#Its just another thing that i know too much about

[sunseed-fandump]

I need more backstory on bad batch wizard!! What do you mean my baby boy was almost devoured 😭

(Also totally not cus he's my fav and im biased to want more content of him no wayyyy 👀💧)

(An old picture sits in Vampire Cookie’s desk drawer. A reminder of a happier time, back when he and his sister used to live in a place very far away…)

Tell me, what are you willing to do for the sake of survival?

When Wizard was first baked, he was lucky he got away when he did. The life powder in his body had kicked in very late. When he awoke, it wasn’t to crackling flames, burnt cookies, and oven walls; he woke up on a plate, the only cookie in his batch to have come alive at all, stuck under the weight of inanimate dough. He didn’t even fully comprehend what was going on until the entire pile had shifted from the Witch taking one of the cookies from the top, offering him a wonderful view of her biting off its head.

He panicked, kicking and flailing in an attempt to free himself and run. The hard porcelain beneath him, the crushing weight above him, and the looming threat beyond that was all too much. He didn’t even know his own name yet and he was already afraid of losing what little life he had.

His struggles had caused the pile to shift slightly, gaining the Witch’s attention. Before she could discover him, the sound of glass shattering and the cat screeching heralded the arrival of a blessing in disguise. With the Witch preoccupied, Wizard was able to wiggle his way out from under the pile and flee to safety.

Like I said, he got lucky.

He wandered the Castle alone for a time, piecing together an identity for himself as he went. However, he didn’t discover his love for knowledge until he stumbled across the Witch’s library. With every book he read, (and he taught himself how to read very very quickly) he understood things a little bit better. The world around him suddenly seemed less scary. Those stringy things in the tunnels? Just cobwebs. Strange-looking shadows? Just a trick of the light. The thunder that crashed beyond the castle walls? A by-product of lightning from the expansion of rapidly heated air. Simple!

Then he found the magic books and Wizard discovered a whole new thing about himself.

He loved magic. He loved the very concept of it. He loved the idea of being able to use it. He wanted to shoo away the cobwebs by conjuring a gust of wind. He wanted to illuminate the shadows by creating light from nothing. He wanted to call the lightning from the heavens and have the thunder clap at his command.

(He wanted - needed - a shred of control over his own fate, lest the Witch find him.)

So he studied, and he practiced, day in and day out, using twigs and common quartz as foci. They weren’t strong, and would break if he tried anything too advanced, but he managed.

Then he met Alchemist Cookie.

At first they didn’t think much of each other. Wizard preferred the Arcane Arts while Alchemist stuck with her potions and elixirs, both considered their chosen path to be superior to the other. Yet, after a few encounters, the two found companionship in one another. It was refreshing finally being able to meet someone just as passionate about magic. It was thrilling to engage in academic discussion and not have to be met with blank confused stares. They became friends.

She introduced him to other castle residents who were just as passionate about magic. She was willing to share her lab with him so he could practice in a safer environment. She showed him the safest paths through the castle walls and all the settlements to find the best reagents. He was very lucky to have met her.

And then came the day his luck ran out.

If you were to ask the two of them whose idea it was to sneak into the Witch’s Lab that day, Wizard would blame Alchemist, while Alchemist would blame Wizard. The truth is, neither of them remember, and by this point it doesn’t matter.

The rarest reagents and best supplies in the castle could be found in that lab, but while Alchemist had plundered the cabinets, Wizard had found something of interest in a display case. A staff, relatively simple in design, with dragon wings carved from amethyst, and a small flickering azure ember hovering above it. Despite his better judgement, despite knowing the Witch would notice such a thing going missing, despite the red flag of repressing runes surrounding the artifact, Wizard Cookie took the staff.

The minute his little hand lifted it from its display, the tiny ember burst into a strong flame and a bright blazing eye slid open. Wizard had been scared at first, almost putting the staff back, but then it spoke to him. It thanked him, it told him it had been trapped for so long, its last master had been killed and it had been waiting for a new wielder worthy of its powerful secrets ever since.

It asked if Wizard would like to know those secrets…

But before the boy could give the staff his answer, Alchemist Cookie had returned from the cabinets. She scolded him for being so reckless and told him to return the staff where he had found it, but Wizard refused. After all, if this staff was as powerful as it boasted, perhaps it could be used for the good of the cookies back home? Besides, the other scholars would probably love to study it. It was such a good find!

Alchemist eventually relented, and the pair left the lab, reagents and staff in hand.

They didn’t know that they were being followed.

When they had returned to the settlement nestled in a crawlspace, the two were wholly unaware of what else they had brought back with them until it was too late.

The Reaper, one of the Witch’s faithful servants created from a hollowed out pumpkin and vines, had followed them back home. She, like the other familiars, had been tasked with capturing the sweetest creatures they could find, especially Cookies. She descended on the town with ruthlessness, spreading seeds that grew into brambles and swinging her scythe with deadly grace.

The town was in complete chaos. The militia scrambled for control, spells did nothing as The Reaper grew back whatever damage was done to her plant-composed body too quickly, nobody could escape because the town had been sealed in by the thorns. That did not stop Wizard and Alchemist from trying to find a way out or helping the other desserts hide while searching for Alchemist’s brother, Vampire Cookie, to make sure he was safe.

Unfortunately, the Reaper found them first.

Two of the many vines that made up her body had caught them, plucking them up like a fresh harvest.

“Oh goody, more cookies!” The Reaper had said with a cackle, but then paused and raised them higher for closer inspection. “Wait... Oh, I know you two! You’re the little thieves I followed! I’m sure The Witch will reward me handsomely when she finds you on her plate tonight!”

Now, as a plant, the Reaper had no need for real food. All of her sustenance came from planting her roots into soil and absorbing whatever sunlight filtered in through the castle’s windows. Because of this, her large empty head was used as a prison for whatever creatures she caught. It was a perfectly harmless holding space. Wizard knew this, of course, because he had done extensive research into as many of the Witch’s minions as he could. (Unlike the cobwebs, shadows, and thunder, the more he learned, the scarier they became.) Despite this knowledge, however, when the Reaper had raised him to her mouth in order to stash him away inside her head, Wizard felt a terribly violent spike of fear for his own life.

His first memory had returned to him, unbidden. The vision of the Witch biting the head off of a cookie flashed in his mind, and that combined with his fear, caused the irrational thought of “I am going to die. She is going to eat me.”

And then the staff, still clutched tightly in his hands, spoke to him once again.

It told him it could save him. It told him it knew a spell that could stop the Reaper once and for all. He needed only to ask, and it would happily whisper the words into his ear. After all, it would hate to see Wizard wind up on a plate like its last master.

All Wizard had to do was listen closely…

The words of the spell felt vile on his tongue, but the Azure Flame Staff assured him that he would get used to it. He was mere inches from the Reaper’s face when the blue flame at the top of the staff burst.

A massive inferno consumed the Reaper and soon the flames spread to the brambles. The force of the explosion had shook the foundation and support beams, causing the old castle stones to collapse which resulted in a cave-in that buried some of the town.

It was complete and utter devastation.

Wizard and Alchemist had been flung from the Reaper’s grasp when she flailed around in a desperate attempt to put the fires out. The azure flames ate away at both her plant-like body and the magic that fueled her life-essence. It was a weirdly beautiful sight, though Wizard didn’t have a chance to see what became of her as he and Alchemist crashed into a fountain, the water just barely broke their fall.

They hauled themselves out of the fountain, soaking wet and trembling, but alive. They were alive. Wizard had done it. He finally had the power to change his fate however he wished. He’d done it!

Laughter had bubbled out of his chest at the revelation, the hand that wasn’t clutching the staff had flown up to his hair. (He had lost his hat in the fall. Pity.) All the stress and fear melted into an emotion he couldn’t quite describe, but it gave him butterflies in his stomach and a lightheaded feeling that just made everything suddenly seem so funny. He could barely contain himself as he leaned back against the edge of the fountain and released all that pent up emotion through cackling laughter that could only just barely be heard over the sounds of crackling blue fire.

“I did it!” He had said with joy in his heart. “We’re safe, Alchemist, we’re–!” But his joy melted into concern when he looked over to his friend. Where he had been expecting her to be just as relieved and happy as he was, he saw fear.

It took him a moment to realize that it was directed at him.

“Alchemist?” His brow furrowed.

“Wizard…” Alchemist began slowly. “Put the staff down.”

The staff almost seemed to hiss at her suggestion, and Wizard found himself clutching it tighter. “Why?”

“Please, I just need you to trust me, okay?” She slowly got to her feet, approaching him like one would a scared animal.

With the Reaper no longer an immediate threat, the townscookies had begun leaving their hiding places in favor of getting the inferno under control. The square was suddenly full of noise, cookies shouting orders and rallying others to shift through the rubble. Wizard didn’t hear any of it as he stared at Alchemist with confusion.

“But, Alchemist, it’s fine. See?” He held it up and she cringed away, as if expecting him to cast that same explosive spell at her. Why did she think he would hurt her? They were friends!

“Th-That’s great, now put down the staff.” Her insistence made annoyance flare up in Wizard’s gut. They had just escaped certain death and this was what she was focusing on?! He wasn’t a threat, so why was she acting so weird? She knew he’d been looking for a strong foci for a while now, so why was she trying to take the staff away from him?

Wizard narrowed his eyes. “... No.”

“What?”

“We finally have a means of defending ourselves against the Witch and her minions and you want me to just let it go?” The boy rose to his full height, taking a step forward (and ignoring her taking a step back).

“Wizard, that thing is dangerous!” She flung her arms out to the side, gesturing at the burning town all around them. Wizard scoffed.

“I have it under control!” He didn’t, but that wasn’t important right now.

“You call everything that just happened control?! You just killed one of the Witch’s familiars and buried half the town!” Alchemist was getting visibly hysterical, but Wizard was too angry to notice. She was treating him like a child! He knew what he was doing!

“I just saved your life! A ‘thank you’ would be nice!” He put a hand on his hip, offended at the lack of gratitude.

“Thank you? You want a thank you?! There are cookies buried under there, some of them might have even crumbled, and you want me to THANK YOU?! My brother is over there and–!” She stopped short, as if surprised by the words that had come from her own mouth. The color drained from her face as realization set in, her eyes were wide and she spoke with a soft trembling voice, “Vampire Cookie….”

She had spun on her heel, anger towards Wizard forgotten in favor of fear for her brother. “VAMPIRE COOKIE!”

“I’ll help!” Wizard’s own anger simmering into concern over the lax cookie’s well-being. Yet he was stopped by a spear impacting the ground in front of him.

“I believe we’ve all had enough of your ‘help’,” spat the militia-cookie who had gotten in his way before he extended a hand toward the boy. “You’re under arrest for use of dark magic. Come quietly.”

“Wha–?!” Wizard jumped back, looking from the armored cookie to Alchemist Cookie’s back. “You-You can’t be serious! You’re joking, right? It was just the one spell, how does that make me a criminal?! Alchemist, tell him he’s wrong! Alchemist!”

The girl said nothing for a long moment, refusing to look at him. Her hands were clenched into fists at her sides. When she finally spoke it was a whisper, “Leave…”

Wizard cringed as if he had been struck. “B-But–”

“I said LEAVE!” She whirled around on him, tears and fire in her eyes. “THIS IS ALL YOUR FAULT! I NEVER WANT TO SEE YOU AGAIN!”

Wizard Cookie felt numb. This couldn’t really be happening could it? He had just defeated the monster attacking the town, and now they were treating HIM like the monster! All he did was cast a spell! A spell that saved them from the Witch’s dinner table!

“HAS EVERYONE GONE CRAZY?!” Wizard snapped. “WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH YOU–AH!”

A stone had gotten thrown at his head, and it was only now he realized the scene had amassed quite an audience.

“The only crazy one here is you!” shouted one of the cookies in the crowd.

“What were you thinking?!” cried another.

“This is so much worse than what the Reaper would have done!”

“Get out!” Another stone was thrown, which Wizard was able to avoid this time.

The boy began to feel overwhelmed. Despair settled in his gut and made it feel like heavy stones had been tied to his feet as he looked around at all the cookies who were angry at him. He gave one last pleading look to Alchemist, who stared at him with a cold look.

Without another word, she turned her back to him and left.

Wizard scrambled back when a few more militia-cookies began advancing on him. Outnumbered and heartbroken, he fled. The militia probably would have caught him if the staff hadn’t whispered a teleportation spell into his ear, which he used without a second thought.

And the minute he left town, the azure flames blew out.

Wizard was on his own for a while after that. The experience made him bitter, especially when word spread throughout the castle of a cookie of his description practicing the forbidden arcane. A menace, a mad wizard, a twisted child who could destroy a whole town and laugh about it. He hated those rumors. He despised the vile things everyone said about him, especially since most of it wasn’t even true! But nobody asked for his side of the story. They only ever pointed and called him a monster!

And after everything he’d done for them…

Did they expect him to have just let himself be taken and eaten by the Witch? Did they want him to just rely on luck like everyone else? Did they want him to just accept whatever fate the Witches designed for him?! No, he refused. He wanted to live. He wanted to learn. He wanted to paint his own destiny and leave a mark on the world that no one would ever be able to erase.

Wizard Cookie did not want to be lucky, he wanted to live.

So, I ask again.

What are you willing to do for the sake of survival?

[heeluvv]

dk if you write ab drug usage so ignore this if you dont thats totally fine ! but currently romanticizing the idea of having a smoke sesh with jay + jake in their basement or something and it turns horny

don't know much abt drugs but this definitely intrigued me so here it is

𝐇𝐈𝐆𝐇 ▬▬ڪ

pairing 🂾 jayke x reader

genre 🂾 smut

warnings 🂾 drug use, fingering, oral (m receiving), p in v, unprotected sex, etc.

natty's notes 🂾 mdni, hate comments will be deleted.

the basement is dimly lit, the only glow coming from the neon beer sign hanging crooked on the wall and the flickering ember of a freshly rolled joint resting between jay’s fingers. the air is thick, heavy with the scent of weed and something more—something unspoken.

you sit between them on the old, beat-up couch, the fabric worn from years of use, the cushions sinking beneath the weight of your bodies. the music hums low through the speakers, bass vibrating against your skin, matching the slow, lazy rhythm of your heartbeat. jake is leaning back, one arm draped over the couch, fingers absentmindedly tracing shapes into the fabric beside your shoulder. jay, on the other hand, is watching you, head tilted slightly, eyes low, the joint smoldering between his lips before he takes another slow drag.

“want some?” jay murmurs, his voice rich, thick like honey, like smoke itself. he lifts the joint toward you, fingers grazing yours as you take it. the touch is brief, barely there, but it lingers, the heat of it trailing up your arm, settling deep in your stomach.

you inhale, slow, the burn traveling down your throat before you exhale, watching the tendrils of smoke curl and dissipate into the heavy air. jake chuckles beside you, eyes flicking to your lips, and suddenly, you’re hyperaware of everything—the way jay’s watching you, the way jake’s fingers have moved just a little closer to your shoulder, the way the air has shifted, thicker, more charged.

“you smoke like you’ve done this before,” jake teases, his voice low, teasing, the corner of his mouth quirking up.

you shrug, the high starting to settle into your limbs, making everything feel slower, more intense. “maybe i have,” you reply, passing the joint back to jay, your fingers grazing his once again. this time, neither of you pull away too quickly.

jay’s lips curl into a lazy smirk as he takes another drag, holding the smoke before exhaling through his nose. his eyes stay on yours, dark, unreadable. “yeah?” he muses, voice smooth, knowing. “you look good like this.”

the heat that was already simmering beneath your skin spikes. you shift slightly, thighs pressing together involuntarily, and jake notices. of course he does. his smirk deepens as he leans in just a fraction closer, the scent of his cologne mixing with the smoke in a dizzying way.

“feeling good?” jake murmurs, voice dropping an octave.

your throat goes dry, but you nod anyway. the joint makes its way back to you, and you take another slow hit, letting the sensation settle over you. but this time, when you pass it back, jay’s fingers catch yours, holding them there just a second too long.

jake watches the exchange, his tongue darting out to wet his lips. “you two are gonna make me jealous,” he murmurs, tilting his head, his gaze flicking between you and jay.

jay exhales a laugh, eyes still locked onto yours. “yeah? maybe we should do something about that.”

your breath catches. the air between the three of you is thick with tension now, a slow-burning heat that spreads through your veins, making you feel lightheaded in a way that has nothing to do with the weed.

jay leans in, close enough that you can feel his breath against your cheek, his fingers still ghosting over yours. “what do you think, baby?” he murmurs, the nickname rolling off his tongue like silk.

you swallow hard, caught between the smoldering weight of jay’s stare and the way jake’s eyes have darkened, watching, waiting.

and suddenly, the smoke isn’t the only thing making it hard to breathe.

jay moves first, his fingers trailing up your arm, the warmth of his touch sending a slow ripple of anticipation down your spine. jake follows suit, his hand sliding up the back of your neck, his thumb brushing against the sensitive skin just beneath your ear. you shudder, and they both notice.

“so sensitive,” jay murmurs, his smirk deepening as his fingers slide down your wrist, his thumb pressing gently against your racing pulse. “knew you’d like this.”

jake chuckles, his breath warm against your neck as he leans in, close enough that you feel his lips ghosting over your skin. “yeah?” he muses, voice dripping with amusement. “she’s been waiting for this, hasn’t she?”

you don’t answer, don’t trust yourself to speak, but the way your body reacts—the way you tilt your head slightly, the way your breath hitches—gives you away. jay hums, satisfied, and lets his hand slide lower, fingers skimming the hem of your shirt before slipping beneath the fabric. the contact is electric, igniting something deep in your core.

jake’s fingers tighten at the base of your neck, his other hand trailing down your arm before resting against your thigh. “look at you,” he murmurs, watching the way you react to every little movement. “we haven’t even started, and you’re already trembling.”

jay chuckles, his lips curling at the edges. “guess we should take our time, then.”

the music hums in the background, the smoke curling lazily in the air, but none of it matters. not when you’re caught between them, their touches slow, teasing, their eyes locked onto yours, waiting, watching.

and you know, without a doubt, that this night is just getting started.

jay shifts, his hand pressing against your stomach, his fingers splaying out as if testing the way your body responds. jake’s fingers slide higher up your thigh, his grip firm but unhurried. the slow haze of the high makes everything feel heightened—the weight of their hands, the way their warmth seeps into you, the way your breath catches as jake leans in just enough to brush his lips against your jaw.

“you’re so quiet now,” jay muses, tilting his head. “cat got your tongue?”

the way he says it, teasing but edged with something deeper, makes you shiver. your fingers curl against the couch, nails digging into the worn fabric as they both continue to move, slow and deliberate. jay’s hand moves higher beneath your shirt, the heat of his palm searing against your skin. jake presses his lips against your neck, lingering just long enough to make your breath stutter.

jay watches you, his gaze dark, amused. “should we keep going, or do you want to stop?”

his voice is soft but firm, giving you an out if you need it. but you don’t. you shake your head, pulse racing, and that’s all they need.

jake smirks against your skin. “good girl.”

he slides his hand higher to cup your heavy breast. his thumb swipes teasingly across your stiff nipple through the lacy fabric of your bra, making you gasp. at the same time, jake reaches the juncture between your thighs. the pad of one finger brushes delicately against the damp fabric of your panties, right over that aching bundle of nerves. you nearly levitate off the couch, back arching desperately for more. more touches, more heat, more...

"please..." you whimper, control snapping. your hips jerk upward unconsciously, seeking friction. "fuck, please touch me..."

jake lifts his head from your neck, sharing a heated glance with his brother. "with pleasure, baby..."

as if on cue, the two set upon you like a pair of starving men at a feast. jay pops the clasp of your bra like a seasoned pro. his hands eagerly roam your curves, exploring, pinching as jake shoves your panties aside and sinks two thick fingers into your drenched heat. the stretch of it, the burn – you keen high in your throat, thighs quivering. you wonder hazily if it's always like this, all-consuming and filthy... or if this intensity is just because it's them. the two men who've consumed your thoughts all night.

jay ghosts his lips teasingly along your own, before capturing your lips in a searing kiss. he swallows all the moans and whimpers tumbling from your lips with each expert thrust of jake's fingers. you're practically sobbing, chasing the high of your mounting pleasure as wave after wave crashes over you.

jay continues to kiss you passionately, his tongue tangling with yours as you feel yourself getting closer and closer to the edge. jake's fingers work their magic, thrusting in and out of you at a relentless pace, hitting your most sensitive spots with each movement. your hips buck wildly, meeting his thrusts with equal fervor as the tension builds and builds within you.

finally, with one last deep thrust, you feel yourself shatter around jake's fingers, your climax hitting you with the force of a freight train. you scream into jay's mouth as he swallows your cries of ecstasy, wave after wave of intense pleasure washing over you. jake slowly removes his fingers, a smug grin on his face as he surveys his handiwork. you lay there panting, feeling utterly spent yet completely satisfied, basking in the afterglow of your earth-shattering orgasm.

jake straddles your body, his muscular form looming over you. with eager hands, he unzips his jeans, freeing his rock hard erection. he wraps his fist around the thick shaft, pumping it a few times before guiding it towards your parted lips.

jake thrusts forward, the velvety head of his cock pushing past your lips to slide along your tongue. he doesn't stop until he's buried to the hilt in the wet heat of your mouth, your nose pressed against the neatly trimmed hair at his groin. his hands grip the back edge of the couch on either side of your head, using it for leverage as he pulls back, nearly withdrawing completely before slamming forward once more.

each powerful thrust forces your head back into the cushions, making you moan around the hot flesh filling your mouth. "fuck baby...feels so fucking good, shit.." jake groans gutturally, his toned back arching with pleasure as he continues to fuck your mouth, each snap of his hips more forceful than the last.

meanwhile, jay sits back, content to watch the erotic show before him. he takes a drag from a newly rolled joint held between two fingers, the cherry flaring brightly. the pungent aroma of weed mixes with the heady scent of sex in the small space, creating a intoxicating combination.

jake continues to piston his hips, driving his rock-hard cock deeper and deeper into your eager mouth. you can feel the sloppy wet sounds of your saliva mixing with his precum as he relentlessly fucks your face. your eyes roll back in pleasure, soft whines escaping your throat only to be muffled by jake's thickness stretching your lips wide.

from the corner of your eye, you spot jay lounging nearby, legs spread and his hard cock in hand. he takes long drags from the joint between his fingers, never taking his hungry gaze off the erotic sight of you being thoroughly used.

"fuuuck baby, your mouth feels incredible," jake groans gutturally, his back arched in ecstasy. his hips snap forward, each brutal thrust sending shocks of pleasure through your body. even though you've already came once, you find yourself aching for more, your empty pussy clenching around nothing. you shamelessly grind your hips against the plush couch cushions, desperate for any sort of friction to relieve the building pressure.

"damn, you look so fucking sexy taking my dick like this," jake rasps, his thrusts becoming even more forceful and erratic. "you love being our little fucktoy, don't you baby?"

suddenly, jake pulls out of your mouth with a lewd pop, stalking around the couch like a predator. in one swift motion, he flips you over onto your hands and knees, your ass high in the air. jay stands up, flicking the roach of his joint aside as he positions himself in front of you. his proud erection bobs right in front of your face, a glistening bead of precum weeping from the tip.

hungrily, you wrap your lips around jay's cock, moaning in relief as you taste the salty bitterness of his excitement. jake wastes no time, grabbing your hips in a bruising grip as he plunges deep inside your soaking wet heat. you keen loudly around your mouthful of jay's throbbing flesh, the stretch and burn of jake's impressive size nearly enough to send you over the edge again.

the room is filled with the wet, obscene sounds of your throat being roughly fucked by jay's pistoning cock and jake's balls slapping against your ass with each ferocious thrust. saliva mixes with precum to create a sloppy mess that dribbles down your chin. your whines and moans are muffled by the thick intrusion of jay's cock as he ruthlessly face-fucks you.

jay takes another hit from the joint and you hear him chuckle huskily. "you love this don't you, being used and filled up by both of us at the same time like the little cumslut you are?" he growls as his hips stutter. your only response is a wanton moan, your eyes fluttering in pleasure.

"fuuuck, I'm gonna fill this tight little pussy up with my cum," jake grunts, punctuating his words with a brutal thrust that has you seeing stars. "and you're going to take every last drop like a good girl, aren't you?"

all you can do is moan and keen in response, your body shuddering as your climax edges ever closer. the dual sensations of jake's cock stuffing your pussy to the brim while jay stretches your lips wide is almost too much for you to handle.

suddenly, jake grinds his hips hard against your ass, burying himself to the hilt inside you. you feel his cock pulse and throb inside your convulsing sheath as he fills you with his hot seed. at the same time, jay pulls out of your mouth, stroking himself fiercely before painting your face and chest with thick ropes of his cum. the feeling of being so thoroughly used and marked by both of them is what sends you hurtling over the edge.

your climax slams into you like a tsunami, ripping a guttural scream from your throat. wave after wave of intense, nearly unbearable pleasure crashes over you as you feel yourself clenching around jake's softening cock. you bask in the afterglow, feeling utterly debauched, used, desperate, and satisfied beyond belief.

natty's notes 🂾 i hoped you enjoyed!

[scarletdreamers]

Someone recently reblogged this with the tags ''#because queer love is much deeper in my opinion #Flourishing or fleeting it eats the soul whole''

And of course it happens to be that I recently mentioned this in an essay (the essay was about the film Queer, but that doesn't have much to do with it). Here's what I wrote on the depth of queer love and why it feels so much more genuine and real, even if it's unhealthy.

''-As if someone is placing a hand on your windpipe and constantly applying a little pressure. A film that hurts because of its raw authenticity. There is a panicked desperation that lingers throughout the entire movie. Dirt on clothing, shame, addiction. Vulnerability—that’s what did it for me. A male vulnerability that was refreshing yet so uncomfortable at the same time.

Queer introduces something here that you don’t see very often. Guadagnino focuses on their imperfections. Lee lies trembling in bed, crying simply because Eugene drapes his legs over his. He longs for touch and connection, but he is unable to truly achieve it. Lee is a deeply vulnerable and emotional character, and this is reflected in precisely these scenes.

Connection is what makes not only Queer but also many other films with same-sex relationships so compelling. The bond between the protagonists of Queer feels authentic and tender, despite the violence and uncertainty that comes with their relationship. The absence of power dynamics and predefined roles creates a bond that goes beyond mere attraction. When the entire costume of expectations and stereotypes becomes irrelevant, a unique form of understanding emerges. This is what makes the relationship not only between Lee and Eugene, but also between same-sex relationships in general, so powerful.

There is a certain kind of alienation that you must learn to live with when you fall outside the norm because of your sexuality. You are already ��different” anyway. You see the world through a different lens. It is a side effect of being “queer.” I think Guadagnino wants to express with this film that being queer doesn’t just mean being attracted to men or women, but possessing an attraction to the unusual and the strange. A complex love for small imperfections in the world that lurk in the dark as taboos. They exist, but you can choose to pretend they don’t. I believe that accepting yourself as queer means not being afraid to seek out those specific things. Consider, for example, how many horror films, psychological thrillers, and arthouse films exhibit aspects of queerness more than other genres do. If you are already breaking certain societal norms within yourself, why wouldn’t you also embrace the rest of the world’s madness?

That form of connection, of acceptance and tolerance, is what it means to be queer, and that is something this film portrayed beautifully for me. Lee and Eugene embark on an expedition into the jungle to find a drug called Yage. A drug with telepathic powers that allows two people to communicate without words. “I want to talk to you, without speaking,” Lee confesses in the first half of the film. He is searching for a deeper connection. The climax involves Lee and Eugene literally crawling under each other’s skin. They completely understand each other and know they cannot save themselves. Their fear of their own identity is too great for that, but still, their bond is life changing, and way deeper than it might have been if the two main characters had been a man and a woman.

