#a one time for the books as a series i think

[what-even-is-thiss]

I watched a video today that has me convinced that watching Shrek over and over again is a very efficient way to learn a language.

This channel called One Word At a Time often does these videos where he assumes it takes 20 exposures to a word in context to understand it and runs some numbers to see how quickly you’d learn words if you watch a certain series or read a kids book or whatever.

Here’s the thing. In most of his videos he assumes you’re watching one episode a day or something and it takes like 100-200 days to acquire 1000-2000 words.

Here’s the thing though. Shrek has 1200 unique words in it. So if you watch Shrek once a day you get that done in 20 days.

And he was being like “this seems like such a dull way to learn a language”

Dull? Shrek? You think Shrek will get dull? Maybe for you but I’m someone who rewatches things to death. If what you’re saying is true, you just found the hack. The jump to A2. The shortcut to god mode. All your other calculations took hundreds of days to learn this many words, sir. Shrek is the answer.

[dreamersparacosm]

jeon jungkook - under the checkered flag (part six)

warnings ; oral (f recieving), handjob kinda, lowkey breeding kink at one point, unprotected sex (18+)

prompt ; in which a girl who doesn’t believe in risks takes the biggest one of all—falling for a man who lives for the thrill.

note ; wow!!!! part 6… the final part :( guys i am SO sad about this. this is my first series for a bts member and the community that you guys have formed in my comments, all your love and feedback, mean the WORLD to me. thank you so much <3 with that being said, please enjoy this chapter, it was so fun to write. psa! under the taglist is a surprise.. my inbox is open ;)

playlist here

series masterlist here

There’s no official conversation about it, no moment where you decide, Yes, I’m going to spend every waking hour at Jungkook’s house, making sure he doesn’t do anything stupid while he heals.

It just… happens.

And he lets it happen.

Because somewhere between making sure he eats, fluffing his pillows, sitting beside him on the couch as he watches races he’s too injured to compete in, somewhere between all of that, something shifts.

It’s in the small things. Things that should feel normal, should feel harmless, but don’t.

Like the way you absentmindedly fix his hair, your fingers running through the messy strands without a second thought.

It happens the first time when you’re both sitting on the couch, him scrolling through his phone, you flipping through a book. His hair is falling into his eyes, and without thinking, you reach over, brushing it back, smoothing it down with gentle fingers.

Your hand lingers for a second too long, fingertips brushing the warmth of his skin before you realize what you’re doing.

Your eyes widen, pulling back quickly. “Oh. Sorry.”

But Jungkook just stares at you, his lips twitching slightly, before he hums.

“Nah.” His voice is low, unreadable, and thens softer: “I liked it.”

Damn him. Because that’s when it starts, like a landslide that was long overdue.

Then, there’s the hand thing.

Apparently, Jungkook has developed a habit of grabbing your hand whenever you walk by him. The first time, you think it’s an accident. The second time, it’s not.

You’re walking past the couch, heading toward the kitchen, and suddenly, warm fingers wrap around your wrist, tugging lightly. You stumble slightly, glancing down at him, wide-eyed. “What?”

Jungkook just shrugs, gaze too casual, too innocent.

“Dunno.” His thumb brushes against the inside of your wrist, barely noticeable, but you notice. “Just wanted you closer for a second.”

You swallow hard, the warmth of his skin buzzing against yours, and then you can’t remember why you were going to the kitchen in the first place.

There’s also the way he watches you when you cook.

It starts with little things, like him sitting on the counter, swinging his legs like a child, stealing pieces of whatever you’re chopping.

Then it turns into something else entirely.

One night, you’re standing in his kitchen, stirring a pot of pasta, and you feel it. The weight of his gaze. You turn slightly, meeting his eyes across the kitchen island, and your heart is in your throat.

Jungkook isn’t just watching you. He’s looking at you like you hung the damn moon, like he’s never seen anything—anyone—more captivating.

You try to play it off, clearing your throat. “Why are you staring at me?”

Jungkook leans forward slightly, resting his chin on his palm, a small smirk playing at his lips.

“Because you’re cute when you cook,” he says simply.

Your hands fumble on the spoon, nearly dropping it into the pot. You glare. “Shut up.”

Jungkook laughs in response, soft and warm.

Despite your best efforts, despite the walls you’ve built and the sharp edges you’ve wielded like armor, you feel it. The way your pulse stumbles every time Jungkook looks at you like that. The way your mind stops moving when he leans in too close, his voice curling around your spine like smoke. The way your hands clench into fists, desperate to feign control when all you want to do is give in. And really, there’s no denying anything after the moment that shatters your last defense.

You’re half-asleep, stumbling into the kitchen early in the morning, yawning and stretching as you open the fridge. You’re not thinking, noteven remotely aware, until you hear, “Baby.”

Your blood runs cold. You turn slowly, only to find Jungkook sitting at the kitchen table, completely still, eyes locked onto you like you just did something illegal. And that’s when you realize you are wearing his hoodie.

Not just any hoodie. His favorite hoodie.

Oversized, drowning you in fabric, sleeves covering your hands, the hem brushing against the middle of your thighs. It was the first thing you found in the dark of his room yesterday as you were going to bed.

Your face erupts in flames. “I—”

Jungkook just leans back, his tongue swiping along his bottom lip, eyes dark and unreadable. “You look good in my clothes,” he murmurs.

You squeak, turn around, pretending to be extremely invested in the contents of the fridge, because you are not equipped to deal with this right now. Jungkook just laughs, shaking his head as he sips his coffee.

｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆

The movie is playing, yet neither of you are watching.

The volume is low, voices murmuring from the screen, but the real story—the real gravity of the moment—is here, on the couch. Jungkook is stretched out, his head resting in your lap, his body completely at ease beneath your touch. His eyes are closed, his breathing slow and steady, like he could drift off at any second. Your fingers are in his hair, lightly threading through the dark strands, brushing against his scalp in soft, lazy motions. You’re not even thinking about it.

It’s automatic now—something so natural, so easy, that it barely registers.

"You like taking care of me, huh?" His voice is low, teasing, and you feel it vibrate against your thigh where he’s resting.

Your fingers freeze mid-motion. You scoff, shaking your head, trying to ignore the heat creeping up your neck.

"You wish," you mutter.

Jungkook grins, his eyes still closed, completely unfazed by your weak attempt at denial.

"You do," he hums, tilting his head slightly. "I can feel it in your hands."

Your fingers are still in his hair, but now they’re trembling slightly. His smirk grows, but he doesn’t push further. Instead, he sighs, stretching slightly against the couch.

"You should be working," he muses. "Not playing house with me."

You huff, finally snapping out of it, rolling your eyes. "You’re making it sound like I’m skipping work entirely."

"You’re here a lot."

You pause.

He’s not wrong.

You’ve been here every day since the hospital. And the thing is, it hasn’t even felt like an inconvenience. It’s just where you want to be.

Still, you try to play it off.

"I’m still working," you insist. "I answer emails, take calls. Plus, Jisoo’s been covering a lot of my work. It’s fine."

Jungkook hums, like he’s not fully convinced. "You should quit and take care of me full-time."

You snort, flicking his forehead lightly. "Yeah, that’s exactly what I want. Becoming Jeon Jungkook’s personal assistant."

"You already do everything for me anyway," he murmurs, voice dropping slightly. "Might as well make it official."

You roll your eyes. "Shut up and watch the movie."

But Jungkook doesn’t watch the movie.

In fact, he opens his eyes and his gaze finds yours, deep, dark. His smirk fades, his expression softening just slightly, like something unspoken is hanging between you both.

The room feels smaller, the air heavier, and you realize you’re still touching him, still stroking his hair, still so close.

Jungkook notices it, too. His tongue flicks out, wetting his bottom lip, and your eyes catch on the silver ring piercing through the skin.

Your stomach flips. Your heart pounds. And before you can stop yourself, you lean down and kiss him.

The moment your lips meet, Jungkook goes completely still. For a second, you think you’ve ruined everything. For a second, you panic, about to pull away, and then Jungkook reaches up, his fingers curling around the back of your neck, and pulls you deeper.

The kiss is slow, unhurried, filled with everything you’ve both been holding back since the hospital.

It’s soft at first, like you’re memorizing the way he feels, the way his lips move against yours. Jungkook sighs into your mouth, his fingers tightening slightly against your skin, and it’s hungrier, needy, dangerous in the way it completely ruins you.

His lip ring is cool against your mouth, the sensation sending shivers down your spine, and Jungkook must noticebecause he groans softly, pressing closer, deeper, like he can’t get enough.

You don’t know how long it lasts. Minutes. Hours. A lifetime. All you know is neither of you want to let go.

When you finally pull away, breathless, wide-eyed, Jungkook’s gaze is locked onto yours, his lips still parted, swollen, pink, wrecked.

"Shit," he breathes, chest rising and falling too fast.

You don’t know what to do. Your pulse is a war drum, relentless and deafening, each beat crashing against your ribs like a tidal wave. The world around you blurs, drowned out by the rush of blood roaring in your ears like the aftershock of something unstoppable, something you can’t take back. and you don’t know if it’s from the kiss or from the realization that you just did that. You kissed him first.

Jungkook: your friend, your maybe-something-more.

He just stares at you, his lips still parted, still pink and wrecked from your mouth, like he’s trying to figure something out.

His head tilts slightly, his dark eyes tracing every inch of your face, and his voice comes out soft, teasing, but careful. “Did you just kiss me because you feel bad for me?"

You blink, stiffening, “Excuse me?"

Jungkook’s lips twitch, and you immediately recognize the mischief forming in his expression.

"I mean," he hums, stretching slightly, lazy and smug, "I am injured. It’s possible you’re just doing a good deed, you know? Kissing the wounded, lifting morale—"

Your face erupts in flames. “Jungkook," you hiss, shoving at his shoulder.

He laughs, tilting his head back against the couch, completely unbothered, and you want to die.

You bury your face in your hands. "Oh my God."

"Don’t be shy now," he grins. "You started it."

You groan. Technically, he’s right. You did start it. You kissed him. And even worse? You don’t regret it, not even a little bit.

Still, you struggle to recover, clearing your throat as you attempt to calm the wildfire spreading through your chest.

"When do you stop being annoying?” you mutter, shaking your head.

"Never."

You glare, but your face is still burning, and you know he can see it.

His grin softens, the teasing flickering into something warmer.”So, what is it then? Why’d you kiss me?"

Your stomach twists, a knot pulled too tight, unraveling something you can’t control. Your heart hammers against your ribs, a frantic rhythm that betrays you. And for once, you have no words, because the truth is, you don’t know when this happened. You don’t know how it happened.

All you know is that it did. Somewhere between the stolen glances and the sharp-edged banter, between the push and pull, the lines blurred. And now it feels like the ground beneath you is cracking, like the world you built so carefully is crumbling at his feet.

All you know is that Jungkook is in every part of your day now. That he’s the first person you think about when something funny happens at work. That you check your phone more times than you should, waiting for his name to pop up. That being around him feels easy, but missing him feels unbearable.

So when you finally speak, the words fall out of you before you can stop them. “I don’t know when I started needing you in my life this bad."

Jungkook stills completely, his expression flickering, his eyes searching yours.

Silence. Hanging between you like a thread stretched too thin. Your chest is rising and falling too fast, your heart pounding so loudly it’s all you can hear.

He’s just staring at you, like you just said something that knocked the breath out of him.

You panic. Because what the hell did you just say?

"Oh my God," you blurt, words tumbling out too fast, your brain unable to stop your mouth from running. "I didn’t mean—well, I did, but not like that—not in a weird way. I just— I don’t know when it happened, okay? I wasn’t planning on it, it just—God, I don’t even know why I’m talking so much right now, I just—"

Jungkook doesn’t move, doesn’t blink, doesn’t breathe. He’s just watching you with that stupidly fond, breathtaking expression, like you’re the most fascinating thing he’s ever laid eyes on.

“I mean—shit." You run a hand through your hair, completely spiraling now. "I don’t know when it happened, okay? I don’t know when I— when I started wanting to be around you all the time, when I started waiting for your texts, when I started feeling weird about you hanging out with other girls. I don’t even know why I agreed to go on that stupid date because the whole time, I was thinking about you—"

Jungkook’s grin stretches wider. You don’t see it, too caught up in your spiral.

"And I know you’re bad for me," you continue, voice rising. "I know you’re reckless and impulsive and you drive too fast and hang out with models who have legs for days, and I don’t—I don’t do that. I don’t do guys like you. I’ve never done guys like you—"

Jungkook just hums, tilting his head. "Like me?"

You groan, exasperated, flustered, absolutely losing it. “Yes! Like you! Stupid race car drivers with tattoos and piercings and, and who flirt with me when I’m trying to eat cheese!"

Jungkook bursts out laughing.

You want the ground to swallow you entirely. Your entire body is on fire.

"Forget it," you say immediately, shaking your head, embarrassment consuming you whole. "I’m leaving—"

But before you can even attempt an escape, Jungkook moves, sits up, grabs your wrists, pulls your hands away from your burning face.

Then he grins, sowide, so sudden, it could split his face in half. “You want to leave?"

You groan, immediately hiding your face in your hands. "No."

Jungkook laughs, a low, delighted sound that hits you like a slow-moving car crash.

"Baby," he murmurs, soft, warm fingers cupping your face, tilting your chin up until you have no choice but to look at him.

It’s ridiculous, really. One stupid word, rolling off his tongue like it belongs there, turns your spine to jelly and your brain to static. Baby. Soft, easy, like he doesn’t even think twice about it, while you’re over here barely holding onto the last functioning brain cell you have left. Every time he says it, warmth floods your veins like a slow burn, creeping up your neck, curling into your chest, making your knees feel just a little too weak for comfort.

It’s infuriating. Unfair.

And if he doesn’t stop soon—if he doesn’t quit with that lazy smirk and the way he drawls it out like he knows exactly what he’s doing—you’re going to collapse right here, dignity be damned.

His eyes are burning into yours, intense, overwhelming, like he’s been waiting for this moment forever.

He kisses you. But this time it’s different. No hesitation from either of you, no fear, no holding back anything anymore.

It’s slow, deep, and sure, the kind of kiss that takes its time, the kind that says you have me, you’ve always had me, I’ve been waiting for you to realize it.

And when he finally pulls away, when his forehead rests against yours, when his thumb brushes over your cheek like he never wants to stop touching you, he smiles.

“I’m crazy about you." He murmurs, voice barely above a whisper.

You exhale sharply.

"Since the first day I met you in that stupid VIP box."

You pull back slightly, blinking. "What?"

Jungkook grins, his fingers still cradling your jaw, his thumbs brushing lightly against your skin. “I was pretty much a goner for you the moment you ignored me."

Your lips part, heart skipping a beat.

Jungkook chuckles, shaking his head. "You were standing there in your little corporate suit, sipping wine and nibbling on cheese. And I—" He exhales, tilting his head, eyes scanning your face like he’s seeing you for the first time all over again. "I was hooked. Right there."

You just stare at him. He’s dead serious. He’s not teasing, not flirting just to get a reaction.

"You…" You swallow. "You were really into me back then? It wasn’t some plot to get in my pants?"

Jungkook scoffs, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

"Baby," he murmurs, voice low, smooth, his hands still holding your face like he’s afraid you’ll run if he lets go. “I’ve been obsessed with you since day one."

You thought you were in control. You thought you could keep this contained, keep whatever this thing was locked behind a confinement in your brain, something you could observe from a safe distance without ever letting it touch you. But you were wrong.

Somewhere along the way, he seeped into the cracks. Slowly, insidiously, until there wasn’t a single part of your life untouched by him. He was in the way your mind wandered at the worst possible times, in the way your pulse quickened at the mere mention of his name. He was in the spaces between your thoughts, lingering like an unfinished sentence, a song you couldn’t stop humming.

Maybe, just maybe, you denied yourself because you thought you didn’t deserve it. Because somewhere deep down, you convinced yourself that happiness wasn’t meant for people like you—people who built their lives on control and ambition, who never asked for more than what they could handle.

But now, sitting here, with the weight of everything crashing down on you, you realize the truth.

This is so much bigger than you ever let yourself see.

And you think you’ve been obsessed with him, too. For a very, very long time.

The words settle between you, heavy and certain, like they belong there, like they’ve always belonged there. You swallow hard, eyes flickering down to where his thumb brushes slow circles against your cheekbone.

"You—" Your voice is barely above a whisper, the syllable trembling in your throat. "You have not."

Jungkook huffs a soft laugh, tilting his head slightly, his gaze never leaving yours. "You think I’m lying?"

You nod, because what else can you do?

Jungkook is Jungkook. Gold medals, renowned driver, flashing lights, fangirls screaming his name. You are none of that.

Jungkook watches you for a beat. Then another. Then he leans in again, his nose brushing against yours, his lips just barely grazing the corner of your mouth.

"You really have no idea," he murmurs, voice like gravel and honey, "how deep I’m in this, do you?"

Your pulse jumps, your fingers tightening slightly against his sleeves. “I—"

But your voice dies in your throat as he closes the distance again.

Another kiss. Completely consuming you. This one rougher, hungrier. Like something inside him snapped, like holding back isn’t an option anymore. His hands find your waist, grip tightening like he needs to feel every inch of you against him.

You fall into it, into him, clutching at his shirt, nails digging into his skin, because this time it isn’t just heat. It’s need. A craving neither of you know how to control.

You make a small, startled noise against his mouth, and Jungkook groans softly, deepening it, his fingers slipping into your hair like he never wants to let you go.

His lip ring is cool against your mouth, a contrast to the heat of his skin, the way he kisses you like he’s memorizing you, like he’s claiming you, piece by piece, second by second.

And between kisses and shared breaths, he murmurs, “You were the first girl to ever make me feel something real.”

A soft press of his lips.

"And I wanted to ruin you for it."

A deeper, slower kiss, leaving you lightheaded.

"You were so shy, so put together,” He pulls back slightly, just enough to look at you, his thumb tracing the curve of your lower lip. "and I wanted to see what you’d look like completely wrecked for me."

Your breath shudders, your entire body buzzing, warm, overwhelmed. Jungkook just smirks, because he can feel the way your heart is pounding against his own.

"Too much?" he teases, voice low.

You shake your head quickly, embarrassingly eager. "No."

His smirk grows, but his eyes are so, so soft.

"You don’t have to be shy with me, baby," he murmurs, pressing another slow, lazy kiss against your jaw, your cheek, the corner of your lips.

You whimper, gripping onto his shirt as he kisses you again, slower this time, deeper.

And between another breathless kiss, you whisper, “I don’t know what to do with you."

Jungkook’s gaze darkens, his thumb still stroking over your lip, his touch featherlight but devastating. The corner of his mouth quirks up, amusement flickering in his eyes at your quiet confession.

"You don’t know what to do with me?" he echoes, his voice low, rough with something dangerous. His other hand slides down your waist, his fingers tracing slow, lazy circles against your hip. "That’s okay, baby."

His lips brush yours again, just barely, a teasing ghost of a kiss. “I know exactly what to do with you."

Your breath stutters, your fingers clenching against his shoulders as he tilts his head, his lips skimming along your jaw, down to your throat. His teeth graze your skin, just enough to make you shiver, just enough to make your knees weaken.

"You’re so sweet," he murmurs, his voice a silken taunt against your skin. His hand drifts lower, over the fabric of your shorts, his touch possessive. "So innocent.”

His fingers curl around your chin, tilting your face back toward his, forcing you to meet his gaze. His pupils are blown, his lips parted, his expression drenched in something dark, something hungry.

"But not with me," he whispers, his breath hot against your lips. "With me, you’re gonna let go, aren’t you?"

Your pulse pounds, your chest tightens, the heat in his stare making it impossible to breathe. You can’t think, can’t speak, can only feel.

His smirk deepens, his grip tightening just slightly as he speaks softly, “You wanna know what to do with me, baby?"

He leans in, his lips brushing against your ear, his next words sending a shiver down your spine. “Let me show you."

You don’t know what to do. Your mind is still a mess, still overwhelmed by all of this—the weight of his hands on you, the heat of his body, the way he kisses you like he never wants to stop.

You pull away from him, cheeks burning, lips flushed, “I don’t want to—"

"Hurt me?" he finishes, amused.

You nod, because of course that’s what you mean. He was just in a car crash, for God’s sake.

But Jungkook just hums, pressing a slow, lingering kiss against your jawline, his hands tracing soothing circles over your waist. “You’re cute when you worry about me."

You huff, but your fingers tighten slightly against his shirt. “I mean it, Jungkook."

"And I mean it too," he murmurs, nuzzling against your neck for a second before pulling back to meet your gaze again.

His expression shifts, turns serious, tender, something so unlike his usual teasing self that it makes your chest ache. “I’m fine."

You blink, hesitant. “You’re sure?"

Jungkook smirks, before suddenly, his hands grip your waist firmly, and you barely have time to react before he pulls you onto his lap in one swift motion. You gasp, your hands flying to his shoulders, your thighs now straddling either side of him.

Jungkook just grins, watching your reaction closely, his grip on your hips tight, warm, steady.

"See?" His voice is low, playful, his eyes gleaming with mischief. "Totally fine."

You’re still too stunned to respond, completely frozen in his hold, hyper-aware of every inch of him beneath you.

"Though…" He tilts his head, pretending to think. "I might have been playing it up a little."

Your brows furrow, breath still uneven. “Playing what up?"

Jungkook’s hands slide down to your thighs, fingertips teasing the bare skin just beneath your shorts, and you shiver.

"My injuries," he admits, smirking. "Just a little."

Your jaw drops. “Jungkook—"

"I mean, come on," he laughs, completely unbothered by your glare. "Do you know how nice it’s been? You taking care of me? Fussing over me? Cooking for me? Sleeping in my apartment?"

Your stomach flips. “You— you lied?"

He shrugs, completely unapologetic. "Only a little."

Before you can respond, Jungkook’s grip tightens on your hips again, pulling you closer.

Your irritation melts into something else entirely. The second you shift against him, you feel it. The undeniable truth that he’s wanted you for so long, for so, so long, and now you’re finally here, finally his.

"Baby," he murmurs, softer now, his voice dipping into something more real.

You swallow hard. "What?"

His eyes search yours, tracing every detail of your face, like he’s memorizing you, like he can’t believe you’re really here straddling him.

"You have no idea," he breathes, "how bad I want you."

Your heart stops in its tracks. Because neither did you—or well, you had convinced yourself you were delusional. Not until now. Not until this moment, until the weight of him beneath you, until the soft press of his hands against your skin, until the way he looks at you like you’re something out of a dream.

You don’t know what to do with that. So instead, you do the only thing you can.

You kiss him again. This time, you let yourself feel it all.

It’s overwhelming the way he wants you. You’ve never been wanted like this before. Never been touched like you’re precious and ruined all at once. And the way Jungkook holds you—fingers digging into your hips, lips trailing soft, lingering kisses along your jaw, breath uneven as he tries to keep himself together—it’s undoing you completely. Because he’s not just any man. He’s Jeon Jungkook: reckless, untouchable, the best in the game, the kind of guy people worship from a distance. But right now, he’s under you, beneath you, pulling you in like he’s afraid to let go. Like he doesn’t just want you—he needs you. The thought of that, of him, the man who could have anyone, losing himself for you, it’s terrifying. It’s exhilarating. It’s something you never saw coming, but now you don’t know how to live without it.

You’re melting like putty in his hands, soft and pliant, your body responding to every single touch, every lingering press of his lips.

Jungkook groans softly into your mouth, his hands tightening on your waist, fingers digging in just enough to make your breath hitch. “Fuck, baby."

His voice is low, wrecked, like he’s losing control, like you’re unraveling him piece by piece. He’s always so composed, always the one with the upper hand, cocky, teasing, untouchable.

