#but I have something she could never Dream of | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

bluemerakis · 1 day ago

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Recently finished Swayze’s ‘ghost’ and now I can’t stop thinking about post-Hell Dean, where the reader has his iconic brown leather jacket hanging in her room thinking she’s never gonna see him again but he shows up in her room (in a non creepy way as much as possible lol) and they fuuuuck like old times and she thinks she’s dreaming until she realises it’s actually him (or not lol) but the romanticism is screaming out to me, idk if it’s something you’d be interested in writing but omfg you’d write this so painfully well

ANON!! i LOVE LOVE LOVE this SO much! i’m so honoured that you’ve entrusted me with this idea—i had the time of my life writing this & went a lil wild with it LOL. thank you for your support and kind words, it means the world to me! i hope i did your request justice 🩵

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────────── ᝰ bluemerakis ༝༚༝༚ ───

❝ sunshine ❞

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pairing ୨୧ dean winchester x fem!reader

warnings .ᐟ s4!spoilers, established relationship, dramatic descriptions of grief, cussing, angst, sam being an adorable little angel, nip sucking, unprotected sex p in v, tooth-rotting fluff. lmk if I forgot any! if there are typos, no there isn’t

synopsis ─ after dean had sealed the deal that warranted him a one-way ticket to hell, you had no hopes of ever seeing him again. you were overcome with a grief that felt inescapable, but with sam’s help, you’d managed to pull through the storm and enter clearer skies. just when you thought you’d have to navigate a new life without dean, against all odds, he makes an unexpected appearance.

word count ~ roughly 15k

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Four months.

The duration of your ongoing turmoil. The grim tally of his absence.

For four months, you’d been trapped in the stagnant bog of your grief. It had formed the very first night you’d lost him, seizing your mind like a rabid plague. It didn’t matter which way you attempted to swim, or how hard you paddled to try and stay afloat, there was no sure escape from its bottomless depth. It immobilised your existence, broke down your hope—scattered it like falling leaves to be lapped up by the famished surface and swallowed to the point of no return. It was lonely and suffocating, but you’d since given up on waiting for a lifeline to be cast from some land beyond your gloomy horizon, so sure that you’d isolated yourself from any soul kind enough to try.

Except for Sam.

Sam had tried to rescue you many times, but the lines he casted were always too battered—chewed up by the demons of his own grief. And you knew that if you grabbed onto it—where he stood barely clinging to the other end—it would snap and pull him right in. You couldn’t do that to him, so you’d surrendered to the bog entirely, allowing your grief to engulf you into its endless, bone-chilling nothingness. And each day, you sank further and further, like the dead weight of a stone, drifting down into the pits of your despair. Your living, breathing death.

A slow, agonising journey of digestion—your body, mind and soul disseminating into nothing.

Reaching rock bottom hadn’t taken long, not when you’d been left feeling so shallow by the robbery of your life’s meaning. And you’d laid there ever since, slowly deteriorating, slowly drowning. Over and over and over again. You could have said that you were losing every part of yourself, but you hadn’t been whole to begin with, not for a long time—not since losing him.

If he were here, he could have saved you from yourself. But he wasn’t. And you hated him for it.

You hated him. For striking a deal with the devil. For placing his life on the line without a second breath. For lying to you about it. For even thinking that nobody would notice the dead space left behind. There were certain days that tended to plunge that hateful knife—already engrossed in your heart—a little deeper. A day like this morning.

The day that marked the anniversary of Dean Winchester’s death.

On the first day without him, you’d spent your time trying to fight it—forced smiles, laughs of denial, stares that didn’t linger on any of his belongings for too long. But it was hard not to come face to face with his memory when the ghost of his existence seemed to prowl after you at every turn and every corner of the apartment. His favourite coffee mug with an infamous chip on the rim. The frozen, pasty pies he’d crammed the freezer full of. Six packs of canned beers stocked along the pantry’s top shelf. His discarded shoes. His sparse watch collection. The shampoo bottle he’d diluted to last a month longer.

And that damn leather jacket, which currently draped from the frame of your desk chair.

It hung there like a museum exhibit—the memory of Dean Winchester, frozen in time. The jacket he’d left behind on the day he’d slipped your life for good. You hadn’t once touched it. You couldn’t bring yourself to lay your fingers across the leather when there’d be no warmth radiating through its fabric to soothe you—couldn’t face the fact that it’d reflect the cold, empty truth of it all. So there it laid, collecting dust and slowly drowning beneath the suffocating, grey sea without a merciful hand to liberate it. It was a cruel parallel of your own withering state.

Every morning, your eyes would peel through a hollow sleep, and the first thing they’d settle on was that damn jacket. Every. Single. Time. As if you needed the constant recap on top of everything else. You could have mustered up the courage to move it some place else that’d finally warrant the motto out of sight, out of mind. But the naive fool that had created that saying failed miserably at accounting for the woes of the brain. Once scorched into memory, nothing would ever truly be forgotten. You’d remember regardless of where that jacket lay—a curse bound to your life, never to be broken.

Unless you broke first.

You shifted at the heart of your king-sized bed, your head sinking back into your plumy pillow as you gazed up at the ceiling. At anything but that jacket. Your limbs sprawled out between the cotton sheets, taking maximum advantage to voyage the sea of space left at your disposal. While a mattress this large and luxurious should’ve offered you a sense of comfortable freedom, you couldn’t help but mourn all the space—space that at one point, had been occupied by him.

The gentle, golden glare of dawn had begun its steady journey into the room, letting itself in almost shyly through the slits of your curtains. The meek sunbeams sliced through the dim atmosphere you’d found solice within, and you watched as dust particles began to waltz around one another through the bronzed air—as if they’d been cast into the centre of the ballroom. Around and around they swirled in perfect, mirrored harmony. You thought it looked a lot like a courting display—more mental imagery to emphasise your loneliness.

For a second, some faded image—a memory—flashed across your mind. Yourself and Dean, taking to the neglected dance floor of a bar nearing its closing time. A half-emptied beer bottle clutched in his one hand as his other linked with yours, serving as the leash that dragged your protesting form to its debut on the dance floor.

You’d never been too confident in your dancing skills, a fact you’d tried many times to disclose, but Dean had been insistent. Somewhere behind you, Sam had whooped from the comfort of the booth you’d both discarded, and when you’d glanced back at the younger Winchester, he had his beer-adorned hand raised into the air as a cheer. You’d scoffed with a heavy thanks for nothing.

When you’d turned back to Dean, he’d drawn up in his tracks without any prior warning, causing you to crash not-so-elegantly into his torso. Instinctively, your free palm had lurched forward to cradle his chest in a steadying motion, your chin tilting up to grace him with a stunned giggle.

The drink he’d throttled in his other hand sloshed with the jolt, foam tumbling over the nozzle’s edge like a provoked volcano’s tantrum. It slathered his fingers and trickled to the floor, adding fresh patterns to the aged, sticky blotches already scattered amidst the young night.

“Woah, easy there, tiger,” he’d laughed, but the hand that’d dragged you here released your fingers only to form a seductive curve at the small of your back. There, he’d pulled you in even closer, his lips closing in on you with the promise of a love-sick kiss. But instead, his jaw had dipped past your temple, lips grazing your cheekbone before hovering at your ear. “There’s nuff o’ me to go ‘round without you jumpin’ ship for the first spot,” he husked. You’d practically felt the grin spreading his lips.

You’d ducked your head away from his with a hearty huff. “Down, boy,” you’d scoffed, hands trailing up his chest to crown either shoulder with a natural ease. The touch had been smooth, magnetic. And maybe you two were like magnets, utterly obsessed with being intangible, and eager to keep on exploring every inch of one another with a shifting touch rather than be torn apart.

Dean’s eyes had lowered to the naughty line you’d drawn to his shoulders, the grin he’d taken up deepening enough to suction his cheeks into the dimples you’d come to adore. When he’d acquainted your eyes again, it was through a heavy-lidded stare that promised all sorts of activities to reciprocate your tantalising touch. “Oh, I’ll get down, alright,” he’d chuckled hoarsely, leaving the line open to interpretation as he brought his beer to his lips. He’d downed a slow, deliberate sip, his eyes not once straying from yours as he watched you mentally decipher his words.

“You know what? Enough of your games,” you’d laughed, hands slipping from his chest to forsake the dance floor before you’d have a chance to make it regret hosting you. You’d attempted to turn tail and flee, but Dean’s hand had found your wrist in a firm, yet gentle tug, and then you were held prisoner under those hypnotising eyes once more. Your lips had split to offer some final protest, but his own lips puckered into a shushing pout that had you clamping down on your tongue.

“Don’t say anythin’, just dance with me,” he’d instructed, and then the hand tethering you to him lifted, your arm following the motion like a chain effect. Against your will, you were spun around in an awkward, off-timed circle that deviated abominably from the background music. When you came to face him once more, his chest had rattled with a laugh a little too passionate for your liking. “That was adorable—like a toddler learnin’ she’s got the gears but don’t quite know which she’s shiftin’.”

Your cheeks had seared hot at that comment, free hand diving forward to shove his chest lightly. “Stop—I warned you!” You’d simpered.

“Hey!” He’d laughed, beer-occupied hand lifting in a gesture of innocence. “I’m only playin’! You’ll get the hang o’ it—I’ll teach ya. Watch.” Your hand lifted under his guidance as he executed his own spin—even more sprawled and ridiculous than yours had been. Your free hand had flown to cradle your mouth as a disbelieved chortle blared through, and as Dean came to face you once more, his brows were lifted in question. “Eh? I’m a natural, yeah?”

You’d giggled into your palm again before dropping your hand back to your side, lips pursing with amusement. “Let’s just say that I don’t think either of us should be teaching the other,” you’d huffed through a pained smile.

Dean lowered your joined hands to the space between you. “Well,” he’d begun, pulling you into his frame once more, like he just couldn’t get enough of your presence—like he wanted it to hog him. “Guess we just gotta. . . y’know, feel this one out together,” he’d murmured suggestively, eyes narrowing with cheek while he released your hand to settle into its natural hold at the small of your back.

You’d leaned your smirk-heavy lips closer to his with a content hum, your hands coming to wrap around his neck. “Sounds like a plan. I’ll follow if you lead.” He’d grinned approvingly at that, tugging you along to a slow and steady sway of the bodies, which you’d succumbed to and harmonised with in no time—much to your surprise.

“Sammy!” Dean had called to his younger brother, his eyes not once straying from yours as he presented his beer in the direction of the booth. “All yours for the takin’.” He’d paused to steal a glance at your beaming lips. “I got my own special o’ the night.”

You’d laughed at that, and Dean’s charm had grown all the more potent as he stretched out the dance between the two of you for what felt like a good couple of hours. In the background, the music in bad taste had blared on, ever so eager to cheapen the moment between the two of you, but you’d become so enthralled with one another that all else around you was drowned out, anyway.

Both his hands had selfishly hoarded your lower back, pressing you so far into him that you’d stumbled around his feet more times than you’d have liked to admit. But you’d remained steadied by the hands furled around his neck, and comforted by the gentle, reciprocated press of your foreheads, gazing into the sanctuary of one another’s eyes.

If you’d known then, in that moment, that Dean Winchester was going to die, you’d have held onto him a little longer—and probably never have let go. Even if it killed you, too.

With a heavy, rattled rise of your chest, you came back to your grim present, drawing in a long and shaky breath. You shifted between the sheets to roll onto your side, arm coming up beneath the underside of your pillow to cradle it like an emotional support teddy. You tuned your attention to your curtain-clad windows, and like a corpse, you continued to rot away within your coffin of a mattress, watching idly as the sun continued to announce its ascent.

It wasn’t long before warm golds drained into a paler shades that fully lit your room now—the official statement of a new day. But still, you didn’t stir. The curtains remained cast, the windows crammed closed as tightly as they’d been left about a week ago, and your soul feeling anything but renewed to tackle this heavy day head on.

Somewhere beyond your wall, footsteps thrummed lightly down the hallway. Now and again, you’d let yourself believe that they belonged to Dean, on his way to brew you both a morning cuppa—just to offer some pathetic, fleeting slither of comfort. But nothing—nobody could ever fill those shoes left behind. It hadn’t stopped Sam from trying, though.

Before Dean’s. . . disappearance, the brothers had stayed together in the larger room of your two-bedroom apartment—nothing like reliving the good old times, right? It didn’t much bother either one of them, given that Dean had slept in your bed on most nights, leaving the space feeling basically like Sam’s own. The dynamic between you all worked well, and it was practical for a hunter’s lifestyle. Costs were cut, perimeters familiarised and mapped out, and the shared company between you all was reliable. Trustworthy.

You’d become a blended family of some sort. You didn’t think there was any external force that could’ve torn you all apart. But you hadn’t accounted for an inside job. Hadn’t accounted for the weak link that was you.

After Dean’s death, you’d gone into a self-destructive spiral, eager to push anybody and everybody away while you feigned bravery. But Sam had clocked you like an open book, and it made him the hottest target of your impulsive ire.

You couldn’t stand looking at the younger Winchester, how he served as a constant reflection of your own grief—the grief you’d tried so hard to drown out. You knew you should have bonded with him over your shared loss, and the younger Winchester had tried everything to utilise that angle to be there for you, but it’d only made you push back harder. You half expected him to walk out after the first week, but you’d forgotten how deep-rooted stubborness ran within the Winchester bloodline.

Sam had continued to stick around. Why was beyond you. You could have argued that it was because he’d come to love you like a sister, but you couldn’t help the feeling that Dean had made him promise to look out for you, should he ever bite the dust. And it made you hate him more. Because if it were the latter, it meant that Dean had always intended to stay en route on the sacrificial pathway you’d tried countless times to swerve him from. And it meant that loving you hadn’t been reason enough for him to become sidetracked.

If only he’d held out a little longer and put off making that damned deal, you could have continued searching for a solution that didn’t end with either of the Winchesters’ deaths. But deep down, you knew that fate hadn’t written that ending down in any of her books. That continuing to skim page after page would have done nothing but waste minutes paid in blood. Deep down, you knew that Dean had no other choice, but it didn’t make you hate him any less for choosing it.