That's the beauty of queer love. It automatically contains a certain kind of understanding. Being of the same gender adds onto that, but this is also the case because you accept the other on a different level. Queerness often ties with intellect. With being open to understanding others and being respectful to all, since queer people know how it feels to be perceived as outcasts. Queer love is pure, because there's no ulterior gain to it. A man will never fall in love with another main for the mere sake of having children. A woman will never fall in love with another woman for the sake of living up to societal standards and expectations. Queer love is, hypothetically speaking, pointless. Not useless, but pointless. For that reason it's the purest kind of love there is. For it is love, without expectations, without a blueprint, without rules.

Queer love can only really be love, and nothing more or less than that.''

(thank you @wooliosheep for reblogging and inspiring this post :) )

It's so hilarious to me how in queer media that actually accurately represents queer people (adults) there's always some kind of murder or other unforgivable mistakes involved??? Like, yeah that's my favourite genre, but why is queer cinema always some kind of psychological thriller/horror, especially the old stuff. Give us a minute to BREATHE please. Someone always DIES. I can name so many examples on this I'm actually going to write a paper on it asap, because I just think it's both so funny and interesting but also disturbing.

[mydarlingclaudia]

apocilypse…… simon…… fem!reader…… @vaaaaaiolet I am also going to write more of this I just had to get this out of my system first

wc : 781 · · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

Simon always wakes up before you.

He’s a deep sleeper, he slept lighter when he was on deployment, but those days are in the past, either way, you’re a much deeper sleeper than he is.

But the first thing he does when he wakes up is press two fingers to the pulse point in your neck.

You sleep a foot or two away from him in a sleeping bag on the dirt floor, he normally wakes you up after he throws something together to eat, you greet him with the same thankful grumble and sleepy smile. He’s far from home and you’re the only person he has, you could leave if you wanted to, he could do the same, but you follow each other through each valley and mountain chain.

Simon found you a year after the end of everything, well, more like you found him. It had been somewhere in either Wyoming or Utah, but he had stepped in a deep hole some animal had dug, not having seen it, and apparently the shout he let out when he twisted his ankle had found its way to your ears. He had bristled when you walked out of the overgrown brush, expecting you to try and rob him since he was down and had dropped his knife a few feet away, but you had helped him up and dragged him over to your small camp.

He stayed with you for a week, eating the fish you cooked and silently eyeing you, trying to figure you out without ever asking. As soon as his ankle healed, he left. For almost a week he headed north, pushing himself harder to get away from you.

But you found him. Again.

It was another mistake, but it was one you made this time.

Fire spreads fast in dry, open fields.

You hadn’t meant to do it, the fire you had made had gotten too big and there was nothing you could do to try and contain it. So you packed up your things and ran down to the river.

Simon thought you were following him when the crunching rocks under your feet made you known in the night, the knife to your throat was supposed to make it clear he didn’t care for strangers.

But when you explained that you didn’t know he had been hiding out here and that you were just trying to get away from the fire you started, his grip loosened and his knife found its way back into its sheath. He could smell the smoke and the dirt on you, he figured he owed you one, anyway.

So he let you stay, neither of you slept; he was scared you’d try to steal from him (even though most of him knew you wouldn’t), you wanted to stay awake because you knew the fire would get closer by the hour.

The two of you hiked up the mountain in the morning, figuring you’d keep heading north, you could see the smoke and burnt up earth from the summit.

That was two years ago, you and Simon have found other people along the road, but there wasn’t any kind of connection with them. That and neither of you really trusted others. It would be a small brush of your pinky against his to let him know you were uncomfortable or him crowding around you when others were around, something silent to say it’s time to go.

The world ended when people started dropping like flies, it wasn’t a sickness, they just died and there were too many fingers pointing at so many different things that everything just shut down before hell broke loose. Simon was only in America because Price said he needed a vacation and jokingly suggested Vegas, Simon decided to go just for the fun of it.

You’re everything he has now, he makes sure you’re extra bundled up in the winter, makes sure you eat enough, tries to keep you entertained, tries to do the harder work for you, anything you want, he does it. He always thought he’d be a shitty husband, given his job, but with you, with nothing else to worry about except for keeping you fed, he’s not half bad.

He’s had too many nightmares where he ends up alone, he can’t go back to that. Even before the end, even when he was still in England living his life, he was still alone. The last thing he needs is for you to die in the night and bury you alone.

So when he presses his fingers to your neck and feels the soft thump of your pulse, it’s already a good day to him.

[starredblood]

CHIHIRO

PART TWO

kang sae-byeok x fem!reader

synopsis: you start suspecting a deeper history with sae-byeok, who is letting you in so easily.

wc. 5.1k

warnings: reader gets bad migraine, bit of angst and fluff

(chihiro masterlist)

(summer, 2021)

You’re walking like you don’t want to be approached. Headphones on and sporting your darkest sunglasses—but it was all because you couldn’t stand being in the sun too long. That’s how the migraines start. You didn’t always have this problem and adjusting to a different lifestyle is harder than it looks.

You don’t want to think too much about it though. The impact one minuscule moment made to your life. But there was a brief time a month ago when the loss was all you thought about—it left you immobilized in your room even when you were fully able to step into the real world. But you were just too sad. You lost yourself…and you don’t know how many others lost you too.

That feeling brewing in your stomach is still there—the shifting of your world. You try avoiding anything that has to do with change to make sure your gut feeling is lying to you. So, you go to work, do your job (somewhat poorly) and go home, your home—that’s what you want your life to be forever now. Preferably alone.

But you already failed to fight back the change when you saw a small feline curled up by the edge of the sidewalk.

You gasp seeing the fragile state of the black kitten, who was trembling profusely and was barely able to open its eyes. Removing your sunglasses to take a better look at the cat, you then glance around to see if it belonged to any passerby’s but no one paid attention to the stray. You frown, thinking that maybe you’re hallucinating this cat that’s crying for help in the sea of pacing legs.

When you bend down and gently pat the cats small back, it flinched horribly making your heart clench. At least the kitten was real, and you’re too afraid to leave it here alone. Someone could trample it.

“Poor thing.” you coo to the kitten and it weakly mewls back. When it gets used to your touch, you scoop the cat in your hands. “Are you lost?”

You exhale through your nose. Your mom never liked cats and would always disapprove the idea of adopting one ever since you were a child. Good thing you moved back into your apartment and can do whatever you please. But can you really take care of another living being in your state?

The kitten, which you find out is a girl, begins to doze off in your warm palms. This has to be a sign for you to keep her. You rub her tiny back with your thumb and decide to take her home.

It was a good thing that you weren’t far from your apartment. The plan is to take her home, scurry to the nearest pet store and tomorrow you will take her to the vet. This change is good, you try to tell yourself as you keep on trudging.

One change you didn’t particularly favor was Cheol’s sister who is apparently everywhere now. You didn’t think it was her, sitting on a bench only a block away from your apartment, but it’s her. The short unruly hair and cold eyes gave it away. What are the odds of finding her here?

And it’s like she too can feel your presence because she spots you trying to brush past her. But meeting her icy glare only gave you more courage to speak up.

You pause in your footsteps, turn back around and walk back to the girl sitting on the bench. “Why do I get the feeling that you’re stalking me?” you ask her, sounding aggravated.

“I was working nearby—don’t get your ego inflated.” she scoffs, then breaks eye contact to look at what you’re cradling. She blinks. “Is that a cat?”

“I found her by an alleyway.” you state apprehensively and continue to pet her.

“And you’re going to keep it?”

“Why not? I always wanted a cat.” you shrug. She presses her lips into a thin line and you use that as your cue to walk away from this conversation. But in the middle of spinning back around, a question pops into your head. “Hey, what’s your name by the way?”

Her expression is bleak and unreadable as usual, but you noticed the small gulp. “Sae-byeok.” she answers quietly.

You curtly nod and start backing away slowly. “Have a nice day, Sae-byeok.” you mutter back awkwardly and start walking faster before another interaction from her erupts. You can feel her stare on your back however.

Ever since you started talking to her, you feel like you see her everywhere. Your mind can’t catch a break from thinking of her. Especially not at work, that’s where you usually find her lingering around but today is a different day with a different challenge and she always seems to be part of the challenge.

A few days after adopting your new kitten, who’s still nameless, you feel a new sense of purpose in your life. You want to take living more seriously.

You sacrificed two hours of your life this quiet Monday morning to go to the library earlier than scheduled to fix the mistakes you’ve made the past couple of weeks. And you have a good feeling about this, your mind is more clear and sharp than before. You might not get paid for these hours of work but it’ll be worth it seeing the look on Dasom’s face when you prove her wrong. Prove everyone wrong.

In your notebook, you mapped out the layout of the library so you spend less time getting lost. After successfully placing every book away in their actual correct spots, you spend the last thirty minutes in the back office organizing and cataloging the library materials—which were completely disarray thanks to you. By the time you finish, it’s time for you to technically—officially be working.

When you clock in the break room, Dasom bursts in a couple of seconds after. When she sees you, her malevolent smirk appears. “Do you happen to be well acquainted with, Remy?” she asks in a mocking manner. You don’t answer her instead roll your eyes and avoid her gaze. “The library looks nice—I’m assuming you had to have a rat underneath your garments or something that helped you make this place finally look satisfactory. Because god knows you didn’t fix this place all by yourself.”

“You’re the exception to the rule, Dasom.” you sneer and try storming off but she had a tight grip on your shoulder blade.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” she queries.

You don’t say anything, knowing that she isn’t worth arguing with, and swat her hand off you. When you step out the break room, you hear her clearly muttering insults underneath her breath. You feel bad for her, truly—a once spoiled child isn’t getting what she wants and is taking out her frustrations onto you.

Once your other coworkers start trickling in, you saw less of the likes of Dasom. Most of your morning and afternoon was working on the library’s catalog, the most tedious part of being a librarian. And having to sit down for hours irks you and your poor back.

Now that summer break officially started, more kids began coming into the library to mingle rather than learn. You get it though, you were a kid once after all so you didn’t mind that they came in just to socialize. However, there’s always a handful that come by to get a head start for the next school year—you were once also that type of child. But you didn’t expect a particular kid to be the same.

You look away from your computer screen and become surprised when you see Cheol accompanied by his sister Sae-byeok. He has a thick book pressed on his chest and smiles shyly at you.

“Hi, Cheol.” you greet him casually.

“Hi, noona.” he says back.

“Can you help him?” Sae-byeok asks right after. You look at her and your face morphs into confusion.

You wanted to question her. Why—Why now? Was she not able to help him after all? But this wasn’t about her or you, so you put those thoughts and animosity towards Sae-byeok away and look down at Cheol.

“Of course.” you say, grinning at him. “What do you need help with?”

“It’s hard for me to read this book…”

And with that, you take him to his favorite spot in the library and help him read through the first few chapters of a book that’s clearly above his grade level. But you’re impressed he’s succeeding. It makes your heart full because this is what being a librarian means to you. However, it would’ve been nice if Sae-byeok wasn’t watching you guys like a hawk. But at some point she starts picking up her own book and starts reading.

Halfway through reading the third chapter, Cheol breaks into conversation. He starts rambling about his favorite book that every kid his age loves and he can rarely find it in the library.

“Can I show you my favorite book if I find it?” he suggests, but already rose from his seat so it’s not like you can decline. But why would you—it’s refreshing to see someone his age fall in love with the world of reading.

“Sure.” you say and watching him scurry off to the kids section across the library.

Now the only people in this table were you and Sae-byeok who was sitting across from you. When she sees that his brother left, she lowers the book covering half of her face and starts sending you fleeting glances. You avoiding them by staring down at your hands folded on top of the table.

“Thanks.” she says out of the blue.

You snap your head to look at her briefly. She is leaning against the table, tracing circles on the cover of her current read, Human Acts by Han Kang—an amazing book you might add.

Maybe you’re being too harsh on her. There’s a lot you can learn about a person by knowing what they like to read. And a book as profound as this gives Sae-byeok a whole new layer of depth that you didn’t expect. Now, you’re curious to know her thoughts on it. Instead, you just clear your throat when she spoke up.

“No problem.” you breathe, fiddling with the bookmark you picked up. “He’s a good kid.”

“He is.”

When you eye her again, you see her glaring at something past your shoulders. Out of curiosity you turn around to see what she’s looking so harshly at. It was Dasom, who was also staring back but looks away when she spots you. She disappears into one of the bookshelves.

You whirl your head back around and give the icy girl a tight lipped smile. “I don’t like her either.” you bluntly admit.

The corner of her lips start twitching, like she was fighting back the urge to smile. You start to wonder what’s taking Cheol so long, it’s like he’s purposefully trying to give you a hard time right now. This awkward pause was too much.

Sae-byeok sucks in a breath of air like she was purposefully trying to get your divided attention. She starts rubbing the nape of her neck, appearing to have a hard time making her mouth say words, “Are you um…free later?” she carefully asks.

When she says this you already know where this is heading. You aren’t sure why she’s suddenly trying with you, but it intrigues you. Her cold nature was unraveling.

“I am.” you say plainly.

“I figure that I owe you for helping Cheol…if you want we can go to the cafe we ran into each other maybe like later today…?”

“…Uh—“

“You don’t have to if you don’t want to.” she cuts you off, determined to avoid your eyes.

You didn’t expect her to be such a wildcard. The timidness seeping through her voice and her softening gaze made your curiosity peak.

“It’s the cafe that looks like a little fairy cottage, right?” you ask her and she nods. “That’s my favorite. I’ll go with you. I get off at three—I’ll meet you there.”

You were too focused on Cheol’s reappearing figure to see the glint of hope in her eyes.

“This is your favorite book?” you ask Cheol, who comes back out of breath but elated with the book he hands you.

After another hour went by, it was time for you to fulfill other duties you had to complete before your shift is over. But you take your time to walk with the two siblings out the library.

After wishing Cheol goodbye, it was now Sae-byeok’s turn. But you couldn’t find anything to say—not after what occurred before.

She stands in front of you, with her muscles tense, stiff shoulders, and hands shoved in the depths of her jean pockets. “Thanks again. I guess I’ll see you later.” she murmurs with a deadpan expression.

All you could do is nod to that, ignoring the queasiness that you felt in your stomach. You wait for them to reach the doorframes to turn around.

You bite back a smile when you overheard Cheol tell his sister as they were heading out, “You guys are seeing each other later?”

When three o’ clock came, you entered the break room with much eagerness than when you started this morning. But the excitement quickly vanished when you saw something of yours suspiciously on the floor. Upon further inspection, you saw that it was your sunglasses split in half—the ones you need to help with migraines. Someone was holding back laughter nearby and you knew who it was. You didn’t want to give Dasom the satisfaction.

Instead you hold in your anger and kick off the broke glasses to the side and grab your purse from your locker. You can feel her throwing daggers when you walk out.

You don’t rely on a map anymore to the cafe, you come here almost everyday now. The only thing you have to do is find Sae-byeok when you enter.

It was easy to spot her quiet and enigmatic figure. She sat by the window again, her hands propped up on the table with her hands folded. She had her hair styled into a short ponytail which she didn’t have earlier. Her once sharp eyes rounded when you stood by the door in a frigid posture. Something about her face feels more familiar day by day.

“What do you usually order?” she asks making you snap out of your thoughts.

You slowly pull up the chair across from her and sit down. “Uh—vanilla latte, iced.”

She nods and gets off her seat to go order. You observe her some more. Her guarded behavior is present to anyone she encounters but with you she speaks in a much softer tone. The way her arms are crossed and her eyebrows are knitted when she orders is a telltale sign to stay away from her.

Your mom told you that you didn’t meet anyone new the past year. And you believed it at first because you didn’t have the energy to go and search if she was telling you the truth. But maybe you want to try now. Unless Sae-byeok is just being nice this whole time and you’re just paranoid.

“Thanks.” you murmur when she passes you your coffee. Neither of you speak as you take sipping your drinks. You feel like there is a big elephant in the room. Your past animosity towards her is no longer present—it left the second she came to you asking if you can help her brother. “Hey, about the past— I’m sorry for lashing out on you…so many times.”

“It’s fine.” she shrugs after finishing taking sips of her cold brew.

“No, it’s not.” you state and frown when she doesn’t look up at you. So, you scoot your seat closer to lean on the table to make her. “I was too cowardly to defend myself against Dasom because her parents donate to the library. So, I threw my frustrations onto you.”

“Like I said—it’s fine. I don’t care.”

“Okay.” you whisper.

“I didn’t mean it like that.” she sighs and starts playing with the hem of her sleeve like she was in careful thought. You wait for her to gather them to say something else. “Just figured you wouldn’t want to tell me after finding out…” she trails off, quieter than the wind.

“About what happened to me?” you ask cautiously. When she nods you chew the inside of your cheek. You don’t discern the fact that your legs are bouncing aggressively underneath the table. “Do you want to know?”

She nibbles on her lower lip. “Only if you want to talk about it.”

It’s been awhile since you spoke aloud about your accident. And how it took a year out of your life. Your heart starts racing, you try to convince yourself it’s just the caffeine but deep inside you know it’s because you’re anxious. Sae-byeok couldn’t look away anymore, clearly wanting a question but isn’t blunt enough to directly ask.

“I got into a car accident. Most of the injuries went to my head.” you explain shortly. But it took everything in you to finally say it. “I lost a year worth of memories because of it. And I get really bad brain fog so…that explains all the confusion and getting lost.”

“Sounds hard.” she whispers and starts glancing out the window.

“It is.” you heave. “My therapist says that music therapy and creating lists help with it.”

“Is that why I always see you with headphones during your breaks?”

“Are you always watching me?” you snort seeing the blush creep up her neck. That’s a sight you never thought you’d see. Her posture becomes guarded again, the arms crossed and contorted expression so you clear your throat. “Let’s change the topic okay?”

“…Fine.” she hesitates.

“Cheol told me his favorite book—what’s yours?”

“Heaven by Mieko Kawakami.” she responds right away, it took you by surprise.

“Really?” you gape, your eyebrows raising up. You see her lips start quivering again. “I love that book—not my favorite though but it’s definitely up there.”

“What’s yours?”

“The White Book—Han Kang.” you say without further thought. You take your last sip of coffee so you hold back the urge to laugh at her crestfallen expression. “You look so surprised when I said that:”

Sae-byeok exhales, like she was holding back the laugh that was ready to escape. You continue to gawk at her—you couldn’t distinguish what was different about her but something definitely was. Like flicker of a switch, you feel more at ease with her. It feels like you can tell her anything. Your heart drops at the possibility of—

“Do you want to go somewhere else?” she asks casually but already rose from her seat before you could answer. “There’s a spot I think you might like.”

A quizzical look etches your face. “Sure?”

She grabs your empty coffee cup and dumps it on the trashcan. When she opens the door halfway, she pauses and waits for you to catch up.

The moment you’re out in the sunlight your head feels like it’s tightening. This torturous sensation couldn’t be alleviated because Dasom broke your sunglasses. But you are dying to know where she will take you so you might just have to put up with the blaring sunlight.

When you reach the park, you think she’d lead you to a bench and sit by the lake. What you didn’t expect is to stand in front of a large wired gate at the end of the park. On the unreachable end of the gate, you see a massive greenhouse that resembles a mansion.

You’re confused when Sae-byeok bends down to lift up the wired fence, leaving a quaint gap for anyone to trespass through. She doesn’t say anything, but the glint of mischief in her eyes tells you enough—she wants you to duck underneath.

“Do you want to pay fifteen bucks to enter?” she asks you like the clear and obvious answer is to sneak inside the botanical garden.

A sigh escapes your lips. You don’t answer but you always wanted to go see the botanicals. You let your heart speak for your actions and duck underneath the fence. When you make it to the other side, you fight back the urge to wince at the headache starting to kick.

You shield your view from the white sunshine using your hands. But when Sae-byeok crawled to the back of the garden, she took one of your hands with hers and makes you run with her to the enormous greenhouse.

Her warm hands enveloped with yours and it confuses you. You don’t get it—why is she so relaxed with you?

She sneaks you into one of the back entrances, letting go of your hand and guides you by pressing her hand to the small of your back. Every now and then, you feel her hot and unsteady breath hit the side of your neck.

“We’re good.” she whispers when no onlookers or staff caught onto you both for trespassing.

You’re so in awe of the tall strangely shaped trees and arrays of flowers you didn’t even know existed that you almost forgot about the excruciating migraine starting. Sae-byeok quietly watches you, as if she was waiting for you to come to some sort of epiphany that never happened.

She trails after you for a solid ten minutes while you observe and snap photos of different plants you come across.

“There’s a spot outside with a pond—if you want to sit down.” she falters.

Her voice startles you. At this point, your eyes were squinted because you couldn’t take the sharp throbbing pain anymore.

“Lead the way then.” you still say.

You want to hold on longer. You’re dying to know how to solve the unsolvable puzzle that is Sae-byeok.

The pond was small and inviting with only a singular bench that can barely fit two people. When you both sit down she stares straight ahead at the lake as if she was pondering the great mysteries of the world. She has to know you’re looking at her right now.

You didn’t notice her splatter of freckles across her cheeks until now that the sunshine beams straight down on them. A blurry memory pops into your head about the same freckled person in front of you—you feel like you’ve seen her before.

Her posture slackens and she leans the back of her head on the bench. She was squirming at the intensity of your gaze.

“I feel like I know you.” you say outright.

Sae-byeok’s pokerface becomes stern. “From?” she says with a light tone—hope?

“I don’t know…Never mind.” you shut your eyes at the feeling of the sun hitting your corneas. “I need to stop assuming that everyone new I meet is from the past.”

You hear her keep shifting on the bench. “Can I ask you something now?” she asks. You flutter open your eyes and hum. “Do you have any friends right now?”

“Not really. I had a good group of friends in college but we all just naturally grew apart. But as of right now no.” you answer honestly. Adulthood is lonely, you doubt you’re the only one. “How about you?”

There was a brief pause after you ask her the question. Sae-byeok couldn’t tear her eyes away from the pond, it was like nostalgia washes over her. The small rare smile on her lips and fond eyes were a strange yet silently beautiful sight.

“I had one. But she left a long time ago…So, I guess not.” she answers bleakly.

“I’m sorry about that.” your frown. “Did she…?”

“Die? No—just left without saying a word.”

“Ah. That must suck.” you say, looking down at your lap. The migraine was getting worse. You feel your mind get more foggy and your eyes are starting to see all white. But you don’t want to stop talking to her.

“It does…I asked that because—I’m trying to make new friends.”

“You want to be friends?” you say breathlessly and she faintly hums in response. Now you feel awful for the way you behaved around her. But the light was becoming to unbearable you couldn’t keep your eyes open anymore. “I’m sorry.” you apologize for your past actions and for what’s about to occur next.

Sae-byeok didn’t notice your odd behavior yet. “For what this time?”

“Being so judgmental.” you say, your voice shaking like you were dealing with a lot of pain. “You didn’t deserve it.”

That was the last thing you were able to croak out until you had to press your palms to your aching forehead. The pain was too unbearable, you wanted to collapse on the ground and curl up into a ball by how weak and small you felt.

You feel a hand on top of your shoulder. Sae-byeok’s hoarse voice rings past your ears, “Are you alright? Hey, are you okay?”

“My head.” you say—you hope you did. The discomfort was becoming too much by the minute, that’s when the tears threatened to spill.

“What? What’s happening with your head? Did you get hurt again?” she frantically asks.

She gets off the bench and kneels down in front of you to get a better look at your wet face. Your silent cries were enough to signal that you were fighting an internal battle.

You feel so ashamed, so useless. She shouldn’t be dealing with your mess. “Sorry—“

“Do you need to go to the hospital? Please—Please say something.” she cries. You shake your head, instead you’re barely able to reply with the word home and that’s enough for her. “I’ll take you don’t worry.”

The recollection of what happened after she said that was foggy. You think she carried you on her back all the way to your apartment—but you don’t recall giving her your address or specify what floor you live on. And you’re almost certain that you didn’t tell her the precise location of your bedroom.

It wasn’t until you feel your body lay comfortably on the mattress and hear all your curtains in your room being shut and your cat mewing that you know you’re safe. But the tears couldn’t stop flowing from the pain—you feel as if your eyes were about to pop out of your skull.

“Do you have any medication that’ll help?” you hear her shaky and out of breath voice. At first you thought you were making it up. When you try to sit up, she gently pulls you back down. “Just tell me I’ll—I’ll know.”

You take a deep breath in to gather the words that were disarray in your mind. “Kitchen…cabinet.”

The shuffling of feet’s lets you know she’s left to find it but what you’re surprised about is how quickly she came back. Maybe your mind is too hazy to accurately reflect the concept of time.

The darkness filling the room helped. Your eyes started to adjust better, although it was still a bit blurry you were able to make out the shape of her sitting on the edge of your bed with a handful of medications.

“Be careful.” she gently murmurs when she saw your frail attempt to sit up. “Just point which one you need.”

You point to the orange bottle. She passes you two pills and a water bottle that you slowly take. After chugging almost the entire bottle, you let out another shaky breath.

Your body slowly begins to relax and all you wanted right now was to rest. The pain will take some time to subdue after the medication. You press your forehead against her shoulder blade and inhale her scent of wood-sage and cigarettes—you don’t know why you leaned onto her but it just felt right. What anchored you was the warmth of her hand rubbing circles on your back and her chin propped up on top of your head—and that’s when you knew.

“Sae-byeok…”

“Hm?”

──・──・・✿ ・・──・──

(summer, 2020)

“Look what I recently found.” you say, smiling mischievously at the guarded girl.

Sae-byeok humored onto you. She doesn’t know what sort of magic you did you spell her into agreeing to hang out with you but it worked. Maybe it’s the immense loneliness that she can’t get away from is what made her say yes to spending this afternoon with you. She just wants to feel something other than isolation for once. But so far, you were off to a terrible start.

You pull open the wired fence and crawl underneath it. Once successfully on the other side of the fence you encourage her to follow suit.

“What the hell are you playing at?” Sae-byeok snarls, slowly stepping back. She’s already got a lengthy history of breaking the law, she can’t add trespassing to the list.

“Come on I did this last time I was here and I didn’t get caught.” you say encouragingly, still holding onto the edges of the fence. “It’s either this or pay fifteen dollars—now hurry or we’ll really get caught!”

At this point Sae-byeok is frantic, she whips her head around to make sure no one is watching before she starts crawling underneath the fencing. She feels your hand wrap around her wrist to lure her to the back of the greenhouse. Are you some sort of adrenaline junkie? You currently have her ducking behind several displays of wildflowers. If you get them caught Sae-byeok swears this’ll be the last you hear from her

“We’re in the clear.” you whisper and let go of her wrist.

“Why did you take me here?” she hisses and grabs your arm before you have a chance to move around. You look at her with a startled look. “I didn’t sign up to trespass.”

“Well, you said you don’t see pretty things often.” you explain, blinking at her.

Sae-byeok sighs. There’s a reason why she’s so closed off—when she opens up things like this happen to her.

And you seem to determined to explore this garden, you slowly start backing away to a particular spot of this large greenhouse. Sae-byeok could only follow behind you. She silently observes the way you inspect the flowers and read off the signs that list fun facts. Cheol always boast about how smart you are and she isn’t going to deny it. Smart people tend to be the most curious about the world around them. She wishes she had that kind of wonder about life.

So, she tries. She tries mimicking the way you stare at these strange flowers and plants.

“It’s pretty right?”

Sae-byeok flinches by your voice. You are hovering over her, smiling like you’re trying to tell her ‘Told you so.’ She rolls her eyes in response. But they were somewhat nice to look at.

“So, did you like the book I recommended?” you ask her, curiously. She only shakes her head to reply. You conceal the grin itching to form. “Would you consider more of my book recommendations?”

“I don’t read.” she says sternly and knits her eyebrows when you threw her a strange look. “I don’t have time to read.”

The two of you quietly keep observing the flowers. Sae-byeok holds her breath, sensing that you weren’t finished talking because your body was still facing hers.

“You can always come to the library to read.” you suggest. “I always say that time stops when you enter a library—you should try it out.”

She shoves her hands into her jean pockets and walks away from you and this conversation. Sae-byeok doesn’t need life advice from you or anyone else. You don’t have a single clue as to what she has to deal with on a daily basis.