Now, he’s desperate. Now, he’s pulling you closer, his kisses getting deeper, slower, messier, his need for you spilling into every single movement. Now, he’s breathing your name like it’s the only thing keeping him grounded.

You whimper softly, hands sliding into his hair, tugging slightly, just to see what he’ll do, just to hear that soft, low groan rumble in his chest again.

His grip on your thighs tightens, his lips moving against yours hungrier now, like he’s been waiting for this, like he’s been waiting for you.

Jungkook’s hands roam your body like he needs to memorize every inch of you, like he can’t believe you’re real. His fingers trail over your waist, gripping your hips before sliding lower, tugging at the hem of your shorts, his touch both reverent and desperate.

"Fuck,," he rasps again, his lips brushing against your throat, his breath hot against your skin. His fingers dip beneath the waistband of your shorts, feeling the heat of you, his movements slow, teasing.

And then he feels it.

The dampness pooling between your thighs, the evidence of just how much you want him, how much he’s affecting you without even having to try.

Jungkook lets out a groan, his forehead pressing against your shoulder as his fingers tease along the seam of your panties, just barely touching, just enough to make you whimper.

"Shit, baby," he mutters, his hands tightening on your hips, his thumbs tracing slow, teasing circles against your skin. He tilts his head back, his dark eyes locking onto yours, pupils blown with something dangerous. “You’re soaked."

Your face burns, your breath catching in your throat, but Jungkook doesn’t let you shy away. His hands squeeze your thighs, grounding you, keeping you right where he wants you, on top of him, right against him, right where you belong.

"All this for me?" His lips curl into a smirk, but there’s something softer beneath it, something almost in awe, like he can’t believe you want him like this.

You nod, biting your lip, your hands gripping his shoulders as he presses you down against him, letting you feel just how hard he is beneath you.

"God, baby," he groans, his head tilting back, his lip ring catching the dim light as his hands slide over your ass, keeping you flush against him. His voice drops even lower, “You already feel so fucking good."

His fingers dip lower, playing with the waistband of your shorts, teasing, waiting. “Can I take these off?" he asks, his voice softer now, more careful.

The way he asks—so patient, so unlike the cocky playboy everyone else knows—makes your heart pound even harder. Because it’s him. Because it’s you. And because right now, there’s nothing in the world except the heat between you and the way his hands are shaking from how bad he wants you.

Jungkook doesn’t wait. The second you give the smallest nod—silent permission, quiet surrender—he moves.

One moment, you’re perched in his lap, your hands gripping his shoulders, your body still trembling from how badly you want him. The next, you’re on your back, legs spread wide over the plush couch, your pajama shorts and underwear long gone, discarded somewhere neither of you care to find.

Jungkook kneels between your thighs, his big hands gripping them, spreading them wider as he settles himself lower, his dark eyes locked onto the sight of your glistening core.

And fuck, he looks wrecked.

His lips part, a quiet, almost awe-struck groan slipping past them as he takes you in, his tattooed fingers tightening around your thighs. His tongue flicks out, wetting his lips, and you realize he looks hungry.

"Baby," he breathes, his voice thick, reverent, dangerous. He leans in, so close you can feel his breath against your slick folds, his nose barely brushing the inside of your thigh as he exhales a slow, shaky breath. "Look at you."

You whimper, your hips shifting instinctively, your body aching for his touch, for anything, but he doesn’t give it to you. Not yet.

Instead, his hands wander, sliding up your thighs, tracing the soft skin with slow, teasing strokes. His fingers spread you apart, just enough to make you squirm, his eyes locked on the way you glisten under the dim glow of the room.

"So fucking pretty," he mutters, almost to himself, almost like he can’t believe what he’s seeing. His thumbs trace along your inner thighs, inching closer, teasing, torturing.

"Jungkook—" Your voice is a breathless plea, a soft, desperate sound, and his smirk deepens at the way you need him.

"I know, baby," he murmurs, his lips hovering right there, his hot breath sending shivers down your spine. His fingers press into your thighs, grounding you, holding you open for him. "I got you."

And then, without another word, he leans in. His tongue flicks out, the first slow, deliberate lick making your whole body jerk, your breath catching as a strangled moan slips past your lips. His hands tighten on your thighs, keeping you in place, pinning you down as he devours you, slow and deep and messy

Jungkook is relentless.

The second his tongue continually flicks against you, slow and teasing, a sharp gasp spills from your lips, your fingers flying to his hair on instinct.

He groans, low and deep, like he’s never tasted anything better, his grip on your thighs tightening as he pulls you closer, buries himself between your legs. His tongue moves with purpose, savoring you, teasing you, then faster, filthier.

Your entire body jolts, a choked moan escaping you as you arch off the couch, hands yanking at his hair, but Jungkook doesn’t let up. If anything, he goes harder, tongue working you over, lips sucking, devouring every ounce of wetness you’re giving him.

"Fuck, baby,” he groans against you, his voice wrecked, almost feral, his fingers digging into your thighs. "You taste so good. So sweet, so messy for me."

You can barely breathe, your chest rising and falling in sharp, broken pants. No one has ever done this to you before, no one has ever made you feel like this, so completely overwhelmed, so utterly ruined just by their mouth alone.

"J-jungkook,” Your voice is a trembling plea, your fingers trembling in his hair, but he just smirks, his tongue flicking against your most sensitive spot, making your whole body tremble.

"Too much, baby?" he murmurs, his lips dragging against your skin, but his tone is mocking, almost cruel, because he knows you don’t want him to stop.

His lips wrap around your aching clit, a desperate, filthy pull that makes your legs shake, your back arch, a helpless cry spilling from your lips as pleasure crashes over you, too much, too fast, your vision blurring.

Jungkook moans against you, his hands spreading you wider, holding you there as he drowns in you, his tongue moving sloppier, hungrier, completely insane on the taste of you.

"That's it, baby," he groans, his voice thick with need, with something bordering on obsession. "Give it to me. Let me taste all of you."

You’re gasping, whimpering, unable to handle how good it feels, how intense it is. His tongue keeps working you over, lips sucking, his groans vibrating against your heat, dragging you through wave after wave of unbearable pleasure. You don’t think you’ll ever recover.

Jungkook can feel it, the way your thighs tremble, the way your body arches, the way your breath stutters like you’re teetering on the edge, right there, so fucking close. But he’s not done with you yet.

"Can’t get enough of you," he murmurs against your heat, his tongue flicking one last time before his lips part and, without warning, he slides two fingers in.

Your gasp is sharp, your body clenching around him immediately, and Jungkook groans, his fingers sinking deep, stretching you open as he feels just how tight, how warm you are.

"Fuck," he hisses, pressing his forehead against your inner thigh, his fingers stilling for just a second as his other hand grips your waist, holding you down. "So fucking tight."

You whimper, your hands flying to grip at the couch, your fingers scrambling for something to hold onto as he starts to move, slow at first, deep, deliberate thrusts, letting you feel every inch of his fingers. You look down at him, watch the way his dark hair falls over his face, his bottom lip tucked between his teeth as he pumps his fingers in and out of you.

He curls upwards, and you’re certain he’ll have to peel you off his couch tomorrow morning.

"Oh!” The sound escapes you before you can stop it, your body spasming, heat flooding your veins as he finds the spot that makes you see stars.

Jungkook fucking smirks like the little devil he is. And you knew he’d be good, knew he’d be more experienced than you, but you don’t even care as long as he doesn’t stop.

"There it is," he murmurs, his voice low, teasing, dangerous. His fingers work into you harder, faster, his thumb rubbing slow, tight circles against your clit, and you’re losing it, your legs shaking so bad you think you might collapse in on yourself.

"You gonna cum for me, baby?" he coaxes, his breath hot against your core, his lips right there, teasing, pressing soft, fleeting kisses against your swollen heat between every filthy thrust of his fingers.

You’re barely holding on, your mind spinning, the pleasure too much, but the way he talks to you, the way he touchesyou, the way his fingers move with such perfect precision, has you losing all control.

"I— I can’t, fuck, feels so good—" Your voice is wrecked, barely a whisper, your body fighting between holding on and letting go.

"Yes, you can," Jungkook growls, his pace relentless now, his fingers fucking into you with deep, slick strokes, his thumb rubbing your clit faster, harder. "Be good for me, baby."

He presses his lips to you again, tongue flicking in perfect sync with his fingers, sucking hard, and you break. A choked, helpless cry rips from your throat as pleasure crashes over you, so sharp, so intense, your entire body locking up before you’re shaking, your release hitting you like a tidal wave.

Jungkook moans against you, his fingers not stopping, working you through it, dragging every ounce of pleasure from your trembling body as you come undone beneath him.

Your chest heaves, your fingers weakly clutching at the couch, your skin burning as the aftershocks pulse through you. You can’t even think, can’t even process how good it feels, your whole body humming with warmth, satisfaction, something that makes you dizzy.

And then, Jungkook looks up at you.

His eyes are wild, his lips wet and swollen, his jaw tight as he drinks you in, your blissed-out expression, your shaky limbs, your lips parted as you try to catch your breath.

"Good?" he teases, his voice thick with pride, with something darker beneath it. He presses a slow, open-mouthed kiss to the inside of your thigh, watching the way you squirm, the way your cheeks burn as you try to look away.

But he doesn’t let you. His hand grabs your chin, tilting your flushed face toward his, his fingers still teasing you as he whispers, “Bet it feels even better to be inside you."

He stays between your spread legs, watching you like he owns you, like he’s still memorizing the way you look right now, completely spent, your body stretched out along the couch, your chest still rising and falling from the aftermath of what he just did to you.

With a low, deep exhale, he finally sits back on his knees, his hands moving to the waistband of his sweatpants, dragging them down in one smooth motion. His cock springs free, hard and aching, tip flushed and leaking, the very picture of desperation.

You swallow, your throat dry, your lips parting slightly as your wide eyes take him in. Jungkook doesn’t miss it.

"Like what you see, baby?" he murmurs, amusement flickering in his dark gaze as he wraps his tattooed fingers around himself, giving a few slow, deliberate strokes. A shiver runs down his spine, his head tipping back slightly, his breath coming out in a low groan.

Fuck, he’s mesmerizing. The way his muscles flex, the way his chest tightens, the way his lip ring glints as he bites down on his bottom lip. You can’t look away.

And maybe it’s the post-orgasm haze still clouding your mind, or maybe it’s the fact that you’re still so desperate to make it up to him, but before you can stop yourself, your voice comes out, soft and shy, “I can do it."

His eyes snap to yours, his hand stilling around his length as his breath catches, like he can’t believe you just said that, like he wasn’t expecting it from you.

"You wanna touch me, baby?" he asks, voice lower, rougher.

You nod, chewing on your bottom lip, heat crawling up your neck as you shift to sit up slightly, your fingers hesitating in your lap before reaching for him.

Jungkook doesn’t make you wait.

He stands up, takes your wrist, guiding you, wrapping your soft fingers around his cock, sucking in a sharp breath the second you touch him.

"Fuck,” he groans, his head falling forward, his hand tightening over yours as he helps you set a rhythm, slow at first, letting you feel him.

You swallow, watching his expression, watching the way his brows furrow, the way his jaw clenches, the way his muscles tense beneath your touch.

"Just like that, baby," he rasps, his voice strained, almost pained from how good it feels. His hand falls away, letting you take over, his head trained on your movements, his lips parting in a moan.

"Shit, you’re so good," he praises, his voice breathless. His fingers dig into his thighs, his stomach tightening as he watches you, his eyes burning in a way that makes your whole body shiver.

"Thought you were so innocent," he murmurs, his voice laced with something almost in awe, his breath coming out in sharp exhales as you continue stroking him, learning him. "And yet, you wanna take care of me like this?"

You nod, your fingers tightening slightly around him. Jungkook groans, his hand flying to your wrist, stilling you for a moment as he pants, “You’re gonna be the fucking death of me."

Your soft hands wrapped around him, your shy little glances up at him, your fingers trembling slightly as you try to please him—he’s never been this affected by anyone before. But he needs more.

With a sharp inhale, he stills your movements, his tattooed fingers wrapping around your wrist, gently pulling you away before he does something reckless like cum in your hand instead of inside you.

"Come here," he rasps, his voice rough, wrecked, his hands guiding you back down against the couch.

Your breath stutters, your body trembling as he hovers over you, his broad frame towering above you, his toned arms caging you in. His dark eyes flicker down, watching the way your chest rises and falls, the way your thighs part instinctively, welcoming him closer.

"You want to?" he murmurs, his voice softer now, more careful but beneath it, there’s still that same hunger and desperation.

You nod, a shiver running through you as you feel the thick, heavy weight of his cock drag through your folds, teasing, spreading your wetness as he positions himself at your entrance.

When he finally, achingly, pushes in, the first inch has you screaming. Your back arches off the couch, your fingers flying to grip his biceps, nails digging into the solid muscle as your body stretches around him, struggling to accommodate his size. “F-fuck, Jungkook!”

Jungkook groans, his head dropping forward, as he feels you, so tight, so warm, your walls squeezing him like you’re not used to this, like you’ve never taken anything like him before.

"Shit,” he grits out, his fingers digging into your hips, holding you in place as he forces himself to stop, his own body trembling from the sheer restraint it takes to keep from slamming into you.

"You’re—" His breath is uneven, his jaw clenching as he forces himself to be still. "You’re so fucking tight, baby.”

Your thighs tremble beneath him, your hands clawing at his arms, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes from how intense the stretch is, from how full you feel.

"Jungkook,” Your voice is helpless, your chest heaving as you try to adjust, try to take him, but it’s too much, too big, your walls clenching around him so hard he nearly loses it.

"Fuck, I—" He stops, his body shaking as he hovers over you, his forehead pressing against yours, his breath coming out in sharp, uneven pants. "I gotta—fuck, I gotta give you a second, or I’m gonna cum right now."

Jungkook has had experience, more than enough. He’s been wanted, worshiped, pulled into the heat of fleeting moments by women who knew exactly what they were doing. He’s kissed with confidence, touched with certainty, learned every unspoken language of desire and indulgence. He’s seen it all, had it all, lived it all. It’s stupid, really, how easily you unravel him, how the years of experience amount to nothing under the weight of this. Of you.

Your body pulses, your breath coming out in short, desperate whimpers as you struggle to breathe through it, your hands gripping his shoulders, anchoring yourself to him.

Jungkook stares down at you, his expression torn between awe and agony, his cock twitching inside you, begging him to move, but he can’t, not yet.

"Baby,” His voice is strained, his fingers brushing your hair out of your face, his lips pressing against your forehead, trying to soothe you. "Breathe. Let me in, just a little more."

You nod, your body shuddering beneath him, your walls still fluttering around him, so tight it’s driving him insane.

And when he finally, slowly pushes in deeper, you both break.

The second he feels you start to relax around him, your walls fluttering, adjusting, he loses the last shred of control he had left.

"Fuck, sweetheart," his voice is low, guttural, completely wrecked as he pulls out halfway before slamming back in, burying himself to the hilt.

The sound that escapes you is filthy, a high-pitched, gasping moan, your body jerking beneath him as the force of his thrust sends shockwaves through you.

He sets the pace, relentless, devastating. The wet, slick sounds of him fucking into you echo through the room, mixing with your choked moans, his ragged, heavy breathing. His cock drags against every sensitive part of you, the lewd slap of skin-on-skin filling the space, so loud it makes your face burn.

"Listen to that, baby," Jungkook groans, his lips hovering over yours, his voice dripping with satisfaction.

“So fucking wet for me,” He grinds deeper, pulling another moan from you, "Making a mess all over my cock."

You can barely breathe, barely think, the pleasure so intense it’s turning your limbs weak, your nails clawing helplessly at his arms, his back, anywhere you can hold onto as he ruins you.

"You hear that?" he murmurs, his lips dragging along your jaw, his hips snapping against yours at a brutal pace. His hands grip your thighs, spreading you wider, angling you just right so he can hit deeper, harder. "That’s all you, baby. That’s this pretty little pussy taking me so well.”

You let out a choked cry, your head tipping back, exposing your throat to him.

"Shit!" he groans, his lips latching onto your neck, sucking, biting, leaving marks he wants you to wear for days. His hand slips between you, fingers pressing against your clit, rubbing in tight, perfect circles.

Your whole body shudders, your walls clenching so tight around him that he hisses, his rhythm stuttering for half a second before he pounds into you harder, pushing you right to the edge.

Before either of you can catch your breath, he pulls out suddenly, completely, leaving you empty, a little gasp escaping your lips at the loss. But before you can even process it, he grabs you, his strong hands flipping you over onto your stomach, guiding your knees up, your body instinctively responding to him.

"Nah, baby," he groans, his voice low as he grips your waist, spreading you out beneath him. "Not done with you yet."

His hands drag down your back, fingers teasing along your spine before gripping your hips, tugging you up slightly, pressing your chest down against the couch cushions.

He slides back in. The stretch is even deeper like this, his cock sinking in at a new angle that has you screaming into the cushion, your fingers clutching the fabric like it’s the only thing keeping you grounded.

Jungkook snarls, his head dropping back for a second, the tight heat of you making his entire body shake. "You’re squeezing me so tight.”

His hands grip your hips hard, fingers digging into your soft flesh as he starts to move, his strokes slow, deep, deliberate, making you feel every inch of him, every ridge, every twitch.

"God, baby, could fuck you all day," he groans, his voice thick with something dangerous, something utterly possessive. His palm slides down, pressing between your shoulder blades, pinning you down against the couch. "Taking me so fucking well, so perfect for me."

You can barely breathe, your body so wrecked from how deep he is. You swear you feel him in your stomach. You can hear the obscene mix of your slick and his movements, the wet sounds filling the space between his groans and your helpless little sounds.

"Jungkook,” You choke out his name, your voice muffled against the couch, your body shaking with every relentless thrust. “F-feels so good, please k-keep going,”

"Shh, baby," he coos mockingly, his grip tightening as he snaps his hips forward, dragging another high-pitched cry from you. "Let me take care of you."

His free hand grabs your jaw, turning your head slightly so he can watch your face, his other hand still pressing you down, keeping you in place, keeping you exactly where he wants you.

"Too deep?" he taunts, a smirk in his voice, his thumb stroking your cheek as he watches the way your brows furrow, your lips parting, your body writhing beneath him.

You nod frantically, your breath coming in short, desperate gasps, but your hips still push back into him, still chase the feeling of him splitting you apart.

"That’s my girl," he groans, rewarding you with a rough, slow grind, making sure you feel every second of it. His fingers tighten around your throat, his breath hot against your ear.

His body is trembling, his grip on your hips almost bruising as he slams into you, chasing his release with reckless, desperate thrusts. He’s so close, he can feel it, heat coiling tight in his gut, every nerve in his body burning with the need to let go.

"[Y/N]," he groans, breathless, his fingers digging into your waist as he pounds into you. He’s barely holding on, his control slipping with every second, every pulse of your tight, soaking heat around him.

"Where do you want me to cum, baby?" he grits out, his head dropping forward, his jaw clenching as he fights to hold himself back, to wait for your answer.

And when you give it to him—when you turn your head just slightly, lips parted, voice trembling, breath hitching— “Inside me."

Jungkook snaps. In an instant, he pulls out, his hands gripping your waist as he flips you over, not caring how weak your limbs are, how spent you already look. He needs to see you when he finishes, needs to watch your face, your expression, your body taking it all.

His lips crash against yours, messy, desperate, all tongue and teeth as he slides back in, groaning so loud it vibrates through your entire body. His hands grab your thighs, spreading you wide, holding you open for him as he thrusts into you, deep, perfect, his cock dragging against every sensitive nerve inside you.

"Yeah?” he groans, watching you, his eyes wild, his chest heaving. "You’re gonna let me fill you up, huh? Gonna let me fucking ruin you? God, I’m going to give you kids one day.”

You nod, barely able to speak, your voice coming out as a helpless little beg. "Please.”

Jungkook grunts, his thrusts turning sloppy, erratic, and you can feel the way he’s shaking, the way his cock twitches inside you, so fucking close.

"Can I finish too?" Your voice is so soft, so breathless, so utterly wrecked, and when he looks down, when he sees it—the cream collecting at the base of his cock, the mess of slick covering where you’re both connected, dripping down onto the couch— he’s a goner.

"Yes, baby, fuck, yes. Cum for me,” He babbles out, almost incoherent.

His entire body jolts forward, his grip on your thighs tightening as he slams into you one last time, burying himself deep as his release crashes over him, spilling inside you with a helpless groan. His head tips back, his body shaking, his fingers gripping onto you like you’re the only thing keeping him grounded.

He feels it, the way your walls pulse around him, milking him, pulling everything from him as your own orgasm rips through you, your thighs trembling, your body convulsing beneath him. There’s nothing but heat and skin and the dizzying rush of pleasure crashing through you both, stealing the air from your lungs.

The room is filled with the filthiest sounds—his breathless groans, your high-pitched cries, the obscene mix of both your releases between your thighs.

He just stares.

"Damn, baby” his voice is barely a whisper, his eyes blown wide, completely wrecked as he watches his cum spill out of you, seeping from between your legs, making an absolute mess of both of you. “So fucking pretty."

Jungkook eventually collapses next to you, his chest still heaving, his body still thrumming with the aftermath of what you just did to each other. His skin is flushed, damp with sweat, his muscles trembling from the sheer intensity of it all. But the second he catches his breath, the second his brain starts working again, he reaches for you.

Strong arms wrap around your waist, pulling you into his body, pressing you flush against his overheated skin. His lips find your shoulder first, soft and lingering, before trailing up the curve of your neck, then your jaw, then your lips.

The kiss is slow, tender, so different from the frantic, desperate ones from earlier. This one is filled with something else, something deeper. His fingers smooth over your back, up your spine, soothing you, keeping you close.

"Hmph," he breathes against your mouth, his voice raw, reverent. His hands roam your body, gentle now, no longer gripping, no longer taking, just feeling, holding. "You okay?"

You nod, still trying to find your voice, still floating in the haze of him. Your body is gone, your limbs weak, but with the way he’s touching you now, with the way he’s holding you, you could stay here forever.

Jungkook hums, pressing another soft, lingering kiss to your temple. "You were so good for me," he murmurs, his lips brushing against your hair, his hand rubbing slow circles into your hip. "Took me so well, baby. My perfect girl."

His words make warmth bloom in your chest, your face heating, your fingers instinctively clutching onto him, like you need to hold onto something real.

You melt into him, bury your face into his neck. You smell the scent of him, musky and sweet and familiar.

"So beautiful," he whispers against your skin, his lips finding your cheek, your jaw, your shoulder. His fingers trail up your spine again, his other hand tangling in your hair, tilting your face up so he can kiss you again. “Don’t even know what you do to me."

You’ve never had a man want you like this before, and you don’t think you’ll ever want anyone else ever again.

｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆

The next few days pass in a soft blur of stolen moments: whispers exchanged in the quiet of Jungkook’s living room, fingers brushing absentmindedly over each other’s skin, laughter spilling into the air delicately, something fragile but unbreakable.

You’re not dating, not technically. He hasn’t asked, and you haven’t said anything, and yet…

He still grins when you walk into the room, still pulls you into his side when you sit next to him, still leans in just a little too close whenever he speaks, his lips brushing the shell of your ear, his voice a low murmur meant just for you.

You let him tangle his fingers through yours when you’re watching a movie together, let him play with the hem of your sweater when he’s feeling restless, let him kiss you, lazy and unhurried, in the middle of a conversation just because he can.

He’s letting you take your time, giving you the space to ease into this, to figure out what it all means.

God, you appreciate it.

Because with Jungkook, there’s no rushing. No expectations. No pressure.

Even though neither of you have said it yet, you know.