The faint clanking of utensils transcended the walls, indicating that Sam had worked himself into the kitchen. It was like a routine now. Every morning, the same time. You thought he might’ve craved some taste of control over his life by instilling this morning pattern he now followed so religiously.

You envied how well he seemed to hold himself together, despite it being his blood that had passed on. It made you feel invalidated in all your mourning. After all, if he could move on from the loss of his brother, whom he’d known all his life, why couldn’t you move on from a man you’d known for a pitiful number that paled in comparison?

As they so often did, your thoughts rampaged for a while longer, so eager to hold you captive between the sheets. But eventually, you felt the pit of neglect burrowed into your stomach gape wider, something that you couldn’t ignore any longer.

Your head turned to glimpse the plates you’d stacked atop the bedside table over the last few days. Almost all of them held meals that you’d scarcely picked at, meals Sam had cooked you, and they were starting to smell. It wasn’t doing much to help encourage the full return of your appetite. But still, you had to eat—something fresher, of course.

Eventually, you mustered up the courage to stir and shed the sheets, your week-old pyjamas falling limp around your frame as you shovelled your weight onto wilted legs. You stood for a moment, taking in this new pull of gravity, before angling yourself toward the door.

At the corner of your eye, it beckoned to you. You shouldn’t have looked, shouldn’t have given it the attention it so desperately craved, but how could you stand steadfast when you were crippled with the need to reminisce him during every waking moment? So you buckled, like you always did, and turned to glance over the waiting leather jacket.

It beamed a little brighter this time around, illuminated by the sun’s pale touch. It looked almost angelic, and you could have sworn that new life had been bestowed upon it—like a reincarnation. But no matter how long you stared, no body seemed to materialise between its hold to glorify that hope. Still no Dean Winchester to show for it.

So much for having faith.

With a barely audible scoff, you finally tore your gaze away and trudged toward your bedroom door. You reached for the handle, fingers hovering over the cool metal as you took a moment to think about what’d you say to Sam. Starting with an apology would probably be ideal, followed up by a looping string of thank yous for everything he’s done. You swallowed thickly before tightening your hold, the mechanism clicking open with a brash sound that cut through your senses. And then, like a ghost, you neglected your grave and slunk into the hallway.

When you traipsed into the open-plan apartment on light, reluctant feet, your eyes wandered over to the kitchen at the corner, where Sam had already made himself comfortable at the hot lip of the stove. His back was turned on you, but you caught the whisk of his arms as he executed an impressive flip of something within the skillet. It landed with a muffled thump, a result that had Sam hissing out a noise of satisfaction.

A shy, smoky ghost levitated above the Winchester, and it wasn’t long before the cracked kitchen window wafted a clue in your direction—the sweet tang of pancakes tickling your nose. Usually, it was a smell that had you inhaling a little deeper, like you couldn’t miss savouring even a scrap of its existence. Now, the smell roused nothing other than a faint reminder of just how much you didn’t crave breakfast. Or anything, for that matter. But still, duty called. More like your stomach would begin eating itself if you insisted on starving it for a day longer.

With a practiced breath of bravery, you picked your way past the living room sofas, your sock-clad feet scuffling across the floor with a severe lack of motivation. As you approached the kitchen island, you spotted a can of sweetened whipped cream—your favourite—and a bowl of berries straddling the plated, ever-growing stack of pancakes. It was the complete picture your stomach needed to enlist the first of its rumbling, but you hadn’t had much of a mental appetite for quite some time. The simple joy you’d once held for eating had been boiled down to the dull necessity of sustenance—you ate only because your body needed fuel. Anything more than that just wasn’t worth feeling.

And, truthfully, it was a baffling, new reality because there was a time you'd have nagged the boys to drive you halfway across the country to try some new cuisine you'd seen advertised across billboards. You’d scribble down the names of the niche diners and renowned restaurants in your trusty notebook to be reviewed on the trips back to the motels, heated debates unfolding as the brothers either vouched for or condemned your idea of a good meal. Now, the memories were so distant that you'd started to wonder whether they'd even existed. Whether that version of you still existed.

You brought up the rear of one of the kitchen chairs, moving a hand to cradle your protesting stomach while the other outstretched to retract the chair at the rim. The sudden, intrusive screech of wood against wood was enough to startle Sam into a growing awareness of his surroundings. He pivoted on his heels to face you, the pan making a reflexive dive in your direction in what was meant to be some pitiful means of a defence. The white of his eyes blared through, his tall frame ducking slightly as he assumed a defensive position.

Your composure didn’t falter as you slunk into the seat; his reaction wasn’t any surprise, not when you lead the adrenaline-laced life of a hunter forced to guard their six on a daily. And you doubted he’d expected any company after you’d basically stopped existing outside of your room these last couple of days—and at this early hour, no less.

What did surprise you, though, was that the pancake had managed to cling to the metal of the skillet in the midst of his jolt.

As Sam drank in your familiar form, his broad shoulders sagged visibly under his growing relaxation, the vice grip he’d unintentionally taken up around the pan’s handle now relenting an inch.

“Oh,” he stuttered out, a flustered half-chuckle diffusing his misplaced adrenaline. He slunk toward the island with his head slightly bowed, his gaze flickering between you and the pan. “Hey,” he murmured, his lips pursing shortly after the meek sound, as though he were afraid to let the wrong words slip. His caution wasn’t misplaced; you hadn’t exactly been kind to him these last few days.

It usually went that way around this time of the month. The days stepping up to the anniversary of Dean’s death tended to trip you right into the worst vision of yourself. You were more sullen than usual, losing patience over minuscule things, and sinking jaws of hostility into anybody who’d even attempted to offer hollow words of comfort.

Bobby had been the first to withdraw with some muttered crap of I’m too old for this shit. But Sam had always been too forgiving. He’d stuck around regardless of your temper, taking all the verbal beatings while he tended to your unspoken needs in ways that you couldn’t. You owed him so much more than you were capable of giving at this time.

You leaned onto the cool marble of the island, your hands coming forward in a timid fold as your lips flattened into a pathetic spectacle of a smile. “Hey, Sam,” you murmured, and for a second, the sound startled you. It was so dull, so lifeless—you’d even go so far as to say that it was so unlike you.

It was a stark contrast to the version of yourself the brothers had learnt to tolerate, maybe even appreciate—constant chatter and running commentary streaming live from the backseat of the impala. Dean had gone so far as to nickname you sunshine and rainbows, trailing after the twin storm clouds—the Winchesters—that seemed to thunder down on the unassuming world. But now, you felt like nothing more than the rolling, gloomy skies that paved way for everything wet, woeful and destructive. A weather so devastating that a show of a rainbow would be a mockery rather than a promise.

Sam returned your smile almost sheepishly, his head dipping to drink in the view of the counter. “You, uh. . . you sleep alright?” He asked, the pan coming forward to leer you over as he tipped the metal downwards and crowned the seasoned stack of pancakes with the fresh newcomer.

Your eyes lowered to the newest addition of the pancake pile, following the faint trails of heat that seemed to rise with a freedom and lightness you craved to feel. “Yeah,” you lied, your lower lip instantly pulled into a tense bite. “Yeah, I slept. . . fine.”

You knew that Sam wasn’t convinced, the moment of silence following after evidence of some tactic he might’ve been mentally reviewing to try and coax the truth from you. You began tracing a line along the patterns of the marble counter with your index finger, anticipating the awkward conversation to come.

“Come on, really?” He laughed softly, but the sound was gentle and sympathetic, not slathered with amusement or scorn. “‘Cause I didn’t,” he confessed.

You glanced up at him in surprise, your finger halting in its place. “Really?” You breathed out softly, instant relief crashing over you. Maybe Sam hadn’t recovered as much as you thought he had, and as unfortunate as that was, you couldn’t help but feel slightly comforted—less alone.

He tipped his head to the side in consensus, a wry scoff piercing his lips. “Honestly? Can’t remember the last time I did,” he said, eyes flickering up to glance you over briefly before he turned his back on you to discard the pan at the sink. He slid over to the stove, flicking buttons and shifting dishes before he was back at the island. “I mean, I sleep—but just. . . not very well.” He took up a spatula and began shovelling at the pancake stack. “One?” He asked intuitively.

“One’s perfect,” you said. You watched as he dragged the rim of the spatula down the building of pancakes, stopping somewhere around the middle floor before he slid the utensil inward. He shimmied out a hot and fluffy pick, placing it onto your plate rather gingerly before he nudged it in your direction. “Thanks, Sam,” you murmured, receiving it with a forced show of eagerness—you didn’t want your lack of an appetite to make things more personal than they already felt.

“Yeah, anytime,” he answered, sparing you a soft smile before he took to plating his own stack of three.

You held off on digging into your singular pancake, hands idling around the knife and fork bracketing your plate as you waited for the younger Winchester to cover up the remainder of the breakfast.

With a satisfied dusting of his palms, he finally pushed his own plate across the marble to slide in a distance beside yours before he made his way around the island. He pulled out the seat beside you and settled himself down with a heavy plop and an appreciative grunt—almost like an old man of some sorts.

He took up his cutlery and glanced over at you with a comforting smile. “Time to, uh. . . dig in, I guess,” he laughed lightly. “There’s whipped cream and berries if you’d like.” His chin jutted to the listed toppings, and then his knifed hand jolted into the air suddenly. “Oh, and there’s syrup, too. I’ll fetch it from the pantry.”

Without waiting for your response, he set down the cutlery and shifted back in his chair, but you turned your body a slither to face him before he could slip away as quickly as your nerve.

“Sam, wait,” you said, your hands straying from the table to bundle in your lap in an anxious toying of fingers.

He halted in place almost instantly, turning to face you with his brows quirked an inch—like your sudden unrest was news to him. But you knew he was only trying to be polite in playing his attentive part; he likely knew exactly what this was about. “Yeah?”

You drank in his softened eyes, and they held so much purity and innocence that it caused your heart to sag with a fresh, guilt-ridden heaviness. It tugged your head down to the view of your lap, your chest heaving with a shuddering inhale. “I’m so sorry,” you blurted out, your voice rattled by so much regret that it began to quiver.

At the edge of your vision, you saw Sam settle back into his seat, arms drawing onto the counter. “Hey,” he cooed gently. “It’s oka—”

“No, it’s not okay,” you cut in hastily. “I need to say this. I’m sorry for everything—for the way I acted. . . for the things I said—you didn’t deserve any of it, Sam.” You began picking at the skin of your nails. “I just, I have all this. . . anger inside of me. I’m angry at myself, and I’m angry at Dean—I’m angry at everything cause everything’s just so fucking unfair. And I know that it’s not an excuse, but I just. . . I figured. . . I don’t know. There’s a lot I don’t know,” you scoffed, but you braved face and lifted your head to face him once more. “But I do know that I am truly, deeply sorry.”

Sam’s head lowered to take in the view of his plate, his eyes darting about the porcelain. “Listen,” he eventually murmured, his mouth stuttering around air as he searched for the right words. Eventually, he settled on grace. “I get it, okay?” His chin lifted to gift you with a break you didn’t think you deserved. “All that anger inside of you. . . I’ve felt it before—more than I’d like to admit, actually,” he laughed dryly before his expression warped into something more solemn. “It eats you up inside. . . makes you say and do things you wouldn’t usually say or do. There are so many times I’ve gone down that road, but Dean—he’s always been there to pull me back, even if it was by the tip of my ear.” He laughed again, this time more genuine, and you couldn’t help but crack a smile of your own.

Sam’s head lowered again, his smile simmering away. “Anyway, I guess what I’m tryna say is that, I get it. I get why you said the things you did, and I’m not mad about it. For once, I don’t feel that anger anymore.”

Slowly, your fingers began to still their fidgeting as you listened to him talk, your chest cooperating by letting up on its rapid pace.

The younger winchester upturned his eyes to yours with a new ferocity. “I’m here for you. I’m always gonna be here for you—and not just because I owe Dean that much, but because you’ve been there for me, too. So many times. Even at my. . .” He trailed off as he averted his gaze to the side, some unspoken shame breaching his conscious. You saw his Adam’s Apple bop under a heavy swallow before he turned back to you. “Even at my worst,” he continued. “So. . . don’t worry about it, really. I get it.”

For the first time in a long time, you found your eyes watering an emotion other than grief and heartbreak—something far lighter and rejuvenating. Love. Appreciation. Relief. You envied Sam’s ability to barrel through this cruel life so determined to pin him down, and you admired how each time, he seemed to emerge with a heart even larger than before. Even after all the rounds you’d emptied into his chest, he stood tall, still offering that hand you so desperately needed to pull you from your self-dug trenches.

Maybe, it was about time you finally took it.

The first tear slipped the keep of your eye, jettisoned from the ledge of your cheekbone to where it splattered across the marble top. Your hand flew to wipe the moisture away, an ugly sniff racking your chest. There was a clank of shifting metal before Sam’s hand came forward to brush your shoulder.

“Hey,” he cooed softly, and then you were carefully tugged into the side of his towering frame. “Come here,” he urged, and he was so gentle that it had you fully succumbing to his hold without a single reflexive need to resist. His arm snaked around your shoulder blades to hook around your arm as he drew you into a tight hug, your hands bundling further into your lap. “It’ll be okay. We’ll get through this. Together,” he added pointedly, a clear warning that he didn’t intend to let you get your lonely way again. You were okay with that.

Your lower lip began quivering with fresh emotion—guilt bouncing on the rim the heaviest. “I’m so sorry, Sam,” you reiterated.

Your felt his chin settle into the crown of your head, the vibration bouncing off your hair. “For what? Being human?” He laughed. “In case you haven’t noticed, we tend to be dicks from time to time, and I’d say hunters have more right than most to be a bigger one now and again.”

You laughed—actually laughed at that, the sound snotty and slightly gross, but real. Sam harmonised with his own throaty chuckle, the hand furled around your arm in a tight, reassuring grip relenting to rub comforting lines up and down the expanse.

“Now, enough of the pity party. Let’s finish these pancakes before they get cold, and then what do you say we pull out a couple of board games?” He gave you one last comforting squeeze before slowly releasing you from the hug.