After today, she doesn’t wish to see you anymore—not after this stunt you pulled. Her mind is made up.

🏷️: @lyzem @monkey4lifer @tlouloser @bitchybananaflower @yenyu1s @marfe816 @gummyoonji @peelover25 @saebyeokbliss @knfthxv @we1rdth0ughts @monroesturnns @wiltingconquest @noaanotfound @tyresedidujsfart @madebysae

[sorryitsmyfirstdayonearth]

I don't know why I bite (Dean Winchester x female reader)

You and Dean can’t stop fighting, so Sam locks you in a room together, literally, to hash it out.

Read it on AO3

Rated E, 18+. 6.9k words. Violence. Rough sex. Everyone's pretty dysfunctional. General hurt. Biting. Dean + dog metaphors because it just makes sense.

I don't really know how I feel about posting long fics like this here - it seems a little awkward to read, but I'm gonna let y'all decide whether you like this format.

My friends think I like to fight, but it's just not true. Sometimes I lose my temper and blow off a little steam, but I've never enjoyed it.

I'm not a violent dog.

I don't know why I bite.

- Isle of Dogs

Dean Winchester is driving you crazy.

From the first moment you mouth off to him when you first meet you know you found a good sparring partner.

He’s quick, you’re quicker. You’re clever, he’s more clever. He grins at your teasing and you laugh at some of the jabs he gets in.

It works, because you’re both intensely aware of your own roles, your own pitfalls – you can’t hurt him by making fun of something that’s part of the character he’s created, because it’s not really him you’re making fun of. It’s the same the other way around.

You make fun of how much sex he has with strangers, because it’s part of his bad boy glamour, just another coping mechanism.

He makes fun of your excessive violence towards the less humanoid monsters you fight, because he knows you don’t actually enjoy it, that you do it to look tough in this boy’s club that is hunting, that your hands shake when you wash them later.

You make fun of his love for his car, but never of the fact that it’s one of the few kindnesses his father’s ever given him, because the first is fair game but the second would be like pushing a knife between his ribs.

He makes fun of how jumpy and irritable you are sometimes, but never of how often you wake up screaming, because one has been weaved as a silly trait into your personality and the other he knows too well himself.

How well you have to know each other, how intimate the understanding of that line you don’t cross is, is something neither of you is willing to look at. It’s like surgery, sometimes, how close you have to cut to the line, to give the other one that thrill of being known, of being seen, but never of being known too well, of being watched. That would go too far.

If Dean or you were able to take that, you wouldn’t need those intrinsic personas to shield you from everything that could be painful.

You’ve known each other for about a year when it takes a turn. It doesn’t happen on purpose and, looking back, it’s no one’s fault.

You’re attracted to Dean because, well, you have two eyes and a sex drive. You know he is attracted to you because he checks you out, which, well, Dean would probably check out a wall if it had a nice pair, but he does it with a look in his eyes that’s different, that’s not the mask he uses to bang waitresses and co-eds and unhappy wives, all non-descript shadow people passing through his life.

Potentially something could have come of it. Maybe, if one of you would have been lonely enough or horny enough, you could have let your personas, your life-long starring roles, play with each other. It probably would have been hot, but performative, both of you too busy to prove how much you don’t need to be there.

It doesn’t happen that way, though, because this happens:

Dean and you are hurt, which isn’t unusual. You can’t open your right eye so well and you hear a whistle every time you exhale. Dean’s got blood running down his face from a cut somewhere in his hair and the thing you were hunting speared him with a pen, a pen, because that’s what was in reach when Dean was standing over it, getting ready to beat its head in. It wanted to live, and you can’t think about that too much because if you do you think you’ll be sick.

Essentially, you both look like you’re on death’s door, so you don’t go back to Sam, because you know it will terrify him. Instead, you stop at a gas station, get everything you need to imitate a visit to the emergency room. The guy working at the gas station looks at you two and you must look like Natural Born Killers but neither of you cares. You get a bottle of shitty whiskey as well.

Then you hunker down, in the cheapest pay-by-the-hour motel you’ve ever seen. There’s red neon everywhere and you don’t even want to know what the room would look like under a black light.

“You first,” you say to Dean, and he complains, but you push him down on the chair you’ve moved to the middle of the room. “Stabbed beats carved-in lung,” you say, and Dean scoffs, which makes him cough.

“Anything to get to put your hands on me, huh?” he jokes when he’s recovered. You sort of chuckle, trying to find the cut on his head first. “Been a long time, has it?” he asks, flinching when you find it.

“Winchester,” you say, laying a cotton bud soaked in alcohol against the cut, making Dean buck under you, a deep groan leaving him. “You could be the last man on earth and I’d still prefer celibacy.” Dean chuckles.

“Don’t know what you’re missing out on,” he says. The cut’s mostly stopped bleeding, so you decide to leave it for now.

“Yeah, a bunch of STDs,” you mumble as you kneel down, suppressing a whine at something hurting, you don’t even know what.

The stab wound is next. Dean, in his infinite wisdom, pulled out the pen. It’s a natural instinct, to want something that is hurting you out of your body, but he still should know better.

You push up his shirt, look at the wound, ignore all that skin around it.

Cotton bud. Alcohol.

Dean hisses. “Whiskey?” he says, and you stop what you’re doing for a second to grab the bottle off the table near you, pass it to him. He opens it, takes a deep gulp, while you watch his throat work, swallowing. He drops his head, the bottle leaving his mouth, some of it running down his chin. It shouldn’t make you feel what it makes you feel. He’s a mess, and so are you, but getting to watch him like this is a privilege you know not many are afforded.

Stripped down, broken, fresh off a kill. It’s him at his best, in a way.

He passes the bottle to you, and you don’t wipe the rim. You set it down when you’re done.

“This is gonna need stitches,” you say, motioning to the wound. He nods. “What are you waiting for then?”

He barely makes any sounds while you do it, while you sew him back together. It’s over soon, since you’re quick and practiced and it’s not a huge wound. He sighs when he’s done.

“Good?” you ask.

“Magnificent,” he says, panting a little. You give him a second to recover, then push his arm for him to move. He gets up, and you take his place.

You’re not sure how much he can do for you but you’re not going to skip the chance to have him touch you, to have him try to fix you. He looks at your eye first, cleans it but it’s just a shiner, there’s not much to do. While he does it, his thumb rests on your cheek. You’re intensely aware of it, but you just look ahead.

“Saw you miss that one shot,” he says, when he’s done, and his hands leave your face. “The first one? At the big guy?” He shakes his head as he takes the whiskey and drinks again. “I’ve seen some bad shooting from you, but that was sad. Such a big target, too.”

You chuckle, but something pulls in you. No, you think, but you don’t know why. This should be save terrain.

You flinch when Dean lays his hand on your chest, above your breasts but the inside of his wrist is brushing against you. You think for a second that you can feel his heartbeat through it but then you’re not sure.

“Breathe in”, he says, and you do, while he concentrates on where the wheezing sound you make is coming from. “Throat?” he asks, then frowns. “You got choked? When?”

No, you think again, and this time you know why. You swallow, and it hurts.

“While you were hiding out downstairs,” you say, but your voice is missing the apathy required to deliver the jab, so it falls extra flat. Dean picks it up, though, but he misunderstands.

“Oh, you mean when the big guy decided to chase you after you didn’t shoot him?” He chuckles, his hand not leaving you, but then he stops, thinking. “No, no, he was already dead.”

You need him to stop. You need him to stop trying to figure this out. He’s doing it so he can make fun of you. If he knows which of the freaks hurt you, he can pick out specifically why that one getting to you is embarrassing. It’s fine, normally, but you don’t want him to know.

“Let’s see,” he says, his hand slipping off you. “There was the big guy, the squirrely asshole that stabbed me, and those two in the basement,” he counts off while he reaches for the whiskey again. He shakes his head, concentrating. “Who was upstairs?” he wonders.

He can never shut up. It’s like he was born without the skill, without the knowledge of how to ever just shut the fuck up.

He lowers the bottle, then holds it out for you but you don’t grab it. “Be honest,” he says. “Did you just run into a door at a funny angle and now you’re pretending there was a fifth?” He shakes the bottle a little, because he thinks you didn’t notice it.

You can’t reach for it. You don’t feel your hands.

“It was a child,” you say.

It wasn’t a child, of course, at least not a human one, for whatever that’s worth. It was something that was wearing a child, the kid itself burned out long ago. But it looked like one. It sounded like one. Not when it launched itself at you across the room or when it gave that godawful screech. But later, when it was lying there. That’s when.

You swallow again, and your throat hurts. Little chubby hands did that, the ones with the dimples. You feel a tear roll down your cheek. No no no. This isn’t supposed to happen.

You wipe at it, immediately, but you know Dean’s seen it. Seen you.

He lowers the bottle, slowly, like the strength is going out of his arm. He says your name, and you say: “Don’t.”

He says it again and before you know it you are standing up so quickly that the chair goes flying.

“I said fucking don’t!” you snap at him, because you just need him to stop. You need him to stop sounding like that and you need him to stop looking at you like that, his eyes all soft and his mouth in a straight line. This is worse than anything.

No, you need to get out. Your chest is constricting and you just need to not be here.

You stride towards the door and Dean is stupid enough to come after you, and he’s grabbing you, his hand like a vice around your upper arm. You turn so suddenly that he has to let go, the turning making pain flash through you, and you think good.

“Don’t ever touch me,” you grunt and Dean takes a step back. Then you’re out the door, no idea where you’re going.

You don’t come back for three days.

You left your phone at the motel with Dean so there’s no way for him to contact you. You barely remember the days. You have your wallet on you, so there’s that.

You drink, you know that. You drink and you don’t stop drinking because it’s the only way you can sleep.

You pick someone up, at some point, hoping you can be fucked senseless but it’s disappointing, doesn’t get you anywhere, so you leave. You don’t dare touch yourself, your body and what it can do horrifying and disgusting to you.

It doesn’t feel like three days, but apparently that’s what it is.

When you return to the motel, the one you were originally staying at, not the one you and Dean went to, you expect the brothers to be gone.

You get a room, get cleaned up, sitting in the bath water while it goes from boiling hot to lukewarm. You walked past a second hand shop earlier, picked out some clothes, just jeans and a shirt, carrying them with you in a plastic bag. You also bought some other essentials, and you clean yourself as much as you can, make yourself as presentable as possible.

Not to look good. Just to look not broken. Just so you can pretend nothing happened.

Then you go to the room you shared with Sam and Dean. You knock. They’re probably long gone, but then you hear foot steps behind the door, familiar murmuring and the door opens and Sam’s there, all puppy dog eyes and awkward posture.

He looks immensely relieved when he sees you, and you think for a second that he’s about to pull you in for a hug but something on your face stops him.

“Jesus”, he says, as the door swings open to reveal Dean, farther back in the room, his phone in his hands. “We called every hospital around, we thought you were—”

“I’m fine,” you say, tearing your eyes from Dean. “Your brother didn’t tell you I was going out?”

“Going out?” Sam says, unbelieving and a little bit angry as you push your way past him into the room. “You were gone for three days!”

You ignore him, look at Dean, your eyes daring him. He’s looking at you like he’s expecting your head to explode, but then he says: “She said she was going out, Sammy, leave it alone.” Sam looks bewildered as you turn to him.

“But you said—” Sam starts, but Dean must throw him a look that shuts him up. You don’t turn back in time to see it.

That is how the balance is thrown off. Once it is gone, you cannot reestablish it, no matter how hard you try.

The jokes you make at Dean’s expanse are all missed shots. They don’t cross that invisible line, but they’re… they’re mean. They’re nasty. They’re no fun. They come out of you that way and it makes you cringe at yourself, but you can’t stop.

Dean, on the other hand, overcompensates the other way. His jokes are soft, way too soft, and every single one of them makes your blood almost boil over. Reminds you that he thinks you’re something that needs to be spared, needs to be put in bubble wrap.

That you’re something he can look at the way he looked at you that night.

You two become unbearable to be around, so you don’t really blame Sam for putting his foot down.

It’s another no-name town in another no-name county and you know, and Dean knows and Sam knows that the evening will drag on the way every other evening has dragged on in the last weeks – with tension in the air so thick you could cut it with a knife. With you being mean to Dean and Dean barely defending himself, barely hitting back.

You get to the room, put your bags down and Sam is already by the door again. You and Dean both look at him, wondering where he’s going.

“I’m getting another room,” he says, face serious. “And you two,” he continues, “you two will stay here and figure out what the hell it is that’s going on, because I’m not dealing with it anymore.”

You open your mouth to speak but Sam turns to you and says: “No, figure it out.” Your mouth closes. Who knew. The little guy could actually be imposing.

“Sammy, this is stupid,” Dean says, because of course Dean’s allowed to say something. “You’re grounding us?” Sam nods. “Yeah.”

“Or what?” you ask, before Sam can stop you. He looks at you both, then shrugs, and then he’s pulling the door closed behind him.

There’s silence, and then Dean says: “Well, that was ominous.” He looks at you, maybe hoping you’ll laugh or agree, maybe you can dogpile on Sam for a little while, but you don’t.

You feel terror sitting in your jaw and in your hands. You don’t want to talk to Dean. You don’t want to figure anything out. You want to shed your skin and start your life over and go to sleep and never wake up, but none of these seem to be realistic options.

So you sigh, instead, sitting on the bed nearest to you. There’s not even any alcohol in the room, since you’re in a dry county, and of course Dean’s thinking the same thing.

“He couldn’t have done this when we were in Vegas?” he mumbles. Still no reaction from you as you hear him sit down on the other bed behind you. You hate this. You feel like an animal in a cage. You feel itchy.

“Okay, should we do this?” you hear Dean behind you, and you think you hear him slap his thighs.

You finally turn around to him, slowly, your face unbelieving. He’s sitting there, looking prettier than ever.

“What?” he says.

“Just... you,” you reply. “I can’t believe you’re being so gung-ho about this.” Dean inclines his head. “If Sam thinks—”

“No offense,” you say, fully intending offense, “but screw your brother, okay? I’m not a child. I’m not getting sent to my room without dinner.”

And of course, at that you see it, that child, that child-thing, sprawled out, little eyes looking at the ceiling but seeing nothing. You almost shake yourself.

Unsure if Dean notices, you stand up, but instead of walking outside, you pace.

“He’s not wrong, you know?” Dean finally says, but you don’t stop moving.

“About what?” you ask, without looking at him.

“You’ve been a real asshole the last couple of weeks,” Dean answers.

And God, why does it feel so good that he calls you that?

You stop pacing, turn to him, a grin that’s probably a little psychotic-looking forming on your face.

“Now was that so hard?” you ask.

“What?” Dean asks.

“Not treating me like a little porcelain figure?” you say. “Calling me an asshole?” Dean shrugs. “Well, don’t act like one if you don’t wanna be called it.”

He doesn’t get it, doesn’t get that this is exactly what you want, but it doesn’t matter because even that little bit of disrespect makes the itch in your flesh feel a little less overwhelming.

“I know I have,” you say. You nod at him. “And you’ve been acting like a wuss.” Distantly you realize that you are actually doing what Sam told you to do. You’re talking about it, or at least you’re acknowledging that there is something to talk about, which is more than you’ve done in this whole time. So, good for Sam, you think. And you keep going.

“What happened, Dean?” you ask, your arms going wide. “You saw me upset once and now you’re too much of a bitch to joke around?” You feel yourself teetering at the edge. This could go so horribly wrong but you can’t stop tap-dancing at the edge of that volcano.

“You’re gonna protect my feelings?” you ask in a mocking tone, and you think your voice sounds shrill. “Dean Winchester always saving everyone but himself, huh?”

Dean’s looking down, his face tense and you can’t help but keep pushing.

“I’m an asshole?” you say, and for some reason there are tears burning in your eyes and you don’t know why. “Well, you’re a pussy,” you spit.

“That’s enough,” Dean says, and his voice is cold as steel. He looks up at you, still sitting on he bed, and he terrifies you for a second. But the terror is a thrill.

You scoff at him. “Fuck you if you think you can tell me what to do.”

He gets up faster than you can react. You gasp in fear when he’s suddenly in front of you and then he’s pushing you against the wall behind you. It’s only a foot or two, but the impact hurts beautifully, making clearness and focus rush through you for a second, but it’s over before you can even really enjoy it.

You want to whine at the loss of it, at the sudden lack, everything turmoil again, like a family of rats has nested in your chest. You need it back, that focus.

“Fuck you, Dean,” you say, too joyous by half about your words. “Gonna show me what a man you are? You’re pathetic.”

You see his hand raise and form a fist out of the corner of your eye, and something goes through you, something horrible and you think he’s going to hit you.

You look at his hand and something like a yes comes out of you. It sounds almost sexual, and maybe it is.

Dean’s threatening demeanor drops immediately. It takes him a second to understand what caused your outburst, and he looks at his own hand and then he looks at you.

He wasn’t going to hit you, you suddenly realize. He’s balling his fist because he’s mad, and you see it from the angle he’s holding it. You’ve seen Dean throw a million punches, and this isn’t how he would do it, even if he was mad with anger.

But Dean understands, understands that that’s what you thought he was doing and that that’s what you wanted him to do.

He takes a step away from you immediately and your stomach drops. His face is as open as it’s ever been. He finds your gaze and you’re not sure what he sees in yours but you know what you see in his.

You’ve gone too far, you can feel it in your blood. You can see it on his pretty features. This is his weak spot. The holy part you’re not allowed to touch just like there’s parts of you he’s not supposed to touch. His own fear of himself, of his clever and precise violence. The one that’s been cultivated in him from the time he was four to however old he is now. The one he keeps at bay, no matter what, for those he loves and wreaks on those he doesn’t.

There’s that clear line that neither you and Dean are supposed to cross, and everything beyond that is below the belt. And you just went for it.

He’s fought so hard to bury that part of himself, so that the people he cares about never need to be scared of him like he was scared of the people that were supposed to care about him. It’s cost him everything.  And you just came for his throat.

This is so far beyond your usual arguing. This just hurts.

“I’m—” you start, but Dean’s never been good at listening, so you falter immediately. You feel tears burning in your eyes. God, he looks so sad. You blink, run the back of your hand over your nose. It’s deadly silent in the room.

Dean looks, and you don’t know how else to describe it, like a dog whose owner is holding a news paper. He knows what’s coming and he can’t stop it. He’s fear and shame and disgust in himself. You don’t want to give a shit. He’s not your mess to clean up.

But you do. Of course you do. Just like he did. He cared enough to let you verbally pummel him for weeks, barely keeping his fists up to deflect.

You say his name, or you think you do, and then suddenly he’s moving. He’s walking towards the door and you don’t know why and you don’t know how but you know you need to stop him. If he walks out that door you don’t think you’ll ever see him again.

So you rush forward, manage to get yourself between him and the door.

“Dean, don’t,” you say and he says: “Get out of my way.” His voice is deep and he's not yelling and in a way that is way scarier. But you can’t move. You can’t let him leave.

“Please don’t go,” you say, hoping you can simply convince him. You lean your back against the door, and you’re pretty sure he won’t grab you and simply pull you out of the way, because you can see his hands are trembling.

“I’m sorry,” you say, because your stupid pride has been stopping you, but now it’s the least important thing in the world. “I shouldn’t have pushed you,” you say, but you’re not sure he can hear you. “I shouldn’t have said those things. I just wanted to make you mad.” His head shoots up.

“Why?” he pushes out through gritted teeth.

“Because I couldn’t stand that you pitied me,” you say. God, Sam would love this. A real heart-to-heart. How precious.

Dean frowns. “I don’t pity you,” he says, disdain in his voice.

“Yes, you do,” you insist. “You’ve been pulling your punches for weeks. And it made me… it just made me so angry.” Dean shakes his head.

“You’re insane,” he says, and then he goes for the door, reaching around you to open it.

“No!” you say, and you push him back. He stumbles, just a little bit, but it makes him look so angry that you press yourself harder against the door. Just like you thought, he’s not going to move you out of the way, but that doesn’t mean he won’t try to get around you.

“Move,” he says, and then: “Get out of the fucking way.”

“Make me,” you bark back. Dean stands there for a second, and you think he will. You think you have completely misjudged the situation and he will make you move. But he just goes for the door knob again, reaching around you. You push your arms against him. Now that he knows you’ll try to shove him, he plants his feet and there is no way you can move him.

He’s so close to you and so angry and you don’t know what to do, you don’t know how to get yourself back and you don’t know how to get him back.

Your mouth lands on his before you even know you’re going to do it. Dean flinches and immediately moves back. He looks shocked, and you try to congratulate yourself because it worked. Even though that wasn’t what you were doing. You weren’t trying to stop him, you were just trying to kiss him.

It’s fucked up to do it like this, in the situation you’re in. But then you’re both pretty fucked up.

Dean swallows, and looks unsure. Both of you are breathing hard and for a second he seems to just listen to that, so you do too. It’s erotic, and you don’t know how but you feel it do something to you. Dean’s gaze meets yours. He’s either about to kill you or fuck you.

He moves forward and presses you against the door. You think for a second that he’ll try for the door again, but he doesn’t. His lips find yours, but what you do can barely be called kissing. It’s a battle, like everything between you is, but you manage to get your hands into his hair, grabbing it, making him grunt. He pushes you harder against the door and you find it difficult to breathe and it’s perfect.

You lean your head back at the feeling of containment, and Dean goes for your throat. He runs his teeth over a sensitive spot, making you buck and then he’s sucking against the skin so much it hurts. Your grip tightens in his hair and he makes a noise.

Before you know it you’re pushing his jacket off his shoulders, his hands barely leaving you to let you, and then his flannel goes next. When he’s free of it, he grabs your wrists and pins them over your head, attacking your neck again. You moan, you can’t help it and he ruts himself against you.

You move your head to catch something of him, anything, and you manage to get at his jaw, nipping at him. Dean flinches, but he lets you do it. Then his hands let go of your wrists and travel down your arms, down and down, until they are at your chest and he roughly squeezes your breasts. Another moan escapes you and then you’re dropping your hands and he’s dropping your tits, moving on to your hips instead.

You find his crotch first, press your hand against it, agitating what you find there. Dean hisses, and his mouth slams against yours again, but this time you force your tongue past his lips, keeping him there as you battle again, open-mouthed and breathing hard.

Dean’s hands wander from your hips to your ass, squeezing and then he’s pushing one of his legs between yours. You grind yourself down on him, but it’s not enough, it’s not nearly enough to dispel any of the energy you need to dispel. He’s pushing you against his leg by grabbing your ass but again, it’s not enough.

You tear one of his hands from your ass and maneuver it to your front, push it between the waistband of your jeans and your skin, shove him down. Dean doesn’t stop mouthing at you when you do it, except to groan into your mouth when he fingers make contact with your underwear.

He takes control, shoving his hand deeper until he finds you there. Both you and him are surprised by how wet you are. You’re not sure when that started but neither of you cares for much longer, when you feel Dean push two fingers into you.

You almost sob and with just enough wherewithal you unbutton your jeans to give him room to move, before you grab his hair again and lean your head back against the door. He feels good, and even though his thrusts are rough, they hit the right spots within you, forcing you to close your eyes at what feels like electricity running through your body.

“Fuck, yes, just like that,” you pant and feel Dean’s plush lips against your jaw. He’s not kissing you, not exactly, just making contact, just getting as close to you as he can. You pull his hair a little and feel the air come out of him when he moans.

You don’t know how it’s possible, but he's getting you to the edge fast, and you have high-pitched, desperate moans leaving you soon. Then you’re pushing him away.

His head snaps up, and he looks worried for a second, but all you want is more of him. His hands leaves you, and you’re pulling at his t-shirt, trying to get it off him. You manage, and then he’s tugging at your shirt.

“Get that off,” he says, and his voice is rough and deep, the timber of it running through you. You do, pull it over your head and he goes for your bra before you have even pulled it off your arms. He nearly tears it off you, and then he reaches around you, bringing you close, as he pushes his hands into the back of your pants to push them down.

You use the closeness to open his jeans but then you have to step out of your pants and underwear and shoes as Dean makes them fall to the ground, to avoid stumbling.

Dean manages to turn the two of you, so that you are with your back to the bed and he pushes you towards it. When you get close you let go of him and crawl onto the bed, but you kneel on it, facing Dean. The two seconds it takes you are enough for him to unbuckle his jeans the rest of the way and drop them, along with his underwear, step out of them and his shoes and socks and kick them to the side.

He’s there in front of you, all glorious nakedness, but neither of you wants to lose a second to thinking, to wondering what it is you’re doing, so instead you collect some spit in your mouth, then run your hand along your tongue to collect the moisture and a moment later you have him in your hand.

Dean inhales sharply but you don’t hurt him, only stroke him until he’s fully standing. He’s beautiful, all of him, and if you took a second to admire him, you would see just how beautiful, but you can’t. You don’t want to break the spell.

He grabs you by the ass again, pulls you close to him, and you can hear him breathing hard, grunting at what you’re doing to him. One hand goes to the back of your head and he kisses you, really kisses you this time, roughly, yes, desperately, yes, but it’s still a kiss.

You stroke him faster until he grabs your shoulders and shoves you down on the bed. You land on your back, hair flying into your face and an insane chuckle leaves you. Maybe you’re losing your mind. Or maybe this is what you’ve been craving all along.

Then Dean’s over you, and he’s kissing you again, his hand running from your breast to your neck where he holds you tight, pulls you roughly against him. His erection is pressing against your stomach and you want him.

You get your mouth off his, and then you’re turning around under him. Dean barely leaves you room to do it, but you manage, and then you’re pushing your ass against him. He grabs your hip, strokes it.

And then he kisses your back and you freeze. He does it again, leaning over you, kisses, and then bites you there, but gently.

You gasp and you need him suddenly, need him so bad. Need him to make you feel anything else.

You push your ass up again and this time he does it, does what you want him to do. He lines himself up and then he’s pushing into you. A whine leaves you as you work yourself down on him and his hands are grabbing you everywhere, touching you everywhere and it makes you almost believe that you can be free of all this anger if only Dean keeps touching you.

He starts driving into you and for a second it’s overwhelming, so much, too much and too fast. Your breathing stutters and you need to concentrate on regulating it. But then Dean finds a rhythm and suddenly you can breathe. One hand of yours wanders back, grabs his underarm where he’s holding you and he grabs your elbow, holding onto you.

“Dean—” is all you can say, and his thumb strokes your arm.

“It’s okay,” he says and he’s driving into you, making you gasp again, which quickly turns into a moan.

“Yes,” you pant, “yes, don’t stop.” He doesn’t. He keeps up the pace, his thighs meeting the backs of yours with loud slaps until you think you're going to pass out.

“Fuck,” he mutters, and then suddenly he’s pulling out of you. You turn around to see what’s wrong but then he’s turning you around and your back meets the mattress again. Dean leans over you, pushing your leg higher.

“I want to see you,” he says, and your next inhale lets you feel the spiral again, brings tears into your eyes. Don’t be kind to me, you think, but at the same time you crave it. You want to see him gentle, want him to see his own gentleness.

He kisses you again, and you return it, wrap your arms around him and pull him close. He sighs against you, and then he’s pushing into you again. Your head falls back, you almost whimper and as Dean enters you, pushing your leg up against your torso, his hand cupping your cheek and his thumb running over your lips, you wonder when this turned from a hate fuck into whatever it is now. You find his thumb with your mouth, kiss it.

Dean leans closer to you and your hands go into his hair again. You still pull it, still make him grunt, but in response he lays his face against yours. What is this? you just have time to wonder when the movement of his hips makes you see starts.

He keeps going and going and going and you whimper and come and he holds you through it while tears run down the side of your face from the intensity, but still he keeps going.

“Fuck, I—” he mutters and you feel him throb inside of you, so you pull him close, bring your mouth to his shoulder and bite. Dean grunts, and then you kiss the place you just bit and he comes inside of you.

For a second you’re terrified he’ll roll off you immediately, so you wrap your arms around him. Dean moves into you once or twice more, but it’s just a reflex. His forehead is against your shoulder.