There’s a weight of his upcoming race, his comeback race, that lingers between you, unspoken but heavy, pressing against your chest like a storm waiting to break.

You know what it means to him. How much this race matters. How much winning it would mean for his career, for his legacy.

Yet, you can’t shake the fear coiling deep in your stomach, the memory of his last crash seared into your mind like a scar that refuses to fade. The sound of metal colliding, the gasps from the crowd, the way your entire world had tilted on its axis, throwing you into a free fall of panic and helplessness.

You don’t know if you can do that again.

You don’t know if you can sit in the stands, heart in your throat, watching him push himself to the very edge of danger, knowing that one wrong move could take him from you.

He knows. Even before you say anything, even before you have the chance to voice the tangled mess of emotions inside you, Jungkook notices. You catch him watching you when you think he isn’t, his sharp gaze softening whenever he sees the crease between your brows, the way your fingers absentmindedly fidget with the hem of your sleeve, lost in thought.

And then one night, while you’re curled up next to him on the couch, his voice cuts through the quiet. “You’re not gonna come, are you?"

You hesitate for too long, and that’s answer enough.

Jungkook exhales, tipping his head back against the couch, his jaw tightening for just a second before he looks at you again, eyes searching. Not angry. Not upset. Just… knowing.

"Baby," he says, voice quieter now, like he’s picking apart every thought racing through your head, "Talk to me."

You swallow, staring down at your lap. "I just— I don’t know if I can watch."

He doesn’t speak, waiting.

"Last time…" You inhale sharply, voice barely above a whisper. "Last time, I thought I lost you, Jungkook."

His eyes darken, his features softening in a way that makes your chest tighten.

"I know."

"You don’t," you murmur. "You don’t know what that felt like. Watching you crash. Not knowing if you were okay. Having to stand there, completely helpless, while everyone else ran to you."

Jungkook’s jaw flexes, his hands clenching into loose fists before he lets out a slow, measured breath.

"I get why you’re scared," he finally says. "But I need you there. I need you in my corner."

His words send a sharp pang through your chest, and when you glance up, you find him watching you so intently, like he’s trying to anchor you to him, like he’s trying to make you feel how much he means it.

"I know how dangerous it is," he continues, softer now. "I know what you’re afraid of. But I also know that when I look up from that track, and I see you there, nothing else matters. I race better when you’re there. I race smarter when you’re there."

Your throat tightens.

"You’re my good luck charm."

You don’t even realize you’re holding your breath until Jungkook reaches for your hand, lacing his fingers through yours. “Please."

And how the hell are you supposed to say no to that?

｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆

(pause.. authors note.. turn on ‘the alchemy’ by taylor swift for this part. thank me later.)

The energy is electric, the kind of palpable excitement that sits thick in the air, buzzing through the massive crowd gathered around the track.

Engines roar in the distance, mechanics make last-minute adjustments, reporters weave through the pit area with cameras flashing, and yet, none of it matters.

Because all eyes are on you. Or rather, on Jungkook, and the way he doesn’t even try to hide it anymore.

The moment he spots you, draped in his jacket, his VIP lanyard with his name hanging around your neck like a permanent claim, something flickers in his expression. Something proud, you think.

Then he’s walking straight toward you, completely ignoring the cameras, the crew, the other drivers waiting for pre-race interviews.

His manager clears his throat. “Uh, you have press, Jungkook.”

Jungkook doesn’t even acknowledge it. He just reaches for you, hands settling firmly on your waist, his grip warm, grounding, and before you can even react, he kisses you. Loud. Unapologetic. Completely and utterly certain.

You’re melting into him, hands gripping his racing suit, your heart hammering as his lips move against yours, slow and deliberate, like he’s trying to brand you into him before the race even begins.

When he finally pulls back, his thumb brushes over your cheek, a cocky little grin stretching across his face. “You look so fucking good in my jacket. Can’t wait to get home and rip it off you.”

You swallow, dazed, heat blooming across your skin. “You should focus on the race.”

“I am,” he murmurs, voice low, teasing. “I’m gonna be thinking of you the whole time though.”

And then, just like that, he’s gone, disappearing into the pit area, leaving you completely breathless, your lips tingling, your heart somewhere on the track with him already.

You hear a low whistle behind you.

One of his crew members, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed. “Yeah, we’re just gonna start calling you his girlfriend now.”

You stammer. “I—I’m not—”

“Sure,” his manager cuts in, grinning, arms folded across his chest. “And I’m an astronaut.”

Laughter ripples through the pit crew, but before you can come up with some kind of defense, the announcement blares over the loudspeakers.

You’re with his crew, standing in the VIP pit box, his manager beside you, engineers monitoring real-time data, the pit crew ready for anything.

You’re also clutching onto his manager’s arm like your life depends on it.

“Relax,” he mutters, chuckling under his breath. “You survived the last one.”

You exhale sharply. “That was before I knew how dangerous this actually is.”

His manager glances at you. “You’ve been paying attention, huh?”

You don’t respond, eyes locked onto the massive screen displaying the race track, the live coverage cutting between Jungkook’s car, the cockpit camera, the overhead shots.

Before you can prepare yourself for the impact, the signal goes off. The engines roar to life. And Jungkook is off.

Your heart jumps into your throat as his car flies forward, cutting into position effortlessly.

He’s fast—you always knew that. But watching him like this, seeing him maneuver through the chaos of the starting lap, weaving between other drivers with a confidence that borders on reckless, it’s something else entirely.

“You know he likes to push aggressive in the first few laps, right?” The voice beside you startles you. His engineer, watching the data on the monitor, tapping his chin in thought.

You nod. Of course you know.

Jungkook’s racing style isn’t just speed. It’s strategy, it’s unpredictability, it’s sheer talent that makes him one of the most feared competitors on the track.

Still, something feels off.

You bite your lip, eyes narrowing at the positioning of the cars ahead. The driver in third place is blocking the inside lane, forcing Jungkook to take a riskier approach.

If he goes outside, he’ll lose too much time.

But if he waits too long, he’ll lose the gap entirely.

You can’t stop yourself. “He’s not gonna make that pass on the outside.”

The engineer raises a brow, surprised.

His manager glances at you, amused. “Yeah?”

You nod, suddenly certain. “He needs to bait him into thinking he’s going wide, then cut inside at the last second. It’s the only way he’s getting past clean.”

The pit crew stares at you like you just grew a second head.

His manager laughs under his breath. “Damn. She really is his girl.”

And then, as if he heard you through the screen, Jungkook makes the move.

The driver in third takes the bait, moving to cover the outside and Jungkook cuts inside, passing clean, just like you said.

You exhale hard, your entire body untensing at once.

“Holy shit,” one of the crew members mutters, blinking at you. “You actually know your stuff.”

But you don’t respond, because you can’t take your eyes off the track, can’t take your eyes off him.

Jungkook is still in it, still pushing, still dominating the race, still looking absolutely unstoppable. For the first time since you got here, since you stepped into his world you finally realize: you’re not just watching anymore. You’re a part of this now.

The final lap feels like an eternity.

Your fingers are clenched so tight around Jungkook’s manager’s arm that you’re sure you’ve cut off circulation, but you can’t bring yourself to let go. Your heart is slamming against your ribs, your breath coming in shallow bursts as the cars blur past the final turn.

He’s in first place but barely.

The driver behind him is closing in fast, their front wing nearly grazing Jungkook’s rear tire, and it’s too close, too reckless, too much.

Your nails dig into your palms, your legs swaying restlessly. You can’t stand still, can’t breathe, can’t do anything but watch, helpless and desperate, as he flies toward the finish line.

The crowd is screaming, his crew is yelling stats into the comms, but it’s all just noise, buzzing around the only thing that matters: him.

"Come on, Jungkook," you whisper under your breath, hands tightening around the edge of your jacket. "Come on, come on, come on—"

The checkered flag waves.

The moment his car crosses the finish line, the world tilts, the tension shatters, and your breath finally, finally releases.

You don’t even realize you’re grinning, shaking, nearly collapsing from the sheer relief and overwhelming joy of it all.

The stadium erupts the second Jungkook’s car flies across the finish line.

The sound is deafening—a rush of cheers, of voices screaming his name, of reporters scrambling to capture the moment. Confetti bursts into the air, flickering under the bright stadium lights like a million tiny stars. His pit crew is going wild, throwing their arms up, chanting, celebrating the biggest win of his career.

But Jungkook doesn’t stop for any of it.

He barely lets the car roll to a stop before he’s unbuckling, pulling his helmet off, his eyes already searching.

He sees you.

Standing in the VIP pit area, his jacket still wrapped around your shoulders. Suddenly, everything else fades.

His team? The cameras? The press waiting to get their headline? None of it matters.

All he can think about is you.

So, he runs. Straight past his team, straight past the cameras, straight past the screaming reporters, straight to you.

Before you can even say congratulations, before you can fully comprehend what’s happening, you’re in his arms.

He lifts you clean off your feet, arms tight around your waist, his laugh breathless against your cheek, giddy, boyish, unfiltered joy.

Then he kisses you. Right there, in front of thousands of people. In front of the flashing cameras, in front of the roaring crowd, in front of his crew and the entire racing world. He kisses you like there’s no one else but you and him.

It’s not careful. It’s not slow. It’s pure feeling, pure adrenaline, pure Jungkook.

He kisses you like he’s been waiting his whole life to do it, like he couldn’t have gone another second without making sure you knew.

Your fingers clutch at his racing suit, your heart pounding harder than it did during the race itself, your body sinking into his like it was meant to be here, like it’s the only place you’ll ever belong.

Somewhere in the background, you hear the cheers get even louder, hear the reporters frantically calling his name, hear the cameras capturing every second of this moment.

But none of it touches you.

When he finally pulls back, you’re both breathless, lips swollen, his forehead dropping against yours as he grins, bright, wide, unstoppable. “Told you I needed my good luck charm."

You let out a shaky breath, laughing softly, hands still gripping his suit. Still holding onto him like you’re afraid to let go. “Jungkook, that was in front of—"

"All of them?" He grins shamelessly, still so out of breath. "Yeah, I know."

You giggle, pressing your forehead against his chest for a second. "Oh my god."

"What?" His voice is teasing, his fingers toying with the hem of his own jacket wrapped around you. "You didn’t like it?"

You open your mouth, ready to fight him on it, ready to pretend like you weren’t just completely, devastatingly ruined by that kiss but the words don’t come.

Because when you look at him, really look at him, you realize you’re done pretending. Suddenly, it’s not scary anymore. Suddenly, it’s the easiest thing in the world.

You swallow. "So am I your girl now?”

His breath halts, his fingers tighten just slightly on your waist, and for the briefest second, you see it. The relief. The realization. The pure, undeniable certainty that he’s got the girl.

He exhales, grinning so wide it could split his face in half, and tugs you in for another kiss, this time softer, slower, like he’s sealing the moment between just the two of you.

"You always were."

And as the celebrations explode around you, as the cameras flash, as his crew cheers, as Jungkook beams like he just won something even bigger than this race, you know, deep in your chest, in your bones, in every fiber of your being, there is no escaping this man.

You realize something with absolute certainty. This was never just about luck. It was always meant to be him.

｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆

extra extra note!

i wanted to thank you all again for reading this story <3 this OC means so much to me. with that being said, i never want to leave you guys hanging, so i’ll be doing 3-4 epilogue drabbles/blurbs based off your guys’ requests (bc it’s no fun if im just doing whatever i please, duhh)

send in some ideas (smut, fluff, even some angst) of what you would want to see as epilogue blurbs and I’ll choose the ones that inspire me :-) click here to send em in!

love you all… catch ya on the next fic <3

｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆

masterlist + request

taglist ; @yooniepot @bookstoread199 @pipipipiiiii @someonegoood @vintagemoonsstuff @kittisuuuuu @ttanniett @loonareads @jincapableoflove @jkxlvrr @taekrve @jenniebyrubies @senaqsstuff @somisarchive @somehowukook @mysjammy @busanbby-jjk @mimi1097 @mikrokosmosellen @indyuhhhhh @vantelover1306 @haru-jiminn @sky-23s-world @minimoninini @bighitfics

@outofworldvy @smartkive @dontcallmeelle @beomluvrr @tatamicc @seokout @ashslight @avawants2havefun @bjoriis @jjeonjjk7 @mar-lo-pap @parkinglot-nights @coletaehyung @mellyyyyyyx @magicalnachocreator @royalguk

[ddejavvu]

Hiii, hope you’re doing well! I’ve been obsessed with rewatching The Nanny and there’s this episode where Fran (the mc) reveals she has a tattoo but not the place, which leads to Maxwell (her love interest who she has an absurd amount of tension with) wondering where it is. Fran teases him constantly, and Maxwell checks her out endlessly and spends his time thinking about the tattoo and how hot it is that she has one. Could you write smth like this for poly!marauders? Maybe when theyre friends or at the start of their relationship. Honestly you could pull so many ideas from this series for fanfic. Thank youu so much!

"It's gotta be a tramp stamp." Sirius decides, "There's no other place on her body she'd be trying to hide from us."

"She could show us her back," James scoffs, "I bet it's, like, on her thigh or something. Y'know, right by the- well, she'd have to take off her pants. That's why she won't tell us."

"Maybe it's between her tits." Sirius snickers, "Or right on her left asscheek."

"Why the left and not the right?" Peter asks, "Maybe it goes across both."

"Right. It's James on one side and Potter on the other." James nods, blinding grin in full force, "She just can't admit that to me or she'd be embarrassed."

"Nice try." Remus had refrained from joining the conversation until now, but he leans in to murmur, "Marlene says she's seen it before."

"Where is it?" Sirius's eyes blow wide, surely jealous of the Gryffindor girl, "And what is it?"

"She wouldn't say." Remus admits, "But that means we're probably right. It's somewhere she can't show us."

"It's confirming our hypothesis." James nods, mouth set in a thoughtful expression, "We're using the scientific method."

"You're a genius," Remus snorts, "Anyways, I'll keep asking around."

"I'll ask Lily," James hums, faux-casually, "I think this time she'll-"

"She'll never tell you. I'll ask Lily." Sirius decides, "And you stick to Alex."

James's nose scrunches in displeasure at the thought of having to interrogate your unsavory ex, but their curiosity is eating them alive. They make to get up and fan out to search for more clues, but you come and plop down on the bench beside Peter, your hand already reaching for one of the breakfast platters.

"Morning boys." You hum, and Remus's eyes catch on black ink dotted over the base of your ring finger, "How was practice, James?"

"What's on your finger?" Remus blurts before James can begin rambling, and he realizes that the ring you typically wear is absent.

"Oh." You glance at your hand, shoulders stiffening slightly as you realize your secret is out, "I forgot my ring."

"That's your tattoo?" Sirius exclaims, incredulous and feeling just a little cheated, "Two letters? On your finger? What's scandalous about that?"

"I never said it was scandalous! I just said it was embarrassing." You defend yourself, "And it is."

"What is it?" James asks, and perhaps he's the only one that could have gotten it out of you, with the gentleness permanently present in his voice.

You groan, "It's the initials of a boy I like, okay?"

Sirius's head jerks back, surprised, "Were you together?" Then his eyes narrow further, "Are you together?"

"No! No, we're not together, he's-" You stammer, stuffing a bite of egg into your mouth to delay the inevitable, "He's not even real."

Silence and confused looks greet you, and you sigh, voice dejected, "He's a character from a book. Okay? And I was a little drunk and I thought it'd be a good idea for a stick-and-poke, but it was not as temporary as I thought it'd be."

"He's pretend." Sirius realizes, glee filling out his expression and making him beam, "You've got a fake man's initials on your ring finger!"

"Here comes the bride," James snickers, "Marrying a bloody book."

"Easy boys, let's not tease her." Remus seemingly takes pity on you, nudging his foot against yours beneath the table, "She's gonna be pretty beat up when he doesn't show for the wedding - we shouldn't make things worse."

[unicornlovers10]

Just a quick heads up here, I'm going to mention another series that was important to me (Under the definition of the Original Post). But I will be critical about it, I'm not sure if I should main tag this - so I'll be using the critical tags. Let me know if this needs to be trigger tagged, and I'll go back to edit this post to have said tag(s).

FNAF was also an important video game series to me, but it was mostly the games released before Sister Location (Also known as FNAF5). I'm referring to FNAF1-4 and FNAF World. Even though I know that FNAF World is a spinoff imo (At least when it was initially released).

But FNAF honestly lost me story-wise when Sister Location came out. It was mostly due to the constant retcons and inconsistencies from that point forward, and it also broke my suspension of disbelief.

Also, yes, I know that Scott stated that he only made one retcon with the release of Sister Location. But I don't really believe that. Because every time that a new book or game releases, there's a new inconsistency or retcon. Sometimes even multiple.

A lot of the things that Scott and Steel Wool have added to the series have either didn't add* anything good. Or took away from something that was good (looking at the book that "attempted" to retcon FNAF4, and made William Afton a ripoff of Scarecrow/Jonathan Crane). Also "good" in this context is referring to writing ideas/concepts/decisions that would actually improve the story and world-building.

I do have a lot more thoughts regarding Canon!FNAF, and most of it is critical of what the series has become nowadays. I try my best to tag it as "fnaf critical" (without the quotation marks), because I know that not everyone wants to read critical posts related to FNAF (or critical posts in general).

Although I do still see the potential of FNAF, so that's why I made an AU of it (@fnafremixau). I did originally create the AU around early 2015 (before the release of Sister Location), but I'm currently in the process of rebooting it. Since I need to iron out the inconsistencies from the old version of this AU. I'm also rewriting some of the ideas and concepts of Canon!FNAF, because I still think that they have the potential to be good (from a writing standpoint). But as they are now in Canon!FNAF, it's just not well-written.

*I know that some of the ideas/concepts/decisions introduced in New!FNAF (Sister Location onwards) have the potential to be good (from a writing standpoint), but I'm mostly referring to how they're executed here. The execution of ideas introduced in the newer games and books aren't good (from a writing standpoint).

Need for Speed Underground, Midnight Club 2, Mercenaries: World in Flames, Black, Quake II.

Honorable Mentions: Mech Warrior, Doom !&II. 

[bellatrixscurls]

cinnamon girl | a jegulus x reader series. pt 1

masterlist

summary : your father insisted that you be dating Rabastan Lestrange, for protection and security. But what happens when said boy wants to run away from his Death Eater duties, and a certain bespectacled boy lands him a hand, leading to something more than he could’ve ever imagined.

pairing: regulus black x malfoy!reader x james potter, initially rabastan lestrange x malfoy!reader.

specifications : 1. this will be an entire series, but please be patient with me. 2. reader is one year younger than Lucius. & 3. this series is full of surprises.

warnings : angst, fluff, swearing, eventual smut, arranged marriage, mentions of bruises and broken bones, Sirius being dramatic, eventual polyamorous relationship, death eaters, death

“Do you know what time they’ll be here tomorrow?” you ask Lucius exhaustedly, leaning your head against his shoulder as you walk together to the Slytherin dorms.

It has been a pretty long day. Your legs hurt and you want nothing more than to finally get to your dorm and pack your things for Christmas break.

He sighs and throws an arm around your neck, his own eyes closing from the endless studying he’s done these past weeks. “Eight thirty, maybe nine. I’ll have to tell Evan about that, he doesn’t really do mornings.”

You laugh weakly, finally reaching the common room as Lucius opens the door for you. You’re about to open your mouth, but are interrupted by the loud chatter of your friends.

“He did what?”

“How could he be so stupid?!”

“For Merlin’s sake, Rabastan!”

“Hey, guys. What are we cussing out Rabastan for today?” your brother falls on the sofa and you’re right behind him.

But they don’t seem to take Lucius’ amusement lightly, and you can see that when Severus stops tugging at his hair to turn to you, and so do your other friends. Their shocked expressions make you sink further into the sofa.

“He’s all bloodied up in the hospital wing right now. Apparently the idiot got into a fight with Potter and, well… Let’s just say that now he can’t move his right hand at all” Narcissa explains and your eyes widen. How could’ve James done that to him?

“From the shoulder down. Can you imagine?” Barty shakes his head and your brother, still beside you, gasps.

You throw him a dirty look before turning back to Narcissa. “Can we go see him? I think he’d want us to be there.”

“I mean, he is in a lot of pain and Madam Pomfrey said he might be there for a few days” Bellatrix chimes in, carelessly rolling her eyes as she stands up abruptly. “We could always just hex Potter, that’s something Rabastan would want.”

The raven haired boy’s eyes shoot up and lock with yours, carefully placing his book on the table. “I don’t know about that. What I do know is that I’m staying behind for Lestrange.”

“Yeah, cause that is so entertaining” Bellatrix mocks her cousin, going back to discussing hexing James.

Your frown slowly fades as you and Regulus maintain eye contact. You’ve always wondered how he could be attentive and protective of his friends, but still seem cold and uninterested all the time.

“Will you?” he asks suddenly, his demeanour still as calm as ever. You have to blink rapidly, and when you do, you swear that you can see the corner of his mouth tilt up.

“I’m- Sorry?”

“Will you stay here for the holidays? To keep Evan company” he muses, and you can tell by his tone that he is utterly amused.

“I wish. He’s my boyfriend after all” you sigh softly, chewing on your bottom lip. You hesitate at first, but still lean in closer to Regulus, so only he can hear. “But father wants me and Luce home on the 31st. He said that we have to meet someone.”

Regulus’ shoulders tense up and you notice his eyes widen a bit, but he still manages to brush it off like it’s nothing. “The 31st is still two weeks away” he inquires and you nod slowly.

“You’re right” you give him a small smile, resting your chin on your brother’s arm that was now sitting around your shoulders again. “You’re right, I’m staying here.”

The green eyed boy hums contently, picking up his book once again as he traces his pale, slender fingers over the pages. “Good.”

You’re left gawking at him, and now that his attention wasn’t solely focused on you, or so you think, you can finally relax. Even speaking a few simple words with him made you nervous, your heart throbbing against your ribcage.

🦢

Later that evening, you find yourself not able to sleep. You’re tossing and turning, and your throat suddenly feels dry.

You curse yourself for not bringing a glass of water, before you get out of bed, the cold air hitting your bare legs and shoulders. You put your slippers on and do your best to open the door without making much noise, as to not wake up your roommates.

The stairs are old and with the creaking sound they make, you’re more than certain that you managed to wake up someone. The common room was dimly lit, and that mostly thanks to the fireplace.

“Can’t sleep?”

Your eyes widen as you clutch your chest, breathing heavy and alert, but the fear quickly dissolves when you catch sight of Regulus.

“Why would you do that?” you scoff, but still feel your cheeks burn, now very aware of his eyes on you. You’re almost bare, your pajamas doing very little to cover you.

He laughs quietly and your chest fills with ease. “And I didn’t even try” he sets his glass of water on the table, resting his chin on the palm of his hand as he turns to get a better look at you. “You seem troubled.”

Regulus, always most observant. Damn him.

You sigh, walking toward the couch and plopping down next to him. “I’m just confused. I mean, Rabastan has a big mouth and sometimes that gets him weeks worth of detention. But he never gets… beaten up” you scrunch your nose, the words leaving a bitter taste on your tongue.

He nods, as if understanding why you’re worried. “I didn’t take Potter as one to break someone’s face either.”

“Exactly!” you beam for a moment, having been dismissed and laughed at by your brother earlier when you told him just that. “He’s been my partner in Potions since third year. The guy teared up when he saw some mosquito wings and I had to listen to his whole theory about how the mosquito must’ve had a family and they’re probably waiting for him.”

This makes Regulus laugh out loud, his hands covering his face as you sip your water, barely able to control your laughter yourself. “Tell me about it. He sits in front of me in Transfiguration. He turned Tammy Smith’s hair elastic into a ginger cat. It chewed on her hair and even scratched her scalp. Her hair hasn’t grown in that spot, and she has to wear a ponytail everyday. It’s been four months.”

