement. “Got it last night.”

“Was it a vamp like I told ya’-“

“Moroi.”

“I’d call that vamp enough. Good work, kiddo, Rufus owes us a dinner-“

“Bobby?”

Your voice is soft, and he hears it. Bobby always hears it.

“What happened,” he says your name, and you can hear the frown in his voice. It makes everything worse, because you can’t tell him. Not now, maybe not ever if you can avoid it. You can’t handle how he’ll help you fix this and let you rest, then spend a week lecturing you and telling you everything you already know. Because you really do know. You fucked up, and you know that.

But Bobby doesn’t have to.

“Nothing, I just-“ you swallow, your nails digging into your calf. “Can I come home?”

There’s a long moment of static through the phone, and when Bobby speaks again his voice is low. “You can always come home,” he says your name, and you choke on the clean air around you. “But you get a week of mopin’ before we’re grabbin’ that dinner from Rufus. Alright?”

You nod, even though he can’t see it. “I’ll be there by tomorrow.”

“Should be two days, if you drive carefully like you’re supposed to.” Bobby grunts. “And ditch that fancy car you’ve been usin’, I don’t need the cops askin’ questions about it.”

You feel a smile tug at your lips. “You never let me have anything nice, Bobby-“

“You never let me have goddamn peace, kid.” Bobby snaps, and your smile grows. “Your bed will be ready for you. And I better not see that bells and whistles hunk of shit in my yard-“

“Aye, aye captain. No fancy cars.” You make a mock salute he can’t see, and Bobby huffs.

“Stolen fancy cars.” He grumbles. “Stop bein’ a smartass and get on the road.”

When the call ends, your smile feels real. The strange, fractured feeling in the White is still there, and the darkness might be trying to fly out of you, but you’re better than before. You’ll go home, Bobby will never know what happened, and none of this will last. You’ll be fine. Dean Winchester might haunt you like a phantom or cancer for the rest of your fucking life—or at least until you figure out what he did to you, and how to fix it—but you’ll get through this.

You always do.

—————————

Dean’s grip was tight on Her phone. It was just a fucking block of metal—it would be useless when they tossed it off a bridge in a few miles—but he couldn’t let go of it. It felt wrong to let go of it.

He’d be letting go of Her.

He hadn’t wanted to take it, but Dad said he needed to—Don’t want to let an angry woman have a line to you, son. Especially not a crazy one—and Dad knew what he was talking about, so Dean had done it. He’d snuck back into Her room through the window, grabbed Her phone and the paper with his number, and felt like the lowest piece of trash in the goddamn garbage can. The maggot-ridden chunk of food that nobody had wanted, but was still figuring out a way to fuck everything else up in twisted retribution.

Because there was guilt eating at Dean’s stomach. He shouldn’t have taken Her phone, not when She wasn’t that much older than Sammy. Not when She’d said her dad would be waiting for her to call, and Dean might have stolen Her only line to safety just because-

Because She’d been using him. And he’d been falling for it. She’d given him that smile like he’d fallen out of the sun and into Her hands, She’d crafted some sort of perfect mask that had felt so real—felt like this strange, mouthy, clever woman had just appeared to him, and he could’ve had something nice for once in his goddamn life—and moved Dean like a fucking pawn.

Dad had been waiting for him when he got back, and whatever weird spell She’d put Dean under—making him feel a little drunk on nothing, making him act like a fucking idiot—had been ripped away under his glare.

But Dean hadn’t gotten yelled at. He’d just been sat down—Dad’s gaze filled with disappointment that Dean’s bones didn’t know how to handle—and had papers pushed across the table in his direction.

“What are these?” He’d asked, and Dad had sighed, because Dean was too much of an idiot to just know, and Dad knew it.

“Read them.” Dad had grumbled, watching Dean through narrowed eyes. “And tell me if you want to see that girl again.”

He’d frowned but scanned over the papers. Printed out website pages about… Her. Her family. How She was missing, how She’d stolen from them, and how they were rich. Normal, alive, and rich, looking for Her and whatever she’d taken. Warning that She was crazy, a chronic liar, and should be turned over to the police if seen. There was no picture, but there was a description that matched Her perfectly, right down to a scar on her palm.