You find you’re stroking his back and just as you wonder if you should stop, Dean flexes his back, his shoulder blades moving under your fingers and he says: “Keep doing that.” So you do. Because you’re not ready to look at his face yet. You don’t know if you ever will be. But eventually you have to.

Eventually Dean needs to move, pulls out of you and rolls himself to the side. Your breathing has quieted down. For a moment, he’s not looking at you, but staring up at the ceiling.

Little eyes staring up at the ceiling.

A sob goes through you and Dean turns to you. He rolls himself towards you and then, after a moment of hesitation, pets your cheek.

“Did I hurt you?” he asks. You shake your head.

“No,” you say, your voice quiet. “You made it not hurt for a while though.”

He nods, and you’re pretty sure he understands exactly what you mean.

“I’m sorry,” you say then.

“You don’t have to—” Dean starts, but you interrupt him.

“I know what I made you feel. What I made you think. I’m sorry.” He opens his mouth to say something, then closes it. “I will never do it again,” you add. He runs his thumb over your chin.

“I’m sorry I made you feel like you needed to be pitied,” he says. “I’m sorry I…” he sighs. “I didn’t want to scare you.”

You nod. “I know,” and then: “I knew you weren’t going to hurt me. I knew but I wanted you to.” He nods again.

“Why? I mean why did you want me to?” You shake your head. “You know, Dean.”

And you see it in his eyes, because of course he knows. It’s the reason he sometimes drinks until he passes out. The reason he takes more punches than he needs to. Because it’s better than feeling the other thing.

He tugs some hair behind your ear and you lean into the touch. Suddenly the gentleness doesn’t hurt. Suddenly it’s everything you want.

You both lie like that for a while, just touching, just looking at each other.

“So what now?” you say. “We just go back to how it was before?” Dean thinks for a second.

“I don’t think that would work,” he says finally, and you have to agree. “Maybe,” he says, “we can both turn it down a few notches?”

You nod. “Probably a good idea.”

“And this,” he says motioning to nothing, but you know he’s talking about what you just did. “We can see where this leads?”

That one you have to think about for a moment. You feel that old thing roar its head in you, the one that wants to destroy any possibility of anything good possibly coming out of something gentle, something sweet. You fight it, and nod.

“That sounds good,” you say. Then you take a deep breath. “Do you think this is what Sam imagined when he told us to sort things out”

Dean huffs. “I really hope not.”

You smile a little, and then you do something daring.

Moving your shoulders, you scoot closer to Dean. He wraps his arm around you, holds you close.

You still look at each other, like two skittish animals but eventually, the warmth and comfort of another body so close overtakes you.

You can’t fight the need to be close so you stop, stop fighting it.

Dean’s hand rests on your chest and this time you’re sure you can feel his heartbeat. You listen to it, try to focus on it.

Ba-dum-dum, ba-dum-dum.

You’re too tired to fight. You always thought you’d need to be strong to stop, but it turns out tired works too.

Ba-dum-dum, ba-dum-dum.

You’ve never enjoyed it anyway.

[be-xkyy]

Hello! Since I read your Yandere stories, my head began to ask these questions, how many children do our yanderes want to have for us? Would they get a little jealous when our babies are feeding from us?

Hii Dear Anon!

First of all I'm glad you liked my content, thank you! And secondly, your question is very good Anon, although this will be a bit short, I hope you like it! 🖤

How many children would the yanderes have with reader? Would they be jealous of their children?

Tagging list: @kthehoeforfictionalmen ★ @dreamlessnight ★ @riawrld ★ @darkuni63 ★

Yandere Farmer Link

This man definitely wants lots of kids, five or six at the very least and about nine or ten at the most, I think he'd mostly prefer to have boys (since he thinks they're easier to handle) but he wouldn't mind having one or two girls, he has a big farm so he doesn't worry about space and he makes enough money from the cattle and crops to support them all.

As for being jealous of his children when they're breastfed or jealous in general, I don't think so. I honestly don't think he's the "Stay away son, she's mine" type but he also wouldn't let you have much time with the kids especially if they're boys since if you spoil them too much he thinks you'll make them "weak" and "mama's boys" which he doesn't want, so when they learn to walk he'll take them with him to do the farm chores.

"The kids are coming to work with me today. What if they're three and four? That's the perfect age to start getting to know everything, don't question me."

Yandere Cowboy Link

He would want at least 3 children, two boys and a girl, although he might want more, depending on his mood.

And regarding getting jealous when watching his child eat or in general, I think he would get a little jealous, although he would try to be playful and downplay it, saying things like "He's a little chubby, don't you think you feed him too much?" Or "Look, it's 1 PM, isn't it time for a nap? Come on, son, it's time to sleep." Of course you don't let him take the baby away, it's not his bedtime yet.

"Baby doll, when I was a child I was fed and put to sleep at any hour even if I didn't want to, and look at me, everything turned out fine!"

Yandere Dilf Link

This poor man wants to have two girls, two little princesses that look like you, he already has one son so you'd rather have girls but he doesn't care if one is a boy or if they both end up being boys (although not having a daughter that looks like you would break his heart) he's one of the few yanderes that promises to have only two children and keeps it. He doesn't force you to have more even if the ones you give birth to aren't the gender he wanted.

Well now I don't think he would get jealous of his children while breastfeeding, rather I think he would touch the baby's head while breastfeeding even leaving kisses on its chubby cheek, although seeing you breastfeeding might excite him a little (he has a thing for tits and milk, okay?) but he wouldn't try anything at that moment on the contrary he would try to hide it.

"You're so pretty little girl... look at that little nose and those round cheeks... you're so precious sweetheart... just like your mommy"

Yandere Sugar Daddy Link

Another one who wants to have two kids, only he wants to have a pair a boy and a girl, no more kids, just two. Not one more, not one less. I think he would have favoritism with his girl and the boy would be more attached to you as a result.

He would get jealous, he doesn't even want to hide it, although he would be more mean if the one you were breastfeeding was the boy, he would stare from the leather chair right in front of you, watch you rub the baby's head while he eats and make comments like "You don't rub my head when I suck on your boobs, don't rub his head either" or "You know there are high end milks on the market made from breast milk, why don't we try giving him that instead of your milk?" if you scold him or look at him the wrong way he would throw up his hands in surrender and say in an offended voice.

"Hey! Don't look at me like that! You should be grateful that I care, that brat will make your tits sag!"

[anmwrites]

Stubborn

Xaden Riorson x Reader

Hi friends! I was originally planning on posting one of my already written fics, but since this was requested I made it first priority! I hope I did the request justice (and didn't miss anything when I proofing it). Forewarning, I feel like I absolutely suck at ending stories, so I apologize if the ending is terrible >:( This was written as a FMC as well, but please change to whatever makes you feel comfortable when reading.

Warnings: Cursing, slight sexual innuendos (?), and faint mentions of childhood trauma.

Other Notes: Xaden being more fluffy, maybe, than usual; reader being moody and not really knowing why she's upset (I think I put some of myself into that oop); pretty rusty at this so I hope it doesn't suck lol.

I also want to go ahead and say that I take trigger warnings very seriously as someone who has struggled with mental health, so for future fics please let me know if I miss anything. This one felt a little lighter than some fics I've written in the past, but I don't want to hurt anyone in any way. Please always take caution even though I will list any warnings. Your mental health matters!

On that note, I hope everyone enjoys and finds a little escape with our favorite shadow wielder! (Disclaimer: I do not own any photos below)

To say the adjustment to training with and well, in general, to having fliers around was easy is a lie. A complete. Fucking. Lie. The only thing both riders and fliers had in common were the amount of fights they caused with one another. That was it. 

Y/N tried. She really, really tried to make the best of a shitty situation, but she was almost at her breaking point. Especially with Xaden’s ex roaming the halls. She was one bad comment away from Sgaeyl biting her head off for snapping at him. 

“He’s not into her anymore,” Violet said, snapping Y/N out of her thoughts as she stared, more like glared, at the short-haired bitch from across the dining hall. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Y/N snipped back. “Yes, you do. You are this close to starting a fight with her. Don’t be like Ridoc, you’re a lot more level headed than him,” she said, pinching her fingers together to show a miniscule amount of space. “Hey! It was one fight,” Ridoc exclaimed from across the table. 

“One fight too many,” Violet mumbled rolling her eyes at their spastic friend. “I’m fine,” Y/N huffed. The entire squad gave her a knowing look. She rolled her eyes, “Whatever, I’ll see you losers in class.” Ridoc gave her a cheerful smile as she stood, everyone else grumbling their goodbyes. 

A silk-like touch wrapped around her ankles as she made her way out of the dining hall. Y/N didn’t have to look to know Xaden sent his shadows trailing after her, a silent inquiry as to where she was going. She just shook her foot, not wanting to think nor speak to her boyfriend. As if Zihnal himself had a personal vendetta against her, though, a rough hand grabbed her arm. 

Y/N turned to find Xaden staring down at her, a hint of concern written in those beautiful eyes. “Where are you going?” he asked. “Kill time before our next class,” Y/N shrugged, refusing to look at him. Truth be told, ever since she found out Cat was Xaden’s ex, she really tried to avoid him, a nasty feeling permanently making its home in her stomach. 

“Well, I gathered as much,” Xaden rolled his eyes, releasing her arm. “I can come with,” he suggested, his tone much softer than what the entire riders quadrant would ever hear. “I’m fine, thanks,” she said flatly. Xaden made a face. “What’s wrong?” 

“Nothing.” “You’ve been saying that for the past two weeks now. Yet I barely get to see you, and you’re avoiding me.” Y/N just shrugged, “I’m busy.” Xaden scoffed, a darker expression replacing his concerned features. “C’mon,” he said, grabbing at her waist before running his hand along the curve of her body. She felt her breath sweep out of her. “Don’t you miss this?” He leaned in, whispering in her ear. He planted a feather-light kiss on the shell of it, sending heat rushing through her body. 

Y/N almost forgot why she was so mad. Until a nasally voice cut through the air. “Xaden!” she practically shrieked. Y/N cleared her throat, taking a step back out of his embrace. “I’ll see you later,” she mumbled before melting into the crowd. A furious expression graced Xaden’s face as he watched Y/N retreat before turning to face Cat. “What do you want?” he snapped. She sauntered over with a flirtatious smile. “Trouble in paradise?” she drawled. Xaden just crossed his arms. Cat flashed him a saccharine smile, “You know, I can always make you feel better. I do know how to make you feel better.” She smirked, and tried to reach her hand out to touch his face. Xaden shot a hand out, forcefully gripping her wrist. “You don’t get to fucking touch me anymore,” he snarled. Her swaggering facade fell slightly as she squirmed to try and get out of his grasp. 

“Fine,” she snapped. He released her. “You’ll come crawling back to me once you get bored with that one.” Xaden glared at her. “I don’t do sloppy seconds,” he spit before turning on his heel and leaving her. 

__

Maybe you should just talk to him, Nordys, Y/N’s black scorpion tail huffed as they lounged in one of the many fields within the nesting grounds around Aretia. That’s not happening. Nordys’ head swiveled in her direction, coming eye level to her. His green eyes narrowed into slits. You’re being childish. He is your mate. 

One, ew he’s not my mate. He’s my boyfriend. And two, what am I supposed to say? ‘Hey Xaden, I fucking hate your ex-girlfriend. She makes my life and my squadmates’ lives a living hell. Drags up very painful memories from my childhood. Can I please incinerate her?’ Nordys let out a chortle which was eerily similar to a laugh. Yes. Essentially that. He is the wingleader. And I would be happy to oblige by incinerating her and her mount. Y/N smiled softly at the thought, leaning against his side. At least someone understood. 

Tairn just said he would turn a blind eye to it as well. Sgaeyl agreed too. We would have free reign to kill them all, Nordys continued. That’s a shock considering they won’t let Andarna do it. 

Andarna is a petulant adolescent. She must learn patience and discipline. At least that’s what Tairn told me. 

Y/N sighed. I just don’t know what I’d say to him. I’m not mad at him. He’s entitled to have ex’s. I would be shocked if he didn’t. It’s just…I really hate her.  

You are ten times the human she is. You do not need to worry about your position as Xaden’s mate. Y/N groaned, Stop calling him that. Boyfriend, he is my boyfriend. We’ve talked about this. And I’m not worried about my position with Xaden. It’s just…well, I’ve told you before. My mother chased after rich men her entire life. They basically used her for her body and left her in the gutter. 

I will call him as I see fit and you are not your mother. You are a rider, Nordys huffed, before laying his head down and closing his eyes. You need to go to class now, he said after a moment. Y/N groaned again. He was right. She was going to be late, and Professor Emetterio would have her head. Fine. Have fun doing whatever it is you do, Y/N grumbled, gathering her things. Nordys let out a hot breath in her face before launching himself into the sky leaving Y/N to trek to class. 

__

Y/N’s moment of peace was ruined the moment she stepped into combat training. The fliers were gathered on one side of the mat while the riders stood on the opposite side. “I see immersion into our current living situations are going well,” Emetterio mumbled mostly to himself. Professor Devera just let out a quiet laugh from where she stood beside her colleague. Xaden was standing near the door, pointedly staring at Y/N while she was doing everything she could not to meet his hard gaze. 

“Well, since everyone wants to fight everyone outside of this class, we will be pairing riders with fliers,” Emetterio’s voice boomed through the room. There was an audible groan from both sides. 

“Good, now then!” He continued. Y/N zoned out as everyone began pairing off while he called names. Only when her name and her opponent was called did she really pay attention. Her blood ran cold as Cat stared back at her with a dark grin on her face. 

“You’ve got this,” Violet whispered from her right. Rhiannon nodded in agreement from her left. “You’ve been trained by Xaden himself. You’re one of our strongest fighters,” Ridoc came up behind her, clapping her on the back. Y/N just gave them a look before stepping on the mat. “Begin,” Emetterio called. 

Cat smirked and she began dancing around on her feet. “It’s about time we got paired together,” Cat commented. Y/N snorted, watching her closely. Timing was everything. Xaden taught her that. Study your opponent and assess their weak side if possible. Especially when you go to the mat during class. His voice rang clear in her head from all those late nights spent training. 

“Let’s make it interesting,” Cat continued on, “Winner gets Xaden?” Y/N glared back at her, “He’s not some trophy.” She let out a sultry laugh, “You’re right. He isn’t. He’d be one for you, but not for me. You see, we’re royalty, him and I. So it’s just the perfect match.” 

Y/N let out an inhumane snarl before lunging at her. To her utter shock, Cat maneuvered out of her way resulting in Y/N punching the air. She swung around and landed a sweep to Y/N’s legs, knocking her on her face. Fury rippled through her as she swung around trying to knock Cat off her feet with a swift kick, but to her surprise, yet again, Cat took the hit and rolled right back into her stance exactly…exactly like Xaden. 

Her cackle was like nails on a chalkboard. Y/N pushed herself up quickly, going through the next steps just like Xaden showed her, but Cat didn’t miss a beat, moving just like how Xaden would when they trained. 

Y/N froze for just a second, as she watched for the fifth time, as Cat moved just like him. Her moment cost her, and next thing she knew, a fist met her face. Y/N stumbled towards the edge of the mat where Violet and Ridoc caught her and kept her from falling over. “S-she was taught by Xaden. Every single one of his moves. She knows them,” Y/N panted. “It doesn’t matter. Focus,” Vi encouraged. While Y/N thought no one noticed, she was really wrong. Cat got under her skin. Everyone could see it. 

“Finish it,” Ridoc snarled at her, his hard stare on Cat, who was still laughing. “Ready to tap out yet?” she goaded. Seeing red, Y/N shoved herself off of Violet and Ridoc. Faster than she had ever been, she lunged for Cat. Her fist met flesh with the satisfying crunch of Cat’s nose. 

Cat snarled before whipping back up, slugging Y/N in the face again. “You bitch!” she hissed. Y/N laughed, the coppery tang of blood filling her mouth. “You broke my nose,” Cat snarled. “Sucks to suck,” Y/N smirked. “Argh!” Cat exploded, reaching in her belt and ripping out a dagger. 

Y/N had moments to react. She went straight for the onyx hilted blade at her side, barely blocking Cat’s attack before she could leave a permanent scar across her face. She felt a faint sting on her cheek, but that was the least of her worries because Cat lunged at her again. Rage built within Y/N. She began striking back, dodging every one of her blows. She was fairly certain Cat was using her abilities on her to rile her up, but she didn’t care. Part of this anger was all Y/N’s.

She could barely hear Emetterio yelling at them to drop the weapons. Barely hear her squadmates and the fliers edging on the fight. It was turning sloppy. Both began ripping at each other’s hair, trying to cut one another. Until strong arms wrapped around her center, yanking Y/N off of Cat, who’s entire face was bloody. 

“You won,” a soft voice caressed her ear. “Sweetheart, you won. You proved your point,” Xaden’s shadows wrapped lovingly around her struggling form. Y/N was still seeing red. Cat was shrieking profanities at her as her friends were trying to hold her back. “You fucking whore!” Cat screamed, “He’ll come crawling back after he gets sick of fucking your pathetic ass–” “Cat!” Xaden’s voice boomed. 

Y/N snarled and went to lunge again, but Xaden whirled on her, body blocking her with his chest. “Darling, calm down,” he said. “Look at me!” Two hands gripped her face tightly and she felt the fight slowly slip away. Her eyes met his beautiful gold-flecked onyx eyes. “There you go. Calm down. It’s alright, you won,” he was breathing heavily. Nothing but pride filled his face. 

The high wore off and she finally took a moment to breathe. Y/N glanced around and saw Violet and Rhiannon give her a grimace, but they looked happy nonetheless. Ridoc looked like he just had a blast, and everyone else began whispering excitedly as Emetterio dismissed them. 

She looked back to Xaden who was still staring at her intently. “You were fantastic,” he breathed. “I’ve never seen you move that fast. Albeit it got sloppy there at the end, but still.” That ugly feeling resumed its place within her as the reality of what just happened sunk in. “She fought like you,” Y/N whispered. Xaden tensed. “She fucking fought like you because you trained her,” Y/N hissed, stepping out of his grip. 

“Y/N,” Xaden sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. She just shook her head and turned on her heel, storming out. 

“Y/N wait!” his voice followed her out as she stormed through the halls. Y/N nearly made it to her room before Xaden caught her arm. “What is going on with you?” he asked, with an exasperated look. “You fucking trained her Xaden!” she shrieked. Emotion began pouring out of her. “It’s one thing that I have to pretend to be civil with your ex when all she does is spew shit out about how she’s royalty and that I’m just a side-piece! And now I find out you taught her how to fight?” 

“So what if I taught her how to fight?” Xaden snarled, his temper flaring. He could not, for the love of Amari, figure out what the big deal was. “I-I, just don’t know,” Y/N muttered, exhaustion finally sweeping in. She could feel her cheeks dampen as tears rolled freely down her face. Embarrassment coursing through her. She didn’t even know when she started crying. 

Xaden threw his hands up in the air, still clearly frustrated. “You don’t know? You don’t know? I have been trying to talk to you for two weeks now! How many times do I have to tell you that I am in love with you? So deeply in love with you!” he shouted. Y/N just stared at him.

“Are you mad at me? Jealous? What is wrong!” he asked. Y/N opened her mouth and then closed it. Was she mad at him? “No,” she exhaled, “I’m not mad at you. I, I just don’t know why I’m so upset. I mean there’s a very large possibility that Cat has been manipulating my emotions, but I’ve just had this horrible feeling sitting in my gut ever since I found out about your history with her,” she concluded.  “You have nothing to be worried about,” Xaden sighed. “That feeling, my dear, is called jealousy.” 

Y/N just shook her head. In all reality, she really didn’t want to talk about it with him. He knew what her past was, but just because he said it didn’t bother him didn’t mean it never bothered her. 

She pushed open her door planning on slamming it in his face, but he caught it and followed her in. “Just talk to me. Please, baby, just talk to me,” he said quietly, resting his hand on her cheek and wiping a stray tear away. Y/N squeezed her eyes shut. “It’s just…you were going to marry her. Marry her, Xaden. She’s practically a princess where she comes from. She was practically your first for everything. And she struts around here like she’s still going to be married to you, calling me a whore and all of the other names in the book. Constantly reminding me,” Y/N let out a shaky breath and opened her eyes, "reminding me of where I came from that I so desperately want to forget.” 

Xaden studied her for a moment, his features visibly softening. “You aren’t your mother,” he said quietly. Y/N scoffed. “You really aren’t. You didn’t end up like her.” “What? Fawning over rich, powerful men who only cared when she spread her legs open for them?” Y/N mumbled.

“Is that how you think of us?” Xaden questioned. “No? Yes? I don’t know. It’s just with her here, it’s what it felt like,” Y/N whispered. Xaden let out a breath before wrapping her in his arms. “It’s not,” he murmured into her hair, “It’s more than that. I love you for you. For your light, intelligence, your stubbornness…absolutely everything. She may have been my first but you will be my last. My heart has always belonged to you and will always belong to you in this life and the next.” 

Y/N felt a wave of calm and reassurance wash over her. She melted deeper into his embrace, breathing his all too familiar scent. “I love you too,” Y/N grumbled into his chest, “And I’m sorry for not talking to you sooner.” Xaden chuckled, pulling away slightly. “It’s fine my sweet girl,” he gave her one of his smiles only she was allowed to see. 

“Now can I kiss you or are you going to bite my head off?” He smirked. Y/N rolled her eyes, gripping his face and pulling it down to hers. Xaden’s lips met hers in a fervor. The taste of him all consuming. Kissing Xaden was like a dream, but this? After two weeks of walking on eggshells? Well, Y/N was practically floating. 

His tongue swiped her bottom lip, asking for permission. Y/N happily obliged, parting her lips to give him access. His hands roamed freely all over her body sending lightning cascading down her spine. She let out a soft groan as he deepened the kiss, both of them moving in tandem backwards towards the bed. Y/N hardly registered her legs bumping into it before she fell backwards. The soft duvet fluffed up around her as Xaden followed in suit until he was settled in between her legs. He leaned in bearing more of his weight down and – 

“Oof,” she grunted, a zap of pain shooting up her back. Xaden froze, pushing up off her. “I’m fine,” she whined, staring up at him. “You took a nasty beating,” he commented, pushing fully up and off of her. Y/N just let out another pathetic whine, missing the feel of his lips and body on hers. 

Xaden just chuckled and held out his hands. “Not until you’re cleaned up and feeling better,” he tutted. “Up.” Y/N rolled her eyes, but grabbed his hands. He did have a point. Her whole body had begun aching. “Fine,” she huffed. “But as soon as I’m all patched up, can we go back to kissing?” He let out a glorious laugh, “Yes, love. We can go back to kissing.”

____________

See, I told you my endings are always lame. I'm so sorry. Will also start building a Masterlist soon too.

[grahstumhurts]

𝙄 𝙘𝙖𝙣𝙩 𝙥𝙧𝙚𝙩𝙚𝙣𝙙 𝙖𝙣𝙮 𝙡𝙤𝙣𝙜𝙚𝙧

Manon x Gn!Reader

再也不想诈不知 谁人近日与你干着快乐事 你我之间存着黑影子 假使再拖极为无意义

Angst

Manon has been off, For months. A freezing cold gap between the two of you has been growing larger. Until you find out why.

CW - Mentions of cheating

A/N - I know the song itself isnt really the vibe, But the lyrics themselves are the vibe lol. Dont need to listen to it if its not your vibe since its Canto pop. Just felt like doing something fun! Based off the sandy lam song 灰色 (grey), Translation will be linked at the bottom for the song.

Things have felt off, For months, A shadow stood between the two of you. It started when Manon, Who had never been secretive once in your relationship, Suddenly changed her phone password. Things increasingly grew weirder over the weeks. Of course you had a gut feeling that something was off about her, But you trusted her enough to stay loyal, Even when times were tough in your relationship. She had always leaned on you when she needed help and you reciprocated that, You trusted her with every molecule in your body. But when she started leaving in the middle of the night while she thought you were sleeping, Driving off somewhere unknown, Something told you to investigate. When you found her entering a hotel, A woman was waiting outside for her, Hugging her tight and kissing her. It obviously stung, But the amount of energy you had put into your relationship for her to go and throw it away. She had sucked the life out of your heart, The colour drained only leaving a grey monotone in its place. You sat at your once warm home, Shared with who you thought was the love of your life, And waited. Waited for her to come back. Waited for her to come back and realise what she had done.

As soon as the door closed at around 3 am, You hopped out of bed. The restlessness kept you awake, You opened the bedroom door to see Manon, Sweat sheen, Lipstick stain on her collarbone, Who stood there stunned. 

“How long” You sternly said with conviction in your voice. “How long have you been fucking other girls behind my back” She stared back at you, The girl who you had shared your first’s with, First relationship,  First time having sex, First time moving in together, Stood before you. Guilt dripping on her sex covered ledger. 

“I'm sorry” You see her eyes, glistening with tears about to fall, “I know i shouldn't have, But i just couldn't anymore.” 

“Sorry, is all you have to say for yourself?!” You yelled, “Manon, I tried to ignore all the signs, “Maybe its a one time thing, Or shes not even cheating”, Fuck i loved you. I thought you loved me too.” You sigh, Rubbing your forefinger and thumb across your forehead. 

“Please, Baby, Give me another chance. I promise i wont fuck it up.” She pleads, Practically begging. 

“You ruined all  your chances by fucking another girl behind my back,” You push her shoulders “I dont wanna love a liar. Fuck, Manon. I don't wanna see your face right now.” You turn to face away from her. 

“Please, I'm begging you.” She cries, Her tears streaming down the face you once kissed with all the love your body could create. “I love you, y/n. Please”

“Pack your fucking things before i throw them out of the house.” You quietly mutter, “You better be out of here before I get back,” You say, walking out of the apartment. 

When you get to your usual coffee spot, Your stunned to find Manon. Laughing along with a new girlfriend. It had been two months. She looked like you, She looked at Manon like she held up the stars and the moon that shine in the night sky. You tried to stay away from your old spots of habit from when you were with her. But like a magnetic force, She couldn't stay far enough away from you. Maybe part of you still missed that vigorous feeling of love that she gave you. You hated yourself for not being able to break through that grey feeling from your break up, You knew what was best for you was to move on from her. To realise how much better life was after her, And before her. But the broken memories of your time together still held places in your brain, etched into your skull.

Let me be the history, So you can move on

[parrishagnostictendencies]

thank you so much for the tag, @no-eyes-yet-but-vibing !!!

Favorite color: I like a lot of them but I'm a red/orange/purple kinda guy

Currently reading: I just finished "One hundred years of solitude" (I hope that's how it's in English but if not, "Cien años de soledad" by Gabriel Garcia Marquez) and I'm planning on reading the bible just so I have context on the analysis I read on religious symbolism

Last song: "What about love?" by Heart

Last movie: I honestly don't know, I don't really watch movies often and at most, the last one I've seen must have been at dinner or something bc my family always has the tv on for eating

Last series: Los Simuladores or "The Pretenders" maybe, this is another one I don't know the name for english speakers but oh well, I'm now on season two with my mom and even though it has its icky moments (since it's a very old series from Argentina on the year 2002) the concept is very interesting

Sweet, savoury, spicy: salty JDBCKFNVKFNC but also I like savoury and spicy stuff, I can live without sweets unless it's something very specific and not too sweet

Craving: to hang out with my best friend bc I have so much to tell her about but I want it to be irl, besides, we've still got a project to do regarding a mock adoption center for rocks

Tea/coffee: I'm more of a tea person but I like to drink coffee from time to time

Currently working:

- I'm doing a 1000 piece puzzle with my mom rn, the only reason we haven't finished it yet is because it's on a table outside and with the heat these days we've been postponing it...

- There's many things I still need to finish reading (fanfics and books alike) so I have to get on THAT

That's about it! I have a lot more stuff left to do, rather than anything I've actually started

Tagging:

@notcoffeguy @ronanlynchusurper @kateisnthereatall @theprettiestar @landoposition @juvinadelgreko @ronanlynchdefender @syrmaluna @batedible obv there's no pressure!! this was very fun 🫶

rules: tag nine people you want to get to know better

Tagged by @indrid-hot - thanks a bunch!