“Right?! When I asked her why she refuses to wear her hair down anymore, she just glared at me” you giggle quietly, now feeling a little bad for her.

A comfortable silence settles between you two, and Regulus speaks softly after a while. “Someone should talk to James about it. I heard he’s in the hospital wing too.”

“Is he?” your bottom lip juts out slightly, and you look up at Regulus. “You’re right, someone should talk to him.”

He chuckles lowly, “I meant you.”

“Me? Why me?”

“Oh, come on” he draws out, his lips pursing, as if he’s trying to bit back a smile, or worse, a smirk. “He’s fond of you. You can’t tell me you didn’t know that.”

You hope that he’s joking, but when you look at him, searching his face for any sign of a joke, he’s serious. And it makes you wonder : Is James Potter actually fond of you?

“I think he’s just intrigued about us. I mean, Sirius barely lets us come near him. I can’t tell you how it’s like to brew potions whilst his eyes burn holes in the back of my head” you say, and in all fairness, that’s how it is.

James is a sweet, gentle guy, one that you would like to get to know better, but you just can’t. And it seems as though Regulus finds great pleasure in teasing you about it.

“You might be right” he shrugs, still not very convinced. He picks up his glass and stands up, walking toward the boys’ dormitories. He reaches the end of the stairs and comes to a halt, looking carefully over his shoulder, his words merely a whisper into the night. “Sirius leaves for about twenty minutes at lunch every day, in case you reconsider it.”

🦢

Your clock reads 11:01 o’clock when you finally gather the courage to leave your dormitory, heading straight toward the hospital wing. You’ve told no one, but deep down you know that Regulus is right. He needs to know that not all of you want to hex him for whatever it is he did to your boyfriend.

You finally reach the door and take a deep breath before slowly pushing it open. You figure Sirius should be gone by now.

The beds were empty, except for James’ and a sleeping Rabastan. You thank Merlin that he’s asleep.

“Y/n?” James calls your name, his voice hoarse and brows furrowed. Of course he didn’t expect to see you here.

“In the flesh” you force a tight lipped smile as you sit on the chair by his bed. His leg is bandaged, but other than that he seems just fine. “I didn’t know James Potter could fight.”

Your comment makes him smirk, “There’s a lot you don’t know about him. Heard he’s a pretty cool guy, doesn’t really pick fights either.”

Him talking about himself in third person makes you roll your eyes fondly, shaking your head. “I might not know this James very well, but I sure know who will pick up a fight if he feels like it” you sigh and look to Rabastan still sleeping peacefully, his bed just across from James’. “What did he say?”

His face flashes with something you can’t quite put your finger on, but he makes sure to ground himself, his signature smirk returning to his face. “He’s just got a beatable face.”

Your shoulders drop and James sighs defeatedly. Of course you wouldn’t give in just like that. “Fine, he got into an argument with Pa- Sirius. Mean things were said, he tried to hurt Sirius, so I had no choice.”

Liar. You don’t know much about James Potter, but what you do know is that he would never slap someone, let alone put them in the hospital.

You huff a laugh, eyes meeting his for the second time. “What did he say?”

“Oh- Well, now- Let’s just keep it at that” he says with a small smile, a very uncomfortable one at that. “You should go, though. My friends will be back any minute.”

You can’t help the scoff that escapes your mouth. He thinks that he can just lie through his teeth and then dismiss you like you’re stupid? You don’t want to give him that satisfaction.

You don’t say more though, and that leaves James with a heavy heart. You move nonchalantly, sitting in a similar chair, but now by Rabastan’s bed.

You did have a chance to say something, to snap at him or persuade him. But you didn’t.

It could get way more interesting than that.

[godmadeaterribleerror]

Chapter 12 - Watch You Work the Room

Series Masterlist - Main Masterlist

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

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

Word Count: 17.2k

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

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

Chapter 11 - Chapter 13

Read on A03!

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

“You got eyes, Sammy?”

“You know I-“

“Use ‘em.”

Sam sighed. “I- Why are you reading?”

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

It wouldn’t be. Dean would know.

He’d already checked.

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

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

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

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

“I was never suicidal-“

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

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

“Then why’re you defendin’ yourself-“

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

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

“I’m not-“

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

“Gee, thanks, Bobby-“

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I mean, they kinda do-“

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He was kind of done fucking trying to.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sam sighed. “Dean-“

“What.”

“We’ve talked about this-“

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

“What’s girl shit-“

“I dunno, I’m not a freakin’ girl-“

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

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

Sam frowned. “You mean makeup?”

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

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

It made sense why She’d taken so long.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sam frowned. “Three-“

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Shut up.”

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

Not when She looked like that.

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

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

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

And sometimes, they’d really fucking confuse him.

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

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

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

“What, killing him?”

“No, Dean-“

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Shut up-“

“Are you paying attention now?”

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

“You could turn up the radio-“

“You see me reaching for the dial?”

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

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

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

“Hit me, Princess.”

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

Dean snorted. “Appleton?”

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

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

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

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

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

He would fix it. 

But after. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What’s up-“

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

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

“You, uh, you just have these?”

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

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

Heavenly.

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

She was so fucking bright. 

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

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

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

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

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

“You drinking now, Princess?”

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

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

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

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

“We aren’t going to Vegas, De.”

“Not until after we steal the champagne-“

“We’re not stealing the champagne-“

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

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

“Yeah, you were-“

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

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

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

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

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

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

Son of a bitch, She was perfect.

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

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

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

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

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

One plate. Why did she only have one plate. 

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

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

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

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

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

A real smile.

And he couldn’t stop himself from grinning back.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“His hair, Princess-“

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Gotta pass the time somehow-“

“I can search alone, you know-“

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

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

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

“Get your own fucking champagne-“

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

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

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

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

He didn’t know how he’d gotten here.

He never wanted to leave.

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

She was so fucking awesome.

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

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

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

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

She snorted. “Who’s we?”

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

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

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

“I didn’t go to high school, De.”

“I- what?”

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

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

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

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

“I didn’t let me leave the house.”

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

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

“Did you go to like, elementary school?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What’s all?”

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

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

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

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

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

“Personal lives like marital status and kids?”

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

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

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

“What are we betting?”

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

“You- why?”

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

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

Dean scoffed. “No. I don’t-“

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

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

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

“Bossy-“

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Because it’s my game.”

“But-“

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Keep up-“

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

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

Her phone was in Dean’s pocket. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“A run for it-“

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

“Sam says to shut up.”

Dean scowled. “Tell him to shut up.”

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

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

“Sam says you’re a child.”

“He’s the child-“

“Dean says you’re a child-“ 

Sam snapped, and She rolled her eyes.

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

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

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

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

“Then I’m not-“

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

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

———

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You can’t lose Dean. 

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

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

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

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

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

“Shut up.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You sure you-“

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

“Okay.”

“What does that mean-“

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

“No, you said okay-“

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Like the arrowhead?”

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

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

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

“Then how-“

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Shut up.”

“Bos- Shit-“

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Do not break it down, Dean.”

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

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

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

He is. 

He doesn’t get to know that.

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

Dean shoots you an odd look. “Where-“

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

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

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

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

“Stabbed, Winchester. Gonna get stabbed.” 

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

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

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

“What’s wrong with you.”

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

“Dean.”

“I said nothing-“

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

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

“De, you’re being weird-“

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

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

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

“Yeah.”

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

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

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

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

For the Woman of the high, promised of Him. 

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

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

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

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

And then you’re gone. 

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

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

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

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

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

Dean. Where’s Dean-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Almost just Gold.

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

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

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

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

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

A claim. 

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

“I-“

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

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

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

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

“I don’t-“

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

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

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

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

Still Golden. 

Still about to be lost.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A crack in the armor.

Fear. 

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

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

He’s looking at you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dean. 

Everything falls back into you. And it’s loud—alarms blaring and people shooting from somewhere in the distance—but it’s just you and Dean in the whole world. You fall to your knees at his side because there’s never anywhere else to be, and you don’t know if you’re choking on the darkness, or the air, or your own heartbeat when you see the blood over his chest.

He’s supposed to have time. You’d seen it, on the mark, that he had time. Not enough time, but time. You still need to scream at him for being an idiot, and you need to pretend you hate him for doing this to you when it really just hurts, and you need more time- 

He’s making strained sounds that still sound too much like your name, but he’s so pale, and his eyes are barely open, and when your hand finds his brow he’s already cold.

And the Darkness is still bubbling at the surface. And you might hurt him but he’s always half-gone, and you won’t lose him. Not like this. 

“Dean,” you whisper, and you think you can feel your heart cleaving in half at the moan that escapes his lips. “I- I’m sorry. I didn’t- You’re- If this hurts, I’m so sorry. Just don’t leave. Please don’t go- I- Here-“ You grab his hand, and his fingers through your like it’s an instinct, but his grip isn’t as tight as it’s been before. “Don’t go. You’re not allowed to go, so fucking don’t. And I-“ You take a shaking breath, and you’re choking on the pain. The Darkness rotting and molding around your lungs, trying to claw out and fix this. 

You’ll let it. Just this once, to keep him, you’ll let it. 

“I’m sorry.” You whisper, and you know he doesn’t hear you. He doesn’t even move. “I’m sorry, Dean. But I won’t- I won’t.” Another stronger breath. No other way. 

You just need more time.

Your head bows to his chest, you press your brow to his shoulder, take a ragged breath that’s just to keep yourself together, and you let go. The Darkness falls out of you, right into Dean. Not just a drop. All of it.

It’s not painful. It takes you a second to realizes, but there’s no pain at all. 

And it’s not the Darkness, it’s the Silver. Flowing out of you like a breath and rushing through the Gold—driven on by the spiderweb and moving a little deeper into Dean’s body than you’ve ever known existed—as the stench of metal fades. 

When you lift your head back up, Dean’s eyes are fully closed, but his wound is gone, his breath is even, and his heartbeat is steady under your hands. 

But there’s something new. You blink at him, looking so peaceful—his face relaxed and full of color like nothing ever happened at all—and right next to that brand, there’s something that hadn’t been there before. 

It grooved and running over him like little cracks of iridescent color. Glowing and pulsing and rushing through his whole body, and they don’t look wrong but there something deep, deep under them. Shifting and humming and-

Silver.

You marked him. More than just one small spot, more than just condemnation. There’s Silver in the Gold because you’d lost control and marked him, and it doesn’t seem to be painful but you never should’ve fucking lost yourself, you should’ve found another way, should’ve tried harder to only let less of the Silver out, should’ve just called-

Sam shouts your name, and you hear him barreling down the hallway behind you. Dean shifts a little against you, leaning closer to your body, and you don’t know what to do. 

The knife is discarded on the floor, the hilt pressed right against your shin. 

All you can work out is that Sam can’t touch it. You remove your own knife from against your thigh—keeping one hand tangled in Dean’s—and replace it with the new, dangerous one, right as Sam stops at your side.

This is going to be hard. And complicated. And painful.

But you don’t know what to do. 

So you’re glad Sam is here.

“What the hell happened?” He breathes, and you take a deep breath, brushing your hand over Dean’s brow. 

He’s warm again, and something loosens in your chest. 

“We got jumped,” your voice is soft, but you’re afraid that you’ll wake Dean, and he needs rest. “The Assassins. But they went for Dean, and he got hurt.”

Sam drops to your side in a fraction of a second, and you don’t need to look at him to know he’s panicking. “Fuck- Where’d they-“

“He’s fine.” You mumble. “I fixed him.”

“You-“ You can feel Sam’s gaze on you as he says your name. You don’t really care. You don’t want to look away from Dean. “What did you do.”

“I fixed him.” You repeat, and Sam sighs.

“You didn’t use the-“

“I did.”

“And the demons-“

“I destroyed them.” You don’t like how passive you sound about it, but they hurt Dean. He’s the world, and they hurt him, and no guilt festers in your gut.

You hope it hurt. You hope that they didn’t end up wherever dead demons go. You hope that they spend the rest of eternity sufferings as a million disbanded particles, feeling the pain of everything the same was you always have.

Sam repeats your name, and there’s a caution in his voice that he’s not very good at hiding. “I thought you said you weren’t going to use it-“

“I know.” You shrug, finally tearing your attention for Dean’s pretty, consuming face and meeting Sam’s eyes. “And I don’t care.”

“Look, I-“ Sam glances down at Dean, running a hand over his face with a shake of his head. “I know you care about him, a lot. Like, so much I don’t really understand it, but-“

“Sam.” You say, keeping your voice so neutral it rots on your tongue, because this is going to kill you, but you can’t let it. Not when you still have time. “When is it going to happen?”

He blinks at you, his expression faltering slightly. “When-“

“When is his time up.” You whisper. “When are they coming for him.” and Sam flinches, but doesn’t deny it. You’d prayed you were wrong. 

You’re not that lucky. 

“I- did he tell you-“

You shake your head, and every movement is too much. “I saw it. When.”

Sam just stares at you, and you swallow. 

“Please, Sam.” You’re begging. There’s nothing else to do. “I- I need to know. Please.”

“Three months.” He mutters, and he won’t meet your gaze. “We- We should go. We can’t stay here, and this is-“ He sighs, shooting Dean’s sleeping body a glower. “This isn’t the place to do this.”

You nod, everything in you feeling a little numb, and help Sam haul Dean up between your body, shuffling him out a back door to the Impala.

Sam could’ve carried him. Dean’s not small, but Sam’s bigger and stronger, and it might have been faster to just toss Dean into Sam’s arms. 

But you think Sam knows now isn’t the time to pull Dean from your side. Not as your head continues to spin around three months. Dean has three months.

You can’t lose him.

But he only has three months.

You’ve never been so purely numb like this. There’s still the pain—increased tenfold and almost knocking you to your knees as the Darkness shreds itself apart—but everything else is numb. Not numb like nothing. Numb like too much. Numb like the spaces between the stars, filled with something but too big for it to be identifiable. The world suddenly too much in a way you’ve never experienced before, where it’s vast and cold and lonely like a pit left in your chest by something you’d never know was removable in the first place.

It’s numb like grief.

But Dean isn’t gone yet. He has time. You’d marked him in a way you know you’ll never forgive yourself for, and you’re almost strangling the Darkness to keep yourself upright—with nails and bitten lips and held breaths, by fucking force because there’s no other way—but you’d bought Dean more time.

And he’s here. He’s still here. Just for now Dean is slumped into your side on the Impala’s back bench, his head pressed into your stomach as he holds you like you’re a buoy in an invisible storm, breathing heavily but still breathing. 

You can hear him breathing. You can feel him holding you. You can run your fingers through his hair and feel him almost relax from the movement, and you can see every shadow of the road dance over his handsome face. You don’t need to grieve him now because he’s here, and he has time. 

You have time.

“I got the blade.” You mumble, tracing over the line of Dean’s cheekbones. “It’s in my- fuck-“ Your breath catches in your throat, and you look up to Sam as panic start to seize over your chest. “Sam, my knife-“

“I grabbed it.” He mutters. “It’s in my jacket. I know it’s important to you. It’s- Dean got it for you.”

You nod, hoping Sam can feel your gratitude, because you don’t know what to do. To say or figure out, and you’re stuck in loud noise and too much color like a broken TV, and you’d talk to Sam but you really can’t look at him, because he’s still one shade wrong, and you don’t know what to do-

“How’d you work it out?” Sam asks, his voice barely audible over the engine, and you swallow.

“I told you, I saw it. It was like a- sort of- I-“ You take a shaking breath, shaking your head. “I don’t want to talk about it. Please.”

Sam grunts, and time stretches so slow. You don’t speak again until you’re parked back at the motel, until Dean’s hauled back into bed—your bed, the bed you share, if you lose him you’ll have to learn to sleep again without Dean, and you don’t think you ever really knew how—and Sam drops in a chair, running a hand over his face with a long breath.

“I wanted to tell you.” He mutters, and you look up from the dresser with a frown. 

“What?”

“I swear,” he says your name, and there’s something in his voice that so desperate you can’t look away. “I told him, over and over again that he needed to tell you, but he- It’s Dean and he, I think he was worried you- Shit, he thought you’d leave-“

“I know.” You pull out the new blade from your thigh, turning it over in your hands. The words are still shifting, they still read the exact same, and the Darkness wants it almost as much as the White and the spiderweb are screaming for you to return to Dean’s side. “I have a theory about something. I’ll need to run it past Jo and Bobby, but I think I’m right.”

Dean would laugh and say you always think you’re right.

Sam just blinks at you. “A-“

“Theory.” You shrug, grabbing a spare, dirty shirt from the top of the dresser. “I’ve told you about all the colors, like with the arrowhead-“

“Yeah, but-“

“I think I worked out what they are. It- It really makes a lot of sense, and I don’t know how we’d confirm it, but-“

Sam says your name, his voice firm as you wrap the Blade in the shirt. “Why are we talking about this?”

“Because.” You whisper. “I- I need to.”

“But now that you know, you can help us-“

“I don’t know how, Sam.” You flinch at your own tone, and you have to brace a hand on the dress to keep yourself from the ground. “I- I can’t fix this, I’ll make it worse, I’ll make Dean worse-“

Sam mutters something, and you can’t hear him over your own short breaths or the ringing into your ears.

“I hurt him, Sam. I’m going to hurt him and I don’t know what to do- I don’t know what to do-“

You can’t breathe. Sam moves like he’s going to try to help you, but he’s too slow and too hesitant and you stumble back with a strangled, weak sound.

“I can’t- Please- I don’t- I can’t-“

You’re pressed back into the wall when Sam reaches you, and you’re too tired to fight. Too frozen to claw and scream, only able to take uneven breaths and sob into Sam’s shirt as it sinks further into you.

You’d hurt him, and you needed him like he could never need you, but you were going to lose him. Forever. No coming back, no spell or ritual or scream of his name to the sky bringing him back to your side. You marred Dean with the Silver, you’re going to lose him, and he didn’t trust you-

That one’s new. Dean didn’t trust you, and the broken sound you make is almost inhuman. Sam knew. Bobby probably knew. And Dean didn’t want you to know. 

He thought you’d leave. He didn’t trust you enough to know you couldn’t drag yourself away from him—not permanently, not in a way that razed every piece of your body more that it hurt him—if you tried. 

“I don’t want to talk about it.” You whisper, leaning a little further into Sam’s hold. “I- If we talk about it, it’s real. Please.”

Sam sighs your name, and when he pulls back his expression on yours unreadable, but he nods all the same. “You need to promise you’ll talk about it with him. For my sanity. Please.”

“I will.”

You’re not lying.

You will. You need to.

Because you kick your dress of like it’s poison on your skin, and take a burning shower until your skin is raw, and scrub your body with sugar until everything stings, and the Darkness is totally under your control, but there’s a thin layer of grime over your organs that’s made of Dean. 

Dean didn’t trust you. He wants you enough to keep you around, but he didn’t trust you. He thought you’d leave. He obviously can’t feel he pull—if he did, he know truly leaving is impossible—and that should remind you that you can never really have him, but it just hurts. 

It worms and whines over your heart, and it hurts. More than just pain in your body, pain in something deeper, a little to the right of your heart and bursting will dulled colors because this hurts. 

Dean’s right not to trust you. You wouldn’t trust you. You still haven’t told him about how wrong you are, but that knowledge doesn’t help. Knowing never helps. 

It just makes this hurt more. 

And you should get through this. You’ve always gotten through it. 

But you can’t say that with certainty. This is too much, and you don’t know what to do. 

You’ve always known what to do. And sometimes it was pain and isolation and suffering but it was something. And you’d known Dean was fine. Safer, even, without you there.

But you hadn’t been there, and you’d lost him without knowing it. If you’d been there you might have stopped it. You don’t know what it is, but you could’ve found another way because there’s always another way. You’ve always gotten through it, and you’ve always found another way, and you’re caught in the loop again, but you don’t know what to do-

You don’t know how you end up there—the world blurring in and out as you shuffle around, trying to find something that can keep you busy—but you’re lying flat on the bed, right at Dean’s side. Staring up at the ceiling and caught in the loop with no sign of breaking out. 

Sam said he was going out for a drink, and to call him if you need anything.

He just doesn’t want to be here when Dean wakes up. 

When you hear a throat clear, and a low groan escape his lips, and turn your head to find him already watching you. Looking right through your neutral expression with a small frown, shattering whatever composure you’d had in a just a second, just by existing.

Dean opens his mouth to say something. 

He doesn’t get the chance. 

“Why didn’t you tell me?” 

He blinks at you, frown deepening as he scans over your face. “I- uh-“

“The demon deal.” You whisper. “I know, Dean. I- Why?”

You don’t know what you’d expected him to do. Fight. Deny. Lie and spin his way around it. 

But he just… caves.

“Sammy tell you?” He mutters, and you’ve never heard him sound more hollow. No charm lining his tone, no fury laced through his every word. Just heavy exhaustion. “I told him not to tell you.”

“Why.” You repeat, pushing up on your palms to stare down at him. “Why, Dean, why didn’t you want him to tell me- I-“

“You didn’t need to know-“

“You don’t get to make that choice for me!” You half scream, and he doesn’t even flinch. “I- I don’t know why, Dean, I just need to know why-“

“You didn’t need to know. It’s not like you’re the one that’s dying, Princess.” He snaps, but there’s still no fight in it. You wish he would fight. 

Because you want to scream at him. You need to tell him that you’re furious because you are the one that’s dying. Some part of you that you’ve never understood is going to fucking die because Dean’s- 

You can’t say it. You can only be caught on repeat, curling into yourself as you shake your head over and over, repeating the only thing you can think of.

“Why-“

“Why what?” He grunts, and it’s still not angry enough. “Why’d I do something so stupid? Why’d I sacrifice everything for the one person I got left? Mom’s been gone, Dad was gone, you left-“ He pauses, blinking at you with a small shake of his head. “I- It was just Sam, he can live a life-“

“You can live a life!” You protest, digging your nail into your skin to keep yourself from reaching for him, and he scoffs.

“Yeah, okay-“

“I mean it-“

“I know you do.” He mutters. “But that’s not how this shit works-“

“I don’t care! I don’t care how anything works, I don’t care why you did it, I care that you didn’t fucking tell me-“

“Why, you gonna save me, Princess? Gonna work one of your best hunter tricks and pull one over on Lilith for my soul?” He raises his brows at you, and blink.

The Darkness is riot in your body, but caged all the same, and the Blade is over on the dresser, but you can see Dean. Right into him. Past the skin and bone and tissue, right into him. 

He’s vulnerable. There’s something that’s deep, deep in his eyes that you’ve never seen in full light before, but something is shifting and it’s like a floodlight has pushed right through it. As if all the stars concentrated into one thing and aimed to the ocean, looking right down into its trenches and pits and seeing every bit of life hidden under. 

There’s so much color. It’s luminescent and strange and lonely, but there’s so much. It’s beautiful. Dean’s beautiful. Even when you want to fucking murder him, he’s beautiful.

He’s waiting for you to leave. You can see it. How he’s tensed to build up some barricade to prevent a flood of burning gold. How those cracks you’d left on him are already festering, preparing for your departure. 

And that’s something you can do.

You can prove him fucking wrong, and keep him, and save him. 

He’d said it like it was a joke.

You mean every single word that spits out of your mouth.

“You’re not going to die.” 

He grunts, still just staring at the ceiling, and you lean over to eclipsed the ceiling light. He needs to see you.

“I’m not fucking leaving.” You hiss, and he stares at you with a slightly parted mouth. He’s Golden. He’d have to toss you away with his bare fucking hands and bullets, and even then, you’d still crawl back. 

Dean says your name slowly, and you shake your head.