You leaned away from him, centring your weight back over your own chair as you turned your head down to your plate with a thoughtful pout. “Okay,” you agreed, your chin ducking in tiny, accepting nods. You sniffed away the lingering tears, hand coming up to pat your eyes one last time for good measure. Then, your head swivelled to face him as you put on a weak smile. “Hey—think you’re smart enough to challenge me to a game of scrabble?”

Sam laughed as though your challenge was satire, but you frowned with slight offence, which sobered his smile into a look of confusion. “Wha—you’re serious?” He huffed, jaw gaped around disbelief.

“And why wouldn’t I be?” You exclaimed, your voice cracking around a light giggle—the first you’d uttered in a while. “I’m as smart as you are—we read the same books!”

His averted his gaze, head cocking to the side with a scoff before he glanced back at you in amusement. “Yeah, and after you gave your reports, I had to go back and reread every single one of those books to fill in information you left out,” he said pointedly.

You shook your head with light disbelief, a thin chuckle following after. “You know what? Let’s have that round, and if you win, you can bullshit my literacy skills all you like. Deal?” You outstretched your hand across the counter.

Sam’s gaze ducked to the gesture, his brows cocking on a look that you thought was a little too smug, before his hand reached to link with yours in an informal pact. “Deal,” he said through a scheming smirk.

You squeezed his hand lightly as a warning. “Wipe that douche-display off your lips, nothing’s set in stone.”

“Yeah, no, of course,” he replied nonchalantly, but when your hands unlinked, you saw the corner of his mouth hitch with some mental remark.

“All right, that’s it.” You took up your utensils while Sam glanced you over with slight surprise. You began digging into your pancake with a renewed sense, plopping the first piece into your mouth and taking on a ferocious chew. There was a brief wave of nausea at the food’s sudden intrusion before it quickly dissipated at the sweet taste, beckoning you back for another bite.

“You might wanna slow down there,” he laughed, hands tending to his own plate before they finally presented his first bite to his lips with far more poise.

“Uh uh,” you hummed through a mouthful, swallowing thickly before continuing. “I got a lot riding on this. You made it personal when you brought my ego into this. Sooner we’re done here, sooner I can beat you.”

Sam let out a disbelieved laugh, but didn’t argue any further as he began dissembling his own pancakes at a faster rate. Once you’d both lapped down the dough and licked the plates clean, you’d taken to washing up the dishes and wiping down the counters while Sam procured the board games that had long since collected dust. You’d taken the liberty of microwaving you both a bowl of popcorn and pouring glasses of soda while he set out the game within the living room. Then, you both settled down for the first round, snacks at the ready.

Sam had won, as he’d so smugly anticipated. But you weren’t so eager to be humiliated without a challenge, so for the rest of the day, you’d played out the game to a tally of the most wins. Hours seemed to pass like the impression of a second, the apartment growing dimmer and dimmer with each trailing retreat of the sun.

Eventually, you were both cast in a saturated bronze that poured in through the living room windows, illuminating the score page you’d scribbled up and further glorifying Sam’s final win. He took the game by far, and you were forced to acknowledge that maybe he was the smarter one of you both. Or at least the more apt thinker.

After that, you’d both powered through a movie of his choice, chowing down on some Chinese takeout he’d had delivered. And you emptied the carton down to the last noodle, appeasing the appetite you’d developed somewhere throughout the day. Already, you felt so much lighter—physically and mentally—and you knew that you owed it all to Sam and his perseverence. You couldn’t help but beam with some newfound appreciation for the younger Winchester.

Through the darkness, the tv screen emitted just enough light to illuminate Sam’s side profile. His eyes were glued to the screen, jaw circulating hasty chews as he practically inhaled his second bowl of popcorn. The sight made you shake your head with light amusement, and you watched him a little longer just for the sake of it.

“Hey, Sam?” You eventually called, which made him face you with a look of sudden concern.

His hand halted within his bowl. “Yeah?”

“Thank you. For today—for everything.” You offered him a warm, appreciative smile. He’d given you something you desperately needed today—a distraction. From everything and most definitely from yourself. Debts like those didn’t feel possible to repay, but you’d try, regardless. As long as it took.

Sam took a moment to drink in your words, his features motionless before his brows furrowed like he’d made nothing of your gesture. “Yeah, no problem,” he answered, a smile to match yours following shortly after. You both turned your attention back to the screen, and for the rest of the movie, you sat in comfortable, popcorn-tinged silence.

Once the movie came to an end, you’d both chatted about anything and everything until the first person let a yawn slip—that person being you. After that, you’d both tidied up the space, folded the blankets and packed the games back into their keep. Then, you’d dipped into your room to gather your old dishes, discarding the food and washing up the plates. Sam had helped pack it all away.

Once the day’s chores were wrapped up, you’d both exchanged your nightly greetings before going your separate ways. Sam retreated back to his room, though not without snagging a thick book from the shared reading shelf. You’d briefly slipped into your own room to pull out a fresh set of pyjamas and a towel before dipping your toes into a much needed shower.

Once you felt you’d scrubbed off enough of your week-long rot, you’d slunk from the shower and back to your room to call it a day. When you clicked the door closed behind you, you hovered on the spot with a hearty sigh into the dim atmosphere. You took a moment to reflect on the day, and for once, it provoked a smile—not sadness, not anger, not grief—but a genuine smile. The relief after the storm.

You flicked on the light and dressed yourself into your fresh set of clothes, teeth brushed and hair secured back before you flicked the lights off and sank into your bed with a new type of exhaustion. A fulfilling one. It wasn’t long before sleep arrived to hurl you into vivid dreams, and not unlike other times, you dreamt of Dean.

Within your bed, he had you bare and sprawled out beneath his own nude figure, his lips wandering gentle, curious trails along the side of your jaw before dipping down the ledge to trawl the arch of your neck. His elbows propped him up on either side of your head as he took his time to lovingly brand you with his wet caress, your own hands combing blissful strokes through his hair.

You sank back into your pillow, lips parting with breathy mewls as he shifted his attention down to your breasts. He moved to cup one tenderly, tongue swirling a loop around the hardened bud, his strained moan sprawling into the mix of stimulation as you tightened your hold within his hair.

“Dean,” you exhaled weakly, for no reason other than to verbalise the unorthodox way he made you feel. Your teeth found your lower lip in a restrained nibble as he acknowledged your absent-minded praise with a gentle kneading of your breast—as if he sought to gorge on it to the point of total devouring.

You felt the blood flow vigorously to your chest, spurred onward by the suctioning of his lips, and it pooled at your nipple, causing it to throb within his hold. You let slip a soft noise of discomfort, your hand collapsing from his hair to gently push him back at the collarbone.

Dean’s head lifted to yours, a slight pant wafting from his glistening lips. “All good there, sunshine?” He murmured, hand slipping from your breast to run a light, reassuring finger across your cheek. He smudged away the moisture beading along your skin before settling his thumb in the divot of your chin.

“Too much,” you breathed through a dazed grin, hand coming up to gently wrap around his wrist. “You’re like a leech,” you added with a soft giggle.

His lips thinned in a proud smirk, encouraged by your tease rather than offended. “Damn right I am—have you tasted you? Freakin’ delicious,” he praised, smacking his lips in a dramatic show and tell. It made you giggle and release his wrist to pin his lips between your thumb and index finger, and you held them captive while he mumbled noises of protest. He looked so ridiculous, it warmed your heart.

“Stop that!” You laughed, your cheeks flushing hot at the silly sight of him.

Dean wiggled his lips between your grasp until he was able to wrap his lips around a finger, nibbling your skin tenderly so that you released a light squeal and pulled away from his famished lips. “Stop what?” He mocked lightheartedly, head lowering down to you as he followed after your retreating hand with a determined grin playing his lips.

Your hands flew to your chest in a pretence of helplessness, your giggles elevating to a heartier laugh as he pretended to chase after them. His teeth acquainted the air all around them with animated chomps, but made no good on the promise. Eventually, he gave up the hunt and pressed his lips to the side of your jaw, gradually tracing his way up to the soft curve of your cheek before he drew back an inch to gaze into your eyes.

“My sunshine,” he said softly, adoringly, leaning down to nuzzle the button of your nose with his own before he placed a soft kiss there.

Your heart trilled love-struck melodies around Dean’s proud declaration, the magnitude of your smile hoisting up the apples of your cheeks until your eyes were compressed into half-moons. “Say it again,” you murmured, palms drifting up to frame his face and thumbs twiddling to soothe the humps of his cheeks.

Your touch set Dean’s composure alight, his sultry stare softening into something more pure and needy. His eyes narrowed as he gazed down at you, as though you had captured his complete and undivided attention. You found yourself getting so wrapped up in their green depths that for a second, it felt like you couldn’t breathe.

“You’re my sunshine,” he repeated in a voice so low and soft that it bordered a husky whisper, but the love imbued into those words carried through as clear as a shout. “I don’t care if that sounds like the title of a Jane Austen novel. You’ve got this. . . fire to you, the kind that nobody—nothin’ can gank. And you draw people into your orbit like they’d never stood a damn chance. Trust me, I sure as hell didn’t,” he laughed, both his hands coming up as a unit to brush back the hair framing your face. “And you’re warm. . .” He trailed off to place a kiss on your cheek, “—and radiant—” and then the other. “And my whole goddamn universe.”

You gazed at him as he pulled away from your proximity, his eyes brimming with love as he waited for your response. What you wanted to say was, “I knew you read Jane Austin in your free time!”, a harmless poke that would keep this tender moment elevated at meaningful heights. Then you’d both share a laugh, and melt into the night cocooned within each other’s warmth.

But deep down, something more solemn tugged at the strings of your heart—an unanswered question that slowly began to resurface despite your attempt to bury it time and time again. So instead, you said, “then how could you leave me?”

Dean’s face warped into a light frown, your question catching him off guard. For a few seconds, he did nothing but stare, his lips parting to search for an answer that you’d waited months to hear. But when he looked as though he might finally answer, no sound carried through to lay your suspense to rest. His mouth gaped and his lips moved, but they formed nonsensical words, and no matter how hard you tried to focus and decipher your most craved confession, it never came to you.

Then, the scene around you began to distort, the lights cutting out and the shapes of the room’s decor warping erratically. And when you blinked, Dean had disappeared entirely—his atoms scattered into the cosmos of your mind. You tried to call out to him, to summon him back to his rightful place beside you, but it seemed as though he were destined to be robbed from the palm of your hands—both in the waking world, and in the confines of your own mind.

And then you, in your entirety, were dissolved into a black abyss, the surroundings melting away like you’d imagined it all in a vivid episode of mania. For a moment, you floated around in a void, your mind slowly dissociating from the fantasies of its own creation. You heard nothing, saw nothing, but somehow, you felt a touch lingering upon your arm. It was warm, familiar, and even though no face materialised to claim it, you knew that it was Dean.

You prepared yourself to mourn the loss of it once you emerged into the waking world, but as your eyes fluttered open, your lids blinking frantically to clear your vision, the touch didn’t fade. If anything, it became more palpable, solid—real. And when you’d adjusted enough to the dawn haze shrouding your room, it wasn’t the image of the leather jacket that arrived first to taunt you.

It was Dean.

You blinked harder, more desperately, your heart rate skyrocketing as you attempted to rationalise whatever fucked up delusion your exhausted mind was currently displaying you. But his body didn’t vaporise into nothingness, and blinking didn’t seem to possess the same parlour trick of making the rabbit disappear, like it did in your dreams.

It was real.

There he sat, as stoic as a statue, at the edge of your mattress, and the hand you’d felt cupping your arm stroked up the curve of your shoulder to gently frame your neck. The contact sent a shiver up your spine, your lips falling open to expel a shaky breath.

It can’t be, you thought, your brows contracting in a puzzled frown. He’s dead—he’s in hell, he can’t be here.

Through the dawn gloom, you could make out the faintest stretch of his lips—an almost simper. “Good mornin’, Sunshine.” But you didn’t recognise the voice. It was low, gruff and abraded, like his vocal cords had been extracted and sent through the grinder before being forcibly shoved back into its compartment. And he sounded dull, the type of dull you’d come to embody in his absence. It was. . . anything but Dean Winchester.

Your lower lip began to quiver, your shoulder drawing into yourself as you shied away from his touch. “This isn’t real,” you choked out, hastily collecting yourself onto your elbows as you sought to put some distance between you two. “You’re not real!” You exclaimed in rising volume, which had the impersonator stretching out both his hands in a steadying motion.

“You’ll wake Sammy,” he whispered urgently—a harsh sound that came across as more of a scold.

You frowned as you inched yourself a fraction across the mattress, eager to reach the end opposite to where he sat. “Who are you?” You demanded in a tone more regulated, your hand subtly reaching behind you to grab ahold of the salt container you kept on the bedside table like a framed picture.

Dean’s eyes seemed to follow your not-so-subtle play with dry amusement. “It’s me,” he insisted gruffly, his hands coming to settle on his knees—and one of them bounced with unspoken thoughts. It was a habit you’d come to recognise since knowing him, and it did a fraction of a favour in vouching for his authenticity. “It’s Dean,” he continued, eyes straying from your hands to settle onto your face.

“No,” you refused, and behind you, your fingers grabbed ahold of the salt. “Dean Winchester died—four months ago,” you explained in a low, but no less stern voice. “So I’m going to ask you again—who are you?”

His nostrils seemed to flare with dwindling patience, his eyes flickering off to the side. “Man, paranoia’s one son o’a bitch,” he scoffed under his breath before turning to face you again. “Listen, I know you’re not gonna believe me. And I also know that you’re about to baptise me with a shit ton o’ salt to barbecue the livin’ crap outta whatever demon you think’s got his hand stuck up my ass.” He began reaching into his shirt pocket. “Now, as much as I’d love to swallow a mouthful of killer blood pressu—” his words were cut short as you tossed a handful of salt in his direction, the mound not shying away from taking a bold dip in his mouth.

The assault dealt no physical damage to his body, but it did earn a passionate look of annoyance from Dean, whose jaw slowly circumducted as his tongue began shovelling the salty hell from his mouth. You scrutinised him for a few seconds longer, not so eager to let down your guard because of one passed test.

“You’re not a demon?” You asked more than stated.

His jaw fell limp at your question, a slow blink accentuating his displeasure. “Clearly not,” he said lowly, the words slurred by his unwillingness to taste the salt with proper pronunciation.