Favorite Color: A nice, warm, sunny orange - but also honestly most other colors of the rainbow and then some.

Currently Reading: The Tevinter Nights Dragon Age short story collection.

Last Song: L'appuntamento - Ornella Vanoni

Last Movie: Ah, gosh. HM. I haven't watched anything that's not a TV show in a while. I semi-voluntarily caught the last fifteen minutes of Scrooged over the winter holidays I guess?

Last Series: Last series I watched any part of is, as always, "Emergency!" because I will never not be stuck in 70's paramedic hell. If we're talking new-to-me shows, a friend's making me watch Grey's Anatomy (early seasons) once a week, probably because observing my growing despair about the characters' poor life choices is fun. I don't even normally watch medical shows, and yet here we are lol

Sweet, Savoury, Spicy: Savory if I had to pick

Craving: Some good spaghetti with olive oil and obscene amounts of lightly toasted garlic.

Tea/Coffee: Yes please, lol

Currently working on: OH BOY WHAT A QUESTION.

Spinning: Gotland on my spindles (4-ply, one single per spindle, for funsies - except I accidentally mixed up which bits of fiber go with which single on which spindle, so that'll be fun to sort out...), 7oz/200g of red Merino on the wheel (for a crochet hat, followed by 9.5 oz of red and black Merino for a woven scarf). But also 24.5oz/700g of grey Merino. And cotton on the supported spindle. And I've got some laceweight viscose on the mini turkish spindle that I should really work on...

Crocheting: Half a dozen things, including a lacy collar that needs buttons and blocking, a gigantic star-shaped wrap-around shawl, an incredibly boring granny square top for my little sister, and too many others to count.

Art: The Emergency! tarot as the eternal never-ending WIP; I also have some Dragon Age Veilguard related plans revolving around the Grand Necropolis and irl Catacomb Saints and I'd love to get some DA-style tarot cards done for all my player characters.

Writing: I still have a couple unfinished fanfics that need another chapter, as well as two deeply self-indulgent OC/Emergency! crossovers that friends are making me write, and I also have some Dragon Age stuff in the works - though if anyone will ever see that is another question entirely.

Music: Practicing various stuff for LARP; also slowly chipping away at Hozier's Work Song because my partner asked nicely.

With no pressure, I will tag: @geminyde, @caseyscraftycorner, @swords-n-spindles, @alpacazappa, @rosesonneptune, @rose-of-pollux, @zooarchaeologyatdinner, @kalikatze aaaaand I can't decide on a 9th person to tag so whoever wants to do this: You're It!

[helvegen-s]

midnight in paris

a Charles Leclerc one-shot

Summary: A canceled flight, a midnight rain, and two strangers crossing paths in Paris. As they wander beneath the city lights, sharing laughter, stolen glances, and unspoken truths, the night becomes a world of its own. But when morning comes, reality awaits—leaving only the question of whether fate will bring them together again.

Word count: 6.1k

Warnings: alcohol, implied sex (not explicit), abandonment

A/N: Soooo, this would be my first one-shot! I'm really happy with how it turned out—I had never written one before because I feel more comfortable with longer stories. But I absolutely loved it! I hope you enjoy it and give it lots of love! <3

masterlist

The sound of loudspeaker announcements echoed against the high ceiling of Charles de Gaulle Airport, blending with the murmur of hundreds of passengers who, like him, were stranded there without a clear destination.

"All flights have been canceled until further notice. We kindly ask passengers to contact their airlines for more information."

Charles Leclerc let out a heavy sigh, resting his hands on his hips as he stared at the large departure board, where each line turned red one by one. Canceled. Canceled. Canceled.

Fantastic.

He was in Paris for a Ferrari event and was supposed to fly to Monaco that same night. But the storm sweeping across half the continent had brought air traffic to a standstill, leaving him with only two options: remain trapped in a crowded, frustrated airport or venture into the city and find a hotel.

His assistant had already tried to book him a room somewhere, but the nearby hotels were overwhelmed.

"What if I try leaving the airport?" Charles asked, sliding a finger across his phone screen as he scrolled through transportation options. He heard his assistant sigh through his earpiece.

"Traffic is awful," his assistant replied. "There are barely any taxis available, and the trains are experiencing delays too."

Charles sighed. The last thing he wanted was to spend the night in an airport chair, only to wake up with a stiff neck the next day.

"I'll try anyway. I'll let you know if I find something."

With that, he ended the call, grabbed his handbag, and wove his way through the throng of frustrated passengers.

The rain was falling in thick sheets when Charles finally stepped outside. A long line of people was waiting for taxis, but by some stroke of luck, he managed to flag one down before anyone else could.

Just as he was about to get in, the taxi driver rolled down the window.

"Sir, with this weather, there are very few taxis. I have to ask you to share if possible."

Charles frowned, about to refuse. But then he noticed a woman standing nearby, hugging herself to keep warm. Her dark coat was drenched from the rain, and though she wasn’t looking in his direction, it was obvious she was trying—unsuccessfully—to get a taxi.

For some reason, without overthinking it, Charles approached her.

"Excuse me, would you mind sharing a taxi? It’s just me—there’s room for both of us."

"Oh! Thank you, really. I was starting to think I'd shrivel up like a raisin in this rain."

Charles was caught off guard by how casually she spoke to him—the way she smiled at him so effortlessly. When she slid into the car, she gave her head a small shake, sending droplets of rain scattering from her hair.

"Thanks," she said again, not looking directly at him as she shut the door.

Charles gave a small nod, sneaking a glance at her as the taxi pulled away.

Minutes passed, and the taxi crawled through the rain-slicked streets of Paris. Droplets trickled down the windows in twisted streams, distorting the city lights outside. The driver, an older man wrapped in a thick coat, muttered in French about the traffic and the terrible weather, though neither passenger paid much attention. Now and then, the windshield lit up with the glow of a red traffic light or the headlights of another car passing too close. But inside the taxi, the quiet remained.

Charles leaned an elbow against the window, tapping his fingers absently against his knee. He stole another glance at his companion. Her profile was softly illuminated by the streetlights, and there was something about her expression—the way she watched the rain outside with a faint smile—that intrigued him. She didn’t seem annoyed by the delay or the storm, but rather… curious.

The taxi stopped at a red light, and for a moment, everything was still except for the relentless drumming of the rain. Charles took a slow breath and turned his head slightly as if about to say something—but he hesitated. He didn’t want to break the fragile bubble that surrounded them.

Finally, she was the first to speak, her voice soft but tinged with amusement.

"Did you expect your night to end like this?"

Charles let out a short laugh, still watching the fogged-up glass.

"Definitely not. But I should probably be used to last-minute changes by now."

She nodded, crossing her legs with an air of calm, as if the delay and uncertainty didn’t bother her in the slightest.

"Airports have a funny way of reminding us that, in the end, we’re not in control of much at all."

Charles turned to look at her more closely. There was something about her tone, the way she said it, that made him wonder how many canceled flights, how many changes of direction she had experienced in her life.

Another silence stretched between them as the taxi moved slowly down the avenue. Through the rain-streaked window, the Eiffel Tower loomed in the distance—a hazy reminder of the city they were stranded in.

"Where are you headed?" Charles finally asked.

She blinked, as if she had almost forgotten her own destination.

"I don’t know," she admitted with a small shrug. "My flight was canceled too, so I was going to find a hotel, but it looks like I’m out of luck."

"Yeah, same here," Charles replied, letting out another quiet laugh. "I didn’t plan on spending the night in the airport, but right now, I don’t have a better plan."

The taxi turned onto a narrower street, where the lamplights cast long shadows over the wet cobblestones. Outside, the city carried on, indifferent to their uncertainty.

She rested her forehead against the window for a few seconds before speaking again.

"Paris is different when it rains. Less perfect. More real."

Charles raised an eyebrow, intrigued by the comment.

"I never thought of it that way."

She turned her head then, meeting his gaze for the first time, her eyes catching the reflected glow of the streetlights.

"Maybe it’s because we always see it in postcards, with clear skies and golden lights. But like this… with the rain and the cold, it feels more honest."

Charles didn’t respond right away. There was something about her words that resonated with him, though he couldn’t quite pinpoint why. He watched the city through the window, allowing himself to see what she saw.

The taxi slowed again, and after a few moments of silence, she leaned slightly toward him, a thoughtful expression crossing her face.

"What if, instead of looking for a hotel, we take a walk?" she suggested, her tone more contemplative than impulsive.

Charles looked at her in surprise, then glanced at the rain pouring outside.

"Walk?" he repeated, as if needing to process it.

She smiled, a playful glint in her eyes.

"It’s not every day you get to see Paris with empty streets and no rush. Just for a while. No maps, no plans."

Charles exhaled lightly before nodding.

"I suppose there’s nothing better to do."

She chuckled softly, handed the driver a bill, thanking him in carefully practiced French, and without another word, opened the taxi door and stepped out. Charles followed her, letting the door close behind them.

The rain greeted them with a fresh chill, and the city stretched before them, waiting to be explored.

Charles reached into his jacket and pulled out a tiny umbrella, opening it swiftly. It wasn’t big enough to fully cover them both, so they had to huddle closer under the dark fabric. At first, they tried to keep a respectful distance, but the wind and the angle of the rain inevitably made their shoulders brush.

“I didn’t think we’d have to share an umbrella,” she remarked with a playful smile.

“Me neither,” Charles admitted, adjusting the umbrella’s position to shield her better. “But I guess it’s better than nothing.”

She glanced at him from the corner of her eye, amused by his attempt to keep them dry as the rain persisted. With each step, the rain-soaked city felt more intimate, more theirs, as Paris continued revealing its secrets beneath the storm.

After a few minutes of aimless wandering, they stumbled upon a small bar, its warm lights glowing invitingly, the soft sound of a saxophone drifting through the slightly open door. They exchanged a glance before stepping inside, shaking the moisture from their clothes.

The interior was cozy, with wooden tables and a small stage where a jazz band played live. They settled into a quiet corner, ordering two glasses of red wine. The warmth of the place contrasted with the cold outside, and conversation began to flow more easily as the music wrapped around them.

“I definitely didn’t expect my night to end like this,” Charles mused, staring into his glass before looking at her with a faint smile.

She swirled the wine in her hand, thoughtful.

“Sometimes, the best nights are the ones we don’t plan.”

The wine softened the edges of time. The band kept playing, the saxophone weaving notes through the air, slipping between them effortlessly. Their conversation moved with the same natural ease, as if they had forgotten what time it was.

Charles watched her from across the table, his elbow propped up, fingers idly turning his glass. He was completely captivated. There was something about the way she spoke, how she tilted her head when listening, how she filled silences without fearing them.

“So, you don’t like planning too much,” he observed, a half-smile playing on his lips.

She shrugged.

“Let’s just say I make plans, but I don’t mind changing them if something better comes along.”

Charles raised an eyebrow.

“And how do you decide what’s ‘something better’?”

“Sorry.” She smiled, feigning an apology. “That’s a secret.”

Charles chuckled, shaking his head as he brought his glass to his lips.

“You’re hard to read.”

She leaned forward slightly, resting her chin on her hand.

“Does that bother you?”

“It intrigues me,” he admitted, feeling the warmth of the wine mix with something deeper inside him. “I’m used to figuring people out pretty quickly.”

“Why?”

“Because in my world, reactions are everything. If you can predict what someone will do, you have the upper hand.”

She studied him in silence for a moment.

“That must be exhausting.”

Charles tilted his head.

“What?”

“Always analyzing everything.”

He let out a short breath, glancing down at his glass.

“I don’t know if I can turn it off.”

“Maybe tonight, you could try.”

She held his gaze with a subtle challenge, and Charles felt something inside him tighten, like a spring coiling. He let out a low laugh, not looking away.

“And what do you suggest?”

She didn’t answer right away. Instead, she raised her glass and clinked it gently against his.

“To welcomed chaos,” she toasted.

Charles mirrored her, still watching her closely.

“To welcomed chaos.”

They drank together, the warm wine sliding down their throats. The music shifted, deeper, more intimate. Charles set his glass down and leaned back against the seat, studying her in the dim, flickering light.

“If you don’t like planning too much…” he said after a moment, “what’s the most impulsive thing you’ve ever done?”

She narrowed her eyes, thinking.

“Probably this.”

Charles let out a surprised chuckle.

“Going out to explore Paris with me?”

“Mhm.” She held his gaze with a playful glint. “And you?”

Charles tapped his fingers against the table.

“Maybe this too.”

“Wow.” She bit her lip, thoughtful. “I guess that makes us partners in crime.”

Charles rested his elbow on the table, leaning in slightly.

“Partners in crime for what?”

“For the idea that tomorrow, we could go back to our lives as if tonight never happened.”

The words lingered between them. Charles felt the weight of them, and for the first time in a long while, he realized he didn’t want something to simply disappear with the morning.

The alcohol made everything feel more real, more tangible. Or maybe it wasn’t the alcohol. Maybe it was her.

Charles nodded, a vague sense creeping in that whatever was happening between them wasn’t something that could easily be replicated. Paris, the rain, the spontaneity of the night—it all felt like it was stitched together with fragile thread, as if by dawn, the magic would unravel, and the city would return them to their separate realities.

But for now, they still had Paris.

Outside the bar, the rain was still falling, a steady whisper against the rooftops.

Charles opened his small umbrella, instinctively tilting it toward her, making sure she was covered more than him. She hesitated for just a second before stepping closer and, in a subtle motion, hooked her arm through his to stay as close as possible.

Charles felt the warmth of her body against his, the soft brush of her coat against his arm. He didn’t say anything, but he couldn’t stop a small smile from forming.

“Better this way,” she murmured.

“No doubt,” he replied, his voice lower than necessary, as if the rain had wrapped them in their own little world.

They walked without rush, the cobblestones glistening under the streetlights. They had no real destination, but Paris had a way of leading people to unexpected places.

“You never asked my name,” she noted after a while.

Charles glanced at her.

“You didn’t ask mine either.”

“No.”

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward, but rather charged with something else… something Charles chose not to define.

“Do you prefer it this way?” he asked.

“Sometimes it’s nice to talk to someone without knowing who they are.”

He nodded, as if he understood exactly what she meant. And he did. For years, he had been “Charles Leclerc, Formula 1 driver.” Never just “Charles.”

“And what do you do when you’re not walking around Paris with strangers?” he asked, his tone lighter.

She let out a soft laugh.

“I travel a lot. Too much, I’d say.”

“For work?”

“Mhm.”

Charles didn’t press, but he watched her with curiosity.

“Do you like it?”

She hesitated before answering.

“Yes. Sometimes it’s exhausting, but… I don’t know how to do anything else.”

Charles understood that better than he should.

“Then it must be something you love.”

“It is. And you? Do you love what you do?”

Charles let out a quiet chuckle.

“I can’t imagine my life without it.”

She tilted her head, studying him.

“Then you’re one of the lucky ones.”

Charles wanted to ask her more, but before he could, they reached the edge of the Seine.

Before them, the Eiffel Tower loomed through the misty rain, its lights shimmering over the river.

“I guess it was inevitable we’d end up here,” she murmured, a half-smile playing on her lips.

Charles didn’t look at the tower, or the Seine, or the city. He looked at her.

“I guess so.”

She noticed his gaze and held it, unwavering.

The rain kept falling around them, but Charles barely felt it.

He didn’t know how long they stood there before she finally looked away, her eyes drifting to the water.

“You know, I like playing the piano when it rains.”

The confession slipped out, and Charles latched onto it like a puzzle piece.

“You play?”

“Mhm.”

“Professionally?”

“Too many details.”

“Right.”

She shot him a playful smile.

“And you? Do you have something you can’t stop doing?”

Charles smiled, because the answer was obvious.

But he didn’t say it.

Instead, he looked at the Eiffel Tower, the rain sketching shadows over the city lights, and thought that for the first time in a long while, his world didn’t revolve around a racetrack.

Not tonight.

“I suppose that’ll remain another mystery,” he said, still watching her.

She just laughed, letting the silence say the rest.

The air grew cooler as the night went on. The rain had left a damp sheen on the streets, and Charles’ umbrella remained their shared refuge as they wandered aimlessly.

"If you could play anywhere in the world, where would it be?" Charles asked, watching her with genuine curiosity.

She took her time to answer, as if she had never stopped to think about it before.

"At home," she finally said with a slight smile. "Not in a grand theater, not on a stage in front of thousands. Just at home, on a night like this, with the rain in the background."

Charles nodded slowly, as if he understood exactly what she meant.

"And you?" she asked then, turning toward him. "If you could do what you love anywhere, without anyone watching… where would it be?"

The question caught him off guard. He hadn't expected her to turn it back on him, let alone with such precision.

Charles remained silent for a moment, his gaze drifting past her to the city lights reflecting on the water.

"In Monaco," he said at last, his voice softer now. "In an old car, just for fun. No timers, no pressure, nothing at stake."

A quiet chuckle left her lips, the sound warm against the cool air.

"So, you're a driver."

Charles grinned, turning back to her with a glint of mischief in his eyes.

"I never said that."

She tilted her head slightly, studying him, amused.

"You didn’t have to."

For a moment, neither of them spoke. The rain had softened to a mist, the city humming around them. Charles wondered if she had pieced together who he was, or if she was simply playing along. Either way, it didn’t matter.

Tonight, he wasn’t Charles Leclerc, the Formula 1 driver.

Tonight, he was just a man walking through Paris in the rain, standing beside someone who made the world feel a little quieter.

They kept walking until they reached a small overlook with a view of the city. The lights shimmered over the water, reflecting in golden and bluish hues.

"This place is beautiful," Charles said quietly.

"Paris always is," she replied.

She leaned against the railing, letting the night breeze tousle her hair. Charles glanced at her from the corner of his eye, noticing how the city suited her, like a stage built just for her. There was something about her that pulled him in, in a way he didn’t quite understand.

"Do you ever get scared?" he asked suddenly.

She turned her head toward him, caught off guard by the question.

"Of course," she said after a moment. "Who doesn’t?"

"You seem like someone who never allows herself to doubt."

She let out a soft laugh.

"Doubt and fear aren’t the same thing."

Charles frowned slightly, intrigued.

"Explain."

She turned, resting her back against the railing, meeting his gaze directly.

"Fear is inevitable. It’s a reflex, something you feel before you even have a choice. Doubt, on the other hand, is a decision."

Charles looked at her in silence, letting her words settle in his mind.

"So, you never doubt?"

"I doubt all the time. But only about things I know I can control."

Charles smiled, finding something unexpectedly familiar in her answer.

"You’re different from what I imagined when I saw you drenched at the airport."

She raised an eyebrow.

"And what did you imagine?"

"Someone more... distant. More unreachable."

She tilted her head, amused.

"Maybe I am."

Charles shook his head, his smile curving with a hint of mischief.

"No, you’re not."

A brief silence settled between them. The kind that wasn’t uncomfortable, but rather left room for something else. Something unspoken lingering in the air between them.

The rain had stopped completely. Charles closed the umbrella and rested it against the railing, but she didn’t step away. She remained close, arms crossed over her chest, her expression caught between caution and the desire to keep exploring this conversation.

"It’s late," she murmured finally.

"It is," Charles agreed, yet neither of them moved.

The reflection of the city lights in her eyes gave them a special glow, and in that moment, Charles knew he wanted to keep listening to her. He wanted to keep deciphering what lay behind her gaze, behind her calculated words, behind the way she observed the world as if she saw stories in every corner.

"Should we head back?" she asked, still not moving.

Charles held her gaze for a long second.

"Or we could keep walking."

She let out a soft laugh but didn’t answer right away.

And Charles waited, unhurried.

For the first time in a long while, he wasn’t in a hurry at all.

She looked at him with a mix of curiosity and something deeper, something Charles couldn’t quite decipher. The night breeze carried the distant echo of a street song, the sound of a guitar and a raspy voice singing in French.

"Let’s keep walking," she said at last.

And Charles smiled.

They walked without a clear destination, simply letting the city guide them. Their conversation slowed, becoming more intimate, as if they no longer felt the need to fill every pause with words. They talked about their travels, about the places they had always wanted to visit. Charles mentioned Monaco and his love for the sea. She spoke of Vienna and the magic of visiting the Musikverein, though she didn’t reveal she had once stood on that stage as a performer.

They passed through cobbled streets, by cafés that were closed for the night, through plazas where lamplights cast long shadows. Eventually, they found themselves by the Seine again. Charles stopped and rested his hands on the railing.

"You know what’s the strangest thing about tonight?" he asked.

She leaned beside him, close enough that their shoulders almost touched.

"Tell me."

"That I know this wouldn’t have happened at any other point in my life."

She turned her head toward him, intrigued.

"Why do you say that?"

Charles looked at the water, considering how to put it into words.

"Because I always have a plan, a schedule, somewhere to be. I don’t miss flights. I don’t allow myself to miss them."

"And yet, here you are."

Charles met her gaze, finding an unspoken challenge in her expression.

"Yeah," he admitted quietly. "Here I am."

The streetlights cast golden reflections in her hair. Charles felt his heart beat a little faster when she held his gaze without looking away, as if measuring the distance between them.

And then, without another word, she stepped closer.

He met her without hesitation.

The kiss was slow at first, almost exploratory, as if neither wanted to break the magic that had led them here. But when their lips parted just slightly, hovering between continuing or stopping, Charles made the decision for both of them and kissed her again.

This time, there was no hesitation.

It felt like the inevitable conclusion to a night that had never been a coincidence. Like a story already written, waiting to be lived.

When they pulled apart, she let out a soft, amused laugh, resting her forehead against his shoulder for a moment.

"You really shouldn’t miss flights," she murmured.

Charles smiled, his fingers intertwining with hers in an almost unconscious gesture.

"Maybe I should miss them more often."

The city kept glowing around them, indifferent to the story that had unfolded between them in a single night. It didn’t matter if, by daylight, they would return to being strangers with separate lives.

Because tonight, Paris belonged to them.

The rain was falling again over Paris when they entered the hotel room. The dim glow of the streetlights filtered through the curtains, painting golden shadows on the walls. They didn’t speak much as they crossed the threshold, but words weren’t necessary. Charles set the umbrella aside, shaking the water from his jacket, while she took a few steps forward, gazing out the window as if trying to etch the image of the rain-soaked city into her memory—still alive in the early morning hours.

The air between them was thick, charged with something that went beyond desire. It wasn’t just the pull of a fleeting night; it was the feeling of having stumbled upon something ephemeral and yet impossible to ignore. Charles approached her slowly, resting a hand on the window frame beside her. He said nothing—just looked at her, as if making sure she was really there, that the rain hadn’t blurred her into a fleeting illusion.

She was the one to close the distance, turning just enough to meet his gaze, lifting a hand to trace the line of his jaw with her fingertips, as if committing him to memory through touch. Charles closed his eyes for a brief moment, leaning into her caress, and then, whatever lingering doubt had remained between them dissolved completely.

The first kiss inside the room was different from the one they had shared under the rain. Slower, more deliberate. As if they both knew they were standing at the edge of something irreversible. Charles held her by the waist, guiding her gently, letting the softness of his lips speak for him. She let herself be drawn in, threading her fingers through his damp hair, feeling the way their bodies recognized each other in the dim light.

Their wet clothes fell away naturally, unhurriedly. Their skin met in the warm darkness of the room, exploring with the reverence of two strangers who, for one night, had decided to forget everything that existed outside those four walls. There were no questions, no promises. Only the silent language of fingers tracing invisible paths over bare skin, of breathless sighs, of heartbeats finding rhythm in the intimacy of a Parisian night.

When dawn began to timidly peek through the windows, Charles felt the weight of exhaustion settle over his body—but there was something else, something light and indescribable, lingering between exhilaration and peace. He drifted off with the certainty that she would still be there when he woke up, that when he opened his eyes, he would find her beside him, her head resting on his pillow, her lips still curled in a sleepy smile.

But when the golden sunlight finally filled the room, Charles woke up alone.

There was no trace of her. The space beside him in bed was empty, the sheets cool to the touch. No note, no lingering perfume to mark her presence. As if she had never been there at all.

For a moment, he lay in silence, staring at the ceiling, trying to make sense of the absence. Then, he exhaled slowly, letting his head sink back into the pillow, closing his eyes.

Paris had been a dream. And she, its most unforgettable mystery.

Life went on.

Charles returned to his routine of constant travel, to circuits repeating in an endless cycle. The adrenaline of Formula 1 filled his days, and on the surface, everything seemed the same.

But when it rained…

When it rained, something in him stopped.

The sound of raindrops against the windows of his hotel in any city in the world immediately transported him back to that night in Paris. To her laughter under the umbrella. To the way her hand had slid into his without thinking too much about it. To the warmth of her lips in the early morning hours.

They didn’t speak. They never exchanged names or numbers.

And yet, she had never stopped being there.

On the other side of Europe, in a different city every week, she lived a similar story. Her days were marked by rehearsals, by packed auditoriums, by the perfection of every note played on her piano. The life of a solo concert pianist allowed no respite.

But when it rained…

When it rained, her hands hovered over the keys a second longer than usual.

Thinking about the only time she had felt that a night needed no music other than the sound of the city and the voice of a stranger.

Zandvoort – Dutch Grand Prix

It was just another night in Zandvoort, after a day of practice sessions. Charles was leaving the paddock, his mind still occupied with strategies and lap times. The hotel wasn’t far, so he decided to walk instead of waiting for the team car.

That’s when he saw her.

Or rather, he saw her image on a poster, in the middle of one of the city’s avenues.

Not her name. Not a grand advertisement.

Just her face, in a black-and-white photograph, with a piano slightly blurred in the background.

The name of the concert hall and the time.

That was all he needed.

By the time Charles arrived at the theater in the center of Amsterdam, the rain had already begun to fall. He shook the water from his hair before entering and bought a ticket at the entrance without even asking how full the venue was. He just needed to see her, to make sure he hadn’t imagined everything.

The concert had already started when he found his seat.

The stage was elegant yet simple. A black grand piano occupied the center, illuminated by a single beam of light. And there she was.

Charles held his breath.

There was no doubt. It was her.

The pianist’s fingers glided over the keys with hypnotic mastery. She played with her eyes closed, completely immersed in the melody, as if the rest of the world didn’t exist.

And yet, when the piece ended, she opened her eyes and looked at the audience.

And she saw him.

There, among hundreds of strangers, was the guy from Paris. Soaked from the rain, his heart pounding in his chest.

The seconds stretched into eternity.

And then, she smiled.

A small smile, almost imperceptible.

But enough.

Charles remained in his seat even as the rest of the audience began to rise and leave the theater. He rubbed his face, trying to gather his thoughts. What was he supposed to do now?

When he finally stood up, he searched for her. She wasn’t on stage. She wasn’t in the hall. He rushed toward the theater exit, weaving through the lobby in the hope of spotting her in the crowd. But there was no trace of her.

He discreetly asked a staff member, but the response was simple and disappointing: She left right away, she had another engagement tonight.

Charles exhaled, frustrated. He hadn’t thought about what would happen next, but part of him had assumed he would see her, that they would talk. But no, the mysterious pianist was already gone.

He stepped out of the theater and into the rain, light but persistent. Pulling up the collar of his jacket, he buried his hands in his pockets and walked back to his hotel in silence. Tomorrow, he had to focus on the race, on the championship.

But for the first time in a long while, Formula 1 wasn’t the only thing on his mind.

She had wanted to go out after the concert, to breathe in the Amsterdam night air and lose herself in the city. But Marie, her assistant, had other plans for her.

"The gala is in twenty minutes. You need to be there, you know that."

"Marie…" she tried to protest.

"No excuses. The sponsors expect to see you. And we can’t afford for you to seem distracted."

She sighed, with no choice but to comply.

An hour later, with a glass of wine in hand and a rehearsed smile on her face, she listened to conversations about contracts, upcoming tours, and collaborations. But her mind was elsewhere. In the concert hall. In the eyes of the stranger who had shared that night in Paris with her.