“Partners, Winchester.” You snap. “Safer together, remember? You’re not dying on my watch, so suck it the fuck up.”

Something strange flashes in his eyes, and his voice slightly hoarse. “You should go. Now. Before Sammy gets back.”

“No.”

“It’s your best shot-“

“I don’t fucking care. You’re fucking stuck with me, asshole, and we’re getting you out of this if it kills all fucking three of us. Got it?”

He scans over your face, then down your body, and you don’t understand the expression on his face at all. 

“No.” He mutters, his gaze stealing slightly as it meets yours, and there it is. The fucking fight. “You’re not dying, Princess.”

“You’re not the boss of me-“

“Yeah, I got that, but if you die, and I’m dragging you to hell with me. Swear you won’t die.”

He raises his pinky, and you blink. He looks like he wants to kill you. 

He’s making you pinky promise.

You raise your own slowly, but narrow your eyes and yank it back at the last second.

“Anything else you need to tell me, Winchester?”

“Nah.” He shrugs. “Deal’s kind of a limit one per customer thing.”

He’s smirking. You don’t laugh.

“We’re doing this my way.” You snap. “Got it?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“You keep something like that from me again, I’m killing you myself.”

“Got it. You gonna just keep making demands about my death-“

You hook your pinky through his, and shake it firmly.

“Stop calling it your death.” You snap, leaning back to lie at his side. Keeping your pinky hooked. “You’re going to be fine, you fucking idiot.”

He chuckles. “Bossy.”

You roll your eyes, and decide to strangle him later. After this is done, you’ll shout at him all you want. 

But you have three months, and it’s not enough time, but you’ll make it enough time. The only thing you won’t do is use the Darkness—you won’t hurt him further, and he still doesn’t know, and that’s too fucking dangerous and complicated to touch—but you won’t need it.

You only need Dean. And he’s not allowed to die. 

So you’re not going to fucking let him.

End Note: That might have been the most Babylon chapter I've Babyloned yet.

Thank you so so so much for reading!! If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3

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[physalian]

The thing about this is—and I’ve said it before—putting your characters in a situation where them not knowing what to do can be just as compelling and even easier to write than if you try to skate by on “idk this looks cool” for a character who should be an expert in their field.

I am not an experienced battle tactician, and I write fantasy and scifi, and I also hate blocking and choreographing big fight scenes with a lot of elements.

A few things I’ve done instead of a straight up A vs B battle are below. Character cannot rely on their otherwise expertise in this situation because doing things the right and smart way is…

Too expensive (money, resources, or time)

Too risky with unplanned collateral around them

Too dangerous

They’ve been caught completely unawares

They’re impaired in some way (drunk, drugged, blinded, deafened, anesthetized)

They’re majorly emotionally compromised by some other event and not thinking straight

I have a character who is a living weapon and a veteran of warfare. I am not either of these things. The mechanics of the war he fought relied heavily on being insanely reckless with his health, and half-hoping he’d never make it back from any one mission. Due to magic, if he went and lost a limb on the battlefield, a mage could just make him a new one. He was very, very hard to kill.

The current plot takes place after the fact, when that magic is unavailable. When he gets caught in Situations, all his training relies on tactics he can no longer use, so he’s constantly having to improvise, on top of being traumatized. Therefore, his dumb mistakes and erratic behavior are perfectly in-character for him and make sense for his powers and the world when he can’t spam the insta-kill button without serious consequences like he used to.

But, obviously, not everyone is writing that type of character.

In my other series, I have so far one big battle scene fought entirely by immortal vampires who have been ambushed in their own castle. This battle is an uncoordinated mess, but (I think) it works for a few reasons:

This is a post-war setting and many vampires in this fight have no actual battle experience and just are not prepared for this. They haven’t trained in a coordinated effort in any capacity, as no one ever believed they’d have to.

They left a massive hole in their defenses open that no one would ever think to exploit and the initial surprise attack sends the competent leaders of this resistance scrambling to get their orders heard and keep people from scattering

Because of this surprise, the competent leaders quickly get spread thin trying to patch leaks in the metaphorical dam, and, without phones or radio, lines of proximity communication get cut instantly, and no one has any idea where anyone else is, all now with suddenly different and critical priorities like fires, vulnerable mortals, and a zombie horde scaling their wall.

Basically, I’ve put my characters into a situation that they were horrifically unprepared for, so the emphasis of the story focuses less on actual tactics and more on the creativity and ingenuity of individual characters backed into a corner.

—

Both of these work really well for the stories that I’ve set out to tell, because I know my strengths and duct-taping a scene together with two real, competent armies going at each other just isn’t in my wheelhouse. You don’t have to write the big coordinated battle scene just because it’s popular in your genre. You can set up the stakes and elements in your favor to remove the need to study complex strategies if the situation the characters are in demands all that pre-planning or expected knowledge just isn’t useful or isn’t possible.

In both of these books, should the day come when I do need to have a coordinated campaign war effort, I already have my secret weapon: In both books, neither hero side ever has the numbers for a proper battle, they always have to rely on guerilla warfare, ambushes, and pretty dirty tricks.

Which are a whole lot easier to plan and visualize as a lone writer than studying battlefield mechanics at the scale of tens of thousands with infantry, cavalry, archers, and heavy weapons.

Make it easy on yourself and, well, write what you know.

the problem with knowing things about battle tactics is that an ever-increasing subset of popular media becomes impossible to enjoy properly because you have to sit there like 'wow Captain Protagonist good to know all those dead people on your own side are a direct result of your total lack of anything resembling brains'

[notbecauseofvictories]

Just saw your post about graphic novels that intrigued you and it intrigued me too. Would you mind sharing which graphic novels have you read that you'd recommend or that affected you in interesting ways? Thank you!

When it comes to graphic novels, I tend to prefer the slightly idiosyncratic, and definitely adult. While I did like The Night Eaters, and Something Is Killing the Children (my first experience really dipping my toe in...) I learned very quickly that (a) I can't do anything with even a whiff of YA, and (b) series are not my forte. But that's okay, because this space also has a lot of artists writing and illustrating for adults, really putting the "novel" in "graphic novel."

I've talked before about Junji Ito and Alison Bechdel, so I won't repeat myself---though I do still love Bechdel's work with the unspoken, prickly edges of things; I think very fondly of that weekend I spent reading badly-translated jpegs of Ito's work, the sense of destabilization and disorientation it left me with.

A list of some other works that stand out, in no particular order:

The Third Person, by Emma Grove, which delves into the experience of someone with multiple identities, each with its own relationship to gender. Especially if you're about to read Catriona Ward's The Last House on Needless Street for book club, I think this should be a required pairing.

If you're looking for something that captures the mundane struggle of making a life (similar to Will McPhail’s In.) there are lots of options! I'd recommend Roaming, by Jillian and Mariko Tamaki, or maybe It's Lonely at the Centre of the Earth, by Zoe Thorogood. I think Roaming might be stronger as a narrative, but It's Lonely is an imaginal and imaginative chronicle of that struggle to make a life, make art---though it didn't work for me as a narrative, the visuals stand out to me as beautiful, surreal in exactly the way I like.

I liked The Underwater Welder, by Jeff Lemire, for very similar reasons---the bits about a son trying to grapple with the legacy his alcoholic, semi-neglectful father didn't land, but when the narrator dives deep into the bay and encounters an abandoned ghost town where his own used to be? That was haunting.

If you enjoy Bechdel and Grove's work, then Julia Wertz's Impossible People is similarly a delight, and grapples thoughtfully with the narrator's alcoholism; it just didn't quite land for me in the way I wanted it to.

(Is this where I admit that I did like Blink, by Christopher Sebela et al? It's very old school scifi and almost cinematic in its approach, makes very few apologies for it, but the art is so, so divine.)

One of the most idiosyncratic was Paying for It by Chester Brown; an illustrated manifesto about the values of paying for sex, and the lives of the sex workers the narrator encounters. Honestly the most interesting part of this one was the fact that Brown has clearly thought about this subject a lot, and talked to everyone in his life about it. Some of the afterwords aren't from him---they're from his friends, who watched this from the outside, and share their perspective on how Brown has chosen or defends his approach to sex.

The even better news is that there are lots of DIY artists in this space as well! I have my own favorites close to home, plus I bought multiple copies of the Kentucky Route Zero fanzine, and I was lucky enough to snag some of the work offered as part of the Shortbox Comics Fair.

In particular I loved Stevie B.'s Dr. Limos Plays God (I'm a sucker for a clone identity crisis!), Otava Heikkila's Home by the Rotting Sea (which has some very fun Octavia Butler echoes), Narsid's Last Crane (lovely, and quite sad), and also Ver's Sacred Bodies, which has the dubious distinction of making me think "this better not awaken anything in me" for the first time since Crimes of the Future.

All this to say...graphic novels are neat, I enjoy them, but it's a bit like watching a movie with subtitles. I mostly understand what's going on, but I think I'm missing some of the finer shades and nuances that would take my experience to the next level.

[gryfflepuffinthetardis]

Favorite Spencer Reid Fics Rec List

Here are a list of my favorite Spencer Reid fics. I don't do reblogs on this blog because I feel that it can clutter up a blog when you're trying to find the blogger's things but I also wanted to share my favorites, so I think I'll do some rec lists. This is just some that are currently my all-time favorites at the moment. I have a lot of them so this list may not be all of them but some of them. I have a separate private blog where I have over 80 drafts of rec fics but those are just for myself, just because I have so many likes that I can't find the ones I want when I want to so I may copy some and bring them public here. Thes are mostly ones that I've liked and reliked just so they'll be a the top of my likes list (is that annoying to the bloggers?)

I purposely kept the angst and smut fics on here to a minimum on this one but I may update this list or create more. The draft lists I have are more according to the subject matter of the fic so if anyone would like that I could do that. There's also a lot of fic writers that I didn't mention on here so I think I'll do a list of my favorite Spencer Reid fic writers.

Fluff -- 🍬

Angst -- 😢

Smut -- 💦

Smut-like/Mention of smut -- 💧

Drinking -- 🍺

Drunk -- 🥴

Secret Relationship -- 🔒

Post-Prison Spencer Reid -- ⚖️

BAU!Reader -- 🕵️‍♀️

Trigger warnings/Blood/Involved in a case -- 🩸

Drugs/Spencer's drug addiction -- 💉

Dad!Reid (I LOVE SPENCER AS A DAD! I MEAN, WHO DOESN'T!) -- 👶

Slow Burn -- ❤️‍🔥

Cat Adams -- 🐈‍⬛

One-Shots

My Girl -- 🍬💧 -- @reidslibrarybook

Infestation -- 💧🔒🕵️‍♀️ -- @reidslibrarybook

Suspenders, Ties, Cuffs -- 💧🍺🥴 -- @reidslibrarybook *I love drunk Spencer. He's just so funny*

Rib Cage -- 😢🩸 -- @imagining-in-the-margins

Don't Go -- 😢💦💉 -- @moon-light-jukebox

Germs -- 🕵️‍♀️😢🩸💦 -- @moon-light-jukebox

Tease -- 🕵️‍♀️💧💦1️⃣0️⃣ -- @moon-light-jukebox

I've Got My Eye On You -- 💉😢💧 -- @unseededtoast

Exposed -- 🍺🥴🔒 -- @gf2bellamy

Drunk -- 🥴🍺 -- @gf2bellamy

Reid My Lips -- ⚖️😢💧 -- @fortheloveofwonderland

Multi-Parter

All I Do is Try Try Try, I'm Still Trying Everything -- ⚖️🕵️‍♀️💧 -- @pencil-n-pen

The Holiday -- ⚖️💦 -- @g4rvez-r3id (There is currently no part two)

That Wicked Love Part One, Part Two, Part Three, Part Four, They Never Will, Unconventional-- ⚖️😢👶🩸💧💦 -- @aperrywilliams

Don't You Want Me? -- 🍬💧💦 - @nereidprinc3ss (I think I was accidentally blocked (I never directly interacted with them other than liking their posts, so I have no other understanding for why I was blocked) and I have no other way of contacting the owner of this blog so I can't link the masterlist of this series and I had to type out the full blog name. This was my all time favorite series before I was blocked though.)

A Muted Shade of Green -- ❤️‍🔥🩸🐈‍⬛😢💦 -- @dalamjisung

Spencer Reid x OC (This one is not directly a fic but it's like stills-version of one. I don't think there's a masterlist so I just put the blogger's tag link for it to see the story in chronological order just scroll to the very bottom and go up from there.)

Spencer Reid and Alison Strauss -- 🍬💧😢 -- @marril96

*I haven't updated lately because I was working on Valentia (My Spencer Reid x OC fic) on my Wattpad account, but I just finished the first book (seasons one to seven) and I'll start uploading them here soon.*

[sixeyesonathiel]

a guide to ditching the world’s most persistent nerd!

CH02 – the psychology of making gojo satoru fold

pairing - nerd!gojo x baddie!reader

summary : gojo satoru has been the bane of your existence since kindergarten. you invited him to play during recess? he chose studying instead. you tried to give him chocolates? he rejected them for the sake of your dental health. you called him boring and never looked back.

years later, you’re a party girl with daddy issues, and he's the smartest, richest, greenest green flag at your elite university. when you're paired up for a project worth 60% of your final grade, you think you can slack off—except gojo keeps finding you at every exclusive club, dragging you back to work like the menace he is.

you flirt to distract him, he humors you. you push, he pulls. you seduce, he tucks your hair behind your ear and looks at you like you're the most precious thing in the world.

oh no.

tags -> modern au, university au, tooth rooting fluff with a side of light angst, unresolved romantic tension, suggestive themes, gojo satoru is a green flag menace, reader has issues, power struggles but gojo is unaware he's in one, forced proximity via group project, reader tries to ditch gojo satoru and fails spectacularly, pining disguised as irritation, rich kids and their rich kid problems, the art of denial, humor (i hope), eventual happy ending

previous | series masterlist | next

chapter summary : step two in ditching the world’s most persistent nerd: don't let him drag you out of a party. don't let him make you do actual work. and absolutely do not, under any circumstances, fall asleep.

the elevator ride up is quiet, save for the soft hum of the city outside and the distant mechanical whir of the lift ascending. your head still feels light from the alcohol, but your steps remain steady, heels clicking against the pristine marble floor when the doors finally slide open. the moment you step inside his condominium, you’re hit with the undeniable scent of wealth—sleek furniture, dim lighting, and a view so expansive it looks unreal. figures. you slip his knitted jacket off and toss it onto the nearest chair, stretching lazily, the hem of your dress riding up just enough to tease. “not bad,” you remark, eyeing the extravagant space. then, with a smirk, “where do you keep the bodies?”

satoru doesn’t even blink, already unbothered as he loosens his collar and drags a hand through his snow-white hair. “depends,” he muses, voice smooth. “you planning to add to the collection?” his eyes flicker over to you—assessing, knowing—but he doesn’t entertain the game, simply gesturing toward his study before walking toward the kitchen. annoying. you roll your eyes, but your gaze lingers on the door he motioned to, curiosity piqued. you strut past him, hips swaying just slightly, the party dress hugging your figure, knowing full well how much skin you’re showing. but he doesn’t bite. doesn’t even look twice. even more annoying.

the second he’s out of sight, you do what any respectable person would do: snoop. the study is almost too neat, shelves lined with thick business books, economic journals, and textbooks with titles long enough to put you to sleep. you run a finger along the pristine desk, noting how not even a speck of dust dares to settle here. no secret safes, no love letters, no hidden scandals—just papers, numbers, and more numbers. you grab a random notebook, flipping through. first page: a financial breakdown of some high-end luxury brand. second page: risk assessment models. third page: an obnoxiously perfect forecast analysis, complete with color-coded graphs. of course.

you throw your head back with a groan, dramatically collapsing into his chair. "even his handwriting is perfect,” you mutter, dragging a hand down your face. the numbers blur together, boredom setting in fast, but before you can dig any deeper, footsteps approach. by the time satoru returns, electrolyte drink in hand, you’re already leaning against the desk, flipping through one of his books with all the enthusiasm of a dying flower. you don’t bother looking up. “so this is what you do in your free time?” you deadpan, voice flat. “thrilling.”

he quirks a brow, setting the bottle down beside you. “what, expecting something more exciting?” his voice carries amusement, as if he already knows your answer. you wave a lazy hand, flipping another page. “i dunno. secret stocks, offshore accounts, blackmail files—something shady.” satoru snorts, shaking his head. “do i look like a criminal mastermind to you?” his tone is teasing, but there’s something in the way he leans against the desk, casual yet calculating, that makes you tilt your head. you examine him—his ridiculous glasses, his perfectly pressed shirt, the smug way he watches you. “honestly?” you hum, “kinda.”

he makes a thoughtful sound, like he’s considering it. “if i were, you’d be the first person i’d test my tactics on.” the statement is lighthearted, but something in his tone makes your skin prickle. your eyes narrow. “that sounds like a threat.” he grins, slow and easy, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “then you better behave.”

you don’t glorify him with a response. instead, you watch as he moves to the large table in the center of the room, pulling out his notes and flipping through them with practiced ease. the overhead lights cast a soft glow over the sleek wood, papers neatly stacked, his laptop booting up with an efficient ding. he drops a second laptop in front of you, then slides his notes across the table without so much as a glance your way. “you type, i analyze.” it’s not a request—it’s an order. you cross your arms, unimpressed, but tilt your head anyway, lips curving into a pout. “you don’t want me to think?”

satoru barely gives you a glance, adjusting his glasses with a single flick of his fingers. “i don’t want you to delete all my hard work out of spite.” his voice is flat, but there’s the smallest twitch at the corner of his lips, like he’s expecting you to argue. you click your tongue, feigning deep offense as you place a hand over your heart. “i’d never.” but the second your fingers graze the keyboard, you realize something far more tragic—you actually hate this. your eyes skim the numbers, the figures, the graphs, and already, your patience begins to thin. numbers are boring. so boring.

your fingers slow, trailing lazily over the keys, and then you sigh, pushing your chair back just enough to stretch. “you know, satoru,” you purr, letting your voice dip just enough to be interesting, “i focus better with some positive reinforcement.” your arms press together as you lean forward, showing just the right amount of skin, a slow, practiced motion. your lips curve at the edges, testing, teasing. his response? a hum, low and absentminded, as he continues scanning his notes. “you want a sticker?” he muses. “gold star?”

you roll your eyes, shifting in your seat, letting the movement be slow, deliberate. the silky strap of your dress slips down the curve of your shoulder, barely-there fabric gliding against your skin, baring just enough to invite a second glance. the dim lighting of the room does you favors—casting warm shadows against your collarbone, catching the glint of your earrings as you tilt your head, exposing the delicate line of your throat. your lashes lower, gaze lidded, lips parting just slightly as you murmur, voice dipped in something softer, something sweeter. “maybe something more… personal?” it’s a challenge, subtle but clear, one that lingers in the air between you, waiting to be acknowledged.

and satoru, for the first time tonight, actually looks.

not a passing glance, not an absentminded flicker of his gaze—he looks. lifts his head, eyes tracing the lines of you, assessing, lingering just long enough for your skin to prickle under the weight of it. there’s no shift, no subtle hitch in his breath, no betraying sign of discomfort. instead, there’s only scrutiny, razor-sharp and deeply amused, like he’s already five steps ahead of you. his lips twitch at the edges, an almost-smirk, his head tilting just slightly. “oh, so this is your strategy.”

you lean in, slow, predatory, the air between you thinning, charged with something unspoken. your smile is practiced, effortless, dipping into something dangerously close to a smirk. “is it working?” your voice is silk and smoke, laced with honey, designed to pull—to draw him in, to tip the scales in your favor. your fingers toy with the hem of your dress absentmindedly, your posture relaxed, calculated. and for just a moment—a fleeting second—you swear you see something shift behind his eyes, something thoughtful, something unreadable—

but then, effortlessly, like it’s nothing, he reaches out.

his fingers are light, the briefest brush of warmth against your skin as he catches the fallen strap between two fingers, lifting it with infuriating ease. he doesn’t let it linger, doesn’t let the moment stretch—just sets it back into place with the casual indifference of someone fixing a crooked picture frame. your breath catches despite yourself, but he’s already leaning back, settling into his chair with all the ease in the world.

you blink.

he smirks. relaxed, arrogant, unbothered, as if the entire thing had been boring, as if you hadn’t been trying to test him, as if he hadn’t just won without breaking a sweat. “try actually doing your job.”

you huff, shifting in your seat, fingers stilling on the keyboard just long enough to glare at him. “you’re the worst kind of man,” you mutter, just loud enough for him to hear, just pointed enough to make sure he knows you mean it. but despite your grumbling, you actually start typing, the steady rhythm of keystrokes filling the space between you. every few minutes, you let out a dramatic sigh, just to remind him of your suffering, stretching your arms above your head like some long-suffering martyr. satoru doesn’t react, at least not visibly, but his eyes flicker to you on occasion, tracking the shift in your posture. the slow slump of your shoulders, the way your blinks drag longer than they should, the increasing frequency of your typos.

he says nothing at first, just watches, turning another page in his notes. but when your fingers finally still, hovering uselessly over the keyboard, he exhales, tapping his knuckles against the table to get your attention. “you can take a nap if you want.” his voice is casual, almost dismissive, like he’s not actually offering you a kindness. immediate whiplash. you snap upright, scoffing, eyes sharp despite the heavy weight of exhaustion settling behind them. “oh, now you’re concerned?” you bite, arms crossing over your chest. “this wouldn’t even be happening if you hadn’t dragged me here like some kind of corporate kidnapper.”

satoru, ever unbothered, merely turns another page. “right. so sleep.”

you narrow your eyes, stubborn. “i can do this.”

he hums, noncommittal, but doesn’t argue. he doesn’t have to. you last exactly ten more minutes before your head drops onto the table, your head barely missing the laptop, the weight of exhaustion finally pulling you under. satoru exhales, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose as he stares at you, completely knocked out, mouth slightly parted, cheek smushed against the table. he doesn’t say anything for a long moment, just looks, and then, inevitably, enters problem-solving mode.

probability analysis: optimal course of action for relocating a girl who hates your guts.

satoru sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose as he looks at you—sprawled over the table like a dead battery, completely motionless except for the slow rise and fall of your shoulders. honestly, he should just leave you here. it would be the logical thing to do. but then he notices the slight shiver in your exposed skin, the way your fingers twitch minutely in your sleep, and—ugh. now he has to do something about it.

but what’s the most efficient course of action?

option 1: leaving you here

probability of you catching a cold due to exposure to air conditioning (21°C)? 38.7%. not immediately life-threatening, but given your already questionable eating and sleeping habits as per his own observation, it wouldn’t take much to push your immune system over the edge.

probability of you waking up with a stiff neck and blaming him for it? 97.2%. unacceptable.

probability of you waking up at all within the next few hours? 11.5%. this is dangerous. you sleep too deeply. concerning.

additional factor: you’re drooling. on his notes.

verdict: completely out of the question.

option 2: waking you up

probability of you responding like a rational human being? 0.0000001%. nearly nonexistent.

probability of grumbling, whining, or attempting physical violence? 94.6%.

probability of you launching a verbal attack about how this is somehow his fault? 88.3%.

probability of you remembering any of this in the morning and making it a dramatic ordeal? 101%. impressive.

additional factor: the potential of you waking up, seeing him, and immediately assuming the worst? concerningly high.

verdict: more trouble than it’s worth.

option 3: moving you to the couch

effort required: minimal (6-7 seconds).

probability of successfully transporting you without waking you up? 60%.

probability of you waking up and accusing him of god knows what? 35.8%.

probability of you flipping out upon finding yourself on the couch? 85.2%.

additional factor: couch is leather. you would whine about it being cold. and knowing you, you’d twist yourself into a pretzel in your sleep and fall off.

verdict: not worth the headache.

option 4: carrying you to the guest room

effort required: practically none. you weigh nothing. ridiculous, really. concerning.

estimated time of execution: 10-12 seconds.

probability of you waking up mid-transport: 22.4%.

probability of you immediately falling back asleep if woken up: 73.9%.

probability of you waking up in the guest room, realizing what happened, and dramatically accusing him of being unable to resist your charm? 91.5%. but at least he could deny everything with hard evidence.

additional factor: easier to tuck you in here than risk you rolling off the couch.

verdict: most optimal choice.

option 5: covering you with a blanket and leaving you here

effort required: none.

probability of you waking up cold and making it his problem? 75%.

probability of you stealing his jacket and getting makeup all over it? 89.6%.

probability of this leading to a future argument? 100%.

additional factor: you have a habit of curling into yourself when cold. if he leaves you here, you’d probably wake up in the fetal position, limbs stiff, and find a way to blame him for it.

verdict: not happening.

final calculation: the weighted decision matrix indicates the optimal course of action is… carrying you to the guest room.

execution begins.

satoru sighs, shaking his head as he moves closer to you. “why am i like this?” he mutters, already knowing the answer. bending down, he hooks an arm under your knees and the other around your back, lifting you with zero difficulty. you barely weigh more than the blankets he’s about to tuck you into. he knew your eating habits were terrible, but this is absurd.

as long as you stay asleep, this will go smoothly.