He leaned forward, hand reaching for the box of tissues sitting atop the beside table, and yanked a few free. He brought it up to his lips, where he spat furiously to cleanse his mouth. After a rough clearing of his throat, he bundled up the tissues, tossed it onto the table and glanced over at you once more. “Listen, I’ve already been through all the tests back at Bobby’s. I was goin’ to pull out the phone and get him on the line to clear me before you decided I needed some seasonin’,” he said flatly.

You watched him suspiciously, your brow quirking in disbelief. “Fine,” you said tensely, but offered nothing further.

Dean frowned lightly, his eyes doing a brief and clueless sweep of the room as though he expected you to offer more clarity. He settled his attention back onto you, his chin lifting slightly as he uttered a cautious, “okay.” He began reaching into his pocket once more, the movement deliberately slowed. “Just gonna reach for the phone, alright? So hands off the fuckin’ salt,” he said, eyes flickering between you and the container. “Please,” he added gruffly, and then his had retracted with the phone.

You prowled after his every move like a predator, but despite your weariness, you still lowered the salt an inch. You watched as he flicked open the phone, thumb gliding across the keypad as he pulled up Bobby’s number. Then, he lifted the phone to his ear, eyes trained on you with equal caution as he waited for the line to connect him to the opposite end.

You heard the static click, and a voice blared through shortly after—Bobby’s voice. The sound soothed your heart by a slither.

“Hey, Bobby,” Dean greeted, passing his tongue along his lower lip. “Listen, I, uh. . . I need ya to do that thing I told you I’d need—you know, vouchin’ for me and all.” On the other end of the line, Bobby uttered a few, incomprehensible words. “Yeah,” Dean laughed weakly. “Yeah. . . she threw me with the salt. Just like you said.” His eyes flickered to you with subtle amusement before Bobby said something else. Then, he was handing you the phone.

You narrowed your eyes in skepticism before your free hand reached for the phone, so careful not to graze his skin as you retrieved it from his fingers. Dean seemed to notice the rejection, and his mouth gaped slightly with the hurt it evoked. You pushed aside the image, but didn’t stray from his face as you brought the phone up to your ear.

“Hello?” You called into the line.

“Hey, kid, it’s me,” Bobby’s static voice answered. “Listen, I know you’re goin’ through one helluva mind-fuck right ‘bout now. . . but it’s ‘im, kid. It’s Dean.” He trailed into silence after those words, providing an interval he expected you’d fill with some sort of taken aback reaction. But all you could do was choke on your stunned silence, your heart beginning to ram at your chest harder than it’d ever managed before. “Kid? Y’still there?”

Dean’s eyes narrowed all-knowingly as he watched you in patient silence. His hand shifted from his lap an inch, like he yearned to reach out to you and offer some reassurance, but you both knew it’d do little to soothe you in this current predicament—the mental debate of whether or not the man you loved was really back.

Eventually, your body hosted a response, but it wasn’t one you’d preferred to have at this instant. A tear clotted along your one eye, bundling up until it was heavy enough to slip over the edge. Dean’s expression visibly softened, his jaw clenching with the knowledge that he couldn’t exactly pull you into a tight embrace—not just yet, anyway.

Your lips loosened, a rattled breath breaking through. “I saw his body, Bobby,” you pushed out in a quiver. Another tear lined the opposite cheek. “I watched you and Sam dig that fucking hole. . . and I watched you roll his lifeless, rotting corpse over the edge before cementing him under six fucking feet of dirt.”

The phone line hissed and crackled with the silent air on Bobby’s side. You almost thought he’d given up the ruse that you were so determined to believe you’d gotten caught up in, but then his voice blared through—the most tender and sympathetic you’ve ever heard it.

“I know you’re confused,” he began. “Hell, this shit had me believin’ that my family’s history of Alzheimer’s had finally kicked the bucket out from under me. But I did all the tests, and I interrogated him over and over again. I gave him hell, kid, but in the end, it’s really him. Y’know I wouldn’t have even thought ‘bout lettin’ him get close to ya if I weren’t certain o’ it. So if ya can’t trust ‘im just yet, then trust me. I give ya my word.”

Your fingers gripped the phone a little tighter, if only to still the trembling of your hand, and you gave a large sniff as you processed his words. Your eyes still bore into Dean, as though it would keep him pinned to the spot should he think about making a run for it.

You shifted the phone against your ear an inch, taking your lower lip into a tense bite before you spoke again. “Okay,” you breathed softly. “I trust you, Bobby.”

From Bobby’s end, shuffling noises chafed your ear like sand-paper. “Alright, kid, I’ll leave the two o’ ya to it. Good luck,” he said, and then the line terminated with a beep. The call’s ending tune reached Dean’s ear, where he shifted on the mattress almost anxiously while he waited for your decision.

“So, uh,” he began, his lips stuttering on the right words as his head buckled to face the hands he’d crossed in his lap. His palms rubbed tense lines—like the scheming motion of a fly—before he glanced back up at you. “We good?” He settled on. You saw the subtle desperation in the clench of his jaw. He craved the pardon only you could give him.

Slowly, you lowered the phone from your ear, flipping it closed as your chest rattled with another, shaky breath. Your eyes began to water once more, and this time, it didn’t hold back. In a second, you were hurling yourself across the mattress, arms flailing through the air to wrap around his neck with a desperation that could have body-slammed him to the floor.

“Woah,” he steadied in a laugh that sounded all too relieved.

Your chest crashed into Dean’s, and his hands were hasty to return your hug as he wrapped himself around your waist. There, he completed the embrace, pulling you against him so tightly that it started to pinch the meat of your skin through your shirt. But you didn’t care if his grip left behind a bruise—you’d consider it a physical reminder of just how real this all was.

You pressed your face into the crook of his neck, all the pent up emotions you’d come to harbour over these last few months finally liberated from your clutch. The tears began to roll without practiced regulation, and you found yourself yielding all control. Because being around Dean always had you feeling safe enough to do so, and your body had utilised its muscle-memory to re-establish that foundation. To rebuild the home that his death had wrecked.

“I thought I’d lost you forever,” you whispered against the stubbled skin of his neck, the sound heavy and cracked.

His palm stroked slow, comforting circles across your lower back, his own face buried against the slope of your shoulder. You felt his warm breath waft over your skin as he spoke. “Me too,” he pushed out tensely. Shakily. There were very few moments that you’d ever heard that tone on him. “I didn’t think I was ever comin’ back,” he admitted. “Didn’t think I’d ever see you, or Sammy—hell, even Bobby, again. But I’m not complainin’,” he added hastily. “Shit, I’ll never complain ‘bout anythin’ e’er again. I got everythin’ I need right here.”

He shifted against you, torso pulling back as though he couldn’t wait a second longer to peer into your eyes. You leaned yourself back in rhythm, your cheeks blown red with your overwhelmed state and your eyes still glistening with fresh tears. You kept your hands looped around his neck, fingers still clutching his phone, and your heart was seized by a new fist of pain as you saw Dean’s bloodshot eyes pave way for his own, sparse—but undeniably real—tears.

His hands settled at your hips, fingers subconsciously squeezing at the meat as he did a mental walkthrough of his own emotions. “I missed you so goddamn much,” he whispered, his lower lip trembling now. “God, all I could think ‘bout down there, every second of every miserable day, was you—how much I needed you. How much I missed you.” His chest jolted with a forced, but much needed exhale to steady his next words. “And how much I love you.”

You choked on your breath at that final confession, words that—up until now—had never directly admitted. You couldn’t help but huff a slight breath of disbelief, a weak grin beaming through as your eyes softened with a warmth that made you feel whole again. Dean, himself, looked slightly stunned at his declaration, his eyes widening mildly as he drank in your reaction. But as you gazed at him, there was no undertone of regret or shame mingling with his features. There was only what looked like relief, if the slight quirking of his lips and the soft sigh that followed after was any indication.

Maybe, it was relief attributed to the fact that he’d finally started to unpack—and put words to—some of his more complex emotions. It made you feel so much closer to him.

Without sparing it another thought, you blurted your own reciprocation. “I love you too, Dean.”

He smiled tenderly at that, and neither one of you moved as you shared an intense stare that circulated all sorts of emotion—love, adoration, and desire. Then, as though some unspoken agreement had been exchanged, you dove down to meet his lips in a fierce kiss, the phone you’d been clutching dropping to some surface beyond your current care.

Dean’s hands trailed up the expanse of your back as he returned your kiss hungrily, his lips feuding with yours for an advantage of the play. He wasted no time sliding his hands beneath the hem of your shirt, his warm palms massaging a determined, upward trajectory until he gained enough leverage to tug it over your head.

The kiss broke off momentarily as your arms flew up in an eager gesture to shed your layers, your chest heaving with the exertion. He managed to successfully tug the shirt over your head, the neckline the last to go and leaving behind an impression as it briefly snagged onto your hair. When he gave it one last freeing tug, your hair tie came loose amidst the commotion, your hair cascading across your bare torso in fresh, yet slightly damp strands.

Dean came forward to press two distinct kisses against your lips—hasty, but a bold statement in itself—before he leaned back to roll his shoulders and discard his own clothing. Your hands flew to his chest in aid, fingers sliding beneath the isles of his unbuttoned shirt to push it over the slopes of his shoulders. His hands twisted behind himself to pluck each sleeve from his arms with practiced speed, discarding it some place behind him before he was tugging his snugly-fitting tee over his head.

Instantly, your attention lowered down his toned torso, the glorified sight of him causing your core to pulse with desire. You didn’t get to exploit his image for long before he hogged your view with another, fierce tumble of the lips, his hands grabbing at your waist like he’d needed to remember what you felt like. Your tongues found one another with an ease that felt like its fates were tied, swirling about in a seductive dance to the death. Your hands settled at his neck, gently rubbing and kneading the skin as you allowed yourself to melt into his devouring.

When your palms wandered further down the contoured muscle of his broad shoulders, you felt the skin of his left bicep raise in a questionable pattern. The contact over that area made Dean wince into your mouth, and then he withdrew from the kiss with a feral pant, eyes shifting from an insatiable hunger to a more vulnerable uncertainty. It was enough of a reaction to tear your gaze away from him and steal a glance at the mood-killing discovery. But you almost wished you hadn’t stumbled upon it because the sight of a raised, red handprint seared into the flesh of his forearm made your eyes widen in horror.

“Dean—” you breathed, overcome with the instinctive need to trace your hand over the anomaly, but his shoulder withdrew from your curious touch, which called your attention back to him. “What happened?” You asked softly.

He shook his head lightly, taking a moment to acknowledge the marking with a newfound solemness. His chin dipped down for a second, a broken, incomplete noise dangling from his lips. You knew then, that whatever grim reminder had been imbued into this branding was something too fresh to confront at this time, so you made the silent decision not to probe him about it any further.

You moved to cradle his face, tilting it up to you. His expression looked defeated, his eyes sagging with a heavy fatigue. You didn’t doubt that hell had had its tolls—if anything, you were surprised that he’d come out of it in one piece. Physically, at least. Whatever mental deconstruction he’d undergone during his time there was knowledge beyond your grasp, and a conversation for another time. Hell had already taken enough from the both of you; you wouldn’t let it have this moment, too.

“If you want to stop, just say the word,” you told him gently, offering a hearty smile. “We can just lay here and cud—“

“No,” he answered, the hands at your waist tightening with new resolve. “We’re gonna cuddle, alright, but after we’ve had our overdue fun,” he said, a newfound smirk creeping through his evident exhaustion. “I’ve waited too damn long for this day—hell if I pass it up in a blink.”

You loved it when he took charge this way. Your teeth peered through your lips in an exhilarated grin, and then, you let out a yelp of excitement as he pushed you back onto the mattress, his frame following closely in a controlled hover as he positioned himself on top of you. His lips came crashing down onto yours, the heated dynamic between the two of you returning full-forced, as though it’d never been interrupted in the first place.

Your hands wandered messy lines up and down his neck, occasionally dipping down to glide over the curve of his pecks. The heat in your core began to build with every second you spent tumbled within the skilled warmth of his lips, his hands adding fuel to the fire with the way they staggered along your exposed torso to grace any and every inch of your skin.

He pulled away to drag his moist lower lip up your cheek, pressing a kiss to your temple before he whispered into your ear. “I need to feel you. I need to have all o’ you,” he breathed, and then he pulled away as quickly as he’d arrived, leaning back onto his knees as his fingers found firm grip at your shorts.

He tugged the material down mercilessly, pulling your underwear along with it, and you lifted your legs with a giddy laugh to allow him all the access he needed to yank it free. He tossed it to the other end of the room, his hands flying to undo his belt and jeans while his fixated you with focused eyes—like he was silently entertaining all the things he’d like to do to you.

He shed his boots at the foot of the bed to terminate his undressing, and your eyes immediately lowered to the bowing length of his manhood. It felt cheap—ogling him this way, but something about the sight felt so validating that you couldn’t help but stare. Maybe it was knowing that the mere sight of you was enough to spur him on in this manner, and god, you needed him just as much as he evidently needed you.

Your core throbbed more impatiently now, your built-up arousal taking the first of its leave through the slit of your folds. You were tempted to call out to him, to utter the first, desperate words of beckoning, but Dean seemed to clock your needs almost instantly. He leaned back down to you with a charming smirk, one hand propping himself up at the side of your waist while his other took ahold of his manhood.

“Ready, sunshine?” He murmured—low and rough and slightly dazed with his own suffocating arousal.

Your core seemed to answer before you did, the area beaming hot at the mere sound of his voice. You pushed out a needy hum, and Dean wasted no time in sliding his tip between your folds. He breached through your slicked entrance with ease, his head tilting back an inch and his eyes fluttering closed as he pushed out a gruff moan. He sank himself further into you, his length conforming to your walls in perfect unity. Instinctively, your legs propped to give him better access, and the action drew him in even further.

“Fuck,” he murmured lowly, his head then tilting forward as he gathered himself and fully leaned himself down to you. He placed a kiss onto your lips for good measure, both arms scooping beneath yours in a sure grip. His fists balled at either side of your head, and you wrapped your own arms around his neck.