She hadn’t recognized him at first. But something about him felt familiar.

Now that she had a moment to think, she tried to recall more details—his way of looking at her, the slight tilt of his head as he listened to her play, as if he were deciphering something.

And then, in the middle of a dull conversation about classical music and funding, she heard his name.

"I think I saw Charles Leclerc at the concert tonight."

Her attention sharpened instantly on the two people speaking nearby.

"The driver?" someone else asked.

"Yes, he was in the audience. I saw him when the hall was filling up. Pretty discreet, but it was him."

Her heart skipped a beat, and she felt so dumb. Of course!

Charles Leclerc, the driver.

Now everything made sense.

She felt the sudden urge to leave, to find him. But it was too late.

She forced herself to stay at the gala long enough that no one would notice her impatience, and as soon as she could, she excused herself and returned to her hotel. There, she looked up the Formula 1 calendar and bought a last-minute ticket.

Charles moved almost on autopilot through the paddock, greeting engineers, signing the occasional cap, adjusting his race suit as he walked to his garage. The constant hum of Formula 1 surrounded him—conversations, tools, roaring engines in the distance—but his mind was still trapped in the night before. In the theater. In the music. In the fleeting image of her on stage.

The fine rain had returned, a mere veil of moisture hanging in the air. He ran a hand over his neck, trying to shake off the strange feeling that had lingered since he left the concert hall.

And then he saw her.

At first, it was just a shadow in the crowd. A movement amidst the chaos of the paddock, a silhouette that didn’t quite belong in this world of fireproof suits and sponsor logos.

Then, the details.

Her hair styled elegantly, just like that night in Paris. The sunglasses that hid her expression, but not the faint curve of her lips, barely noticeable.

Time slowed.

Charles stopped in his tracks, his heart pounding. Something warm spread through him, a wave of surprise and recognition that nearly stole his breath.

It was her.

It was really her.

She stopped too.

For a moment, neither of them moved. They didn’t speak. They just looked at each other, caught in that precise moment when coincidence stopped being coincidence.

The air between them crackled with electricity, with all the words left unsaid, with all the unanswered questions.

She lowered her sunglasses slowly, letting her eyes meet his completely.

And Charles felt the ground vanish beneath his feet.

"I couldn’t leave you wondering," she murmured, her voice soft but firm, with that mischievous tone he had heard that night in Paris, under the rain.

Something clicked inside him, like the perfect note at the end of a melody.

He exhaled a quiet, incredulous laugh.

"You came to see the race."

"Or maybe I just wanted to check if you were real."

He tilted his head, studying her.

"And?" he asked, his voice lower, more intimate.

She smiled, her gaze full of secrets he had yet to decipher.

"I’m still not entirely convinced."

Charles laughed—a genuine, liberating sound.

The world around them kept moving—mechanics rushing, engines roaring, teammates watching them with evident curiosity—but for Charles, all of it faded into the background.

Because she was there.

Because against all logic, against all odds, fate had brought them back to the same place once again.

And deep down, he knew it.

Their story wasn’t over yet.

Charles still couldn’t believe she was standing there. A part of him feared she was just an illusion, that at any moment she would disappear into the paddock crowd, just like she had that night in Paris.

Yet, she kept smiling with that enigmatic calm, as if this were nothing more than a coincidence and not some invisible force pulling them back together.

Charles wetted his lips, feeling the urgent need to make sure that this time, she wouldn’t slip away before he could reach her.

"Stay," he said, without thinking too much. His voice was lower, more personal. "After the race. Don’t leave without saying goodbye… like in Paris."

She blinked, surprised by his request. Then, she tilted her head slightly, wearing that same mischievous expression he remembered.

"I don’t usually repeat the same trick twice."

Charles let out a brief, almost relieved laugh.

"I’m glad to hear that."

She turned her head a little, letting the humid breeze ruffle a few loose strands of her hair. Looking up, she watched the cloudy sky and the fine drizzle falling over them.

"It’s raining again," she murmured. "Seems like fate has a peculiar sense of humor."

Charles studied her, his smile softening.

"Or maybe the rain is a sign."

She looked at him then, her eyes meeting his with silent intensity.

The sounds of the paddock still buzzed around them, the race loomed on the horizon, but for a moment, it was just the two of them, standing under the drizzle, in a world where coincidences no longer felt like coincidences.

"Then, I’ll see you after the race, pianist." Charles' voice dropped a note, testing the nickname with satisfaction.

She let out a small laugh, stepping back before turning gracefully.

"See you after the race, driver."

And with that, she disappeared into the crowd.

But this time, Charles knew it wasn’t a goodbye.

[thatbirdrestaurant]

A deeply unnecessary analysis of NaLu and Natsu's feelings

I'm as much of a sucker for insta-love NaLu as the next guy, but I do genuinely believe it took these two a while to fall in love. I can't deny that there was an immediate attraction, especially on Lucy's end, and I do think romantic feelings have been stewing between the two of them since as early as season one, but the realization took a really long time to hit.

We'll start off talking about Lucy, because I have the least to say about her. I've said before that I think Lucy didn't realize she had feelings for Natsu until she realized she was in love with him, which was after the events of the Eclipse Gate. I can pinpoint the exact moment she realized; the moment right after, when her and Natsu are standing in the rubble, and she just starts crying before running to hug him. I think that's the moment she realized that she loves him, and she has for a while.

I believe it took so long for Lucy to realize because she grew up in a very sheltered environment. Her only exposure to typical teenage experiences that didn't involve arranged marriages was teen magazines; she knew what it felt like to be superficially attracted to someone, when someone was objectively attractive, and she's had crushes before, but never really been in love.

We're moving onto Natsu now, because I have the most to say about him by a landslide. For immediate starters, I don't really recognize 100 Year Quest; even though I love all the GruVia development within it, I find it to be a very unnecessary spin-off that doesn't respect its characters, especially Natsu. It's done horrible things for his maturity as a whole, including all the development with Lucy.

Natsu loves Lucy, that's something I've believed for a very long time, and he shows it in his actions more than anything. He's protective of her, he loves spending time with her and he's upset when she isn't around, and he wants to move Heaven and Earth for her. He has since pretty much day one.

But he doesn't realize he has feelings for her until their fight with Kain, and he doesn't even realize he's in love with her until he watches her (future self) die.

That doesn't sound right, though, does it? How can someone watch a scene like Natsu putting the rainbow sakura on a boat, just so Lucy can see it bloom, and think he doesn't realize he likes her until much, much later?

Natsu was raised in an environment where you would cut off both arms and a leg for your friends and family. Fairy Tail is a guild that values familial relationships and friendships more than anything. I truly believe that, to Natsu, most of the things he did for Lucy before the fight with Kain, he did with what he thought were platonic intentions.

On top of that, I do headcanon Natsu to be on the aromantic spectrum. He doesn't feel romantic attraction as "easily" as other people do, and he very seldom actually recognizes it as such. He knows what it is - how could he not, when surrounded by it so often - but he's never really felt it himself. Maybe he had a bit of a childhood crush on Lisanna, but that's stretching it thin. She was his best friend, that's for certain.

Natsu thinks he and Lucy are as normal as friends as anyone else in the guild, until she has the chance to leave him behind for her own safety, and she absolutely refuses. I cannot watch that scene without feeling like I'm watching Natsu fall in love, realize his feelings at the very least.

Another NaLu trope I'm an absolute sucker for is that Natsu thinks, and has thought, him and Lucy have been dating for quite some time. Do I realistically believe so? No, I don't.

I think, to some capacity, Natsu knows that Lucy loves him, too, the same way that he loves her, and I think he believes that's a mutual understanding. To Natsu, they both know how they feel, that they're in love, but they're not in a rush to discuss it, to put a label on it.

He knows they act like a couple, that people who pass them on the street see a boyfriend with his girlfriend, and that's enough for him at the moment.

Natsu and Lucy's final conversation before the end of the series was a confession. Hiro Mashima can pry this belief from my cold dead hands. That was Natsu's way of confessing his love for Lucy, his way of expressing that he wants them to be together forever, but he's still Natsu, and he still thinks Lucy knows he loves her.

Lucy is a very shy person; she gets flustered just from Natsu standing too close, and Natsu is already content with the two of them just existing near one another. Would he like to hug and kiss Lucy? Of course he would, but he doesn't need it.

Where him and Lucy are is already more than enough for him, he just, unfortunately, doesn't realize that Lucy isn't on the same page. She would like to be, though she doesn't even realize it, but she doesn't quite have the courage for it.

While I do think Lucy is pining for Natsu, I don't think she's doing so painfully. She gets flustered when people insinuate her and Natsu are a couple, as anyone would, but she doesn't seem very torn up about correcting people. She loves him, yes, but she's completely fine with just being his friend. She's grateful enough to have him in her life.

They're in this weird limbo of 'not a couple, but not just friends' because while they're not oblivious to their own feelings, they're oblivious to the impression the other has about their relationship. Natsu thinks they're dating, but are taking things slow; Lucy thinks they're just friends, but would love to be more.

[softpascalito]

Vow Renewal I Renaldo x Matt (SNL Sketch)

Summary: Just when things seem to finally be calming down in Matt's marriage, someone from his past shows up at the Vow Renewal. And Renaldo has always been Matt's favorite temptation.

Pairing: Renaldo x Matt (SNL Sketch) Rating: Explicit / MDNI Word count: 2.6k Tags: Explicit, Smut, Semi-Public Sex, Dirty-Talk, An*l Sex, MLM, (Light) Spanking, Cheating (ish), Crackfic, Never thought I'd write smut about an SNL sketch but who is surprised

AO3 LINK // Masterlist

notes: i have no defense, i saw the sketch, i opened my laptop and a wrote this. have fun ♡

Vow Renewal

It’s been a rocky road. But it didn’t start out that way. When Matt met Kelsey in College, their relationship was picture perfect. A few glances and smiles exchanged from their respective seats in the lecture hall, an invitation to grab coffee on a friday. Matt brought flowers and paid for the drinks with a few crumpled up dollar notes and asked questions that he hoped made him sound smart and well educated.

They must have, because three months later, for Christmas, he met Kelsey’s family for the first time, sweating too much at the dinner table as he tried to be on his best behavior. But despite the nerves, all was going well. He popped the question two years later. She said yes.

Then came Domingo. And it all went to shit.

Matt was surprised they had even gone through with the marriage but with Kelsey promising again and again that she was over Domingo and that she only had eyes for Matthew, things settled down. Still, they decided on a vow renewal less than a year later. A sign of good faith. For both of them, though that detail was unknown to Kelsey.

He uses his hand to smooth down his hair, trying not to mess up the product that is already holding it in place. The venue they have booked is small but pretty and even though they are already married, seeing the white and pink decorations is making Matthew feel like his tie is too tight, cutting off his air supply. “I’ll be outside for a moment,” he mutters to one of his groomsmen. They barely take notice of his departure, too busy going over some sheets of paper that are sure to be another embarrassing, self-written song. Like anything good ever comes out of those.

The February air that greets him outside is cold and he shivers in his suit, letting the door fall shut behind him. The balcony stretches along the back of the house, overlooking a forest behind it. It probably makes a nice addition to the venue in the summer, when the weather allows it. But today, it is empty.

He smells him before he sees him. Matt doesn't smoke, unless he counts the two times he tried it in college. He doesn't know shit about cigarettes. But he'd recognize the scent of American Spirits mixed with him anywhere.

The sounds of Renaldo's footsteps echo around the terrasse as he comes closer, like a wolf stalking its prey. “I was waiting for you.”

“Renaldo.” Matt is surprised to hear that his voice comes out shaking. “I didn't know you were here.” He’s not sure why he sounds so hostile. Renaldo hasn't done a thing to him. Except be the very thing he can't have.

“Any yet here I was, still waiting.” He has that fucking smirk on his face.

“How is Santiago?” Matt asks quietly, leaning back against the bannister because he wants to keep as much distance between them as possible and hoping that the topic of Renaldo’s hot brother will provide distraction. But it's like he's back on that golf course where they first met.

“Good. He's good.” Renaldo hums, taking another step towards him. “But that's not the question you really want to ask, is it?” It's like he's challenging him, brown eyes focused on his face, searching for the hint of emotion that will betray his desire and make him an open book. “It's been a very long time, hasn't it? A whole year.”

Matt can feel the man entering his space, his scent even more protruding now. “I told you it wasn't like that, Renaldo. I'm not like that.”

“I don’t remember you complaining,” he muses and fuck, Matt doesnt have it in himself to deny that. “In fact, I think you were doing quite the opposite.” Renaldo’s hand comes to rest on the banister beside his and he towers over him, his voice dropping to a whisper against his ear. “You were begging for it.”

His reaction is immediate. Matt lets out a soft noise that is somewhere between outrage and a moan and he feels his dress pants getting tighter, a shiver running over his body. He takes in Renaldo’s face for a few split seconds, the small goatee, the fine lines that serve as a visual reminder of their age difference and brown eyes filled with lust. Then, Matt pushes himself off the banister and right into Renaldo’s arms, his lips finding those of his illicit lover.

Renaldo’s tongue pushes against his mouth until he gives in and opens for him, their mouths catching his moans when the other man begins to explore his mouth, all restraint forgotten.

Matthew is panting when they break apart. “Not out here. Kelsey's parents are–” He takes a shuddering breath. “Everyone is here. Come on.”

He takes Renaldo’s hand, prompting the other man to follow him without hesitation. They squeeze through the door again, taking a left to get further away from the ceremony hall, when an idea pops into Matthew’s head. The room is small and windowless, almost too full with two chairs, a vanity and clothes rail. It's where he got ready with his best man half an hour earlier. Now, it has turned into the perfect hiding spot.

He doesn't even have a chance to lock the door behind them when Renaldo pushes him further into the room, pinning him against the nearest wall with an audible thud. Matt doesn't know the layout of the house, doesn't know if Kelsey is getting ready behind this very wall. But just the thought of it makes him whimper.

Renaldo’s hands are wandering down his body, his broad form trapping Matt in the most delicious way. He can feel his legs on either side of his right one, already feeling the hard cock pressing into his thigh. By the way his own pants are stretching, he can tell he's not far behind either. One hand finds Matt's back, the other trailing over his neck and somehow Renaldo still knows exactly where to touch him to draw those breathless little moans from his throat.

“You fuck her?” Renaldo grunts and it takes a moment for Matt to remember who he is talking about. His own voice comes out breathless.

“She’s my girlfriend–” He feels Renaldo press into him more at that. “No, she’s your fucking wife,” he growls. “But she was your fiancé last time and you still let me fuck you. So I assume that hasn't changed?”

“I’m not bi,” Matt chokes out, not because he believes it but simply because he's so used to saying it, even when he knows that Renaldo of all people does not give a damn what label he puts on his sex life.

“You want me to stop?” He grunts, searching Matt's eyes for a few seconds. Renaldo can watch as they soften and the younger man shakes his head.

“No,” he whispers and Renaldos smirk returns at that, tugging at the groom's belt.

“Then lose those fucking pants.”

He is eager to obey, fumbling with his belt with shaking hands and then practically ripping his pants down, not even bothering to step out of them properly. Just enough to allow Renaldo access. He hisses as the other man hooks his thumb into his briefs and pulls them down in one quick motion, his cock already hard and leaking. “Should’ve come earlier–” Matthew mutters and the next moment, Renaldo’s hand comes down onto his bare ass, grumbling an empty threat.

His large, callused hand stays there, kneading the flesh and it's like he remembers the exact motions still, both of them no doubt taken back to that night in Scottsdale. Renaldo slips his index finger inside and Matt immediately feels his muscles clench down on him. “Relax.” Renaldos voice is a bit softer now, low against his ear as he begins working his finger further inside, though with a bit of a struggle. The squeezes of his ass turn into soft caresses. “You got any lube on you?”

Matt shakes his head, already trying to mentally prepare himself for a more painful experience than he’d like. But to his surprise, Renaldo just nods and withdraws his finger. “Don't move. I'll be just a second.”

***

His steps through the hallway are hurried, partly because he doesn't want to leave Matt waiting and partly because he doesn't want to be caught sneaking around with a more than obvious boner in his pants. Renaldo nods to himself in relief when he finds the kitchen empty, the staff nowhere to be seen. He eyes the white two-tier cake with a small shake of his head, not paying it too much attention. Instead, he opens one cabinet after another until he finds what he’s looking for. “Bingo.”

He slips back into the dressing room with the bottle of olive oil and laughs as he watches Matt's eyes go wide. “That's the expensive stuff–” He breathes out because of course that's what Matthew would be worried about right now.

“Good,” Renaldo comments dryly. “Then maybe it’ll be nearly as good as real lube.” He carelessly throws the cap into a corner and places the open bottle onto the vanity beside them. As soon as he’s back beside him, Matt's hands reach for him, fingers clawing at the golden chain around his neck, pressing his half naked form against him. It's like now that he has him, he doesn't want to let him go again.

“Do you need to lie down or are you good to stand?” Unless Renaldo is very much mistaken, he doesn't believe that Matt has been with another guy since their fleeting romance and he remembers the whispered confession about being his first.

“I can stand if you can, old man.”

Oh. He knows exactly how to push his fucking buttons. Two can play that game. In one quick motion, Renaldo uses his size to his advantage, turning Matt on the spot and bending him over, the younger man's hands flat against the wall, his ass stuck out and on display. Renaldo brings his palm down on each side, feeling his own desire skyrocket at the sight of his hand imprinted on the cheeks for a few moments.

The soft moans from Matt's mouth mix with the distinct jingle of Renaldo opening his belt, followed by that of a zipper opening. He kicks his pants off and reaches for the bottle, his cock already aching to be touched. The cool sensation of the olive oil sends shivers through his body and Renaldo fists himself a few times, coating his length in the makeshift-lube.

“Who the fuck are you calling an old man, huh?” He grunts as he lines his tip up with Matt's hole and begins to bury himself inside, looking down to watch inch after inch disappear, the younger man's body already so tight around him that he feels like he could shoot his load right away.

“Fuck–” Matt chokes out, curling his fingers as he holds himself up against the wall and Renaldo watches him closely. He knows exactly what he needs. So he leans forward, reaching around to hurriedly undo the buttons of Matt's dress shirt and carelessly sends it to the floor. He runs his tongue over Matt's shoulder as he bottoms out, teeth scraping over his neck. Distracting from the pain that they both know will turn into their favorite pleasure in a few seconds.

“You good?” He hums quietly, giving the other man a moment to check in with him. He watches him nod weakly and Renaldo tuts softly. “Words, baby,” he reminds him.

“Good. It's so good, Jesus–” Matt presses out, rolling his shoulders back slightly. “Please move.”

Renaldo obeys, beginning with shallow thrusts, working his way in and out. His free hand wanders down Matt's chest, fingernails scratching his skin just enough to make him shiver. Then, he finds his lover's middle and wraps his hand around the leaking cock that has been so starved of attention until now. He loves how the other man feels in his hand, heavy and slick with precum.

“You're gonna ruin those pretty dress pants,” Renaldo mutters into his ear, punctuating each of his sentences with a deep thrust. “Did your little wife buy them for you?”

For a split second, he thinks he’s gone too far, feeling Matt tense under him. But then, his dick twitches in his hand, making Renaldo smirk as Matt groans. “I want them ruined.”

He doesn't have to ask twice. Renaldo sets a faster pace, making both of them pant with effort as Matt bounces himself back on his cock. The sound of skin slapping on skin fills the room and judging by its weight, Renaldo is certain that the wooden door of the dressing room is in no way soundproof. Good.

“Renaldo–” Matt doesn't even have to say it. They both know what he’s asking and the older man nods weakly, burying his nose against his neck as a groan leaves him. “Yes.”

He lets his thumb flick over Matthews tip, making him whimper and his body shudder below him. His muscles quiver around his own cock in a way that lets him know he’s close. His grip around Matt's cock tightens and he strokes him right up to that delicious edge. Then, he drops his hand, prompting a weak string of curses from below him.

“I want you to come from just feeling me,” Renaldo rasps and is met with eager nods. “Think you can do that?”

“Yes, fuck–please–” He’s begging the same way he was that night, falling apart below Renaldo’s hands so beautifully. “Renaldo–” He chokes out. “Tell me to leave her.”

He hesitates for a moment, knowing that those words hold more weight than any of their actions tonight. But eventually, he nods, driving himself deep into the man below him. “Leave her.”

Matt moans, his name on his lips and shoots his load without further warning, the sticky fluid ruining his pants the way that Renaldo promised it would. He brings his hand back to stroke his lover through his orgasm, drawing it out and a few moments later, Renaldo follows suit, spilling himself deep inside of Matthew, exactly where he is meant to be, their bodies melting together and he finally, finally marks what is his.

He pulls out with a grunt eventually, watching his cum drip from Matt's hole for a moment, ruining any slight chance of salvaging those black pants, now stained with white. Renaldo lets himself fall onto one of the chairs at the back of the room, beckoning Matt to follow him and pulling him onto his lap, one strong thigh serving as his seat. He closes his eyes for a moment as he feels Matt tracing his gold chain again, his touch now so delicate.

“I'm gonna have to see her at the family functions, won't I? If she gets with Domingo.” Renaldo can tell that he's trying to hide the anxiety in his voice but he's not doing a very good job of it. He sighs, opening his eyes again and nods.

A smirk spreads over Renaldo’s face as he nudges Matt's chin, prompting them to lock eyes. Then, without blinking, he brings his right hand up to his own mouth and licks a stripe along its side, catching a few drops of Matt’s cum on his lips.

“You’ll have to. But I promise there’ll always be a dressing room to fuck in.”

notes: thanks for reading! if you enjoyed, feel free to reblog or follow me for more ♡

[hrizantemy]

Nesta,

I know this letter may be the last thing you want from me. I know that, after everything, you have every reason to throw it into the fire without reading a single word. And if you choose to do that, I won’t blame you. I won’t send another.

But I am asking you to read this. Just this once.

There is something happening—something serious, something that could lead to war if we don’t stop it. Briallyn, one of the human queens, is searching for the Dread Trove. She wants power, Nesta. Power she should never have, power that, if she finds it first, will cost countless lives. We need to get to it before she does.

And we need your help.

The Trove was made by the Cauldron. It is tied to it, and you… you are one of the only two people in this world tied to it as well. You and Elain are the only ones who can find it. We need one of you to scry for it.

I won’t demand that you do this. I won’t force you. I won’t beg, either. But I am asking.

I know that I have failed you in many ways. I know that when you needed a sister, I let others turn you into an obligation. I know that when you fought, when you bled, when you suffered—I didn’t defend you the way I should have. I let them call you cruel. I let them talk about you like you were nothing more than your worst moments. And I am sorry.

I don’t expect my apology to mean anything to you. Not after everything.

But Nesta, please—please understand that I am trying.

If you do not wish to do this, that is your choice. And I will honor it. But if you do, if you want to help, if you believe this is a fight worth standing for, we will accept whatever decision you make.

I won’t ask you to come here. I won’t ask you to face any of us if you don’t want to. If you choose to do this, we will come to you. You can set the terms. You can decide how this happens.

Whatever you choose, it will be your decision. And no one—not me, not Rhys, not anyone—will take that from you.

—Feyre

Taryn scoffed the moment the last word left Nesta’s lips, the sound sharp and unimpressed, cutting through the heavy silence that had settled between them. She leaned back against the worn wooden chair, arms crossed, her expression somewhere between disbelief and amusement.

“That’s rich,” she muttered, shaking her head. “Now she wants to talk about choices. Now she suddenly cares about whether or not you want to do something? Where was all this when they were going locking you in a tower and telling you to fix yourself or else?”

Nesta set the letter down on the table, her fingers gripping the parchment just a little too tightly, as if she could squeeze the unease out of her body and into the ink-stained words before her. She had heard the desperation in Feyre’s letter. The careful wording, the subtle pleading, the way she tried to make it seem like she wasn’t begging, but it was there. Beneath the forced steadiness, beneath the formal declarations of I won’t force you, Nesta could feel the weight of what wasn’t being said.

Feyre was afraid.

Not just of Briallyn, not just of what this could mean for Prythian, but of Nesta herself. Of what she had done to her. Of the realization that maybe, just maybe, she had taken too much, had let them push too far, had let them reduce Nesta to something she was never meant to be. Feyre knew she had failed her, and now, at the worst possible time, she was trying to fix it.

The thought of scrying made Nesta’s stomach twist, a deep, sinking feeling clawing at her chest. She stared at the letter, but she wasn’t reading it anymore. The words blurred, faded, became nothing more than ink on a page as memories she had buried clawed their way back up.

The last time she had scryed, the last time she had dared to reach out to the dark, ancient power that still coiled inside of her, it had looked at her. Seen her. The Cauldron had turned its attention upon her, vast and unfathomable, like something that had existed before the stars were even born, before time had meaning. It had seen everything. Every wound, every weakness, every crack inside her—and then, just as quickly as it had found her, it had moved.

To Elain.

It had taken her.

One moment, Elain had been there, her soft, lovely face filled with confusion, with fear—then the next, she had vanished. The air had shifted, a deep, terrible silence swallowing the space where she had stood. Nesta had felt the pull, had felt the power lurching, shifting, reaching—and she had done nothing.

She hadn’t stopped it. She hadn’t been able to stop it.

She had just stood there, frozen, useless, as the Cauldron had ripped her sister away.

And now Feyre wanted her to do it again?

Nesta’s throat felt tight, her breath uneven as she clenched her hands into fists, forcing herself to steady her shaking fingers. She couldn’t—she wouldn’t. The last time, it had ended with Elain screaming, drowning, being forced into something against her will. The last time, it had left them all changed, left them all marked. And Nesta knew, deep in her bones, that she had never truly escaped the Cauldron’s grasp.

Even now, all these years later, she could still feel it inside of her. That slumbering, endless thing buried beneath her skin, waiting. Watching.

If she scryed, it would look at her again.

And this time, Nesta wasn’t sure if it would stop at just looking.

And yet, Nesta knew.

If it wasn’t her, it would be Elain.

That was the trap Feyre had set, whether she realized it or not. That was the invisible hand pushing Nesta toward the answer they wanted, the unspoken truth wrapped beneath all those careful words of choice.

Because if Nesta said no, if she refused, they would go to Elain next. And Elain—who had spent her whole life avoiding conflict, avoiding discomfort, avoiding responsibility—wouldn’t fight it. Wouldn’t push back. Wouldn’t say no the way Nesta could.

Nesta knew Elain.

Elain would hesitate, would shrink back at first, but when Rhysand turned his violet eyes upon her, when Amren scoffed and called her useless, when Morrigan gently placed a hand on her arm and told her that this was for the good of the realm, that this was what she was meant to do—

She would fold.

Elain would let them use her. She would let them put the stones in her hands, let them whisper their assurances in her ears, let them lead her to the fire and tell her that it would not burn. And when it did, when the Cauldron looked at her, when it reached its long, clawed fingers toward her soul—who would stop it?

Would Feyre?

Would Rhysand?

Would Cassian, who had already stood by once before as they threw Nesta into the flames?

No.

No one would stop it. No one would protect Elain, because they would all convince themselves that this was necessary, that this was the only way. Just like they had done with Nesta.

And when it was over, when Elain gasped and wept and clawed at her own skin, when she whispered that she had seen something, heard something, felt something, would any of them care? Or would they only care about the results, about whether or not they had gotten what they wanted? Would they pat her on the head and say thank you before pushing her back into the lovely, quiet role they had carved out for her?

Nesta felt sick.

Because the answer was so clear, because she knew what would happen if she let them take Elain instead.

And the worst part?

Elain would let them do it.

Nesta couldn’t.

She had spent her whole life shielding Elain, protecting her, making sure the world never so much as brushed against her soft skin. She had fought wars for Elain, had burned herself to the bone to make sure Elain never had to fight at all. And now, when the time had come, when Elain should have been the one standing beside her—

She had stepped back.

And yet, despite that, Nesta still knew.