…your arm immediately flops around his neck.

his entire body tenses, lips pressing into a thin line as your fingers curl weakly into his shirt. the warmth of your breath against his collarbone is deeply alarming.

“tch. recalculating.”

too late. mission must continue.

with the efficiency of a man who has spent way too much time overanalyzing a simple task, he makes his way to the guest room. carefully—so carefully—he lowers you onto the bed, tucking the blanket around you with precise, measured movements. then, stepping back, he exhales in satisfaction.

problem solved.

morning comes. you wake up warm. comfortable. rested. suspiciously well-rested. the sheets beneath you are soft, undeniably high-quality, the kind that probably costs more than your entire monthly expenses. the air smells faintly of something expensive—clean linen, hints of cologne, a lingering trace of him. your body sinks into the mattress just right, and that’s when your brain finally catches up.

your eyes snap open. the ceiling above you is unfamiliar—modern, sleek, and definitely not your bedroom. realization creeps in like a slow-moving storm, your lips curling before you can stop yourself. oh? oh??? ohhhhhhhh. your gaze flickers to the mirror across the room, catching the reflection of a disheveled but well-rested woman wrapped in high-thread-count blankets.

slowly, dramatically, you sit up, clutching the fabric to your chest. “oh, he couldn’t resist me after all,” you murmur, eyes twinkling with mischief. because really, why else would you be in a bed? satoru—stoic, impossible, insufferable satoru—must have finally caved. your five-year-old self, the one who was once slighted by a certain white-haired menace and his damned carrot, would be avenged. an evil little giggle bubbles up, uncontainable, utterly victorious.

“...the hell are you doing?”

your head snaps toward the voice, and there he is. satoru, standing by the doorway, arms crossed, one eyebrow raised in blatant suspicion. his hair is still slightly messy from sleep, glasses missing, and yet he still has the audacity to look so effortlessly put together. his stare is unreadable, the perfect mix of exasperation and amusement, like he already knows you’re about to say something stupid. you spin toward him, heart lurching, but your face remains composed, schooled into an easy, practiced smirk.

he tilts his head slightly. “...you good?”

clearing your throat, you smooth down the sheets with an air of nonchalance, fingers gliding over the fabric as if you belong here—because, obviously, you do. with a slow, practiced ease, you lean back against the headboard, stretching just enough to let the blankets pool around your waist, the picture of careless indulgence. then, resting your chin in your palm, you let your lips curl, eyes lidded with amusement as you fix satoru with a look that speaks volumes. “so…” you drawl, voice honeyed and teasing, “...was i good?” the weight of the words hangs between you, deliberate, pointed. calculated mischief flickers in your gaze, waiting for the inevitable crack in his composure.

satoru squints, utterly unamused. he blinks once. then twice. his mouth parts slightly before closing again, as if your words are too absurd to immediately process. “huh?” his brows pinch together, confusion clear, but not in a flustered way—more in the what is she talking about now kind of way, which is not nearly as satisfying as you’d hoped.

undeterred, you gesture lazily at the bed, raising a slow, deliberate eyebrow. “you know,” you murmur, voice dipping into something almost sultry. “last night?”

he stares at you for an extra beat, expression unreadable, his silence stretching just long enough for anticipation to coil in your stomach. then, finally, in the most deadpan tone imaginable, he states: “you passed out on my table.”

your smirk falters.

satoru, the insufferable bastard, doesn’t stop there. if anything, his lips twitch with the barest hint of smugness as he continues, “i had to carry you here because you drooled on my notes.”

absolute. silence.

your entire body locks up, spine going rigid as heat floods your face, mortification creeping up your neck like a noose tightening with every second that passes. no. no, no. this—this cannot be your reality. in no version of this universe, real or theoretical, does he get to have the upper hand in your moment of triumph. not when you had so carefully set the scene, not when you were so close to making him flustered, not when—oh god, did he say drool?

panic surges, tangled with outrage, and before you can stop yourself—

you launch a pillow directly at his stupid head.

[tenderotto]

Clarity of Vision by Mithen

5 works, 205,477 words

Alternative universe - canon divergence bagginshield

I cannot begin to explain to you how good of a fanfiction this is. In short words it's a series of what could've happened if Smaug never fell Erebor and how that would affect the history of Middle Earth. I've started it just as another bagginshield plot divergence, but oh boy I've never expected it to grow into something THAT BIG. I don't have enough words in my vocabulary (or wits in my head) to tell you how talented the author is!(Please if you know them on Tumblr please tag them!)

The story reads oh so close to feel like canon, and I caught myself more than once thinking "you've outdone Tolkien with this!", and I usually don't give out compliments like that easily. I've read A LOT of bagginshield, and I have a list of my favorites, which may or may not rival this one simply because they indulge me in romance and fluff of bagginshield, but this one is for those who yearn for the more real and logical spin of events. And those who want something that will feel like Tolkien himself wrote it but with bagginshield love that these boys deserved.

The first one of the series is "Clarity of Vision" where Bilbo meets Thorin, Balin and Dwalin, who are looking for a mistyrious elvish cure to a dragon sickness that looms over the line of Durin. And this one is the perfect adventure story that deviates greatly from "the hobbit" story line. A delicious slow burn -ish where you catch yourself nodding and agreeing with every choice that author makes for the character. You see them grow through the adventure while you follow them around west and north and Mahal knows where else. And that's one of the most delicious things throughout the series, we travel through new places that weren't shown in the movies (I assume there are more about these places in the books and parentheses)

The second (there is a smaller story in between tho) story "Clarity of Purpose" picks up some time later and makes Bilbo the ringbearer. I am afraid I cannot tell you much more, because otherwise I will spoil it for you, but we are introduced to a different fellowship with the most unexpected collection of free people of Middle Earth. I never would've thought I'd want to read about the adventures of these characters, but boy was I in for a ride!

If you want to read something that will leave you undone and done back again this one is for you! It will make you feel feels you never knew you've had. And every single character is so true to their original self too!!! This work is my heart's ease!

I've added my silly doodles, but I feel that after reading this masterpiece a few of my works will be inspired by the author.

BIG SPOILERS AHEAD!!!

For those who wonder yes it is a happy ending, and it is one of the most endearing endings that will make the life worth living.

The relationship between young Denethor and Theoden: 10/10

We get 2 new wizards!!!

Cats!

TREEWIVES

Dis and Arwen sisters in arms????

Thrain is a bitch

Never knew I could hate the one ring more than I hated it in the original (prepare to cry)

why are you still here?! Go read it already!!!

My favorite quotes:

"I'm not sure how to tell you this," Bilbo said.

"Yes?" grunted Thorin.

"I don't think your father approved of me." (Clarity of Vision)

“I am majestic no longer,” he said, “But merely Thorin Oakenshield, soon to be Thorin Baggins, if I understand the customs of the Shire.”

(Clarity of Purpose)

There are way to many quotes to post here, the whole work is too good to leave anything out.

[fernwehreader]

I want to spend a minute pushing back on the idea that nothing supports Gwynriel in ACOSF or that certain online accounts influence the idea of it. I mean, I specifically can recall how significant it felt the first time I read when Gwyn and Azriel first see each other after the horrors at Sangravah. Through Cassian’s POV in ACOSF, it’s noted that “Gwyn had been distracted today – one eye on the other side of the ring. Cassian could only assume she was watching his brother, who had given Gwyn a small smile of greeting upon arrival. Gwyn hadn’t returned it.”

Basically, I instantly took notice of this first interaction and I think about it quite often. The specificity and perspective in which it's written is intentional. SJM didn’t have to include it or write it this way, so why is it there?

And further, by the time I reached the last page of ACOSF upon my first reading, I was certain that Gwyn was being set up as Azriel’s love interest and mate. The real kicker though is that I didn’t even know about an Azriel bonus chapter for almost two years after I first read ACOSF. I wasn’t online much then -- my mom was ill and passed away during that time, and I had stepped back from being online. So, I missed those early ACOSF conversations among the fandom until almost 2023. I definitely wasn’t influenced by any online opinions or accounts, and the bonus chapters just weren't on my radar until almost two years after ACOSF was released.

So the point is, the setup of Azriel and Gwyn was clear to me just within the context of the primary ACOSF text. When I eventually read Azriel's bonus chapter, the only thing I felt was validated in my initial opinion of what SJM was setting up with him and Gwyn. It was beyond clear. The language, symbolism, and structure of the bonus chapter were all so intentional and consistent with what we should already identify within SJM’s writing.

I’ve been reading SJM since 2012 when Throne of Glass was first published. I was a high school librarian then, and the students and myself were obsessed with her books in those early days of a fun, new fantasy series. I now teach junior/senior level high school literature courses, and I approach my critical reading of SJM the same way I do in the classroom. I teach patterns we encounter when it comes to an author’s voice, prose, rhetoric, and literary device use. So just like how I’d point out to students that Jane Austen utilizes social commentary and wit along with her free indirect discourse narration, and we can find those patterns throughout all of her novels – I can also identify how SJM utilizes specific language, characterization, symbolism, and plot devices when it comes to romantic pairings and the notion of mates in her novels. Thirteen years of reading SJM (and many more years of studying and teaching literature) makes those patterns shine like Gwyn when she sings with the priestesses.

This is getting too long and I’ll leave it here for now . . . but trust that I have MUCH more to elaborate on here with specifics and will consider posting more analysis in case anyone wants to read it (if anything, it just makes me feel better to get my thoughts out). But, yes, it should be clear from that first interaction in ACOSF that something specific was being introduced, and that the rest of the novel continues to arrange chess pieces for a pairing between Azriel and Gwyn. 🙂

[lamentationsofalonelypotato]

Where'd You Come From?

Pairing: Din Djarin x f!reader, Reader POV

Summary: An adorable customer wanders into your bakery and introduces you to someone you'd never met, who piques your curiosity. Takes place after Season 3 when Din and Grogu have been living in their cabin on Nevarro. This is the first fic in my Sugar, Spice, and Starlight Series!

Tropes: Fluff, Meet Cute, Bakery AU, Grumpy vs. Sunshine

Word Count: 4.9K

Warnings: I don't think there's really any? The reader is really soft and likes to bake? The reader simping over a man's voice (as we all should)? Din might be a little bit OOC. It's mostly just fluff.

Note: This is told from Reader's perspective. Any references to the reader is made using you or your. There is no use of y/n! I tried my best to proofread, but nobody's perfect. If you don’t like, don’t read, but if you do like, you’re my favorite! This is my first time writing for Din, so please be gentle.

Internal monologue is in italics and is in first person.

Main Masterlist

Series Masterlist

A/N: Honestly, I've been kinda afraid to post this for a while, but @jollyhunter thank you so much for encouraging me! You're a wonderful friend 💗

The smell of fresh bread, cinnamon, and brown sugar wrapped you in a blanket of warmth as you pulled a tray from one of the large ovens at the back of your bakery. It was not the first tray to be born of flame and love today, nor would it be the last.

You smiled down at the perfect pan of browning pastry with pride swelling in your chest, admiring your handiwork. It had been two days since you opened your small bakery tucked into the corner of a colorful street on Nevarro and you were already convinced that it was the best decision you had ever made, despite your older brother's insistences that you were crazy for doing so.

Sure, Nevarro was in the middle of nowhere, was populated by angry bounty hunters, and probably wasn't the safest place to live, but you loved it. Every day there was a market that opened in the early hours of the morning, close enough that you could wander through the colorful stalls meeting new people, trying food and sweets from all over the galaxy, and browsing through the handcrafted wares the others sold. On weekends the new fountain in the center of town was surrounded by parents while children squealed and ran through the cooling sprays of water. It was a lovely place to sit and soak up the warm sun, while your mind slipped into the soothing prose of a book perched on your knee.

The longer you stayed on Nevarro, the more you felt apart of its growing community and the more you felt like you belonged there. You hadn't felt like you belonged anywhere in years, not after you lost your grandmother, and you were left with an cold empty house filled with echoes of someone long gone, shades of a life you lived that could only exist in your memory.

Your brother had left you years before, angry, fueled with a fire to make the people who destroyed your home and orphaned the two of you pay, choosing rather to leave you with your grandmother than watch from the sidelines.

But you never blamed him for leaving when he was only fifteen and you barely ten. You weren't angry anymore about losing your parents to the war the way so many others had. Maybe it was because you'd lost them when you were too young to remember their faces while your brother was still haunted by the voice of your mother singing him to sleep.

But you supposed that without your grandmother you never would have fallen in love with baking and found the thing that made you feel whole and brought you comfort when everything else seemed to fall apart around you. It was her that fueled your own love of baking, tempered it and helped it grow from a small spark to a burning flame.

Her constant praise and encouragements in the time the two of you spent tucked into her kitchen filled with light and love made you the person you were today. She taught you everything you knew, spoke about opening a bakery of her own for years, but never did. You knew that she would have wanted you to sell the house to do what she couldn't, so you did, and you didn't look back.

The constant flow of customers in and out of the shop, the chatter that rose from patrons sitting on the carved wooden tables made of strong smooth wood, and the people who continued to say how wonderful it was to have you there only supported your decision to move here.

She would have loved this.

You think to yourself with a smile, gaze falling to your grandmother's overstuffed book of recipes that sat with pages fanning on the counter, before you drop your free hand to smooth a wrinkle from the floral apron wrapped around your waist. One of hers that you'd tied there for good luck over your dark blue skirt.

You supposed that it was working given the fact that you'd completely sold out of treats yesterday and now already halfway through the third day, you were out of some of your favorites.

At this rate I'm going to have to hire someone else to work the counter for me.

You never imagined to have this kind of response, but now you lived for it.

The fresh tray you pulled from the oven is heavy, but it's a pleasant weight. You maneuver through the cozy kitchen to place it on the counter where the sweet buns could cool before you iced them with the thick periwinkle colored frosting chilling in the refrigerator in the corner, but as you do, you hear the front door chime.

It was later in the day, and you were taking advantage of the lull before you expected another rush of customers to come in. The last patron had left fifteen minutes ago, placing her ceramic mug in the big plastic bin on top of the trashcan by the front doors, before walking out with a cheerful "goodbye."

The smile you have when you hear the jingle is genuine, the prospect of sharing your gift of baking with someone else warming your heart.

"One minute." You call, arranging the tray on the crowded countertop before you wipe your flour covered hands on the apron at your waist and make your way through the green curtain that hangs in the doorway of the kitchen, dividing the front and back of the shop. Your eyes flick upwards, expecting to see someone standing there behind the counter waiting for service, but the shop is empty.

"Hello?" You ask tentatively, looking over the counter at the empty wooden chairs and tables arranged beyond before the doorway and wide windows at the front of your shop. Sunlight filters through the glass in happy patches of light, illuminating the furniture just inside the door.

But no one answers you.

That's weird.

You hear something make a cooing noise, but you still can't see anyone, and there's a small part of you that's disappointed someone left without asking for help.

The odd noise sounds again, almost like the small multicolored bird-like creatures in the cages hanging above the shop next door.

Maybe one got out and is trapped in here somewhere.

The thought makes your fingers itch for the broom leaning in the corner, expecting something to come swooping down at you from the rafters above. Nothing was worse that finding out at the last minute that something you were trying to shoo could fly.

You walk around the counter looking for the source of the sound while bracing yourself for attack, but stop when you see a little green creature swaddled in brown cloth standing in front of the one of the glass cases loaded with sweets. He turns his gaze in your direction, presses his little three fingered hand against the glass, and coos softly as if asking you for one of the treats that sit in organized rows within.

"Um-" You look around the room hoping to see an adult, someone who he belongs to, but there's no one. "Hey there little guy." You stoop down next to him so you can see him better.

The creature smiles and gurgles happily, tapping his hand against the front of the case filled with pastry again to make a point.

"Where's your mommy?" You pick him up gently, cradling him in your arms. "Did you get lost?"

He coos again and touches your chin with a smile so cute that it's impossible not to return it. The sharp nails catch against your smooth skin, but you don't mind.

He's so cute.

You think to yourself with a soft smile.

I wonder who he belongs to?

You bite the inside of your cheek and contemplate what you should do. You were still relatively new on Nevarro and hadn't introduced yourself to the sheriff yet, but you'd heard of her. The problem was you had no idea where Cara Dune would be at this time of the day and you'd never seen a creature like him walking around when you went to the market or... really seen a creature like him ever.

I can't just keep him! Someone could be looking for him and it wasn't on my agenda today to become a kidnapper. I mean, that's never on my agenda, but today isn't any different!

You raise your eyes to look out the front door and large windows of your bakery, watching a few people pass by, but you don't see anyone resembling the child in your arms.

A sigh builds in your chest, contrasting the thrumming anxiety building in your body.

Maybe I should feed him, he looks hungry. And if his family doesn't come in by the end of the day I'll go find Cara Dune. She's got to know who he belongs to.

It seemed like a good plan, plus you figured the way that the creature was looking at the pastries it wouldn't hurt to give him a little something before you tried to find his family.

"Well, I don't really know how you ended up in here, but somebody's gotta be looking for you." You sigh, softly stroking his green ears. He wriggles in your arms, sighing under his breath and leans into your comforting touch. "Are you hungry?"

He turns and waves his hand at one of the glass cases loaded with multi-colored pastries again.

"Guess that's a yes." You laugh as you walk back around the case to place him on the counter right next to the register resting in between the two glass displays. "Sit here cutie. I'll get you something."

He waits patiently on the counter kicking his little feet where they hang over the edge, while you turn to the case on your left and grab a Uj'alayi square, a traditional Mandalorian sweet, from the display. The brown sticky pastry crumbles in his little hand as you give it to him. "This one's my favorite. It's my mother's recipe."

Your mother had been born on Mandalore years before the Clone Wars, but she'd left when she met your father, taking the traditions from her family with her to start anew. You'd never met any of her family members before and supposed that they died in the purge of Mandalore. The recipe for Uj'alayi was one of the only things you had left of her, something you'd found in the box of belongings pulled from the remnants of your home following it's destruction.

It had taken you years to perfect the recipe, thought that making it would awaken some memory deep inside of your mother, but it never did. Your brother, Elijah, remembered the moments that slipped between your fingers like running water, seeping through the cracks in your memory of the fleeting moments you'd spent with your parents before they were killed.

When the creature bites into the square, he gurgles, his dark eyes blinking at you and crinkling slightly from the lights that line the ceiling of your shop.

"I know. Good huh?" You smile and break off a piece of the cake before popping it into your mouth. The crunch of nuts and the tang of the sweet syrup brings a melancholic feeling of nostalgia rising on the crest of a wave, but slowly ebbs out to sea with your exhale.

It wasn't an unusual feeling, you'd been feeling more nostalgic since you'd opened the bakery.

The child munches on the square with a happy giggle and it makes you smile. Sharing your gift of baking always brought joy to your heart, and this was no different.

I wonder where his family is. He's so small, he couldn't have gotten too far, and he shouldn't be out by himself. Something could happen to him.

The thought makes your smile falter. The population of bounty hunters on Navarro had lessened in the months before your arrival, but you weren’t sure that someone as little as him should be walking around by himself.

The front door of the shop opens with a pleasant jingle.

"There you are." Someone sighs in a buzzing monotone.

You glance up from the little one your counter with curiosity, blinking in surprise at who stands in the doorway. Honestly, you weren't expecting it to be a Mandalorian, you were expecting someone else who was maybe a little bit bigger, but also green.

Maybe the little one is a foundling? That or he’s green under that thing.

The thought of the broad shouldered man standing in your shop squeezing pointy ears underneath his helm makes a laugh tickle in the back of your throat.

You'd heard your patrons talk about the Mandalorian who lived just outside of town, in hushed whispers around the crunch of pastry within your shop. The one that everyone steered clear of for fear that he would hurt them and take their children in the night, as if he was a creature that dwelled in a cave crouched over piles of gold. The people in town were all afraid of him, said that he was a blood thirsty bounty hunter who should be avoided at all costs, but seeing him stand here in your shop, arms crossed over his chest, hip cocked to the side, while looking down at the small child on the counter, you don't feel afraid.

The child coos happily and reaches up with two sticky hands opening and closing, asking to be picked up by the intimidating figure.

They never said he was a dad.

Despite their reputation, Mandalorians didn't scare you. When your brother left trying to find an outlet for his anger, he had found solace with a small clan of Mandalorians inhabiting a planet in the Outer Rim. They'd taken him in when he needed a home and given him a place where he could learn to control the rage he kept close to his heart. You were grateful for that, but it didn't make you miss him any less.

Whenever he would visit, he'd bring members of his clan with him all of which who were nothing but kind to you. But you still worried about him.

You worried he wasn't eating enough and when he came you would spend most of your time cooking for him and his new family. It was never a bother, you liked doing that for other people, cooking for them and taking care of them when no one else could. It was a form of comfort and warmth you believed that no one should be deficient of. In your heart everyone deserved to feel at home and have someone who wanted to take care of them.

"He belong to you?" You smile at the man standing just inside the doorway. He's so tall that he'd had to duck when he came in through the front door.

"Yes." He lets out another sigh that pops and crackles in the modulator.

"Well, I'm glad you found him, at the rate he's going, he's probably going to eat everything I have."

The man tilts his head to the side as if confused. You wonder if maybe you came on too strong or if it's just a habit of his, to size up everyone he comes in contact with.

He is a bounty hunter. Probably picked it up along the road somewhere.

His armor is a startling silver, sending flickers of the sunshine behind him over the walls of your bakery. You'd never met a Mandalorian who didn't paint their Beskar. Your own brother's was painted in shades of red and orange, and embossed with his clan sigil in a startling white.

But there was something about this Mandalorian's armor that was almost… pretty, but you supposed it was the same glinting beauty of a knife sitting on a kitchen counter, beautiful but deadly.

You look back down at the creature, who touches your hand and points back at the Uj'alayi in the case as if asking for another. The three fingers are sticky with the remnants of the desert. "Fine. One more. But I don’t want you to spoil your dinner."

You reach back into the case for another crumbling brown square to give to him with a laugh on your lips and watch as the skin around his little black eyes crinkles in gratitude before he bites into the treat.

The Mandalorian approaches cautiously and despite the helmet, you can feel his eyes on you, contemplative and curious.

"Is that Uj cake?" His voice comes out through the harsh buzz of the modulator.

"Yeah it's Uj'alayi. He really seems to like it. Is he your foundling?" When you look up and smile at the helm, you can only see your reflection in the brilliant metal of the armor.