“I need you, Dean,” you cooed into his ear, and he left slip a breathy sound of acknowledgment before he drilled the first thrust into you.

You both harmonised with noises of pleasure, your nails digging into the nape of his neck as his hips began swaying at a faster pace. He leaned his forehead down against yours, lips parted as he fought to steady the feral breaths of pleasure heaving his chest.

Your eyes stuttered closed as his thrusts deepened and deepened, curving against your walls and gliding to meet your sweet spot at just the right angle. Your head burrowed back into your pillow, your lips gaping with a loud moan. It made Dean lower himself onto your lips, taking them between his in a soft, chiding nibble. You breathed into him erratically, releasing noises that gradually became more and more slurred until you became a hot, panting mess.

His own control seemed to slip from his grasp as he began to grunt and whimper against your cheek, his head eventually falling past yours to graze your ear with just the right verbal performance to add to the contractions of that growing ache within.

His thrusts became firmer—but not brutal. They were passionate and needy all at once, but still laced with a sort of caution that only deep admiration could warrant. He gave a few more firm thirsts, both of you heaving against one another with the approach of your climax. Then, with a final jerk of his hips, the knot that had tethered you to one another came undone in a cascading warmth.

You felt it seep from your entrance, and for a second, Dean didn’t stir from atop you. He remained hovered over you, the point of his nose brushing your cheek methodically as he attempted to replenish his lungs and recover from his own bliss.

“Jesus,” he remarked, an impressed chuckle tickling your ear. “All this time apart, and still it doesn’t feel like I ever slipped your spell.”

You released your own breathless chuckle. “I’m usually opposed to captivity of any sort, but in this case, thank god for that.”

Finally, Dean withdrew from inside of you, collapsing to side of the mattress nearest to the door—his space. Rightfully occupied at last. He reached over to pluck some tissues from the nightstand before turning back to you, fumbling the tissue between his fingers before he began dabbing at the moisture along your forehead.

He gazed at you through loving eyes, so soft and vast that it made your heart throb—like you were falling in love all over again. Dean seemed to notice the lovesick look on your face because he smiled with an expression to match. He leaned down to press a kiss to your lips, and you puckered your own to receive it eagerly. And then he shifted momentarily to clean you down below.

When he came back up to you, he flicked the used tissues off to the side, and then instantly, you were pulled against his chest in a tight embrace. The skin-on-skin contact soothed you, your body relaxing almost instantly within his firm hold—a type of pressure therapy that only worked because it was him. It felt so safe and natural, so you melted further into him, and the hand he’d cupped around the back of your hair began to massage a soothing pattern into your scalp.

Everything about this moment was enough to lull you into a much needed state of relaxation, your body finally unwinding after months of being held together at the threads. Your eyes drifted close, your breathing deepening with the newfound peace.

“You know,” Dean said suddenly, beckoning to your senses. Your eyes remained closed, but you hummed softly to acknowledge him. “Down there, time works differently.” That piqued your interest enough to part you eyes in narrow slits. “You said I’ve been gone for four months? Well, for me, it’s been forty years.”

Your eyes widened fully now, your lips split with some bewildered gasp. “Dean,” you sympathised softly, hand moving from its place at his chest to stroke along his cheek. “I’m so sorry—that sounds awful.”

He shifted to place a kiss on the first part of your palm he could reach. “It ain’t your fault,” he assured you thinly, his eyes bowing under his own exhaustion—as if the mere recollection drained him. “If anythin’, you got me through it. I don’t have to tell you just how shitty things are down in Satan’s basement,” he laughed, but you knew there was no real humour behind it, only pain. “But you. . . just thinkin’ o’ you. . . rememberin’ what I’ve gotta fight for, it kept me sane. Strong.”

You smiled weakly, his words evoking a mixture of warmth and guilt all at once. You appreciated that you’d been able offer him some sort of comfort in your mere memory, but at the same time, you wished he hadn’t needed it to begin with.

Hell was no place for a good man like him.

“Well, you’re back now,” you offered softly, your hands shifting to wrap around his torso in a hug. His own arms wrapped around your upper back, pulling you so tightly against him that you thought your beings might finally form a physical union to mirror the spiritual tying of your souls.

“And I’m here to stay,” he finished in a faint murmur, the words—the promise—hot against the crown of your head.

Those words lingered in your mind as you eventually drifted into a sleep, the steady sound of his breathing the last thing you needed to loosen your grip on reality. Darkness came to claim you, and this time, you welcomed it eagerly.

When you roused into the waking world, your room was fully lit with the tell of noon. The finding was indication enough that you’d stolen the sleep of a lifetime, and there was no lingering heaviness perched on your lids this time around. It filled you with a sense of satisfaction, and you blinked a few times to ground your bleary senses.

When you stirred against the sheets, you heaved a deep breath, your lungs expanding around a newfound sense of inner peace. Instinctively, your arm reached across the mattress to claim the touch of man you loved, but where you expected to feel the warmth of his skin, you felt nothing but the cool, empty space of the comforters.

With a jolt, you sat yourself up, head swivelling about the room with a sense of panic. Dean was nowhere to be found. Your mind instantly began reeling with endless possibilities, your breathing elevating with a growing sense of panic—had you imagined it all? Had he ever been here to begin with? Had you finally snapped and gone insane?

But when you took a moment to lower your head and drink in your frame, you found yourself to be as bare as when you’d fallen asleep. You shifted to the edge of the mattress, feeling some slither of relief that your clothes were where you’d left them—discarded about the room in ruthless bundles. And then, out of instinct, your eyes wandered over to your desk chair, where you expected to greet the leather jacket that had become a pivotal part of your morning routine.

Only, your heart lurched when the chair glared back at you with a bare rim—the jacket nowhere in sight.

Beyond the walls, mingled laughter brightened the atmosphere. The sound made you slip from the mattress almost instantly, where you darted about the room to gather your scattered pyjamas in a hurry before slipping it over your frame. You dashed toward the bedroom door, twisting the handle with anticipation before you practically hurled yourself into the hallway.

When you entered into the open-plan living room, you found that Dean and Sam were weaving rather chaotic ant trails around the kitchen’s floor, each brother tending to steaming dishes that you were too far away to appreciate in detail. But you weren’t paying much attention to it, anyway. You were far too focused on watching Dean, as though you’d had to solidify the mental image of his presence—to believe that he was really here, and here to stay. And the best part of it all is that he was wearing the leather jacket you’d thought would never come to crown another set of shoulders again. It was the last image you needed to place the final puzzle piece in your heart—no, you felt truly fulfilled.

Some part of you had thought—just for a second—that your reunion had been a figment of your imagination. But now, you could breathe a little easier knowing that Dean had truly returned, rooted in flesh as he drifted about the kitchen with an extra skip in his step.

Just then, he spun on his heels to nick something off the counter, his head lifting in your direction as he finally noticed your loitering figure. “Second g’mornin’ to you, sunshine,” he called to you, birthing a cheeky smirk. He flashed a quick glance at Sam before turning back to you. “In case you were wonderin’, Sammy here’s all caught up,” he said. “So let’s skip the big, mushy family reunion and get movin’ on those damn tacos. I’m starvin’”.

“Tacos?” You echoed with a light laugh.

Sam appeared at his big brother’s side, beaming so brightly, it was almost blinding. “We’re having tacos for lunch. Everything’s basically finished,” he piped in, casting a pleading glance in your direction. “Would you mind helping me plate it?”

Your heart settled as you drank the both of them in. This was the life you’d come to miss so dearly, and you couldn’t help but smile appreciatively. You jerked your chin in Dean’s direction. “Why don’t you make him do it?” You teased, padding your way over to the kitchen island.

“Call it a family discount,” Dean chuckled smugly, rounding the counter to draw up at your side. “Or, y’know, the breakin’ free from hell card.”

You shook your head lightly, narrowing your eyes at him. “Isn’t it a little too soon?” You scoffed.

“You let me worry ‘bout my own shit,” he replied, gracing you with a charming wink.

You didn’t offer anything further as you turned your attention down to the prepped toppings spread out across the counter—mince, lettuce, guacamole, chilli sauce, salsa, cheese and the taco shells themselves. You reached for the empty plates and began topping each one with the hollow taco shells, moving to fill the first one with the toppings.

Dean snuck up behind you, his hands finding grip at your waist while his chin came to rest atop your shoulder. His lips grazed your ear. “Thank you for lookin’ after my jacket,” he murmured. “I didn’t think I’d be seein’ this old thing again.”

You smile at his words, hands shifting to stuff the taco with the next pick of toppings. “My reason for keeping it was more selfish than that,” you admitted. “I just couldn’t bear to move it. It would’ve felt too final.”

He hummed a noise of understanding, a soft kiss gracing the side of your neck. “The only thing that’s final is that I’m back,” he said. “You don’t gotta worry ‘bout that anymore, alright?”

“I know,” you murmured, and Dean squeezed you in a light hug, but continued to keep you tucked within his hold as you finished stuffing the taco. You lifted it over your shoulder, carefully guiding it toward his lips.

He released an approving noise before leaning forward to accept your offering in a gluttonous chomp, his lips practically smothering your fingers as though it were deemed part of the meal. You giggled at the feeling, taco fragments scattering across your shoulder as he chewed the food intently.

“How does it taste?” You asked him, turning your head to get a better view of his expression.

His eyes did a roll of appreciation, his cheeks swelled with the large bite. He hummed a string of approval, coupled with a content, repeating nod. Once he gave a hearty swallow, he cleared his throat in satisfaction.

“Tastes like sunshine.”

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a/n ─ can you tell i had the time of my life writing this?? can you tell?? anon i love your mind so so much please never stop your special creativity. i will be tending to my other requests soon, and i encourage you all to keep on sending them through. i appreciate you ALL and your lovely ideas, as well as the support and trust you have in me to flesh out your fantasies 🫶 now, it’s literally almost 4 am as i publish this so nighty night beautiful people!

thank you for reading! all likes, comments & reblogs are deeply appreciated

tags ─ @gibson-g1rl @fallbhind @bohemianblasphemy @figthoughts @deansbbyx @angelicjackles @titsout4jackles @starzify @ultravi0lence14 @floralscented

comment/message me to be added to/removed from the taglist for any future jensen ackles works!

other works ─ supernatural masterlist

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last-dropsevi · 1 day ago

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𝐺𝑒𝑛𝑡𝑙𝑒 𝑡𝑜𝑢𝑐ℎ

Ambessa Medarda x Personal Assistant Reader

Synopsis: Her protective and possessive side shows when you want to leave her side. A/N: Contains possessive behavior, Manipulation, Power dynamic, Alittle sexual tension. also hint of yandere behavoir. Reader is younger than her

You had always been more than just a tailor to Ambessa. From the very first time you entered her life, you had become something irreplaceable—not only to her but to her daughter Mel as well.

You weren’t as young as Mel, but you were closer to her age than Ambessa’s, a few years older, just enough to serve as a bridge between the ferocity of bessa and the fragility of Mel’s youthful spirit. Your bond with Mel had always been gentle—nurturing, protective, and maternal in a way that Ambessa was never able to provide. While Ambessa’s presence in Mel’s life was powerful, intimidating, and sometimes suffocating, you had quietly stood in the background, a safe haven when Mel needed someone to lean on.

You were the one who had whispered to her when she was struggling with a design, the one who had reassured her when her dreams seemed too big for this world. You were there on the days when Mel couldn’t approach her mother, when Ambessa’s fierce nature pushed her too far away, leaving Mel to retreat into herself.

Your relationship with Ambessa, however, was a different matter entirely. You were more than just a confidante, more than someone who crafted her most beautiful and lethal designs—you were her family, her trusted ally. You’d stood by her side for years, helping to shape her image and her empire, and over time, you’d become as indispensable to her as she was to you.

But it was your role as a mother figure to Mel that set you apart, the one thing that had always been a subtle thorn in Ambessa’s side. She had never let anyone get too close to her daughter, never trusted anyone with Mel in quite the same way. Yet, somehow, you had slipped through the cracks. You had earned that trust—not with grand gestures or fiery speeches, but with quiet devotion and years of loyalty.

For years, you had been a constant in both their lives, a silent protector for Mel and a quiet but irreplaceable ally for bessa. It was a delicate balance, one that you had always maintained without truly questioning it. But lately, something had shifted. You could feel it—a slow burn building under the surface, a need to break free and see what else the world had to offer.

It was a late afternoon when bessa arrived for a fitting. She walked into your studio with the same imposing presence she always carried, her steps measured, her eyes sharp. Yet today, something about her demeanor was different, more tense, as if the usual calm confidence she exuded was laced with something unspoken.

she reached for the fabric you were smoothing over her body. She didn’t speak immediately but instead let the moment stretch, her eyes watching your hands. Ambessa’s gaze softened, and a faint smile tugged at her lips.

You were adjusting the hem of one of her gowns when she spoke, her voice breaking the silence in a way that caught your attention.

"You have such gentle hands," she said, her voice unexpectedly tender. "I love how your smaller hands mold the fabric to me... it’s like you’re shaping not just the gown, but something deeper. Your touch is... different. It’s like you hold the power, even in these delicate movements."

You froze, momentarily caught off guard by the praise. It felt heavier than usual, as though her words weren’t just about your skill with fabric, but something more personal. The sensation of her words lingered in the air, and you felt the weight of the trust she placed in you.

"…although, You’ve been distant lately," she said, her tone casual, but there was an edge there. "What’s going on with you?"

Ambessa stepped a little closer as you continued to adjust the gown. Her muscles shifted beneath the fabric, and you couldn’t help but notice how the strength in her body contrasted with your own gentleness. Your fingers brushed lightly over her skin as you continued your work, but this time, the touch felt charged. You tried to block out the growing sense of desire, but her presence, her body, made it hard to focus. She was right—there was power in these small movements, in the way you shaped her, the way she allowed you to.

You straightened up, meeting her eyes. "Nothing," you replied easily, but your voice betrayed you. The exhaustion in your tone was unmistakable, something Ambessa always noticed. "Just... thinking."

She stepped closer, her eyes narrowing slightly. "Thinking?" she repeated, as if the word itself didn’t quite fit. "About what?"