“Dad.” He’d looked up with wide eyes, something strange bucking around inside of him, insisting that this was a lie. Dean didn’t know Her—they’d had three conversations for fuck’s sake—but this didn’t seem like Her. None of this seemed like the clever, beautiful, almost ethereal woman he’d been lying on the bed with. Dean didn’t know howor why, but this couldn’t be the truth. “I don’t-“

“She’s just usin’ you, Dean.” Dad had muttered, his eyes softening just enough for Dean to know he was sorry. He might not really like Her, but he was trying to protect Dean. He always was. “Chasing a high that her daddy can’t give her, lookin’ for a way to pull somethin’ on us. Probably huntin’ just for some sort of fucked up thrill. This,” Dad tapped the papers, his face twisting in disgust. “Isn’t someone who deserves our time, and I don’t know what her game is, but I ain’t just gonna let my boy fall for it.”

Something in Dean had still been fighting. Insisting that Dad was wrong, he had to be wrong, because Dean might not really know Her but he’d throw his life down at her feet. He’d plummet to the bottom of the ocean to follow Her down, if She called him with that siren-like voice and asked him to.

And that was how he knew Dad was right. Dean had no idea who She really was, and he’d already been ready to become a sword for her to wield. So he’d nodded, asked Dad what to do, and fallen back into the line She’d forced him out of. And it wouldn’t matter that Dean had been an idiot and almost fallen for Her—Her tricks, or just Her—because Dad had saved him. He’d protected him. And it didn’t matter.

Now, as they drove—Dad’s grip tight on the wheel, Sammy sleeping in the backseat—Dean repeated it over and over. That hadn’t mattered. It had been a mistake that Dad caught, so no harm, and it didn’t matter. It didn’t matter that She’d looked at Dean like she could see him, or that Her voice sounded like an angel in a dream. It didn’t matter that Her lips had felt right on his cheek, and that his annoying brain kept trying to move the ghost of Her touch to his own mouth. It didn’t matter that he could still smell the sugar and fruit that had invaded his every sense when She’d been pressed against him. It didn’t matter that She’d fit perfectly at his side, like she was just another part of him he hadn’t known he was missing. It didn’t matter that something felt like it had been ignited in Dean’s chest. Golden and light and washing him over with a sense of calm he’d never known, making him feel like—if he had been stupid enough to fall further—the worst that could happen was She didn’t fall with him. And even that would be worth the way this feeling was like lightning over his bones, making him strong and fucking alive.

But it didn’t matter. He’d fallen for a pretty, spoiled little bitch—his heart almost withered at that idea, still being a freaking dumbass and trying to justify why She’d done this—and he’d never even see Her again, so it didn’t matter.

And it defiantly didn’t fucking matter that he’d taken Her flask, because he was fucking pathetic. Because he’d been sneaking around her room, and the flash of silver had caught his eyes, and he’d stolen it like some sort of street urchin. He’d burn it, just to rid himself of the way She was becoming plague-like on his mind. It wasn’t like she needed a flask, anyway. She didn’t even drink.

But that might have just been another strange lie. So Dean would burn it. He wouldn’t tell Dad or Sammy that he’d taken it—they didn’t really need to know how weak and useless Dean really was—so he’d burn it and everyone would forget this had ever happened. He’d burn it, and never think of Her again.

Dean felt like he was being ripped in half for reasons he couldn’t even start to understand, but it had been nothing, and it didn’t matter.

Dean dreamt of Her when he finally drifted off. And his heart kept trying to beat him back down—back to Her—but he held strong. He could dream of Her and not go back. He’d never see Her again, and dreams weren’t real.

None of that had been real, and Dean could dream of Her.

So he would.

End Note: I know we’re off to a rough start, and we’ve got a long road ahead of us, but just remember this. What’s about to come could’ve been entirely avoided if John Winchester wasn’t the actual worst.

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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