She would step forward.

Because if it wasn’t her, it would be Elain.

And Nesta would never let that happen.

Nesta exhaled slowly, the weight of the decision pressing down on her like a mountain, crushing her, sinking her deeper into something she knew she wouldn’t escape from. The moment the thought solidified, the moment she knew there was no other choice, something inside her fractured.

“I’ll do it,” she said, her voice steady, though it didn’t feel like it belonged to her. It felt like someone else was speaking, like the words had been ripped out of her throat before she could swallow them back down.

Taryn’s head snapped toward her so fast that the movement was almost inhuman.

“What?” she demanded, her voice sharp, cutting, like she had misheard, like she refused to believe Nesta had just spoken those words aloud.

Nesta didn’t look at her. She kept her gaze locked on the letter, on the words Feyre had carefully written, on the choices she had never truly been given. She had known—from the moment she opened the letter, from the moment her eyes had scanned over the carefully placed words—that she was going to say yes. That she had to say yes. That she had never really had an option at all.

Because if it wasn’t her, it would be Elain.

And Nesta would not—could not—allow that to happen.

She knew what the Inner Circle thought of her. That she was a failure, a disgrace, a burden. That she had been an obligation Feyre had carried on her back for years, an inconvenience to Rhysand, an embarrassment to Cassian, someone who hadn’t earned her place in this court, in this world. They had already cast her out once. They had broken her, reshaped her, forced her to become something they could tolerate.

So if she was already nothing to them—what did it matter if she shattered herself further?

“Nesta,” Taryn said, her voice lower now, dangerous, and when Nesta finally turned to look at her, she saw it—fury. A different kind of anger than what the Inner Circle wielded, something deeper, sharper, something that wasn’t born from judgment but from something far worse—betrayal.

“You know what this means,” Taryn hissed, her body stiff, tense, like she was restraining herself from reaching across the table and shaking her. “You know what happens when you scry. You know what happened last time. And you’re still—”

She cut herself off, inhaling sharply, like the words had burned her tongue.

Nesta knew what she was going to say.

You’re still choosing them.

You’re still choosing to burn for people who would not do the same for you.

And Nesta hated that Taryn was right.

But it wasn’t about them.

“I know,” Nesta said quietly, and it was all she could offer.

Because this wasn’t about Rhysand, or Amren, or Morrigan, or Cassian. This wasn’t even about Feyre.

This was about Elain.

And Nesta had spent her entire life making sure that her sister never had to suffer. She wasn’t going to stop now.

Even if it destroyed her.

Taryn was silent. Silent in a way that was almost dangerous, in a way that sent something uneasy curling in Nesta’s stomach, something that told her she had just made a decision that could never be undone.

But when she finally looked up, when her sharp, assessing gaze locked onto Nesta’s, there was no rage. No fury. No explosion of anger that Nesta had been bracing for.

Instead, there was understanding.

And that—that was somehow worse.

Because despite the hard line of her mouth, despite the stiff way she crossed her arms over her chest, despite the way her fingers dug into her own arms as if she were holding herself back from grabbing Nesta and shaking her—there was pain.

Taryn understood why Nesta was doing this. And that knowledge—knowing that Taryn saw her, knew her, understood the way she operated—made something inside Nesta twist.

Because that meant Taryn knew Nesta was walking into something she might not come back from.

She wanted to argue. Nesta could see it in the way her lips parted and closed, in the way she took a breath like she was about to start a fight, like she was about to make Nesta fight for herself. But she didn’t.

Instead, she did something worse.

She straightened, squared her shoulders, and when she spoke, her voice was cold, steady, commanding.

“You’re researching first, then.”

It wasn’t a suggestion. It wasn’t a plea.

It was a demand.

Taryn wasn’t asking.

“Anything and everything on the Dread Trove. How they were made, who used them, every legend, every myth, every curse attached to them—I don’t care how obscure, how buried, how forgotten it is, you’re learning about it first. You will not go into this blind, Nesta. You won’t give them what they want without knowing exactly what you’re getting yourself into.”

Nesta exhaled slowly, her fingers tightening around the edge of the table.

“Fine,” she said quietly.

But Taryn wasn’t done.

“And I’m going to be there beside you the whole time,” she added, voice hard as steel. “Every step of the way. You are not doing this alone.”

Nesta blinked.

Of all the things she had expected Taryn to say—that was not one of them.

But when she looked at Taryn now, really looked at her, she saw it. The resolve. The determination. The way she had already made up her mind, already decided that if Nesta was going to be reckless, she would not be reckless alone.

And Nesta—Nesta didn’t know what to say to that.

So she just nodded.

And for the first time in a long, long time, she didn’t feel like she was standing on the edge of a battlefield alone.

Feyre,

I received your letter. I read every word.

You say this is my choice, that no one will force me, that I set the terms. I wonder if you actually believe that, or if you are only saying what you think will make it easier for me to say yes. Because we both know the truth, don’t we? If I refuse, they will turn to Elain. They will not ask her. They will expect her. And she, like you, will not fight them.

So I will do it.

Not for you. Not for Rhysand, or for your court, or for Cassian, who I am sure sat in that room and said nothing while they spoke of me like I was an object to be used. I will do it so that Elain is never placed in that position. Because I know she will not save herself, so once again, I will do it for her.

But if you truly meant what you said—if this is my choice—then here are my terms:

1. I will research the Dread Trove before I begin. You will send every book, every document, every fragment of knowledge you have on them to me. I will not touch this magic blind. I will know what I am dealing with before I risk waking whatever it is that has been dormant inside me since I was forced into this body.

2. No one will come to me. If I decide to proceed, I will tell you when and where, and I will come on my own terms. If I hear so much as a whisper that Rhysand or any of his Inner Circle plan to drag me into this court like they did before, the deal is off.

3. Taryn is to remain with me at all times. Whatever I do, wherever I go, she will be there. You will not interfere with that. You will not demand that I come alone. You will not dictate who I bring into something you asked me to do.

4. This is the last thing you will ever ask of me. I will give you this. But after this, I owe you nothing. You and your Inner Circle have made it clear that I am tolerated at best, discarded at worst. You do not get to pull me back in only when I am useful to you. When this is done, I walk away, and you let me.

If these terms are met, I will do what you ask. If not, then let Rhysand and his court see how long Elain’s spine holds before she breaks.

I await your response.

—Nesta

Feyre sat in the townhouse, the letter lying before her on the polished wood of the dining table, the parchment creased from where she had folded and unfolded it too many times. It had been two days since she received Nesta’s response, two days of silence, of reading and rereading the words Nesta had sent as if they might change the longer she stared at them. As if they might soften, might make it sound less like a warning, less like a challenge, less like a reminder of how deep the wound between them truly was.

But the words remained the same.

And now, as she looked around at the people gathered before her—the people she had once thought of as her family, the people she had always assumed she could trust—she realized that she hated this moment. Hated what it had come to, what Nesta had been forced into, what she had been forced into. Hated that she had to sit here and speak this into reality.

Feyre inhaled sharply, her fingers tightening in her lap before she lifted her gaze and met Rhysand’s eyes across the room. His expression was unreadable, his power curling around him like a waiting storm, but she didn’t care. She didn’t wait for him to speak first, didn’t wait for anyone to ask what Nesta had said.

“Nesta agreed,” she said, her voice steady, though it didn’t feel like it belonged to her.

The silence that followed was suffocating.

Cassian stiffened from where he stood near the hearth, his hazel eyes flickering with something Feyre couldn’t quite place—relief, maybe, but something else too, something worse. Amren only hummed, tapping a single, clawed finger against the rim of her wine glass, as if she had expected nothing less. Morrigan exhaled through her nose, shaking her head slightly, though whether it was in exasperation or something else, Feyre couldn’t tell.

And Rhysand—Rhysand—just inclined his head slightly, slow and deliberate, as if this were nothing more than a calculated victory.

“Good,” he murmured, his voice smooth, unreadable.

Feyre’s stomach curled.

“Good?” she repeated, her fingers curling into fists in her lap, her breath quickening. “That’s all you have to say?”

Rhysand arched a dark brow, tilting his head slightly. “What else is there to say, Feyre darling? This is what we needed.”

Feyre’s lips parted, a protest forming on her tongue, but she bit it back. Because no, it wasn’t what they needed—it was what he needed, what his court needed. It was what Nesta had been backed into. Because there had been no true choice. There had never been a choice, not when the alternative was letting Elain step into that same darkness, not when they all knew Nesta would never allow it.

“There are terms,” Feyre said instead, her voice sharper now, and she felt the room tense at her words, saw Rhysand’s brows draw together slightly in the first flicker of actual surprise she had seen from him since she had spoken.

“Terms?” Amren mused, taking a slow sip from her glass.

“Nesta agreed on her conditions,” Feyre clarified, tapping a finger against the letter still lying on the table. “If we don’t meet them, she walks away. And I—” She swallowed, her throat tight, her next words weighted. “And I will not stop her.”

The air in the room shifted, darkened, something unspoken crackling beneath it.

Rhysand’s fingers curled slightly where they rested against the arm of his chair.

“Let’s hear them, then,” he said, voice carefully neutral, but Feyre knew him, knew the subtle control in his tone, knew the calculation behind it.

She had no doubt he had already considered what demands Nesta might make.

And she had no doubt that, if he didn’t like them, he was already thinking of ways to bend the situation back into his favor.

Feyre inhaled slowly, pressing her hands flat against the table as she looked around at the people she had once considered her family. They were waiting—some with curiosity, others with barely concealed impatience—but none of them seemed surprised that Nesta had not simply agreed. No, they had expected her to resist, expected her to demand something in return, because to them, Nesta was difficult. Nesta was unyielding. Nesta was someone who always had to make things harder than they needed to be.

But Feyre knew the truth.

Nesta’s demands were not about making things harder.

They were about making sure she survived.

She reached for the letter, smoothing the parchment between her fingers before she spoke. “First,” she began, her voice clear, firm, letting the words settle heavily in the tense silence, “Nesta refuses to scry until she has done her own research on the Dread Trove. She wants every book, every document, every bit of information we have, and she will not proceed until she feels she understands exactly what she is dealing with.”

Amren let out a small, amused hum, but Rhysand remained impassive, his violet gaze unreadable.

“She’s being smart,” Cassian said, his arms crossed over his broad chest. “It’s not unreasonable.”

“No,” Amren agreed, swirling the wine in her glass. “But it will slow things down.”

Feyre didn’t care about that.

“Second,” she continued, ignoring Amren’s comment, “No one is to go to her. She will decide when and where this happens, and she will come on her own terms.”

Rhysand exhaled sharply through his nose, his lips pressing into a thin line. “She wants to control the meeting.”

“She deserves to control the meeting,” Feyre corrected, her gaze steady, “after what we did to her last time.”

Rhysand said nothing, but his jaw ticked.

“Third,” Feyre went on, “Taryn will remain with her at all times. She will not do this alone, and we are not to interfere with that.”

That was when Morrigan scoffed.

“She needs a babysitter now?” she muttered, shaking her head.

“She needs someone she trusts,” Feyre snapped, glaring at her. “And given everything that’s happened, that person is not any of us.”

Morrigan pursed her lips, but said nothing more.

Feyre took another breath, bracing herself for the last demand, the one she knew would stir something far more dangerous in the room.

“And finally,” she said, looking directly at Rhysand now, “Nesta has made it clear that after this, she is done. She will not owe us anything, she will not be called upon again, and we will let her go.”

The silence that followed was heavy.

Rhysand’s gaze darkened, his fingers flexing slightly on the arm of his chair.

“She means to walk away,” he murmured, his voice quieter now, but filled with something dangerous.

“Yes,” Feyre confirmed. “And we will let her.”

Rhysand didn’t answer immediately. He only leaned back slightly, his expression calm—too calm.

“And if she doesn’t find the Trove?” he asked, his voice smooth, unbothered. “If she fails?”

Feyre clenched her jaw. “Then that’s it. She still walks away.”

Rhysand’s eyes flickered with something she couldn’t name, and she hated that she had to spell it out for him, hated that she had to make it clear that failure would not mean owing them something more.

“These are her terms,” Feyre finished. “If we do not accept them, then she will refuse. And I won’t force her.”

Another stretch of silence.

Then, finally, Rhysand exhaled slowly.

“We accept.”

But Feyre knew—she knew—that this was not the end of it.

Feyre nodded, the tension in her shoulders not easing, not even slightly. Even though Rhysand had said we accept, she knew it wasn’t that simple. She could feel it in the way his gaze lingered on her, in the way his power curled subtly around the room—not threatening, not yet, but there. Always there.

And then, as expected, he spoke again.

“We have some demands as well,” Rhysand said smoothly, his voice calm, but Feyre wasn’t fooled.

Of course, he did. Of course, this wasn’t enough for him.

“First,” he began, tapping a single finger against the armrest of his chair, “Nesta will be given everything we have on the Dread Trove, but she will not delay indefinitely. Research is fine. Stalling is not. We need results, and we need them quickly.”

Feyre’s stomach twisted.

“You said this was her choice,” she said carefully, already sensing the trap.

“It is,” Rhysand said, tilting his head slightly, “but this is war, Feyre. If she needs time, she will get it. But if weeks pass and she has found nothing, we will need to reconsider our options.”

Feyre swallowed the sharp retort threatening to rise.

“Second,” Rhysand continued, “if she finds the Trove, she will not take possession of any of the objects. She will not attempt to use them, nor will she keep anything from us. The moment we locate them, they belong to this court and will be handled as we see fit.”

“She never wanted them,” Feyre snapped.

Rhysand’s gaze flicked toward her, unreadable. “Then it shouldn’t be a problem, should it?”

Feyre’s nails dug into her palms.

“Third,” he went on, “we accept that she will not come to us, that she will dictate the terms of where and when she will scry—but the moment she agrees to do it, she will be accompanied by one of our own. Cassian, preferably.”

Cassian tensed beside the hearth, but Rhysand didn’t look at him.

“Taryn will be there,” Feyre countered.

“Taryn is not of this court,” Rhysand said flatly. “Nesta may trust her, but we do not. This is dangerous magic, and I will not risk someone outside of this court interfering.”

Feyre knew it wasn’t just about safety. It was about control. About ensuring that when Nesta did this, there would be someone loyal to him present.

“And lastly,” Rhysand said, his voice quieting just slightly, “if she refuses, if she abandons this effort after agreeing to it, if she walks away before the job is done—then we will ask Elain.”

Feyre’s blood chilled.

“You promised—” she started, voice sharp, but Rhysand held up a hand.

“Nesta walks away when this is done,” he said, “but if she chooses to leave before that, if she refuses after leading us halfway—then we have no choice, Feyre. You know that as well as I do.”

Feyre could barely breathe.

“These are our terms,” Rhysand finished, his voice like silk-wrapped steel. “Now, do we have an agreement?”

Feyre knew.

She knew this wasn’t a negotiation.

It was a leash. A pretty, delicate leash, tied around Nesta’s throat, giving her just enough room to believe she was free—until they pulled.

The silence stretched, thick and unbearable, suffocating the room like a heavy shroud. Feyre was still reeling, still trying to form the words to push back against what Rhysand had just laid out, to argue, to fight—but before she could, another voice spoke up.

“I’ll do it.”

Elain’s voice was soft, deceptively gentle, but the words landed like a blow, ringing through the room with quiet finality.

Feyre turned toward her so fast her vision blurred, her breath catching in her throat.

Elain sat with her hands folded delicately in her lap, her posture as perfect as ever, her expression unreadable save for the slight furrow between her brows, as if she were considering something entirely logical, something practical. But Feyre knew her sister, knew her well enough to hear the slight tremor beneath her words, the way her fingers twitched ever so slightly, how she wasn’t looking at anyone directly.

“If Nesta can’t do it,” Elain continued, her voice still soft, still calm, “then I will.”

No hesitation. No uncertainty. As if it were simple. As if this were just a natural conclusion. As if the idea of scrying again, of reaching into the unknown, of inviting the Cauldron back into her mind—back into her body—was just something that could be decided with the same weight as choosing tea or coffee.

“It wouldn’t be fair,” Elain added, her fingers curling slightly in her lap now. “To let Nesta do all the work.”

Feyre froze.

And from across the room, she felt the shift in Azriel before she saw it.

A stiffening of his shoulders, the faintest flicker of movement, the slight parting of his lips like he might—might—step in. But he didn’t.

He didn’t say a single word.

But his shadows coiled tighter around him, moving more restlessly than before.

Feyre looked back at Elain, at the way she held herself with that perfect, poised grace. And it hit her, really hit her—Elain wasn’t volunteering because she wanted to help. She was doing it because she knew.

She knew what would happen if she didn’t.

She knew that if Nesta refused outright, they would come for her. That the Inner Circle, for all their assurances, for all their quiet murmurs of choice and autonomy, would turn to her next. And rather than let it happen to her, rather than let them decide for her—

Elain was offering herself up.

Like a lamb at the altar.

Like a girl who had spent her whole life watching and learning how to survive in a world where power decided everything.

“Elain,” Feyre whispered, a lump forming in her throat, but Elain only looked at her, her brown eyes steady, empty.

And for the first time in a long, long time, Feyre wondered—

Had she ever really known her sisters at all?

Amren let out a low hum, tapping her clawed fingers against the rim of her glass before exhaling sharply. She barely spared a glance at Feyre as she said, “I’ll have everything sent to Nesta.”

It was said so simply, so easily, as if it were just another matter of business. As if they hadn’t spent the last half hour debating, maneuvering, twisting this situation into something palatable for them all. As if this wasn’t the beginning of something that could not be undone.

Feyre sighed, her shoulders sinking slightly, the tension creeping in like ice beneath her skin.

This was happening.

It didn’t matter that Nesta had her terms, that Feyre had tried to put up a fight, that she had stood her ground in a way she never truly had before. It didn’t matter that she had felt, for just a fleeting moment, like maybe—maybe—she had won something.

Because Rhysand had made his own terms, had laid his own trap, and now Elain was stepping in before the fight had even truly begun.

It didn’t matter.

Because now the game had started.

Nesta was in. The pieces were moving. The Dread Trove, Briallyn, the war looming in the distance—it was all real now.

And Feyre—Feyre hated it.

She hated that she had no way to stop it now, that she had no way to tell Nesta to run, no way to undo what had already been done.

She hated that when Rhysand nodded once, satisfied, she knew—she knew—that this had gone exactly as he had expected it to.

Nesta,

You said you would do this on your terms. We have ours.

I will send everything we have on the Dread Trove to you as soon as possible. You will have access to every record, every document, every shred of knowledge we have collected. But you will not delay indefinitely. We are running out of time. Take the days, the weeks you need—but know that the longer you wait, the more risk we all face.

We will not come to you, as you requested. You will choose when and where this happens. But when you do, one of our own will be present. You may bring Taryn. We will not interfere with that. But Cassian—or another member of this court—will also be there. That is not up for debate.

You will not touch the Dread Trove once it is found. You will not attempt to wield them, claim them, or hide them from us. They belong to this court, and they will be dealt with accordingly. I trust you never wanted them to begin with, so this should not be a problem.

And finally—if you agree to this, if you begin this task, then you will see it through. If you abandon this effort, if you walk away before we have what we need, then we will ask Elain.

She has already agreed.

You asked for your freedom after this. If you complete the task, you will have it. You will not be called upon again. You will owe us nothing. But I will not lie to you, Nesta—if you refuse partway through, if you leave us with nothing, then we have no choice but to turn to her.

These are our terms. Accept them, and this arrangement stands. Refuse them, and we will move forward without you.

You decide.

—Feyre

Rhysand,

I accept.

The books, the records, the knowledge I requested—I expect them to be sent immediately. I will not be rushed. I will determine when I have enough information to proceed, and I will not tolerate pressure from you or anyone else in your court. I will not stall, but I will not be pushed.

I will choose the location and the time, and I will come as agreed. Cassian may be present. No one else. If I find that you or anyone else has interfered, if you send your spies, if I so much as sense that you are attempting to manipulate this process, the deal is off.

You say the Trove belongs to this court. I say the Trove belongs to no one. You are right—I do not want them. But you will not use me to retrieve them just to turn them into another weapon at your disposal. If I so much as suspect that is your intention, I will make sure they are lost forever.

And as for your final condition—the threat you so carefully wrapped in diplomatic phrasing—Elain will not scry. You can repeat the words all you like, can tell yourselves that she agreed, but we both know the truth. You will not need to ask her, because I will finish what I start. But let me be very, very clear: If you ever turn that power on her, if you ever try to use her as leverage again, you will regret it.

I do this, and then I am free.

I do not want your court, your approval, or your interference in my life. This is the last thing you will ever ask of me. After this, you will leave me alone.

If you do not abide by these terms, if you try to twist them to suit yourself, then you had best hope you never need my help again.

—Nesta

Tag list: @litnerdwrites @viajandopelomar @wolfinsocks

[maddie0101]

𐚁 chapter two: lines we don’t cross

𐚁 summary: reader is still fighting the overwhelming feelings for Dean but things take a turn for the worse when you go over to the Winchester’s ranch for dinner.

𐚁 warnings: worried!reader, jealous dean, idiots in love, underlying sexual tension if you squint, angry dean? half of these aren’t even warnings, lmfao

𐚁 word count: 5.4k

series masterlist previous chapter next chapter

The sun hung low in the sky, its golden light stretching across the open fields of the ranch. The crisp morning air still held the last traces of dawn’s chill, but the heat of the day was already making its slow climb. You wiped the sweat from your brow with the sleeve of your flannel and adjusted your gloves before reaching for another bale of hay.

Whiskey stood nearby, lazily flicking his tail at flies, his ears twitching as he watched you work. You patted his neck, your mind only half-present as you settled into your routine.

The ranch had always been a place of solace. The rhythm of the work, the smell of fresh-cut hay, the distant sounds of cattle lowing in the pasture—it was all second nature. You’d been raised in it, molded by it. There was something deeply grounding about tending to the land your family had worked for generations.

But today, no matter how much you tried to focus on the tasks in front of you, your mind kept wandering. Kept drifting back to him.

You sighed, tightening the straps on a saddle before hoisting it onto the fence. You had tried not to think about last night too much, but it was impossible. The way he had looked at you, the hesitation in his voice when he told you about his tattoo. The way he hadn’t shown you.

Why?

It didn’t make sense. Dean wasn’t the type to hold back from you—not about something this important. If anything, you’d expected him to shove his wrist in your face, teasing you about finally being on the road to finding his soulmate.

Instead, he’d been quiet, hesitant.

You kicked at a loose piece of dirt, irritation bubbling beneath the surface. You hated this feeling, this nagging feeling that had settled in your chest ever since he told you.

You wanted to ask him, demand to know why he hadn’t shown it to you. But you were scared. Scared of the answer. Scared that maybe, deep down, you already knew.

“Hey, darlin.”

Your dad’s voice pulled you from your thoughts. You turned to see Bobby approaching from the barn, his cowboy hat shading his weathered face. His usual sharp gaze softened as he looked at you, hands tucked into the pockets of his jeans.

“Hey, Dad,” you greeted, forcing a small smile as you grabbed another bale of hay and tossed it into the back of the truck.

He watched you work for a moment, his brows furrowing slightly. “You alright?”

You hesitated for a beat, then nodded. “Yeah. Just got a lot on my mind, I guess.”

Bobby didn’t push, but you could tell he wasn’t entirely convinced. He leaned against the truck, arms crossed, as he let out a low hum. “Saw Dean’s ride last night,” he said casually. “Took a nasty fall, but I guess he’s fine. Kid’s too damn stubborn to be anything else.”

You huffed a small laugh. “Yeah. He’s alright. Stupid, but alright.”

Bobby chuckled, shaking his head. “Ain’t that the truth.” He was quiet for a moment, then added, “Seems like he’s got his sights set on someone.”

The words hit like a punch to the gut. Your hands stilled on the hay bale, your breath catching for just a second before you forced yourself to move again. You willed your face to stay neutral as you pulled the gloves from your hands, shaking out the hay dust. “Oh?” you said, feigning indifference. “Anyone I know?”

Your dad shrugged. “Didn’t say exactly, but I saw them talking the other day."

The air suddenly felt heavier, the sun hotter against your skin. Dean was always flirting with other women everywhere he went, it was just something he'd always done. Sure you didn't like it but you weren't going to stop him. He wasn't yours.

You swallowed the lump in your throat, nodding as if the words didn’t send a sharp pang through your chest. “That’s… good for him.”

Bobby gave you a sideways glance, his expression unreadable. “You sure you’re alright?”

You forced a laugh, waving a hand. “Yeah, of course. Just didn’t expect Dean to be settling down anytime soon, is all.” You grimaced before turning away from your dad, hiding your jealousy. Maybe that was the reason Dean had been so off? Maybe the girl dad saw him talking to was his soulmate.

Your dad studied you for a second longer before nodding. “Well, if anyone deserves to find the right girl, it’s him.” He clapped a hand on your shoulder before stepping away. “I’ll be inside if you need anything.”

You barely registered his words as you stood there, staring blankly at the pile of hay in front of you.

Dean might've found his soul mate.

I shouldn’t care. I should be happy for him. He’s my best friend.

You weren’t supposed to feel like this—like something inside you was crumbling, like the air had been knocked from your lungs. Shaking your head, you shoved the thoughts away. You couldn't be thinking about this right now. There was work to do. There was no time for feelings that were never meant to surface in the first place.

Dean sat on the worn wooden steps of his porch, his elbows resting on his knees as he stared down at his wrist. The ink was still fresh, the skin slightly raised from where the small heart with an infinity symbol inside it had appeared.

A soulmate mark. His soulmate mark.

The one thing everyone looked forward to—the sign that somewhere in the world, there was someone meant just for you. But instead of excitement, all he felt was dread.

He rubbed a thumb over the design before tugging his sleeve down, then glanced around to make sure no one was watching before rolling it back up again. The placement was perfect, his watch covered it up completely. He wasn’t ready to let the world see it yet. Hell, he wasn’t ready to see it himself.

His stomach twisted uncomfortably, and he exhaled sharply, leaning back against the porch railing. He knew he should be happy. Hell, he should be relieved that the wait was over. He’d spent nearly a year watching other people’s marks appear, wondering when his would show up, wondering who it would lead him to.

But now that it was here, all he could feel was stress. Why?

He clenched his jaw, trying to shake the feeling, but the answer was already forming at the edges of his mind. He just didn’t want to face it.

Last night had been a wake-up call. He hadn’t been in his right mind before that bull ride, and he knew damn well why. He saw you, talking to some guy.

It wasn’t like you never talked to men, but something about the way you smiled, the way your head tilted slightly, listening to whatever the hell that cowboy had to say, it had twisted something inside of him. A feeling he didn’t recognize.

He’d been so damn distracted by it that he barely had time to focus before the gate swung open and the bull exploded beneath him. His grip had loosened at the wrong second, and before he knew it, he was airborne, his body hitting the ground hard. It wasn’t his worst fall, not by a long shot, but for the first time, it wasn’t the pain of hitting the dirt that knocked the air from his lungs. It was you.

You, sprinting toward him with wild panic in your eyes, your hands trembling as they hovered over his shoulder, your voice raw with worry. You weren’t supposed to look at him like that. Dean scrubbed a hand over his face, frustrated with himself.

For years, he had shoved any kind of feeling for you deep down, buried beneath layers of friendship, stubbornness, and denial. You were his best friend. His person. There had never been room for anything else. But then last night, as he lay in the dirt, and you were kneeling next to him, breathless and terrified for him, something cracked open.

And now, sitting here, staring at this damn tattoo, the truth hit him like a freight train.

The reason he was so stressed about this mark… was because he wanted it to match yours. Dean’s stomach dropped, a mixture of panic and realization colliding in his chest. He wanted it to be you, more than anything.

He let out a shaky breath, running a hand through his hair as he tried to make sense of it all. This wasn’t like when he dated before. He’d had flings, relationships, girls he thought he liked well enough—but this? This was something entirely different. Something bigger. Something that could tear him apart if it didn’t go the way he desperately needed it to.