You set the fabric aside, your fingers brushing against the soft silk as you turned to face her fully. "About the future," you said, your voice steady despite the undercurrent of uncertainty within you. "I’ve been doing this for years, Ambessa. It’s not that I’m tired of it—it’s just... I’m starting to wonder if there’s more out there for me."

Ambessa tilted her head slightly, her gaze never leaving you. She was sharp, perceptive, and you knew the moment she realized what you were getting at. "More?" she echoed, her voice quiet but laced with something darker. "Are you saying you want to leave?"

You shook your head, trying to ease the tension. "No. I’m not saying that. I just..." You paused, trying to find the right words. "I want a new challenge. Something else to work toward. Something different."

"you sound like mel" she said faintly, more like she was saying it to herself. understanding this you ignore the comment.

Meeting the older women’s gaze you notice how she’s studying you with that sharp, calculating gaze. You could feel her eyes tracing the lines of your body, picking up every detail, every nuance in your behavior.

“What could you possibly need that I don’t already provide?" she asked, her tone suddenly sharp, like a blade hidden beneath velvet. Her eyes flickered with something that resembled anger—then something else, something harder, darker.

You met her gaze, unfazed by her sudden shift in attitude. "Nothing," you said, your voice even. "But I’m not just a tailor. I want to push myself further. Explore what else is out there."

Ambessa’s silence was thick, and you could feel her studying you, her calculating gaze boring into you as though trying to dissect the very essence of your words. "You’ve been with me for so long," she said slowly, each word heavy with meaning. "I’ve trusted you, depended on you. And now, you’re telling me you want more? What does that mean for us?"

You didn’t answer immediately. Instead, you turned back to the gown, letting the silence hang between you. The air felt thick now, the quiet oppressive, like the calm before a storm.

"You’re not going anywhere," Ambessa finally said, her voice a low growl, her presence more forceful now, as though trying to anchor you in place. "You belong here. You belong with me."

Her words rang out with an undeniable authority, and you couldn’t help but feel the weight of them—the possessiveness in her voice, the unspoken claim she laid on you. It was a truth you had known for years: Ambessa didn’t take kindly to anyone she considered hers stepping away. You had become too entwined in her life, in her world, to simply walk away without consequence.

You tried to ease the tension, offering a small, reassuring smile. "I’m not leaving, Ambessa. I’m just... considering my options. It’s not about you. It’s about me."

Her gaze softened ever so slightly, but the tightness in her jaw remained. "I won’t let you go," she murmured, her words almost a promise. "You’ve been with me for too long. You’ve helped me build this. You are mine, and I won’t let anyone take you from me."

You knew then, in that moment, that she wasn’t just talking about the work. She wasn’t just talking about the gowns you created for her. Ambessa was speaking of something deeper—something far more dangerous. She was speaking about possession.

You tried to ease the tension, offering a small, reassuring smile. "I’m not leaving, Ambessa. I’m just... considering my options. It’s not about you. It’s about me."

Ambessa’s gaze softened ever so slightly, but the tightness in her jaw remained. "I won’t let you go," she murmured, her words almost a promise. "You’ve been with me for too long. You’ve helped me build this. You are mine, and I won’t let anyone take you from me."

Every glance, every word, felt weighted with something unspoken, a quiet understanding that things were changing. She could feel it, and so could you.

And so, when she invited you over for dinner that evening—an offer that had once been casual, familiar—you couldn’t shake the feeling that something was different. There was an unspoken challenge in the air, a game being played without either of you fully acknowledging it.

As you arrived at her estate, the familiar scents of cooking wafted through the air, but there was an unusual stillness to the house. Ambessa had already set the table, the atmosphere quieter than usual, and you could tell she was waiting for something—waiting for you to make a move, to finally say the words that had been hanging between you for days.

Dinner passed in relative silence, save for the occasional clink of silverware against porcelain. The food was delicious, as always, but there was something off about the whole evening, an underlying tension that neither of you could ignore. You felt it in the way Ambessa’s gaze lingered on you, how her eyes followed every movement you made. It was as though she was waiting for you to finally let the mask slip and reveal your true thoughts. But you weren’t ready to speak the words yet.

The silence stretched on, filling the space between you both, until the last plate was cleared. Ambessa’s voice broke the stillness again, her words carefully measured, but the sharpness in them was unmistakable.

"You still haven’t told me what this... new challenge of yours is," she said, her voice soft but edged with a possessiveness that sent a ripple of unease down your spine. She wasn’t asking out of curiosity anymore. She was testing you, trying to push you into revealing what had been hanging over you like a shadow.

You hesitated for a moment, your fingers lightly tapping on the edge of your glass as you weighed your words. "I’ve been thinking of working with someone else. Maybe... someone who needs a new direction. Someone who needs my skills, my creativity. Something different."

Ambessa’s hand froze on her glass, her fingers tightening ever so slightly around the stem. The subtle shift in her demeanor was enough to make your heart race. Her eyes, once warm and steady, were now colder, sharper, calculating. There was a moment where the world seemed to stop, where you could feel the pressure in the air growing heavier, as though she was waiting for something more, something she knew she might not like.

"What do you mean? Who is this ‘someone’?" she asked, her voice cold now, laced with a possessive edge. "Who else could possibly need you more than I do?"

You knew that the question wasn’t as much about the "someone" as it was about your answer. She wanted to know where your loyalty truly lay. The words hung in the air, and you found yourself considering just how much you were willing to reveal.

"I’m not sure yet," you said, your voice steady, but there was a subtle edge of defiance in it. "But I have to find out. For myself."

Ambessa’s gaze didn’t waver. Her eyes narrowed, and the familiar storm cloud you had been anticipating began to form behind her composed exterior. She leaned forward just a fraction, her gaze darkening. The silence between you now was thick and suffocating, and you could feel her struggle to maintain control.

A thought flitted through your mind—a fleeting image of someone who had been in touch with you recently, Cassandra Kirriman. You hadn’t spoken about it aloud, but the idea of working with her, moving to Piltover, was starting to seem more appealing. The prospect of a new challenge, a fresh environment, of doing something entirely different was becoming increasingly tempting. You hadn’t voiced it, but it had been there—something in the back of your mind. You didn’t have a specific person or place in mind, but Piltover… it felt like it could be the place where you could carve out a new path.

Ambessa’s sharp eyes caught the fleeting thought in your gaze, the shift in your posture. Her lips pressed together into a thin line. The quiet understanding between you felt like it was cracking.

She was aware of your connection with Cassandra, of course. You had kept it brief, but Ambessa, ever observant, had picked up on the mentions, the small exchanges between you and the Kirriman family. Piltover. The city that had lured her daughter away. The city that had taken what Ambessa had treasured most. That realization was the turning point, the unspoken truth that hit her like a wave.

But Ambessa didn’t say it aloud. She couldn’t bring herself to. Not in front of you. Not yet. The connection was too raw, too personal. Her daughter had left for Piltover, leaving Ambessa to wrestle with the hollow ache of abandonment, a feeling she hadn’t been able to name until now. And now, here you were, talking about leaving—not for another person or nation, but for Piltover. The idea twisted in her chest. She didn’t want to admit how it stung, how it felt like a betrayal of the same kind she had experienced years ago.

Her voice, though still soft, became more insistent. "If you leave me," she whispered, her words almost a warning, a final threat laced with the kind of sorrow that could only be felt by someone who had already been left behind once before, "I won’t let you go. I will make sure of it."

" we will see"

Masterlist

#ambessa x reader #arcane season two #arcane #sevika #sevika x reader #ambessa medarda #arcane medarda #jinx arcane #greyson arcane #caitlyn kiramman #cassandra kiramman #arcane ambessa #ambessa league of legends #mel and ambessa #yandere x reader #yandere arcane

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munson-blurbs · 1 day ago

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Living After Midnight (Failed Rockstar!Eddie x Motel Worker!Reader)

♫ Summary: No electricity, no Eddie, and nowhere to run when danger struck. (3.7k words)

♫ CW: threat of violence, alcohol consumption, slowburn, strangers-to-lovers, angst, misunderstanding, anxiety, self-deprecation, parental conflict, poverty, eventual smut (18+ only, minors DNI)

♫ Divider credit to @hellfire--cult

chapter fifteen: further to fall

Stillness and tension filled the space in the lobby. It surrounded you and your parents, enveloping you in its thick haze and snuffing out the conversation.

This wasn’t the end of it, you were certain. Their disappointment wasn’t permanently extinguished; it was just dimmed while dealing with the newer, more pertinent crisis.

Mom huffed out a sigh, crossing her arms over her chest. “Well, isn’t that great?” She gave you a pointed glare, one that solidified that the discussion was far from over, before she rifled through the desk drawer.

“What are you looking for? I can help—”

She pulled out a flashlight. “I’ve got it,” she muttered. Her tone was icy enough to bring snowfall to the heatwave when she added, “I think you’ve done enough.”

Shame spun a web in your lungs, but there was something else along with it that quickly choked out that sadness. Something fiery, almost wicked in nature.

I think you’ve done enough.

That was the straw that broke the camel’s back.

Mom had said it with such vitriol, such disappointment, that she only could have meant to hurt you. And, for a brief moment, she did.

But you plucked that knife from your side and launched it back at her with unwavering precision.

“Yeah, I think I have.” The world went red as words spilled from you in a seething rage. “I spent years working for pennies so you could keep the motel afloat. I gave up spending time with friends so you’d have cheap labor instead of actually hiring someone and paying them a decent salary.”

All of those nights spent stuck behind the desk, watching the Vacancy light taunt you from the window. Hearing the other college students enjoying their buzz as they paraded from bar to bar. The tamped-down envy that you convinced yourself would go away if you ignored it long enough.

It exploded now, unleashing a tidal wave of venom and carrying a host of words that carelessly rolled off your tongue.

“I never would have ‘done enough’ unless I took over the motel and ran it exactly like you want me to.” Spittle gathered at the corners of your mouth. “And even then, I’m sure I’d mess up something else.”

Anger flashed behind Mom’s eyes. “Don’t go playing the martyr,” she said, jaw tensed. “You chose to lie to us.”

“And what would have happened if I told you the truth? Would you have been okay with all of this?” A challenge, one that she could only win by lying.

She knew it, too; she faltered when she spoke again. “We would have had more time to prepare.”

But there were no preparations—none that were feasible and wouldn’t bankrupt the already struggling business. They would have had more time to convince you not to pursue your dreams—that’s what she meant.

“Maybe…maybe we should…” Dad hesitated, “maybe we should discuss this later.”

Mom was ready to agree, but you shook your head.

“I don’t want to discuss this later.” Later reminded you of soon, and the empty promises you made to Eddie.

Eddie, who was off touring with his band, burying himself inside models or groupies or—God help you—Fiona.

You shook off the thoughts of him and continued. “I lied to you. I pretended like I was going to school for hospitality. I pretended like I was planning to take over the motel after graduation. And I pretended like there was nothing going on between me and Eddie even though we…had feelings for each other.” You swallowed the embarrassment as you remembered the picnic date that ended in a public makeout session. “I’m sorry that I lied, but if you can’t see why I had to, then I don’t think any more ‘discussions’ will help.”

Sweat trickled down your spine, the heat of the argument exacerbating the already high temperatures. It bloomed beneath your arms and under the band of your bra, and you pinched the cotton of your shirt between your thumb and forefinger and fanned yourself.

“I’m done talking. And I’m done listening. I’m just…done.” A terse, tired exhale escaped your lips with a shudder. Your breath caught in your lungs as you heaved out a sob. One tear fell. Then another. And another, until you were crying too hard to breathe, let alone speak.

Shaking hands smeared your tears across your cheeks. You were sorry—and you weren’t. You had been selfish, yes, but it felt earned after years of putting their dreams before your own.

You were furious at them—and at yourself, for being mad at them. You were ashamed of the tears that wouldn’t stop falling, and yet each one was a weight lifted from your shoulders.

A headache bloomed behind your eyes as Stop feeling sorry for yourself and Let them see your pain battled for dominance.

You’d given up Eddie because you were so afraid of disappointing your parents. You’d been so concerned about remaining selfless that you ended up being selfish towards the man who’d made you feel like the truest version of yourself.

And now he was gone for good. There was no sense crying over spilt milk—especially without the handyman who cleaned it up.

You collected yourself, trying to forget the way your fingers perfectly laced with his like adjoining puzzle pieces. Trying not to wonder what other connections you might have made together if you hadn’t pushed him away.

“I-I have a flashlight in my room. And I’m pretty sure I have some sp-spare batteries.” You forced each word out in a desperate plea to change the subject. “I can…I can get them. And then I’ll run and see if I can buy some flashlights to give to the guests.”

Dad nodded, the lines at the corners of his eyes still crinkling with concern. “You should go now. Before it gets dark.” Before people start losing their minds and any sense of morality, were his unspoken words.

You dared to glance at Mom, though she kept her gaze trained on the desk. Something—mother’s instinct, perhaps—allowed her to swallow her pride and say, “thank you.”

You only managed a nod before you darted out the door, knowing that if you opened your mouth to say “you’re welcome,” you’d start crying again.

It wasn’t long before guests trickled out of their rooms, complaining about the lights not working or the phone not having dial tone. With increasingly thinning patience, you explained again and again that you didn’t know when the power would return.

In addition to the current guests, the blackout brought a slew of new faces. These guests were well outside of the usual demographic of truckers, ladies of the night, and affair-havers seeking a place for a quick lay. Exhausted parents toting cranky children and business people with briefcases tucked beneath their arms walked through the door, their relief palpable when you told them you had rooms available.

A family of four got the last room only a few minutes after your shift began: a mom, a dad, and their two sons, the oldest of which couldn't have been older than five. He entered the lobby first, barreling through the door like a bull in a china shop.

“Alex, please.” It was all the mother could muster for a scolding. Sweat beaded along her collarbones and dampened her “I Love NY” t-shirt. Her husband trailed behind her, holding their younger son. The boy was sleeping, heat-reddened face smushed into his father’s shoulder.

The mother wiped at her tired eyes. “Do you have a room?” More plea than question, and you were more than happy to oblige.

As she scribbled her information down on the guest log, the older boy—Alex—peered up at you from behind the desk. “Did you ever see someone steal stuff?” He asked excitedly.