Surprise flickers across your mind. You weren't expecting him to still be wearing the helmet and you're not used to talking to someone who didn't reveal their face to you. It was a little odd.

Whenever your brother or his friend Josh were talking to you, they always took off their helmets, but this felt different.

Honestly, even though he had the visor, you still weren't quite sure where to look to make eye to (through the helmet) eye contact.

Is it rude to tell him to take it off?

You'd never been put in this kind of position before, so you decide to ignore it.

"Yes." The helm turns from you to the other Uj cakes in the case. "Did you make it?"

You nod, blushing with pride.

"Are you Mandalorian? Do you speak Mando'a?" The Mandalorian asks, you can't but help notice that he sounds a little bit hopeful.

"No, I'm sorry. My mother was from Mandalore, it's her recipe." You admit sheepishly.

He nods in understanding.

The two of you sit in comfortable silence for a few moments watching the child eat on your counter, the sticky brown cake smeared against his cheeks.

It gives you a moment to size up the Mandalorian out of the corner of your eye. Again, you're struck by how beautiful the armor is. A brilliant silver and polished to a shine, proud, but not haughty. There's a charcoal cowl that wraps around the base of his throat and extends into a cape behind him and he's wearing a set of tan and brown gloves to ensure that no part of his skin is showing.

I wonder if it gets hot under there. Nevarro isn't exactly temperate.

And when the Mandalorian turns to the left to look at the other mulit-colored pastries in the display case and you catch a glimpse of the sigil of a Mudhorn on his shoulder.

Makes sense that someone so formidable would have that as their clan sigil.

Your brother's clan had the sigil of one of the large birds that inhabited the cliffs of their home planet. Each child had to scale the cliffs and bring back the skull when they came of age to prove their strength and prove that they were worthy of the mark.

I wonder what he did to get that as his sigil.

Your eyes fall back on the creature munching happily on the pastry.

"Look at you, you're a mess." You laugh, pulling a napkin from your pocket and wetting it with your tongue before wiping it over the little one's face to clean him.

He squeals indignantly, but you avoid the impetuous swipes of his hand as he tries to push you away.

"He doesn't like it when you do that." The Mandalorian says, but you can hear some humor come through the crackle of the modulator.

"I can see that." You snort, before disposing of the napkin. "Here, you take some. He really likes it and you should try it. It's my favorite thing to make for the shop." You turn back to the case and wrap up several squares for the Mandalorian to take with him. “I’m-” you say your name, busying yourself with folding the tissue paper around the pastry.

He whispers your name back to you as if he's trying it out and you're not prepared for the warmth that travels through your body when he does.

That's weird.

When you give him the bag, he holds out a handful of credits, but you push his fingers into a fist, feeling the rough scrape of his gloves against your fingertips. "It's okay. Free for first time customers. Plus it was payment enough to see this little one."

You give the kid an affectionate pat on the head, who coos and reaches for your face. It makes you laugh at how friendly he is and you pick him up so he can lay his hand on your cheek. He squeezes it between his fingers, crinkling his eyes with a wide smile. "Aww. You gotta go with your dad now okay? But you can come back and visit me any time you want."

The Mandalorian is watching you, and you again wonder why he hasn't removed his helmet to say hello.

I'll ask Elijah about it.

You were sure your brother would be showing up soon. When you sent him the transmission that you finally opened the shop, he said he was excited at the prospect of eating sweets for free, as if he already didn't do that.

I miss him.

It had been at a few months since you'd last seen him, right after you sold your grandmother's home and before you moved to Nevarro. He'd tried to talk you out of opening the shop, asked you to stay with him for a little while, but you thought it was about time you went out on your own.

You hand the child to the man standing on the other side of the counter, trying not to notice how his muscles flex beneath his Beskar when he does or how broad and wonderfully tall he is. So broad and strong that you know he could probably lift you just as easily and the thought makes a flush burn against your cheeks.

Get a grip, he's not a piece of meat.

"Thank you." He says in the buzzing monotone, but it makes you long to hear his real voice.

"You're welcome. Come back anytime."

"We will."

"Good. I'll look forward to it. It was nice to meet you-" You hesitate.  "Um- Actually, I didn't catch your name."

The Mandalorian doesn't answer immediately as if he's mulling it over in his head, while the child coos and giggles in his hand touching the bottom of the helmet on his father's head. It was a startling contrast the the formidable form of the Mandalorian to have a wriggling bundle of joy in his arms, one that made you smile just a little wider.

"Din." He says in a whisper.

"Din." You repeat slowly, rolling the name around in your mouth and enjoying how it sounds on the tip of your tongue. "It was nice to meet you Din." You smile widely up into the helmet, watching the reflection of yourself glinting in the metal.

Din doesn't move for a minute, he's hesitating, and it makes your smile falter on the end of your mouth for a moment in confusion.

Did I do something wrong?

But then he nods once and leaves, the only clue that he'd been there is the almost empty batch of Uj Cake and the brown crumbles covering your counter.

The next few days pass in a blur of you baking, cleaning, and selling as many sweets as you can while trying not to think about Din and the kid, but it's proving to be impossible.

You didn't understand why you were so focused on them. You'd had many customers that day and on the days that followed, but for some reason you couldn't get him out of your head.

When you'd lie awake at night you'd remember how he sounded when he said your name, how you wished that he would remove his helmet to look at you and let you see what he looked like, because with a voice like that the man underneath had to be just as beautiful-

Stop.

You cheeks warm as you clean the counters with a wet rag, your back to the door while you try to forget Din and his voice. This had never happened to you before, being unable to stop thinking about someone.  But each time everything went quiet, your mind would flash to the image of Din ducking to get though the front door of your shop and the sound of his voice through the helm.

The clock on the wall behind the register stated that it was exactly two minutes past closing time, which meant that you were about an hour away from crashing in your bed. You still had to clean the ovens, and pack away any leftover supplies. Not to mention the tossing and turning that came when you would lie awake and think about Din, hoping he would come back.

I need to get over this. He's just a man you met one time. Don't romanticize him.

You blamed the stack of books on your bedside table, the ones you read over and over about adventures all over the galaxy and true love. It also didn't help that you'd never once had a relationship, but why would you when it was more exciting to live vicariously through your favorite heroines? Not to mention you didn't have to make a fool of yourself falling for someone who probably thought you were just a weird person who smiled too much and baked for fun.

You wondered if that was why Din hesitated before leaving the other day when you smiled at him, that he couldn't figure out why you were so happy.

The bell on the door rings behind you, pulling you out of your head.

"I'm sorry we're closed." You respond without turning around, fingers scrubbing with the cloth at a particularly stubborn smudge.

"I'm sorry, I didn't realize how late it was." Din's familiar voice floats through the air and makes a shiver travel down your spine.

"Din. Hey." You smile as you turn around, waving a hand, cloth still clasped between your fingers. "It's okay, you're always welcome."

He's still wearing his armor and helmet, the silver catching in the dim lights of the room, contrasting with the yellowed light that streams from the streetlights outside and emphasizes his figure.

Your eyes drop to the bag hanging on his hip expecting to see the child, but it lies empty.

"You're alone today." You say a little disappointed, but still happy that Din is here.

"Grogu's asleep. I didn't want to wake him." Din clears his throat.

"Grogu." You say the name back to him slowly. It didn't seem to fit the small child who swung his little feet on the end of your counter and shoved as much pastry into his mouth as he could. "That's an interesting name."

"Came with the kid." Din's voice shifts a little bit and you wonder if it means he's smiling at a memory. Your mind predictably begins to imagine what Din's smile must look like. "I was wondering if you had any Uj cake left." He continues, oblivious to your train of thought.

"You're in luck, I just pulled a tray out of the oven for tomorrow. Come on back." You motion with your hand for him to follow you through the curtain that divides the front of the shop from the kitchen. "Sorry it's a little bit messy, haven't had time to clean up back here yet."

The kitchen looked exactly as it should, two large ovens on the right wall with fire still burning underneath, a sink filled with dirty mixing bowls, spoons, and utensils, a large table in the center of the room that served as a counter top, and in the corner there was a plush armchair that you had fallen asleep in more than once with a book open on your chest.

Your apartment was a few doors down, but you found yourself spending more time here. So much in fact that you were contemplating moving in to the back of the shop. You didn't have many possessions, mostly books, and seriously started thinking about it last night because the people who lived on top of your basement apartment were so loud that you could see the floor vibrating with the sound of their yelling.

You walk over to the tray of reddish-brown pastry cooling a rack in the center of the kitchen.

"It's alright. You should see where I live." He freezes on the edge of the room, realizing what he said, but you only laugh.

"I'm sure its no worse than my apartment. I’ve lived here a few weeks and I’m still not completely unpacked. Each time I go home I have to avoid stubbing my toe on the boxes”  You pick up a knife to cut the pastry into generous sized pieces. "But I guess you liked the Uj cake to come back here so late." You tease him, glancing up with a smile. "Midnight craving?"

He laughs and it makes your heart stutter to a halt. Even through the helmet it's hypnotic and you want to hear it again. "It was good, it reminded me of-" Din stops mid-sentence.

"Of?" You look up into his helm, wanting to hear more.

Truthfully, you were curious about him. You wanted to know more about the Mandalorian who lived on the outskirts of town, the one that everyone else seemed avoid.

"When I was a kid." He says it quieter, almost embarrassed.

"Me too. Whenever I make it I feel like I'm in my grandmother's kitchen again." You smile to yourself as the memory of her washes over you again. "She's been gone for a few years now, but I like to think that I honor her memory by baking, she taught me everything I know. Raised my brother and me by herself." You wrap the squares in tissue paper before placing them in a white paper bag.

"What about your parents?"

His question surprises you, you didn't think that he actually cared enough to listen.

"They-um- they died when I was little. My brother and I were visiting my grandmother when it happened."

"I'm sorry." Din sounds sincere.

You shrug. "I can’t remember them. My brother remembers more..." You trail off a little bit. "It was harder on him, but somehow it all turned out okay." You hand him the bag, but when he tries to reach for the credits at his belt, you push his hand away. "I don't make friends pay."

“But-“

“Din, I refuse to let you pay.” You smile wider, saying it a little more forcefully, but it holds no bite. “Don’t make me ban you for life.” I don't want to do that to Grogu."

He huffs out a laugh. "Thank you." His helmet tilts down towards you and you again try to imagine what he looks like underneath.

Would he have a strong jaw covered in a thick beard? Curly blonde hair that falls past his shoulders? Green eyes with flecks of light that resemble the stars?

No matter how many times you thought about it over the past few days, nothing seemed to fit Din.

There's an audible silence between the both of you as you stand there in the kitchen, and you don't want him to leave yet.

“You’re welcome.” You could feel yourself beginning to blush a little under his gaze. It was odd to feel someone’s eyes on you and not know what they looked like. "Now, don't forget to share with the kid. He deserves some of that too." You say raising an eyebrow and pointing to the white bag in the Mandalorian's hand.

Din chuckles. "Thank you-" He says your name and it makes the warm feeling come rushing back.

Even through the helmet, it was inviting, and made you want to curl up in the feeling it brought over you. You try not to imagine what it might sound like if he wasn't wearing the helmet.

"You're welcome Din. Don't be a stranger."

"I won't." He hesitates again, the same way he did when you'd first met in your shop. Standing in front of you for another few fleeting moments, his head tilted curiously in your direction. And for just a second you think that Din doesn't want to go either.

But he turns and shoulders his way through the curtain hanging in the doorway, boots thudding against the floor, and you hear the jingle of the door as he closes it behind him.

Something inside pricks when he leaves and maybe that scares you the most, the fact that you were already so attached to him and you didn't know anything about him except the rumors everyone in town said. The ones whispered on tremulous breath that condemned the man you were so curious about to be a blood thirsty bounty hunter who couldn't be trusted.

But in your heart those warnings held no power, because the man who'd sincerely cared about you losing your parents, couldn't be the same one.

Could he?

Thank you so much for reading! Likes, Reblogs, and Comments are not required, but are always appreciated! If you'd liked to be added to my taglist for fics in this universe please let me know!

Taglist:

@jollyhunter

[zepskies]

Why thank you so much, Wayne!! 🥹💜💜 I gotta admit, I gave myself the feels while writing this one -- especially that ending! Thank you so much for diving into these little ESC one-shots. I can't wait to dive into your thoughts on them!! 💗

N'awww, same Manny? What a fun crossover 😂🫶

Omg YES, when I read you also had a Manny in The Exit Strategy, I was so hype!! Again, great minds lolll 😜

So true, honestly. I can totally see his big brother point here. As much as we love Russell, he's not exactly boyfriend material (we still may try, tho 🫠)

Right? 😅 Charlie's messed up a lot but I thought he was making a lot of sense in that scene, realistically.

Yes!!!! Tell him off, girl!!! SAME. Take a hint, dude 😝

Lmfaoo I thought she had been through enough shit in ESC to finally give some pushback with these assholes in her workplace. 😂

Oh God, I hate men like this! I once turned down a dude in the subway by saying that, and he asked, "How serious is it?" I mean... speechless 🙈😭🤣

The subway?!! God, men are gross. 🙄 I was once on a walk and some guy literally made an illegal U-Turn to shout/flirt at me as he drove by.

Loved her honesty here 😂 But c'mon, Russell, think next time!

Hahaaa ikr? I feel like Dory would understand. 😏

Killing me here... 🫠

Lol! But omg that Chandler moment is perfect for that situation 😝😝

Oh dear Lord! That whole office scene was so incredibly hot! I'm requesting a sequel on her desk 🔥🤪

Oooooooh you intrigue me, friend. 😏 Maybe he can get her to roleplay being his teacher.

"What can I do to make this up to you, Professor? I'm committed to improving my performance."

Awww, I love that you picked this up! The books really got into that more than the show, too. I had fun with his lack of pop culture knowledge in TCF as well. It's kinda like SB all over again in a way 😂💚

Now I actually want to read the books instead of just reading summaries, but omg yeah, it kind is like dealing with SB. 😂 And this is going to keep being a trend in Breaking Point too! (If in more angsty ways lol 🥲)

No, stop it with the feels 😭😭 And then their love confession! So beautiful!! And then you put the nail in my coffin with this line:

Awww I'm sorry to do this to you, Wanye, but I'm so glad you liked their moment of honesty. 🥹 I love a good "I love you" moment, though I try to make them feel unique to the couple and the moment. 💗💗

And thank you for shouting out that line! It felt important to interject Russell's side of it in that moment for some reason.

My heart is so full for them! I do hope he can get out of it then, and they can be together all the time 🥹❤️

Aw man, they're gonna get there, but it's also gonna be a bumpy road (you know me lol). Stay tuned for Breaking Point! I plan on drafting it this week now that my outline's done! 😆

I'm so glad you enjoyed this sequel story for ESC though and that you're still invested in them after that series! 🥹💜

Lost Time

Pairing: Russell Shaw x F. Reader

Summary: When Russell takes longer than usual on a job out of town, you realize how hard it is to live half a life with him.  

AN: I’ve been wanting to get to this for a while now! Here’s a sequel story in the Every Second Counts world. Also, this is one of my entries for @jacklesversebingo!

Prompt: “Are you trying to get us in trouble?”

Word Count: 4.9K

Tags/Warnings: 18+ only. Angst, fluff upon fluff, implied smut, mild spice.~ **DOES NOT contain spoilers for 2x02. This was written long before the new episode came out. But look out for the little announcement at the end. Some (smutty) bonus content on the way!

💜 Series Masterlist || Jacklesverse Bingo Masterlist

Wolfing down lunch alone in your office usually meant you wouldn’t be disturbed. That distraction tended to come in the form of either Dr. Goldstein, History Department Chair (AKA: your boss), or Chris Belmont.

The latter was a language arts professor who liked to pop in on you when you were alone in the teacher’s lounge, often trying to revive yourself with a cup of Keurig coffee. Or he’d sit down next to you (uninvited) and talk your ear off.

Today, however, you made time for your brother between bites of your admittedly sad ham sandwich. You held the phone to your ear while you ate and tried to resist the urge to answer emails. This was the first month that he’d gotten phone privileges. You wanted to give him your undivided attention.

Not to mention, you genuinely wanted to know how Charlie was doing in rehab. He told you that his leg was healing up well after the surgery to repair the damage from Eddie Mendez’s bullet. Charlie was also getting put through his paces in the substance rehabilitation program, but he sounded truly sober. He sounded like himself.

“I finally get visitors this weekend,” he said. “Dave and Manny are coming by.”

“Dave and Manny. They sound familiar,” you said, tapping your chin with a pen out of habit, even though you weren’t writing anything down. You brightened with recognition. “Oh! Didn’t they serve with you?”

“Yeah, they were in my unit on the first go-round,” Charlie said, with a tone of fondness that you recognized. You remembered now. Those guys were like his brothers during his first tour of Iraq. He’d come home for a few months afterward, changed. You saw it behind his eyes.

And then the second tour. That was what almost killed his spirit.

“It’s good that you guys reconnected,” you said. A smile graced your lips. Charlie needed all the support and familiarity he could get, and coming from his brothers in the Air Force, it was all you could ask for really. “You got time to see your little sister?”

“Ha. Younger maybe. Definitely not little.”

“Whatever, gimpy,” you teased. He’d told you that he hated his crutches, made him feel like an old, one-legged pirate.

“I think I can pencil you in,” he said. There was good humor in his voice. “How about the Mountain Man? How’s he doing?”

Your smile dimmed. You twiddled your pen between your fingers. “He’s…good. He’s on a job right now, so I don’t think he’ll make it back in time for this weekend. But I’m sure he’d wish you well. He asks about you every time he comes home.”

“Oh, yeah? How long’s he been gone for this time?”

Your lips pursed. “Couple weeks.”

Three, and counting.

“But he’s supposed to get back next week.”

“Have you heard from him?” Charlie asked.

“Here and there,” you replied, leaning to one side of your desk chair. “He’s not really supposed to contact anyone when he’s on a job.”

“Mhmm.”

“Charlie,” you warned. You knew what he was thinking, even by that placid tone of his voice. Your brother sighed on the line.

“Look, I like Russell. What can I say, after what he did for you? For me,” Charlie said. “But…I don’t have to like what he does, or what it’s doing to you.”

Your teeth clenched, but you tried not to bristle. You knew he was just looking out for you, for once like an older brother should.

“I know what you’re saying, but we’re good. I’m good,” you said. “I knew what I was getting into…”

You saw Dr. Goldstein peek into the narrow, rectangular window in the middle of your office door. He gave you a little wave through the glass.

“Hey, Charlie, I’m sorry but I need to let you go. My boss wants to talk to me,” you said.

Another heavy sigh. “All right, I get it. Evade an unsavory conversation by playing the ‘boss’ card.”

Despite yourself, you smiled. “It’s true! Look, I love you. I’ll see you this weekend.”

“Oh, fine. Evade away… Love you too,” he said begrudgingly, but in the kind of way that told you he was smiling too.

You hung up with him and beckoned Goldstein inside. He let himself in and closed the door behind him before he approached your desk. He didn’t have a stack of essays in his hand, so you counted that as a small blessing. After exchanging the usual pleasantries, however, he dropped a familiar bomb on you.

“I’m sorry to do this to you, sweetheart, but would you mind taking over my 5:00 p.m. class tomorrow? I have to step out early for an appointment,” he said.

You grated internally, for more than one reason. Primarily at the way he once again called you sweetheart. In your whole life, you’d only ever given one man permission to sweetheart you, and it certainly wasn’t Paul Goldstein.

“Well, my schedule is a bit tight tomorrow, but I think I can make that work—”

“Great! Thanks again, sweetheart,” he said, already getting up from the chair across from your desk to head out. Your voice stopped him at the door.

“Ah, you know…” You stood up from your desk. Part of you was hesitant, but the other part of you—the part that had survived nearly being shot and killed in the woods—stood firm. You rounded your desk but left a respectable distance between you and your boss.

“Paul, I would appreciate it if you would just…call me by my name. In a more professional capacity, just like I do for you,” you said. “Sweetheart, honey, that kind of thing just doesn’t make me feel very respected in the workplace.”

Goldstein blinked in surprise. He was taken aback, you could tell, as if what you’d said had never once occurred to him. Or maybe he just never thought you would call him out like that. You saw him mentally calculating though. After some recent sexual harassment allegations in the Sciences department, he likely didn’t want the headache and the red tape of an HR writeup.

“Of course. I’m sorry if I… Well, I hope you know I didn’t mean anything by it,” he said.

“I know, Paul,” you replied. But what you didn’t say was, It’s all right. 

The longer you remained quietly poised with your hands laced in front of you, the more Goldstein seemed to get the message. Eventually, he cast his gaze away and left your office with a parting nod. 

When the door shut behind him, your shoulders slumped as you let out a deep breath. You grabbed onto his vacated chair to steady yourself, smoothing your hand down the length of your pencil skirt. 

“Well, okay then.” You smiled to yourself and grabbed your phone and keys off your desk. That small win deserved an afternoon coffee break.

You ventured over to the faculty break room and started setting up an extra-large mug of coffee from the Keurig. Pumpkin spice, here I come. Finally PSL season. 

While you waited for it to percolate, you checked your phone and found no missed notifications, no calls or texts from your boyfriend. Biting the edge of your lip, you gave into the urge to check your text thread with him. 

Hey, just checking in. You okay? 

That was the last text you sent Russell, a few days ago. The fact that he hadn’t had time to read it worried you.

It had been three weeks since he left town on another job for the Horizon Group. He was able to reply here and there on some jobs, but often you had to deal with days of radio silence in between. This time, it had been a full two weeks since you last spoke to him–a five-minute call after he checked into his hotel, somewhere in Belize.

Despite your attempts otherwise, not a day had gone by where you hadn’t thought about him, worried about him, wondered where he was, and what he was doing. 

Even after four months, this arrangement hadn’t gotten easier. Sometimes, it felt like you were living half a life without him.

The coffeemaker chiming briefly broke you out of your melancholy, but you let the coffee sit there and cool while you deliberated with your phone in hand.

You tried to resist, since you didn’t want to bother him…but you ended up sending him another text. 

Hey. I don’t want to distract you. Just want you to know… 

I miss you.

“Oh, look who’s here.”

You looked up, already wanting to expel a breath of annoyance at the familiar voice. You plastered on a polite smile and turned to see exactly who you expected to see: your colleague Chris. There was really nothing wrong with the French and Spanish professor…except that he talked too much, and was often too eager to get into your business.

“How’s your day going?” he asked. After he grabbed a soda from the fridge, he parked himself in front of you and laid a hand on the counter. With one of the round dining tables so close, it ensured that you would have to squeeze by him in order to leave.

“Pretty good, just have one more class before I head out for the day,” you said. You intended to just make amiable conversation, but you didn’t realize you’d just given him an opening.

“You know, me too. Just my freshman Spanish 1 kids. Dumb as doornails really. They barely even look up when I talk,” he said. “Literally, I could be reciting Mein Kampf and they wouldn’t even know I was speaking German.” 

You couldn’t quite smile. You opened your mouth to reply, but he beat you to it.

“Hey, since we’re going to be clocking out soon, maybe you want to go for a drink with me. I know this bar. A little rough, but the price is right and the food’s not bad. This place called Howley’s,” he said.

Your non-smile dropped further. You really didn’t know where to start on this one.

“Ah, well—” you began, but again, he cut you off.

“To be honest, I’ve kind of been meaning to ask you for a while. I just uh, haven’t been able to find the right time. Since, you know, our class schedules don’t seem to match,” he added with a boyish smile.

He was cute, you could admit, with the dirty blonde hair down to his ears and the dark brown eyes. But it didn’t shake your resolve.

“Look, Chris. I’m sorry, but—”

“Is because we work together?” he said, once again interrupting you. “The whole workplace relationship thing?”