Dean swallowed hard, his pulse thudding in his ears. Because what if it wasn’t you? What if fate had some other plan? What if he was about to lose you in the worst way possible? For the first time in his life, Dean was scared, and there wasn’t a damn thing he could do about it.

The next morning, you were already up and working by the time Dean rode over from his place. You had a way of losing yourself in chores, letting the rhythm of work push everything else to the back of your mind. But today? It wasn’t working.

You had spent the rest of the morning trying to convince yourself that it didn’t matter. Dean was your best friend, that’s all he’d ever been and that’s all he’d ever could be. Even if every part of you wished otherwise.

You gritted your teeth, wiping sweat from your brow as you finished stacking hay in the barn. The last thing you needed was to get caught up in feelings that didn’t belong.

But when you turned around and saw Dean standing just outside the barn door, watching you, those feelings slammed into you anyway. His expression was unreadable, his green eyes flickering with something you couldn’t quite place. His sleeves were pushed up, forearms dusted with dirt, but what caught your eye was the way his left wrist was covered by his watch.

Your chest tightened. That had to be the place where his mark was.

“Morning, Dean,” you greeted, trying to keep your voice even as you turned back to your work.

Dean hesitated for a second before stepping further inside the barn. “Mornin’, sweetheart.”

Something was different. You could feel it. The easy comfort between you both felt heavier, weighted down by something unsaid. Dean lingered near the stall, one hand gripping the railing, the other tucked into his pocket.

You glanced at him, raising an eyebrow. “What, you just gonna stand there and watch me work?”

He huffed a quiet laugh, but there was no real humor behind it. “Maybe.”

You rolled your eyes, but when you turned back around, your stomach twisted. Something was wrong. You knew him better than anyone, and there was something in his stance, the way his jaw clenched just slightly, the way he wasn’t meeting your eyes the way he normally did.

“What’s up with you?” you asked, trying to sound casual. “You’ve been acting weird since the other night.”

Dean tensed just a little. “Nothing. Just got a lot on my mind.”

Liar. You studied him for a second, your pulse picking up. “Dean—”

“Did your mark show up yet?”

The question caught you off guard. Your breath hitched slightly as you instinctively glanced down at your wrist, still bare.

“No,” you answered, your voice quieter now. “Not yet.”

Something flickered in his eyes, something like relief. But before you could make sense of it, he covered it up with a quick nod, shoving his hands deeper into his pockets.

“Well,” he said, clearing his throat. “Guess we’ll see who fate’s got lined up for you soon enough.”

Your chest ached. You wanted to tell him that he was the only one you wanted fate to choose. But you couldn’t. Because Dean had his sights set on someone else and he had no idea that the person you had always had your sights set on was him. You forced a tight smile at Dean’s words, but inside, your heart was twisting into knots.

You swallowed the lump in your throat and turned back to your work, shoving the feelings away just like you always did. You weren’t about to let some stupid soulmate mark ruin things between you and Dean. Not when you already knew he wasn’t yours to have.

Dean, on the other hand, was watching you like he was trying to solve a damn puzzle. Something was off, and he could feel it in his gut. He hated the way his own words tasted, hated that he had to pretend like the idea of you with someone else didn’t make him feel like he’d been kicked in the ribs.

He wasn’t ready to deal with all that heavy crap, though, so he did what he always did, get on your nerves.

“Damn, sweetheart,” he grinned, tilting his head as he watched you struggle with a particularly heavy bale of hay. “You strugglin’ over there?”

You shot him a glare over your shoulder. “I’m not struggling.”

Dean smirked. “Kinda looks like you are.”

Rolling your eyes, you grabbed the bale and hoisted it up onto the stack. You gritted your teeth through the burn in your arms, refusing to give him the satisfaction of seeing you struggle.

Dean whistled low. “Atta girl.”

You wiped your hands on your jeans and turned to face him, praying he'd just think you were hot and didn't notice the blush coating your cheeks. “You just gonna stand there all day, or are you gonna actually do some work?”

He grinned, walking over at a lazy pace. “Now, sweetheart, we both know my job is to stand here and supervise. You’re the one who gets all riled up if things ain’t done exactly right.”

You scoffed, folding your arms. “I do not.”

Dean raised an eyebrow. “Oh yeah? You don’t remember last week when I stacked the feed bags the ‘wrong way’ and you nearly had an aneurysm?”

Your face warmed as you pointed at him. “You stacked them sideways, Dean. Sideways. Who does that?”

He snorted, shaking his head. “They were still stacked.”

“They were a safety hazard.”

Dean laughed outright now, the tension from earlier lifting just slightly. He loved getting under your skin like this, loved how easy it was to rile you up.

“Tell you what,” he said, smirking. “Since you clearly got everything under control, I’ll just sit back and watch. Maybe take notes on the correct way to do ranch work.”

You groaned, exasperated. “Or, and hear me out, you could actually help.”

Dean tapped his chin like he was considering it. “Mmm… tempting, but I think I’d rather watch you struggle.”

You threw your work glove at him. Dean barely ducked in time, laughing as the glove missed his head by inches. “Bad aim, sweetheart,” he teased.

You huffed, grabbing another bale and hoisting it onto the pile. “You’re so annoying.”

“And yet, you’d be lost without me.”

You shot him another glare, but deep down, that statement was entirely too true. The teasing made things feel normal again, but you could still feel the weight of something lingering between you—something neither of you wanted to acknowledge.

Dean watched you work for a second, his smirk fading just slightly. His wrist burned under his watch, the tattoo hidden away like some kind of secret. He had always thought teasing you, pushing your buttons, was just part of the way things were between you two. But today? Today, every little thing you did had him looking at you differently.

The way you shoved that loose strand of hair behind your ear, the way you bit your lip in frustration, the way you got all flustered when he teased you—it was driving him insane.

And for the first time, he didn’t want to push the feeling down. He wanted to understand it.

Maybe that was dangerous. Maybe it would change everything. But as you threw him another glare, rolling your eyes like you weren’t secretly enjoying his teasing, Dean found himself thinking…Maybe it was already too late.

The late afternoon sun dipped behind the hills, casting a golden glow over your family’s ranch as you finished getting ready. You weren’t sure why you’d put in extra effort tonight, maybe it was just nice to have an excuse to dress up a little. The Winchesters’ dinners were a tradition, something both families had done for as long as you could remember.

You smoothed out your dress, glancing at yourself in the mirror one last time. The dress hugged you just right, and the soft color added a touch of something…extra.

Not that it mattered though because Dean wouldn’t notice. Or, at least, he never had before.

You and your dad had decided to take the ranger to drive over to Winchester's, giving Whiskey and your dad's horse, Burbon a chance to eat their dinners.

The moment you stepped inside, warmth surrounded you, but not just from the heat of the stove or the smell of home-cooked food, but from the sheer energy of the Winchesters’ home.

Mary greeted you with a hug, her bright eyes crinkling with warmth. “Oh, honey, you look so pretty tonight.”

You felt yourself blush slightly. “Thank you, Mary.”

Dean, who had been leaning against the counter chatting with John, turned at Mary’s words. His easy smirk faltered for half a second when his gaze landed on you. His eyes roamed over you, just a flicker of something unreadable in his expression before he recovered. You sure were making this whole situation worse.

“You clean up nice, sweetheart,” he smiled sweetly, trying to play it cool as he ignored the odd tingling feeling in his chest.

You rolled your eyes. “Thanks, I think.”

Mary’s sharp gaze flicked between you two, her lips twitching like she knew something—something neither of you had admitted yet. Before you could dwell on it, Sam walked into the kitchen, a tall guy with sandy-blond hair walked in right behind him.

“This is Evan,” Sam introduced his friend to the rest of you, missing the way Evan's eyes scanned through the group before landing on you.

Evan smiled at you. “Nice to meet you.”

You returned the smile, being polite, but before you could even say anything back, Dean’s voice cut in, a little sharper than usual. “Never seen you around here before,” he said, eyeing Evan with mild disinterest.

Evan shrugged. “Yeah, me and Sam here just became friends. Hope to get to know all of you well."

Dean hummed like he wasn’t impressed. He already disliked the kid his brother decided to become friends with.

Mary arched an eyebrow at her eldest son. “Dean, be nice.”

Dean made a noncommittal noise and pushed off the counter, brushing past you as he went to grab plates for the table. The brush of his arm against yours sent a weird jolt through you, not that you let it show.

At dinner you found yourself seated between Mary and Sam, Dean sitting across from you, next to Evan.

“So, y/n,” Evan said, flashing you a charming grin. “I gotta ask—how’s a girl like you still single?”

You almost choked on your drink. Across the table, Dean stiffened, narrowing his eyes at the kid's audacity.

Bobby, who had been in the middle of cutting into his steak, paused, his fork hovering midair.

You laughed a little, waving off the comment. “Oh, I—”

“She’s been busy,” Dean cut in abruptly, stabbing at his food a little harder than necessary.

Evan raised an eyebrow. “Right, but everyone’s got time for a little fun, don’t they?”

Dean’s grip on his fork tightened as Bobby cleared his throat, shooting daggers into the kid's skull for flirting with his daughter shamelessly.

"Boy-" Bobby started, setting his fork down onto the side of his plate, ready to light this little asshole up.

Mary, who had been sipping her wine, hid a knowing smirk behind her glass as she glanced between you and Dean. “Oh, I don’t know,” she cut in before Bobby started. “I think Maddie’s got plenty of options. Isn’t that right, sweetheart?”

You flushed. “I—uh—”

Dean scoffed, leaning back in his chair as he cut you off. “Yeah, plenty of options,” he muttered. “Just gotta sift through the idiots first.”

The table went silent for half a second. Evan raised an eyebrow, clearly catching the insult. “You saying I’m an idiot?”

Dean didn’t even hesitate. He stabbed another bite of steak and shrugged. “If the boot fits.”

Sam let out a low groan, rubbing a hand down his face and Mary sighed but was clearly fighting a smile. You, on the other hand, nearly choked on your drink. Evan let out an awkward laugh, shaking his head. “Man, you got a problem with me or somethin’?”

Dean didn’t miss a beat. “Not with you specifically. Just don’t like guys who talk big and don’t know a damn thing about who they’re talkin’ to.”

Your stomach twisted at his words—because they felt too sharp, too personal. You shot him a look. “Dean.”

His gaze flicked to you, still hard, still unreadable. “What?” The tension between you two thickened.

Mary, of course, picked up on all of it. She just smirked, shaking her head as she took another sip of her wine. Sam, watching his brother with keen amusement, swiftly kicked Dean under the table.

Dean jerked, nearly dropping his fork. “Damn it, Sam—”

Sam just shot him an innocent look. “Something wrong?”

Dean grumbled under his breath and went back to stabbing his steak like it had personally wronged him. The whole thing made you laugh until you noticed Dean wasn’t laughing. In fact, he hadn’t smiled once through dinner. He was grumpy, more than usual and what was even weirder, he kept watching you. Not in his usual, teasing, laid-back way.

No. No. This was different.

His expression was unreadable, guarded—like he was fighting something he wasn’t sure he wanted to fight. His jaw was tight, and his gaze lingered too long whenever you spoke. There was tension there. Something unspoken, something changing, and for the first time, you weren’t sure you wanted to ignore it anymore.

After dinner, you lingered in the kitchen, sleeves rolled up as you helped Mary scrub the dishes. The warm scent of soap and home-cooked food still lingered in the air, and despite the tension that had simmered at the dinner table, you found yourself relaxing in Mary’s presence.

She worked beside you with ease, humming softly as she dried a plate. “You didn’t have to help, you know,” she said, glancing at you with a fond smile.

You shrugged, handing her another clean dish. “I don’t mind. Besides, you cooked, so it’s only fair.”

Mary chuckled. “You’re sweet, y/n. Always have been.”

Before you could respond, hushed voices drifted in from the other room. You paused, your hands still in the soapy water as your ears picked up on the low tones of Sam and Dean’s conversation. You couldn’t quite make out what they were saying, but the urgency in their voices sent a prickle of curiosity through you.

Mary must’ve noticed your distraction. “Don’t worry about whatever nonsense those boys are whispering about. You know how they are.”

You gave a small, distracted nod, choosing to brush it off. Whatever it was, it wasn’t your business. As you reached for another dish, Mary sighed softly, her voice turning wistful. “I swear, sometimes I wish you were part of this family for real.”

You froze, your hands tightening around the dish in your grip. The words hung in the air for a moment before she quickly backtracked.

“I mean—” She huffed out a small laugh, shaking her head. “Ignore me. Just an old woman rambling.”

Your heart thumped a little harder, but you forced a smile. “I’d say you’re stuck with me either way,” you teased, trying to lighten the sudden awkwardness.

Mary chuckled, setting down the last of the dishes. “That’s true. Now, go relax with the boys before Dean gets himself into trouble.”

You dried your hands and stepped onto the front porch where the cool night air greeted you. Sam and Evan were already lounging on the steps, talking about something that you didn’t quite catch. Dean, however, was leaning against one of the porch posts, arms crossed, eyes locked onto you with an unreadable expression. Before you could make it very far, Dean pushed off the post and stepped into your path.

“Come here,” he murmured, gently grasping your wrist and pulling you a few steps away from the others.

You furrowed your brows. “Dean, what—”

“What, do you like Evan?”

You blinked at him, then let out a surprised laugh, but the second you saw the seriousness in his face, the sound died in your throat. “What?” you asked, confused. “What are you talking about?”

Dean exhaled sharply, clearly irritated. “I’m just saying—he’s a little too flirty, don’t you think? Lately, you’ve been getting a lot of attention.”

Your stomach twisted, and a flicker of irritation flared in your chest. “And that’s a bad thing?”

Dean’s jaw clenched. “Evan just wants to get into your pants. Plain and simple.”

You scoffed, shaking your head. “Oh, so now you’re the expert on what men want from me?”

Dean didn’t respond, but his green eyes darkened, his fingers flexing at his sides. Your heart pounded as your frustration boiled over. “So what? You can’t believe that men are actually interested in me, Dean? Am I that repulsive to you?”

His eyes widened slightly, caught off guard. “That’s not what I—”

“I know I’m just your best friend, but damn, that one hurt.” You shook your head at him, your voice raw with emotion, unaware that Sam and Evan had gone quiet behind you, watching the argument unfold.

Dean opened his mouth to fix it, to say something, anything—to make it better, but the damage was already done. Your throat burned as you turned away before he could see the way your eyes shone with unshed tears. “I’m going home.”

Dean stood frozen, watching you walk off into the night, his chest tight with something heavy and unfamiliar.

The second you disappeared down the path, Evan let out a low whistle. “Damn, man. That was rough.”

Dean didn’t respond. He was still standing there, fists clenched at his sides, his chest heaving. He was aware of Sam’s disapproving glare, but his mind was still on the way you had looked when you walked away from him, your back stiff and your steps quick.

“Well, that was awkward,” Evan said, his eyes flicking between Dean and the direction you’d gone. “Didn’t expect that from you two. Thought you were just friends.”

Dean’s jaw tightened, his fists still clenched at his sides. He didn’t answer Evan, but the tension in the air was thick, and Sam’s disappointed gaze didn’t help.

Evan, clearly trying to lighten the mood, leaned back against the porch railing with a casual smirk. “I mean, I get it, man. She’s hot, right? You sure you don’t want to do something about it before someone else does?”

Dean’s eyes narrowed. “What the hell are you talking about?”

Evan shrugged nonchalantly. “I don’t know, man. She’s cute, funny, smart. Could see why you’d get worked up over her. But if you’re just gonna stand there and do nothing, someone else might come along and grab her attention.” He raised an eyebrow, somehow indicating that he could have a chance.

Dean’s stomach churned, but he didn’t know how to react. The idea of anyone else being with you, let alone some guy like Evan—made his blood boil. “She’s not some prize to be won,” he muttered, his voice low, but tense.

Evan snorted, clearly not taking him seriously. “Come on, man, it’s not like I’m making a move. I just noticed the way she was laughing with me earlier—she’s into the attention.”

That hit Dean like a slap to the face. His vision blurred for a second, and his voice was sharp when he finally responded. “Stay the hell away from her.”

Sam, who had been watching the whole thing unfold, stepped between them, putting a hand on Dean’s shoulder to force him to take a breath. “Dean, stop,” Sam said quietly but firmly. “Just—let it go.”

But Dean wasn’t listening. He was still staring down Evan, who seemed completely oblivious to the storm brewing inside him.

Evan just smirked again. “Yeah, yeah, whatever, man. You really should lighten up.”

Sam shot him a warning look before turning back to Dean, who was clearly on the edge. “Let’s just go inside, alright?”

Dean didn’t say another word but his eyes shot back to Evan, a dangerous edge creeping into his gaze. Evan, completely oblivious to the tension, leaned casually against the railing with a grin.

“You know,” Evan said, his voice mocking, “I couldn’t help but notice how she looked at me earlier. Seems like she’s got a thing for guys who know how to have a good time.” He chuckled, clearly enjoying the way Dean was reacting. “I mean, it’s pretty clear she’s into the attention. It must be nice knowing a girl like her wants you around.”

Dean’s fists clenched so tight his knuckles turned white. His heart pounded in his chest, blood rushing to his head. That was it. No more. Without thinking, Dean shoved Evan hard, the sound of his boots scraping the wooden floor as he closed the distance between them in a flash.

“Shut the hell up, Evan,” Dean growled, his voice dangerously low, full of raw anger. “You don’t know anything about her. Or me. Or what’s going on here. So keep your mouth shut before you lose it.”

Evan stumbled back, caught off guard by the sudden intensity. His smirk faded, replaced with a confused look, but he didn’t back down. “What the hell, man?”

Dean’s eyes burned with fury as he took a step forward, his voice a low warning. “I mean it. Stay the hell away from her. Don’t ever talk about her like that again.”

For a split second, the air was thick with tension, and even Sam could feel the weight of the moment. But Evan, being Evan, didn’t seem to grasp the gravity of the situation. “Alright, alright,” Evan muttered, raising his hands in mock surrender. “No need to get all possessive over her. It’s just a little harmless flirting.”

Dean’s entire body tensed, his muscles coiling with the need to lash out. “I said, stay away from her,” he repeated through gritted teeth, the words cold and threatening.

Sam was already moving, grabbing Dean’s arm to pull him back. “Enough!” he barked. “That’s enough!”

Dean didn’t even flinch at Sam’s grip. His eyes were locked on Evan, full of anger and something else—something far deeper than just the fight that had broken out. The way Evan had talked about you—it was more than Dean could handle. He didn’t care what anyone else thought. You weren’t just some girl. You were everything to him.

“Next time,” Dean said, his voice dangerously calm, “you won’t be so lucky.”

Sam shook his head, looking at Dean with a mix of disbelief and concern. “Dean, man, calm down. You’ve gotta get control of this.”

But Dean was already walking away, his jaw clenched so tight it hurt. The anger still burned in his chest, but there was something else there too: something raw, possessive, and unrelenting. With his heart hammering in his chest and the image of you walking away burned into his mind, he finally had to admit what he had been denying for too damn long.

He was in love with you and he might have just ruined everything.

author’s note:

Hi guys! I hope you enjoyed this chapter! I would like to apologize if someone is a real cowgirl/cowboy reading this. I’m trying my best to put the right terms for everything. Fun fact about me is that I do live in the country and know a decent amount of how the country life works but I don’t own any large livestock or go to the rodeos often. I do own chickens, goats, and a few dogs though! Okay, enough ab me I really hope you guys liked this chapter and lmk what you think!

tags:

@i-love-ptv @lieutenantchaos @hollywoodxrose @pressedwater @aylacavebear

@bonbonnie88 @lori19 @muhaha82 @freeluigihesbae

If you would like to be tagged please leave a comment and I’ll add you to the list!

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[pellaaearien]

Here With Me (Chapter 8)

Dreamling | E | Caretaking, Porn With Plot | ~20k total

--

In the end, Dream reflects, it is not that it is easy to forget that he is no longer the oracle. It is just that so many things have changed in such a short span of time that none of it seems especially noteworthy.

They leave the inn at sunrise, neither of them able to sleep more than a few hours at a time despite their exhaustion. Dream is unexpectedly sorry to leave the inn behind — it had been a place of rare refuge, and will remain such in memory.

Riding astride Jessamy, with Hob’s arms encircling him from behind, it is impossible not to be reminded of his changed status, the ache between his legs beating out a tempo with every mile.

Hob, who would shield him from every discomfort, apologizes whenever he is jostled. Dream shakes his head. It feels right and proper that it should hurt, that he should carry such a permanent change in his body somehow.

Hob takes them off the road as soon as might be, following the track of a convenient stream to, as he explains, foil pursuit.

“I’m expecting Burgess to send men after us,” he says. “But perhaps only a specialized team. He’ll want to get us back to save face; to the rest of the world, he might pretend he still has you in custody.” He grips Dream tighter at the thought, and Dream is only too happy to lean into his embrace. “Otherwise, we might have had to contend with the entire kingdom hunting us down. It’s the only reason I didn’t kill him.” The darkness of his voice suggests how near of a thing it had been.

Dream hums acknowledgement. He wants to have something more useful to say, but in truth it is difficult to care about such dilemmas while ensconced in the safety of Hob’s arms. 

Hob had come for him. Out of the jaws of death, behind enemy lines. When he had taken off that helmet and revealed himself, Dream had been reborn, his world bursting back into vibrant life. Alone in his cell, Dream had sunk into the clinging depths of apathy. Upon seeing Hob, that feeling had transformed. He still feels as though nothing matters, with one caveat: so long as Hob is there, he can face whatever happens.

He is happily, entirely Hob’s, the release of his body having released him from his function. 

“After that, I’m afraid I haven’t much more of a plan,” Hob admits. “We won’t want to stay in Burgess’ kingdom, and you’d be recognized back home.”

“Oh.” Dream blinks, coming back to the present, realizing he’d never told Hob this part. “I know where we’re going.”

“You do.” Dream can’t see Hob’s expression but he suspects the only reason he doesn’t sound more surprised is his amount of trust in Dream’s abilities. 

“This vision, it was… different.” Dream thinks of how to explain. “I just… know. Where it was. How to get there.”

“Well, then, my love,” Hob says, with another kiss to the top of his head that Dream is quickly learning to expect when they ride like this. “Where are we going?” 

Dream closes his eyes, reaches inside himself for that feeling of certainty. Without opening them, he points. “That way.”

Hob leans in; Dream is surrounded by his warmth, his scent. He no longer has a function. He might, in time, learn how to be human.

“That way?” Hob murmurs next to his ear. Dream wants to wrap himself in the sound of his voice. He nods, not trusting himself to look.

“That way, then,” Hob says, and turns Jessamy without another word. 

Summer has yet to quite lose its grip on Burgess’ lands, making it warm enough to sleep under the stars as long as they have a fire going, which Hob lights once he deems they are a suitable distance from the road.

Hob has supplies with him enough for a week’s return journey, enough for two — he hadn’t considered failure an option. Dream eats the simple rations with good will, not feeling the need to mention that the fare is as good or better than what he’s been eating recently. He thinks Hob knows, anyway, as they have a brief disagreement over Hob trying to give Dream part of his share. 

“And if you were to weaken due to lack of nourishment, who would defend me, out here in the wilds?” Dream finally demands, at the end of his patience. He does not like holding Hob’s oath over him like this. But it means he prevails, Hob smiling ruefully as he finishes his portion.

Hob had only bothered with one bedroll, Dream is pleased to discover, when he unrolls it next to the banked fire. They lie down on it, curled close, and it suddenly occurs to Dream that there is no longer anything forbidding them from touching each other. That there never will be again. That he will never have to wear a chastity belt, never be locked up in another’s keeping.

As the thought occurs, Dream shifts against Hob. Perhaps not as subtly as he’d hoped, if Hob’s hum of interest is any indication.

“Need something, beautiful?” Hob murmurs, a smile in his voice, and Dream bites his lip. He wants, suddenly. Urgently. But…

“I don’t think I can—”

“Shh,” Hob soothes, tracing simple patterns over Dream’s belly. Even this casual touch is like fire, and Dream wants to be consumed. “I never would. Not so soon. Not here. You deserve better than that. But I can…” He slips his fingers lower, and Dream’s breath catches. “I want you to have as many orgasms as you want. Every single day of your life. Will you let me give that to you?”

“Yes…” Dream’s voice is high in his throat. He can’t bring himself to care. “Hob, yes—”

“Hmmm…” Hob’s fingers withdraw, and Dream nearly sobs at the loss. Hob rummages around a bit, and returns with the salve.

“That is… for your wounds,” Dream protests, but the warm slide of Hob’s fingers over his most sensitive parts, where he is sore and aching, makes it difficult to complain.

“I’ll heal,” Hob shrugs. “Let me take care of you.”

And who takes care of you? Dream thinks, but then Hob gently brushes his clit and all higher thought flees from him. 

There is no grand production here, just the press of their bodies, and Hob’s careful touches. The pleasure builds slowly, sweetly, almost imperceptibly. His climax, when it comes, takes Dream by surprise.

“Oh,” he says, once he comes down. He hadn’t known it could be like this. He’s almost disconcerted at how easily his body had gone.

“Feel better, love?” Hob says softly, withdrawing his hand. Dream nods, a floaty sense of well-being flooding him. He has a vague thought that there’s a very important question he ought to be asking, but he’s asleep before he figures out what it should be.

Burgess looms over him, curled up as small as possible on the stone floor. “So, you were useless after all,” he hisses. “Not a single prophecy? What is the point of you?” There is a line of men standing behind Burgess, their faces in shadow. The core of him already aches. In front of him, Hob lies staring up at the ceiling with blank, lifeless eyes, his blood spreading in an ever-growing pool. He opens his mouth to scream, but nothing comes out.

Dream wakes, and doesn’t know where he is. 

It’s dark; the ground is cold and hard beneath him. Is he still in his cell? Was the rescue, Hob being alive, all a dream, and this the reality?

He lies very still. Perhaps if he doesn’t move, pretends he hasn’t woken, then he might find his way back to the place where Hob was caring for him.

“Dream?” Hob’s voice, heavy with sleep, comes from behind him. Dream squeezes his eyes shut, willing himself to decide if he is dreaming or waking. Wishing he saw anything behind his lids but Hob’s lifeless eyes. “Wuzzit?”

The body behind him stirs. Dream doesn’t look, can’t look. If this is a dream, then he refuses to open his eyes and ruin it.

“Love, are you hurt?” Dream shakes his head. “Can you open your eyes for me?” He shakes his head again. “Why not?”

“You’ll be gone,” Dream blurts out, seized by the utter conviction that this is so.

“I’m not going anywhere, darling,” Hob’s voice says. “I promise. And I always keep my promises, don’t I?” He sounds so sad and concerned that Dream opens his eyes, willing to do anything for Hob.

Hob’s face is hovering over him, just visible in the darkness. Dream can’t make out the look in his eyes, and for a moment he’s just like those shadow-faced men, then he blinks and he’s just Hob again. Dream whimpers.

“Hob?” He doesn’t know what to believe.

“Oh, sweetheart.” Hob cups his face, and Dream grips his hand for dear life, the proof of something real. “What’s wrong? Did you have a nightmare?”

“You were dead,” Dream whispers, as though saying it more loudly would draw attention. “And I was alone…”

“Shh, dove.” There are lips against his, clumsy and warm and real, and Dream sobs. “You’re never going to be alone, not while I’m here, and I am so alive.” 

He shifts, and somehow Dream ends up nestled on top of him like before. “Here, darling. Hear my heartbeat?” 

He cards his hands through Dream’s hair, pressing his head against his chest, until Dream has calmed sufficiently to hear the thrum of his pulse.

“Hob,” Dream sobs, pressing closer to that vital sound.

“It’s all right, love. I’ll remind you as many times as you need. I’m so sorry I wasn’t there for you.”

Dream huffs. He doesn’t see the point of responding to such a ridiculous statement. 

“We’re using the rest of the salve on your wounds,” he says instead.

Hob’s chest rises and falls in a sigh. “As you wish, my love.”