You had, on numerous occasions, but theft was hardly a topic you wanted to talk about with a young child. “I don’t think so.”

“I did! Just now.” He bounced on the balls of his feet. “Me an’ Mommy an’ Daddy an’ Gavin were getting snacks, and some guys stoled while we were in the store!”

“Alex,” his father warned, but it wasn’t stern enough to deter him from elaborating.

“An’ the guy who worked at the store got really mad and started yelling at them. But they ran away super super fast. Like lightning speed. Like…” he stopped speaking to run in place, little legs working overtime to show just how fast the looters were running. “It was cool!”

Cool wasn’t exactly how you’d describe it. “What store was this?” You glanced between the two adults.

“Just down the street,” the mom answered. “I can’t remember the name, but it had a yellow awning.”

It was unsurprising that the convenience stores and bodegas would be hit first. The combination of low security and easily moveable items made them the perfect targets. The motel would be much lower on the list, but you weren’t in the clear. Besides taking the money in the register, an angry crowd could do some serious property damage.

Without anything to offer, you might end up with a few broken windows or a graffiti-tagged door.

You plucked the room key from its place and handed it to her, along with two miniature flashlights that you had managed to snag from the discount store earlier that day. The lights weren't the brightest, but it beat the alternative of sitting in complete darkness.

Alex looked up at his mother, strawberry-blond hair matted to his forehead. “Mommy, can I watch TV, please?”

“Honey, I told you—the TVs won’t work in a blackout.”

The boy’s lower lip wobbled and his eyes went glassy with the prospect of tears. “But I wanna watch TV,” he whined. His shoulders slumped, one sneakered foot stomping in indignation. “I even said ‘please!’”

You could see his mother’s patience thinning, like a frayed string about to snap. Before she could raise her voice or he devolved into a full-blown tantrum, you stepped in.

“Alex?” The boy looked at you at the sound of his name. “I know it’s a bummer that you can’t watch TV. It’s hard when we can’t do what we want.”

He nodded, though the threat of tears still lingered.

“I have some crayons and paper that are perfect for coloring,” you continued, rummaging through the desk drawer and procuring the pack of Crayola and scrap paper. “I know it’s not the same as watching TV, but maybe you can draw your favorite characters.”

The dad lightly squeezed Alex’s shoulder. “Hey, that seems pretty fun, bud,” he said softly, careful not to wake the dozing toddler. “Maybe you can draw the Ninja Turtles.”

You didn’t know much about the Ninja Turtles—just that there were four of them—but you feigned as much enthusiasm as the oppressive heat allowed. “Ooh, the Ninja Turtles! Which one is your favorite?”

“L-Leonardo,” Alex hiccuped.

“Mine, too!” You smiled and slid the crayon box towards him. He stood on tiptoes and took it from the desk. “Make sure you share with your brother once he wakes up, okay?”

“Okay.” Alex paused. “But I might have to use all the green. ‘Cause of the Ninja Turtles.”

You tried to hold back the smile twitching on your lips and match his serious expression. “Right. That makes sense.”

“Say ‘thank you,’” his mom gently reminded him. He did, flashing you a baby tooth-filled grin.

“Any time. You can stop by tomorrow and show me what you drew, okay?”

The family had only been gone for a minute when another door squeaked open farther down the hall. You held your breath, waiting for another asinine complaint that was well beyond your control.

Relief seeped into your skin at the sight of Phyllis, her face scrubbed of its usual heavy makeup. She wore sweatpants and an oversized t-shirt, house slippers scuffling against the ground. She carried her trusty bat under her arm.

“Figured you might need this with all of that,” Phyllis gestured towards the chaos beyond the front door, “going on.”

You accepted the bat with a grateful smile.

“No work tonight?”

She shook her head. “Too many cops. And I’m too damn old to be getting busted.”

You laughed at that, the first genuine laugh you’d had in days. Weeks, probably.

Had Eddie really been gone that long?

“I overheard you talking to that kid,” she said. “You’re good. I thought he was gonna start screaming.”

You let out a mirthless chuckle. “Well, that’s one thing I haven’t royally screwed up.”

Phyllis cocked her head, inquiring to know more, but you didn’t speak until she said, “I’ve got nothing to do all night. Might as well tell me a story.”

And so you told her, hurriedly unspooling each moment like a race to the finish. Perhaps it was: if you stopped for a breath, you might start crying again.

Minutes passed and she continued listening. The setting sun shone its final pinkish-purple rays through the lobby windows, its shadows emphasizing the older woman’s wrinkles, as you told her every mistake you’d made that led to now.

Phyllis was silent for a moment longer, waiting to ensure you were done. Understanding and, to your embarrassment and chagrin, pity reflected in her milky pupils.

“When I was your age, no one could tell me what to do,” she finally said. “Not my friends, not my family. I didn’t even listen to the cops arresting me.” She leaned in and whispered, “I was a lot more wiry back then.”

She heaved a reminiscent sigh. “I really thought I was tough shit. Invincible and all that. But now I look back and…I wonder what I could’ve been–who I could’ve been–if I just stopped and listened. I might not have been the first female President of the United States, but maybe I wouldn’t be a sixty-something-year-old hooker.”

“I’d vote for you,” you tried to joke, but it didn’t land.

Phyllis just placed one thin hand over yours. “You have the opposite problem. You care about what everyone thinks and you try to make everyone happy. But then you’re not happy.”

“I tried to be happy.” Memories of your psychology classes and picnic dates filled your mind, quickly replaced with images of your disappointed parents and an angry Eddie. “And it just made me selfish.”

“Is that a bad thing?”

“Of course it is!” The conversation had devolved from something profound into nonsense. Maybe the heat was getting to her, because who in their right mind would think selfishness was good?

Phyllis shrugged. “Being too selfish, maybe. But putting yourself first once in a while isn’t a cardinal sin, y’know. Or maybe it is.” She scratched at an old scab on her arm. “I’m not the religious type.”

She pulled a pack of cigarettes from her back pocket, offering it out to you. You could certainly use one, the stress of today refusing to dissipate, but just the thought of any extra heat near your body made your skin crawl.

Phyllis flicked the lighter, illuminating her face in the dwindling light. “What would’ve happened if you just told your parents the truth years ago?”

You considered the question, let the cynical answer loll around your mouth until it resembled something less pointed. More palatable.

“They would’ve been mad back then, too.”

“And?”

You kept your gaze straight ahead as she exhaled a cloud of smoke. “I guess…I guess we could have figured out what to do sooner,” you finally said, parroting your mother’s words.

But Phyllis shook her head again. “That’s not what I meant.” She gave you a pointed look, jabbing her lit cigarette in your direction. It was a menthol; different from the ones Eddie smoked. Yet it still reminded you of him, of being tucked up under his arm as he kissed your temple.

“What would it have changed for you?” Phyllis tried again. “Not your parents; not the motel. Not even Lover Boy.”

You thought about it–really thought about how your life would be altered if you’d chosen honesty from the very beginning.

You’d never have to check over your shoulder when writing essays for your psychology classes. You could have looked forward to graduate school—or at least felt the usual trepidation that came with new experiences, rather than the fear of letting people down. Eddie might have been standing in front of you now, taking every opportunity to steal kisses while he set up battery-powered fans.

You never asked to be placed atop that pedestal, the one that declared you nothing less than perfect and a failure otherwise. But you could have helped yourself down, carefully and gracefully, rather than crashing to the ground without a safety net.

But instead of floating, you’re melting in the motel lobby, your future scattered in pieces before you.

The last time you floated was that trip to NYU with Eddie. Laughter easily bubbled out of you when he taunted the street preacher, a lightness you should have cherished at the time.

How naive of you to assume it would last forever, when it didn’t even last a day.

The streets had been bathed in darkness for hours, your desk barely illuminated by a tiny flashlight, when it happened.

You had put down your book just twenty minutes earlier, your eyes straining to read the print. A headache thrummed at your temples, worsening until you stopped mid-sentence and finally stuck your bookmark between the pages.

The closed door could only do so much to stifle the cacophony of shattering glass and raucous shouting. Shop owners who lived above their stores yelled down to the looters, feebly hoping to scare them away, but they could not be deterred. Only the sounds of police sirens whooping were enough to send the thieves scattering, though they often ran with their arms full of stolen goods.

You didn’t see the man until he was inside the lobby, stumbling towards the desk as so many had before. Through the dim light, you could see a tie hanging loosely around his neck. His sweat-soaked button-down clung to his pale skin, the stench of liquor oozing from every pore.

He nearly tripped over his own feet, and he snorted out a laugh before clearing his throat. “Need a room,” he slurred. Up close, the lines on his forehead were more pronounced. Perspiration matted his thinning hair to his scalp.

Your hand instinctively wrapped around the knob of Phyllis’s bat, your palm pressed so tightly against the wood that you risked a splinter.

“I’m sorry, but we don’t have any available.” You kept your tone even, if a bit clipped.

A sardonic grin stretched across the man’s face. He swiped his tongue over his teeth. “No rooms, huh? That’s what they said at all the other places.” He braced his forearms on the desk, his breath curdling the contents of your stomach. “And I’m startin’ to get real pissed that there isn’t a goddamn room in this goddamn city!”

Spittle gathered at the corners of his mouth, just as rancid as the rest of him.

“First, my flight gets cancelled when I’m already at the airport. Then I try to drown my sorrows at the bar, and the bartender cuts me off. And now I’ve got some bitch telling me—”

“You need to leave.” God, you really didn’t want to have to use the bat, didn’t want to swing at a stranger… “Or I’ll call the police.”

His laughter chilled you, and only once you heard it did you realize your mistake. No electricity meant no phone calls, which meant no police.

“Do you think I wanna be here?” He seethed. “Do you think this dump was my first choice? Every damn hotel was booked. Just give me a fucking room.”

You could scream. It would wake everyone in the motel and someone would come to check on you. But screaming also meant risking some sort of retaliation to keep you quiet, even if he hadn’t planned to hurt you at all. If you screamed, he could strike.

No, making noise was not an option.

The hand not clutching the bat was sweat-slicked from fear. Your grip slipped from where you braced yourself on the desk, fingers slamming into the drawer knob and knocking it open.

Wood scraped against wood, and then there was only a soft thud: The pepper spray canister had rolled to the front of the drawer.

Your second mistake was the half-second you spent flexing your throbbing fingers, hissing at the sudden pain. It was enough time for the man to lunge towards you, knocking over the bell that sat atop the desk. The one that Eddie rang that first night to wake you from your impromptu mid-shift nap.

It skittered to the floor with an anticlimactic ping and landed at your feet. You trapped it beneath a sneakered foot before sliding it behind you with as much precision as the adrenaline permitted, careful not to damage it.

The front door slammed open with enough force to send the knob careening into the wall. When the sun rises again, you wouldn’t be surprised if there was an indent in the plaster, or at least a scuff on the wallpaper.

Looters, you thought grimly. Must’ve robbed the stores and bodegas and now they’re here as a last resort. Your body slumped in defeat, ready to let them take whatever they needed.

A sweaty, unfamiliar hand grabbed your wrist as the man pulled both you and your attention. But he only held onto you for a second before he let go.

No–not let go. Not of his own volition, anyway. He’d been yanked back by something–someone, rather; though the dim lighting only offered a glimpse of a glinting piece of metal being held to the man’s throat.

A few hours passed by in seconds before you allowed yourself to see who had come to your rescue. To know that your heart and your mind were playing tricks on you in some sort of heat-induced delusion.

Deep brown eyes met yours, all at once softening his hardened edges, even as his grip on the pocket knife never faltered.

And then Eddie Munson’s voice, more gruff and possessive than you’d ever heard it before, ricocheted through your veins.

“Get your fucking hands off of her.”

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am-i-interrupting · 2 days ago

Note

What if alternate variations of Viktors went after the reader after the reader managed to save him and Jayce. Maybe the reader is a unique variation, that in many alternate universes she no longer exists.((I want a battle of versions of Viktors and Jayces))

Endless Possibilities

It was in the explosion that ought to kill you all that you felt yourself being pulled away. Your body stretched. Your hand left Jayce’s, left Viktor’s.

Death was not as peaceful as you’d hoped. It was tugging and pulling on you like children fighting over a toy. You stomach lurched and churned. Something at the back of your throat bubbled.

Then it stopped. It changed so abruptly that the loss of it made you dizzy.

Your feet were on solid ground as were your hands. Slowly, your gaze went up, afraid of what you may find even if beneath your fingers was grass.

A hand met you. It was extended, familiar. You grabbed it without hesitation.

“My darling,” a thick, familiar accent spoke, “how wonderful it is to see you.”

You looked up as you rose to your feet. Viktor stood before you but there was something wrong, something different.

“Viktor.”

His hands went to cup your face as he smiled. It was warm and true. His eyes darted around your face, taking you in as you did the same.

His hair was almost completely blonde. Dirty and dark in color in some places, pure white in others, with sprinkles of the brown you were accustomed to. He had the webbing of the arcane on his face but it consumed most of it. This was not the man you knew.

“You have no idea how I’ve longed to see your face in something other than memories and wisps of dreams,” he said.

He bowed his head and placed his forehead against your own. You gripped his hands. Slowly you pried his fingers off of you.

“Where am I?” you asked. “What happened to Jayce?”

He swallowed. His eyes darted away from you, almost shameful. A small exhale that was similar to the one you knew to be filled with anxieties.

“I’m afraid Jayce is not here,” he said. “Not for some time at least.”

“Viktor,” you said, voice pleading and begging, “where am I?”

You looked around the place before you. Robots walked around. Pale and white with gold. They interacted like people but with none of the meaning.

“Where am I?” you asked for a third time.

“Where you’re meant to be,” he said as an answer.

You shook your head. You took one step back from him as he moved to grab your hand. It was followed by another. Then you spun around and ran.

You didn’t care that you bumped into the robots. At least until they started to make moves to grab you. You darted out of their grasp for as long as you could but there were so many of them. It was only a matter of time before you were caught.

“My darling,” he said as he approached you. His hands cupped your face as you thrashed, “it’s alright. I would never— No, no, no!”

There was panic in his eyes as that sickening sensation came to you once more. You kicked harder, tugged harsher. You couldn’t stand the feeling of these hands and they gripped tight, too tight.