“No,” you said. It was sharper than you meant through your annoyance. “I actually have a boyfriend.”

Chris’s excited-nervous energy gradually deflated, his eyes dimming.

“Really? I’ve never seen you with anyone,” he said.

You quirked a brow at him. “Well, he doesn’t work here, so he wouldn’t really need to come to campus.”

You didn’t tell him that Russell was Dory’s older brother, and had in fact been on campus a couple of times. You shouldn’t have needed to explain it.

Chris gave you a wry look. “Sure. You really have a boyfriend, or are you just trying to let me down easy?”

You almost gaped at the man’s audacity. Instead, your lips pressed together, and your head tilted as you stared at him incredulously.

“Does it matter?” you asked.

He blinked. “Uh, what?” 

“Whatever I say next, are you going to believe it?” You finished dumping in a couple of tiny creamer cups into your likely lukewarm coffee, and you took the styrofoam cup to-go. “Good luck with the freshmen.” 

You slid past him and left the teacher’s lounge. Your path took you, brusquely and irritated, back to your office. You couldn’t help but replay every bit of your interactions with Goldstein, and then Chris, in your mind like a bad movie. 

Jesus Christ. If I have to deal with one more idiotic man today, I swear—

Speak of the devil, and he appears.

There was a man leaning against your office door, his hands in the pocks of his jeans. He looked up at your approach, and he smiled. 

“Hey, sweetheart.”

This time, you paused…and you smiled too. There he was in all his rugged glory. Russell Shaw. 

You dumped your coffee in a nearby trashcan and hastened over as quickly as you could in your skirt and heels. Russell bent down to sweep you up into his arms, and you leaned up on your toes so you could wrap yours around his shoulders. You buried your face into his neck, inhaling the familiar mix of his cologne and spicy soap. 

“Missed you too,” he said, a deep rumble. It washed over you pleasantly. 

“I thought you weren’t getting home until sometime next week,” you said, trying to work past the thick well of emotion in your throat. Maybe he heard it in your voice anyway, because Russell soothed a hand over your hair and pressed a kiss near your ear.

“Got finished up early,” he said, with that familiar grin of his. You could hear it in his voice.

You slipped your fingers through his long dark hair. Then you leaned back enough to see his face. 

“How’d you know I wasn’t in class?” you asked. 

He raised his hand off your back to point up at the sign on your door. It displayed your office hours and the times you were in class. He shot you a wink.

“I might’ve called Dory too,” he said. “She invited us over for dinner tonight. I said we’d be there around seven.”

You tsked and smack his chest, making him flinch. 

“Hey!” he protested with a laugh. 

“Don’t agree to stuff without me! Now we’re going to be out all night the day you get back,” you said in annoyance. 

Russell smoothed down your proverbial feathers, namely by slipping his hands down your back and comfortably settling on your waist. 

“Now, come on,” he cajoled. “Need I remind you that she’s my sister, and your best friend, by the way?”

You waved a playfully dismissive hand.

“I know damn well, but I’m also selfish,” you said. You gripped the edges of his familiar green jacket and tugged him closer again. “I want you all to myself tonight.” 

Russell’s grin kicked up into high gear. “Oh, yeah? What for?”

You smiled and leaned up on your toes again, your lips approaching his. 

“I’m gonna—”

“Hey, Professor!” 

Just then, one of your students walked by with a gaggle of her friends. She gave you a little wave, and then an amused look when she noted how you and Russell were intertwined. You quickly set your heels back on the ground and dropped your hands from him. 

“Oh shit. Prof’s got game,” one of her friends whispered. 

“Yeah, a lumberjack,” she replied. 

“Hell, I’d climb him.”

The girls giggled quietly as they continued to make their way down the hall. 

Your hand rose to cover your mouth while your face burned hot in embarrassment. Russell, damn him, was smirking like the Cheshire cat. You shot him a little glare. 

“Shut up,” you said. 

He chuckled, and he allowed you to take his hand and lead him into your office. He closed the door for you, but that was where the chivalry ended. 

He hooked his arm around your waist and brought you flush against him. A stunned yelp escaped you. You grabbed onto his arms on reflex, craning your face up to meet him. A smile played on your lips, before he captured them in a kiss filled with heat, and the torture of longing, only broken by your shared relief.  

You had the presence of mind to reach behind him and lock the door. Russell took that as an invitation to back you up against your desk, knocking down a carton of pens in his wake. You held his bearded face and gave him as much as he asked for. Until the pace of his kisses eventually slowed and warmed into something more tender, with the brush of his hand against your cheek. You smiled a little against his lips. 

He ended up being the first to pull away. His thumb brushed your chin next, and then your thoroughly kissed bottom lip. 

“God, I missed you,” he said. You saw the sincerity in his eyes, all the heat and play and teasing aside.

“Me too, baby,” you replied, and your voice was heavy with the truth of it. You slid your hands down his arms. Suddenly you remembered your internal checklist for whenever he came home. “You okay? No hospital stays or checkups needed?”

Your hands continued their perusal over his chest and down his sides. Russell took your hands and un-busied them. 

“Completely fine. Everything went off without a hitch,” he said. 

You eyed him more warily. After a moment to try and discern if he was downplaying for your sake, you were able to take him at his word. For now. It wouldn’t be the first time he tried to hide an injury from you. You intended to complete a further examination later tonight. You smirked a little at the thought.

“Okay, I’ve just got one more class in a few minutes. Then I can get out of here,” you said.

“All right,” he nodded. “I’ll meet you at home then.”

Your smile turned cheeky. You flattened your palms down his chest, plucking at the edges of his jacket.  

“Yeah? You gonna be waiting pretty for me?” you teased. 

“You bet,” he agreed. He leaned in close to say lowly in your ear, “But not as pretty as you’re gonna be when I get you all laid out for me. Get myself reacquainted with every sweet part of you.”

“Oh, really?” you said, trying to taper your blush. There was something entirely wrong and right about him talking dirty to you in your own office. You grinned as he began to press tantalizing kisses down your neck. “I guess I’m going to be the appetizer tonight.” 

His chuckle resounded in your ears. Russell squeezed your hips and brushed his lips against your skin. Damn him, he knew exactly what he was doing, making small volts of electricity zip down your spine. Warmth plumed between your legs as his beard gently rasped along your neck. 

“Sweetheart, you’re the whole damn meal,” he said, in that voice of his, smooth and baritone and perfect. 

Your blush intensified, even as your smile couldn’t help but brighten at his words. He nipped just under your ear, earning a stifled whimper from you.

“Are you trying to get us in trouble?” you whispered.

“Hey, I don’t work here,” he teased. His lips never left your skin. “I just reap the benefits.”

You fought against the urge to pinch his side. You grabbed your phone from your desk and checked the time. Shit. Almost 5:00 p.m.

All the while, Russell continued to torture you. His hands were no better than his mouth, caressing a path from your waist to your hips, then squeezing your ass as he pressed you more fully against him. He hummed against your neck.

“Oh, please don’t do this to me,” you whined, even as you clung to the front of his jacket and pressed your forehead into his shoulder. “I have to get to class in like, five minutes.” 

“I’ve accomplished quite a lot in five minutes,” Russell said. His nibbling along the shell of your ear was all too distracting as you laughed. 

“Oh, I know,” you dryly replied. “But if I let you get your hands on me now, I’m most certainly not going to be able to lecture on the ancient civilization of Mesopotamia.”

His smile grew. “I like it when you talk nerdy to me.”

Your laugh turned into a giggle. Still, your duty to your students won out. You had to press a gentle hand against his chest to push him back.

Russell let out a long-suffering groan, but he pulled away from you without losing his smile. He tucked an errant strand of hair behind your ear and caressed your cheek. 

“I’ll see you at home,” he said. 

You agreed, though when he aimed to leave, you couldn’t resist the urge to smack his ass on his way out of your office. 

He stopped short and twisted back, pointing a knowing finger at you. 

“You don’t play fair, missy,” he said. 

You smirked and tossed a kiss at him.

“See you later,” you said.

You loved Dory. You really did. But after a day like today, you were happy to finally be home after dinner at your best friend’s house. You were happy to be where you were in this moment, lying in bed with Russell, wearing nothing but one of his old shirts as Speed played on the TV against the wall. 

“You didn’t leave me…I can’t believe it. You didn’t leave me,” you quoted along with Annie, Sandra Bullock’s character. 

“Didn’t have anywhere to be just then,” Jack (the beautiful Keanu Reeves) said on the screen. The couple shared a kiss, and you let out a happy hum, making Russell look down on you in amusement. He had an arm wrapped around you as you laid tucked against his side.

“I have to warn you,” you said for Jack. “I’ve heard relationships based on intense experiences never work.” 

“Okay,” Annie (and you) replied. “We’ll have to base it on sex then.”

Jack smiled. “Whatever you say, ma’am.”

As the movie came to an end, you sighed and lowered the volume as the credits rolled. 

“How’d you like it?” you asked.

“Was good! Even though my movie buddy decided to quote half the cast,” Russell quipped. He prodded at your side like a pianist playing a Mozart cantata, making you flinch with a squawk of laughter. You grabbed his hand to try and stop him. 

When he finally let up, you sighed and caught your breath, leaning against him again.

“I still can’t believe you’ve never seen that movie,” you said. “Practically any movie, for that matter.”

“Hey, I’ve seen stuff…it’s just, you know, we didn’t really have much access to pop culture growing up,” Russell said. 

You sobered up; you were reminded that he didn’t have a normal childhood, even less so than yours. 

“That’s okay,” you said, resting a comforting hand on his chest. “I’m gonna keep helping you catch up, long as you want me to.”

Russell smiled and pressed a kiss to your forehead. “I appreciate that.”

You closed your eyes in content. 

“So,” Russell said, interrupting your peace. You heard the mischief in his voice before he even said anything else. “Am I gonna have to knock this Beaufort guy on his ass, or you got that one covered, slugger?”

You huffed in amusement. 

“Belmont,” you corrected, opening your eyes again to shoot him a wry glance. “And there won’t be any ass-kicking needed on that one. Just a typical hard-headed man with a slighted ego.”

“Oof, cut him some slack, baby. You’re a hard one to let go of,” Russell teased. You smiled.

“Hey. Don’t butter me up unless you intend to do something about it.”

“Oh, my apologies,” he said. He turned over and waylaid you with kisses along your jaw, then down the column of your throat, and further still, until he met the edge of your shirt. You felt his hands move under the hem of it, slowly bunching up the material as they slid up your body.  

Your first coming together when you two got home tonight was fraught, and a bit wild—the kind that nearly broke your headboard (again). 

Now, Russell seemed to want to take his time. He guided your shirt up, inch by inch as his lips explored whatever small expanse he bared, from the soft skin of your stomach, to the swell of your breasts. He stopped there, laying a sweet kiss in between them. You watched him with deeper breaths, but you softened when he turned his smile up at you. You saw nothing but affection in his eyes. 

“You know, the best part of my day is coming home to you,” he said.

You had to blink past the sting in your eyes, and swallow past another lump of emotion in your throat as you reached down to caress his cheek.

The hardest part of mine is watching you leave.

But you didn’t dare say that. You just guided him back up to your lips, and met him with a heated kiss.

You were nearly asleep when Russell finally came back to bed, after double-checking that the house was all locked up. He installed a more sophisticated security system a few months ago. It made him feel slightly better about leaving you alone. 

He padded back over to the bed and joined you on his side. You rested your head on his shoulder again, and he slid an arm around your waist. 

“Charlie’s doing well in his program, huh?” Russell asked. 

You’d been talking about your brother with him and Dory at dinner. 

You nodded. “Looks like it… God, I’m so proud of him. He’s really worked hard.”

Russell hummed deeply. “Glad to hear it.”

You glanced up at him, for a moment admiring his profile. He looked down and met your gaze.

“How long are you going to be home?” you asked, because you couldn’t stop yourself.

When you and Russell first started dating, he tried staying at a motel for a few weeks. You eventually invited him to just stay with you when he was in town. It made it easier to spend more time with him, since you worked a full-time schedule anyway. It was nice to come home to him, when he was here. After the surprise wore off, however, the fear always returned.

When is he leaving next?

“I don’t have another job lined up just yet,” Russell admitted. “Wanna take a couple weeks off, since this one lasted so long. I’m sorry about that.”

You were glad to hear it, so you nodded, but you had a feeling your true thoughts weren’t as well hidden as you intended. Russell searched your face.

“How’re you doing with all this?” he asked.

Your heart seized up, but you tried to play it off.

“What do you mean? We had some good food, good catching up on ‘90s movie magic, good making up for lost time,” you said playfully. You slid your leg across his lap. Russell welcomed you, drawing a hand up your thigh and under his shirt that once again hung loosely from your body. You had to reclaim it from somewhere between the sheets.

He still raised his brows at you. “You know what I mean.”

Slowly, your smile fell. Your gaze lowered. 

“Russ, I’m doing my best.”

“I know you are, sweetheart, and I appreciate that. You don’t know how much,” he said, stroking your back. “I just, uh…I know this is hard on you.”

He understood Tracy, Doug’s wife, even better now. He had been better able to sympathize with Doug too, because for the first time in his life, he had someone to come home to. Someone who was actually waiting on him to come home. It was a bigger responsibility than he thought it would be. 

You sighed. 

“Look, I’m not going to lie, this…it’s been hard as hell,” you began, closing your hand around his. “But I love you. I love you, and I still think we have a good thing here.”

That warmed him, reminded him why this was worth it. Russell nodded in agreement, and he crossed the few inches of distance that allowed him to kiss you, good and slow. 

“I love you too,” he admitted. He could count on half a hand the number of times that happened in his life, but even though it hadn’t been all that long…he thought you might be the one that finally stuck. 

Your pretty smile was just one piece of evidence. You gave that to him, and you reached up for a kiss. He obliged you in turn.  

“How about we put a timeframe on it then,” he said, after parting softly from you. 

You tilted your head in confusion, tinged with disbelief. “What?”

“How about you give me…’til the end of the year,” he said. “I know I’ve been taking a lot of jobs lately. It’s because I’m pretty close to my goal. I’ve almost got enough to find some good real estate and start working on that bar.”

Your drowsiness fell away completely as your excitement grew for him.

“Oh my God. Russ, that’s amazing!” 

Your support softened him that much more, deepening his smile. He framed your face with a hand and stroked your cheek with his thumb.

“Here’s a promise,” he said. “Six months, and no more missions. No more jobs. You’ll be stuck with me, so much that you’ll probably get sick of me.”

Your smile grew to radiant proportions.

“Hmm, maybe a little,” you teased, “but I’ll make that sacrifice.”

He grinned and drew you into another kiss. You paused, holding his bearded cheek. 

“Thank you,” you said. Russell shook his head.

“Aw, sweetheart,” he said. “You never gotta thank me for that.”

AN: Let me know if you enjoyed this little addition to ESC! 💜

Bonus Drabble:

After watching 2x02 yesterday, it gave me...feelings lol. So I ended up writing a new (very smutty) drabble to fill in a small gap in this one-shot! It's called More of This:

Summary: Welcoming Russell home, where he belongs. (18+) 

▶️ Keep Reading: More of This

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[with-my-murder-flute]

Re: The Tomb of Dragons ship situation/ending, spoilers for A Companion to Wolves and Angel of the Crows

Like I respect Addison's right to write the stories that feel meaningful to her, she doesn't have to just feed us fanbait, not every author has to do that

but I was white-knuckling up to the very last sentence of the book

I have trust issues ever since A Companion to Wolves, where the first book ends and you're like. I guess they have somehow found a way to survive and be happy in their unusual approach to society's sexual mores! And then the next book begins and it's like "Oh actually the main character is just resigned to permanent unhappiness with this, maybe he will dredge up a thin trickle of joy in life focusing on something totally different." And I'll be honest, I put that book down and never picked it up again, because I did the good girl Catholic thing and thought "Oh well I'll never experience sexual joy or deep enduring love but maybe I'll have like idk a career or some shit" long enough for one lifetime. NO MORE. I just gave up and went back to Every Marine a Wolfbrother.

And then Angel of the Crows was like, "I got shot down every single time I reached for queer joy or relationships and the one relationship that does remain is not really what I want or need and maybe I am a bit fundamentally unlovable, but I'll survive, we get by," and I was, again... I recognize this is not a story for me. It's not what I want from a story. But also, I am so disappointed and tired here.

So with this series I was just so much like... she does not owe us fanbait, I have trained myself to think it's tacky and bad to get upset that an author has not provided the exact kind of representation we want exactly how we want it. I watched the Good Omens fandom explosions and don't want to do that.

But at the same time. We have been hearing about the extreme gay agony of this beautiful muppet for FOUR BOOKS STRAIGHT. He is the world's most sopping wet little meow meow, and quite respectfully, if you do not want your fans to form a frenzy and start burning down uninhabited buildings due to an overload of unrequited textual sexual tension, MAYBE DON'T FOCUS ON IT QUITE SO MUCH.

So I'm here at the end of Tomb of Dragons going, "I guess I'm okay with this? I guess I can live? It's not exactly what I wanted and it's not delivered to the degree I wanted, but I guess we can get by here."

Is this what Stockholm Syndrome feels like? I literally don't believe Stockholm Syndrome is a real thing, I think it's been bunk since the day it was created, but also, this feels like what Stockholm Syndrome would feel like.

I will probably be able to like the new love interest! I can see myself in the future being happy with the way the story ended up going in, once I get over the fact that it went there! This makes sense and I can see it and reconciling all those feelings is what fanfiction's for!

I just also... am not so excited to see what else Addison's working on now. Because this overarching theme or emotional focus on the yearning for warmth and closeness and empathy and touch and desire, and the realization that you will just have to make do with slightly unsatisfying substitutes instead, is just way too similar to the defeatist ways I learned to approach life with when I was a child. It's exactly the mindset I wanted to get away from then and am still learning to let go of now.

I don't want to squash the fandom with my disappointment and negativity, and if fandom does just turn into everyone being angry and bitter that the author personally flipped them the bird and actually everything about these books is proof that they've always been shit, no thanks, not hanging out with that again. If I stick around, it's for Thara getting railed in exactly the way he wants in some happier future, and figuring out what that would look like.

[mischiefmaker615]

Confession

Rating: PG14

Summary: You finally tell Loki your secret hobby

Note: I finally told my boyfriend I write smut/fan fiction. Yet what better way of telling you guys the story of how it went than to write it as a one shot with Loki Lol (with added/slight adjustments for the character switch)

True you were sat comfortably- right on top of your boyfriend, but that still didn’t settle the nerves while your fingers fidgeted together.

He looked up at you just as relaxed as ever, hair spread out slightly around his head while he lay on his back- evidence indicating how much he appreciated you straddling his hips as your body rose up a bit. His smooth, slender hands rested on your bare hips- fingers now and again edging inside the outside seam of your panties but his eye contact ensured he was paying attention.

‘’okay.. Its just that.. this whole vacation has been amazing, and I just want to be utterly and completely honest with you..’’ you began, not sure if you were just stalling while you glanced over at the window, taking in the view of Vegas with your eyes but your mind was far beyond it.

‘’hey, it’s okay,’’ Loki said gently, his voice almost over a whisper as he raised a hand to turn your chin back to look down at him, his thumb rubbing against it before falling back to your hip with a light squeeze. ‘’you know you could tell me anything.’’

Your heart fluttered, utterly in love with this man while your hands rested against his bare chest, biting your bottom lip while you gathered your courage. ‘’okay so.. I just want you to know that on my off time.. my hobby.. is to.. write fan fiction..’’

Immediately your cheeks heated up and your body tensed, almost not believing you had just told someone your secret pass time activity while you waited for judgement.

‘’I know.’’

Your eyes widened at his deadpan expression, still relaxed from the beginning while you leaned down closer to his face questionably. ‘’what??! What do you mean you know??”

‘’you were drunk.’’ He said gently, letting the smile tugging at his lips to show while you sat back and searched the blank wall in front of you in thought.

‘’no I.. I couldn’t have..’’ you fade off while every fiber of your being that was nervous about this whole thing, diminished into the foolish wave of worrying for nothing.

When you drank, you were an open book. Secrets were out, truth serum. It was dangerous.. but apparently this secret had already come out.. and it’s either he didn’t bring it up so he wouldn’t risk embarrassing you, or he just didn’t seem to care that much on the subject.. oh gods.. did he look it up? Read it? There was no way in hell you would ask and risk putting that idea in his head-

‘’yeah but it’s just.. I write dark shit.. like dark dark shit.. some topics I’m not sure why I don’t feel ashamed of writing- it’s not that I’m into some stuff- some pieces people have requested.. I just.. I suppose I just didn’t want any expectations either that you’d think I’d want you to do any of that stuff..’’ you admitted, your eyes falling back down to his where he smiled up at you and shook his head.

‘’I love you Y/N, and you have your hobbies. As long as your safe and happy, that’s all that I could ask for.’’ He said gently, reaching up a hand to rest against your cheek in which you immediately leaned into. ‘’have you tried writing long books?”

The fact that he wished to continue this conversation and show interest, made you both nervous and excited for the first time. Like something off your chest, something you could finally speak about that you’ve been holding in for so long. The very moment had your smile growing and growing until you were practically wigging on top of him like a puppy wagging its tail.

‘’actually, I have! And I’m not like famous or anything- but I lot of people have enjoyed it! Primarily I work on one shots- one page, small plot like pieces where I even started a series where it’s inspired by music- called Musical Mischief one shots! Even Gif Skits where people send me Gifs and I write stories based off what comes to mind when I look at them-‘’

I had began rambling, and he didn’t stop me. The smile on his face showed he was purely just enjoying my state of finally relaxing and being happy. There was also the fact of the view he had been getting this whole time- and it wasn’t out the window while I sent a bra strap slowly fall down my arm but I let it be. Even if his eyes watched it and took their time going back up to mine.

Honestly this whole trip I tried focusing solely on trust. He’s the one I wish to be with all my life after all, so it’s best these things come up sooner than later. I just secretly pray he doesn’t figure out how to find my pages.. it’s not something id want to deal with any time soon but at least there’s no secrets between us as far as what I actually enjoy doing..

‘’you haven’t been itching to leave to that computer contraction while we were reading together?” he asked with slight hesitation.

You couldn’t help but laugh and glide your hands across his chest to grip his shoulders, smiling down at him. ‘’of course not, I enjoy actual paper books too. And you..’’ the last part you said slowly, giving your best half successful flirtatious look while he chuckled and finally flipped the two of you over so he was on top.

‘’it’s up to you darling, we could get dressed and get started on the day,’’ he started, resting on his forearms so not his full weight was on you while he began lowering his lips down to your neck. ‘’or.. we could stay here a bit longer..’’ he hinted, sending goosebumps over your skin while you squirmed underneath him before he raised his head to look at you.

‘’hard decision.’’ You teased before raising your hips, hearing his breath hitch ever so slightly while your arms wrapped around his neck. ‘’but I prefer the harder one..’’

Note: more or less.. had to add things to make it into a less-boring mini plot LOL and to make it sound more like Loki's personality. But yeah.. I'm more shy because it's dark smut, not just smut. I'd still probably die if i found out he reads my shit but we'll figure that part later XD I was even debating on tagging people cause even tho it's Loki.. its technically just a story of my person life and who wants to know that LOL

Tag List: @foxherder13 @asgards-princess-of-mischief @fire-in-her-veinz @nervouseden @kathren1sky-blog @eleniblue @lokiswife-dark-fox-queen @queenofstarsign85 @slytherinqueen4life @soulpiercing @westwindrhapsody @lulubelle814

(I know we don't approve of AI. tbh i cant tell what's actually AI and what's actually fan art. So credit to whoever made the pic!)