Then they were gone.

You nearly fell when your thrashing was no longer contained against something else. You spun around, heart racing, breathing quick.

Viktor.

His hair was ethereal like it’d been when you’d last seen the true Viktor, your Viktor. You called out his name.

“My sweet,” he said.

You were immediately set off. There was something in his voice.

The place around you matched the astral plane you’d been in with Jayce. There were those lifeless robotic bodies around, held up by string that never ended.

“You’ve arrived.”

“No,” you said immediately.

“No?” he asked with a quirk of his lips, like this was funny.

“Where is my Viktor?” you asked.

“I’m right here,” he said. “No matter the circumstances, the situation, the universe, I am always yours.”

“Where is the Viktor I know? Because I am not yours,” you told him, voice shaking with fear and confusion despite how your stance remained strong.

“I had hoped this wouldn’t be an issue,” he said, so quiet it was meant for only himself. “You are my world, my light, my reason to strive for the best possible future. Before you could see it, you left my world. I wish to share this with you.”

“No,” you said, voice stronger than you were. “I want my Viktor. Not this. This is not a world I want. This is not a world my Viktor wants. This is not his greatest accomplishment but his biggest mistake and we are going to fix together so where is he?”

He took a step forward. His hand was held upward. He tried to cup your face. You batted his hand away.

“My sweet—“

“No! I want to go back! Take me back to him!”

“I’m afraid I cannot. I only had the power to bring you to me.”

“Why? Why be so selfish? What about what I want?” you asked him with growing anger.

This past few months had been torture. Seeing the man you love become a monster was not easy. It was hard. No matter what you did to try to convince him, he hadn’t listened.

You’d held onto the hope that perhaps you could save him and for a mere second, you thought you had. That is until the reality of the situation fell onto you.

You accepted death. Why wouldn’t she take you? Why were you being pulled around, shown these possibilities that weren’t your reality?

He placed his hands on your shoulders. “I thought, perhaps, this is what you would want.”

“No.”

“But why?” he asked. “You were going to die, my sweet.”

“Because I was going to die with the love of my life,” you said. “I was going to die beside him and with him so I wouldn’t have to know the pain of living without him any longer.”

Viktor bowed his head. “I apologize then because it’s for that same selfish reason I brought you here. I’ve lived years without you. Not a single one has brought me a fraction of the joy these past few minutes have. To see your face when I never believed I could again is the biggest blessing and I shall cherish it.”

You felt that sickening pull once more.

“Ah, seems someone else would like you,” he said. “Perhaps they will be able to return you to your Viktor.”

He squeezed your shoulder and then let go. With the loss of his touch came the shift in your vision.

A being stood before you with a face split down the middle. Eyes shined against the dark abyss between, golden like a mockery. White lined the edges of the darkness making sharp angles crisp.

“My love,” the voice greeted, haunted and ringing like it came from within an echo chamber.

“Viktor?” you asked even though you knew the answer.

“My love,” he repeated.

He seemed to hover instead of walk. Regardless, he moved closer to you. You moved away.

“I don’t like this.”

He halted. The head tipped to the side, like he was confused. “What don’t you like?”

“Any of this!” you yelled. “I don’t want to be dragged around like toy between toddlers! I just want to go back to my Viktor, even if that means dying!”

“You don’t mean that.”

“Yes! I do!”

“Death is unforgiving. There is no going back or turning around. It is irreversible. Not even I can undo it,” he said. “Not truly. These people I’ve saved have lost themselves in the search for eternity. But I don’t ask for eternity. Let me cherish you just for a lifetime.”

“No,” you said firmly. “I don’t want a lifetime with anyone else except the man I love, that I know. You may have his body but you are not him.”

It would have almost sounded like a sigh if it weren’t an exhale of hundreds, if not thousands, perhaps even millions of voices behind it.

“Stubborn as always,” he said.

That sickness tugged at you once more.

This time you were in front of Viktor in a white robe. It was covered in pink and blue shapes of the arcane. The interior was beautiful as it showed the stars of the galaxies.

You didn’t look at his face, simply slumped against the ground.

“I want to go home,” you said.

“And that is where I plan to take you,” he replied.

A cane or staff (perhaps a mix of both) was leaned on as he knelt before you. His hand was soft and callused as he brushed hair out of your face and turned away the tear going down your cheek.

“Selfishly I wish to keep you here but alas.” He sighed as he shifted. Something smooth was placed in your hand, “Break this when you return. It should shield all three of you so you may escape death’s clutches.”

“I’m sorry,” you said softly, “that I cannot be what you all want me to be.”

A tired exhale. “Do not be. It is an immense privilege to see you one last time but I cannot in good conscience force you to stay here with this version of me. I can at least rest knowing I am with you in at least one of the endless possibilities.”

His hand curled around the back of your neck. He brought his forehead to yours. You looked up as his boss met yours. This Viktor was older, wiser.

You looked down as something brushed against your chin. He had facial hair. How strange. Viktor kept his face meticulously groomed (when his body would allow it). It was turning grey.

“Thank you.”

“Of course.”

This time it was not like a sickness but a warmth. It was like a comforting embrace that understood. It understood all that you’d gone through and would become. It understood you.

Your hands squeezed the gemstone you’d been given and it crunched as it cracked.

A flash of bright light.

Then you fell harshly against hard ground.

“Are we— We’re alive!” Jayce said as he patted his body with growing glee.

You looked up. You relaxed as you immediately recognized your Viktor. You did not hesitate as you wrapped your arms around him.

He grunted as he was pushed back and forced to catch himself. His arms wrapped around you as soon as he found some stability though.

“My heart,” he said like a prayer as he buried his head in your shoulder.

#might be more angsty than you wanted #oops #viktor arcane x reader #viktor x reader #viktor x you #viktor arcane x you

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gracie-eilish · 1 day ago

Text

oh my my my…

🌙💚✨🎄🥂

summary: you’ve been in love with your best friend claire’s older sister you’re whole life. but she never saw you as anything more than her little sisters awkward best friend. or so she thought… until you come home from college one semester and billie comes home from tour at the same time… and things are different.

a/n: billie is 24 in this and reader and claire are 21. billie is still billie, just add in claire with her and finneas. you and the o’connells have a close dynamic so it’s not weird for you to hang with the family while claire goes to bed or vice versa when she is at your house;) you haven’t seen billie since maybe she was 19 (touring and college kept you apart)

alsoooo i love hot older sister billie!! would you guys want like a prelude to this??

The house smelled like cinnamon and pine, the familiar warmth of the holidays wrapping around me as I lounged on the O’Connell family couch. Claire and I were sprawled out like we always were, eating snacks and laughing at cheesy Christmas movies. The glow from the tree lights reflected off the glasses of festive cocktails Maggie had let us make. It felt like old times—just Claire and me, like nothing had changed.

Except everything had changed.

We were both 21 now, adults in every sense of the word. College had shaped us into versions of ourselves we’d only dreamed of becoming as teenagers. Claire was thriving, confident and bubbly as ever, while I had finally grown into myself. I felt like the clumsy, awkward little kid who used to trail after Claire, Billie, and Finneas was long gone. I was finally… me.

But I hadn’t seen Billie in years.

She’d been busy touring, winning awards, and becoming a global icon while I was figuring out my life at school. And, if I was honest with myself, I was glad for the distance. For years, I’d been so hopelessly in love with her that it hurt. But somewhere between the late-night study sessions and messy dorm-room heartbreaks, I convinced myself I’d moved on.

Until today.

The door swung open with a flourish, the chilly December air rushing in as Billie stepped inside.

“Billie!” Claire yelled, launching herself off the couch and tackling her sister in a hug. The room filled with laughter and the sound of their excited chatter, but I stayed back, my drink clutched in my hands, watching them.

And then Billie’s eyes found mine.

For a moment, the world seemed to stop.

She looked the same but different—older, more mature, with that same air of effortless cool that had always made my stomach flutter. Her black hair, now long and layered, framed her face perfectly. Her jawline was sharp enough to cut glass, her light blue eyes intense and unreadable as they swept over me.

And I couldn’t help but notice the way her breath hitched for just a fraction of a second.

“Y/N?” she said, her voice lower than I remembered, like velvet.

“Hi, Billie,” I said, standing and giving her a small smile.

I could feel her gaze linger as I crossed the room to give her a polite hug. It was quick, casual—nothing out of the ordinary—but the way her hand brushed my back sent a shiver up my spine.

“You look… different,” Billie said, her voice almost hesitant as she pulled back.

“Yeah, well, it’s been a few years,” I said, tucking a strand of my short hair behind my ear. Her eyes flicked to the movement, lingering on my face for just a moment too long.

Claire pulled Billie into the kitchen, breaking the tension, and I took a deep breath, trying to steady myself. She was just Claire’s sister. That’s all she was. Nothing more.

Except when she joined us in the living room, the air shifted.

We settled back into the couch, Billie now sitting next to me. The scent of her perfume—something woodsy and sweet—wrapped around me, making my head spin. She smelled… grown-up. Different from how I remembered.

Then again, everything about her felt different.

As we watched the movie, Billie kept sneaking glances at me. I could feel her eyes on me, the weight of her attention making my skin tingle. I tried to focus on the screen, but it was impossible. Every move she made, every small laugh or casual brush of her arm against mine, sent my mind spiraling.

Eventually, Claire yawned dramatically and stretched. “Alright, I’m beat,” she said, standing and heading toward the stairs. “Don’t stay up too late, you two.”

The door to her room clicked shut, and suddenly it was just Billie and me.

The silence was deafening.

I shifted on the couch, my leg brushing against hers accidentally, and the contact sent a jolt through me. “So,” I said, clearing my throat, “how’s life been? You know, with the whole being a global superstar thing.”

Billie chuckled softly, her voice low and warm. “It’s… a lot. But it’s good. I missed this, though. Being home.” Her eyes softened as she looked at me. “And seeing everyone again.”

I felt my cheeks heat under her gaze. “Yeah, it’s nice to be back,” I said, fidgeting with the hem of my shirt.

For a moment, neither of us spoke. The only sound was the faint hum of the movie in the background.

“You’ve really changed, Y/N,” Billie said suddenly, her voice quiet but firm.

I glanced at her, my heart pounding. “Good change or bad change?”

Her lips quirked into a small smile. “Good change. Definitely good change.”

The way she looked at me then—like she was seeing me for the first time—made my breath catch. It was so different from the way she used to look at me when we were kids, when I was just Claire’s little best friend. Now, there was something else in her gaze. Something I couldn’t quite place but couldn’t ignore.

I tore my eyes away, trying to steady myself. “You’ve changed too,” I said, my voice barely above a whisper.

Billie leaned back, studying me with an intensity that made my pulse race. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” I said, meeting her eyes. “But you’re still… you.”

Her lips parted slightly, like she was about to say something, but the words didn’t come. Instead, she reached for the remote and turned off the movie, leaving us in silence.

The tension between us was palpable, the kind you could feel in your chest, heavy and overwhelming. For years, I’d dreamed of being this close to her, of having her attention like this. And now that it was happening, I didn’t know what to do.

“So,” Billie said after a moment, her voice soft, “are you seeing anyone?”

The question caught me off guard. “No,” I said quickly, my heart skipping a beat. “Not right now.”

Her eyes flicked to mine, something unreadable in her gaze. “Good.”

The word hung in the air between us, heavy with meaning.

I swallowed hard, unsure of what to say. But before I could think of anything, Billie shifted closer, her knee brushing against mine.

“You know,” she said, her voice low, “it’s weird seeing you like this. All grown up.”

I felt my cheeks flush, but I forced myself to meet her gaze. “Is that a good weird or a bad weird?” I squeaked out, basically repeating my earlier question.

Her lips curved into a slow, almost lazy smile, laughing at my obvious nerves. “Good weird,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper.

Billie tilted her head, her dark hair falling over one shoulder as she studied me with a curious expression. “You cut your hair,” she said, gesturing toward my short hair. “You swore you’d never cut it. You would practically cry at the thought of getting your haircut even a tiny bit when you were little.”

I giggled a bit as I shrugged, feigning nonchalance even though her attention was making my pulse race. “People change.”

“Yeah,” Billie murmured, her voice soft, almost thoughtful. “You definitely have.”

Her eyes lingered on me, sharp and unrelenting, like she was trying to piece together every little detail she’d missed over the years. Finally, her gaze dropped to my ears, her lips twitching into a slight smirk.

“And the piercings?” she asked, raising an eyebrow. “Who are you, and what did you do with little Y/N? I never thought you’d get more than just one little stud on each ear.”

I couldn’t help but laugh, though the sound came out shakier than I intended. “I’ve been collecting them over the years. Do you not like them?”

Billie’s smile softened, her voice dropping an octave. “No, I do. They suit you.”

She leaned in slightly, her dark eyes glinting with curiosity as she inspected the small, sparkling studs and hoops lining my ears. My breath hitched as her face drew closer, her scent filling the space between us. Her fingers reached out, brushing against the shell of my ear as she tucked a strand of my hair behind it, revealing the stack of earrings.

Billie chuckled softly, the sound low and warm, and for a moment, I thought I saw something flicker in her expression—something far from casual. Her hand lingered near my face, her thumb grazing my jawline before retreating, almost as if she realized what she was doing.

“You’ve really grown up, Y/N,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. “It’s… new. Seeing you like this.”

The air between us was thick with tension, the kind that made my chest feel tight and my heart pound so hard I was sure she could hear it. Billie’s hand moved again, this time trailing through the ends of my short hair. She toyed with a strand, her fingers grazing my neck as she twirled it absentmindedly.

“This,” she said softly, her voice almost too quiet to hear. “It looks good on you. The short hair. I didn’t think I’d like it, but… I do.”

I didn’t trust myself to speak, so I just nodded, my throat tight as her fingers lingered, her touch light but deliberate.

“I’m serious,” Billie continued, her tone shifting, becoming almost reverent. “You’re not the same little kid who used to follow Claire and me around. You’re… different now. In a good way.”

My breath hitched as her hand dropped from my hair to my shoulder, her thumb brushing against my collarbone. She was so close now, her knee pressing lightly against mine, her dark eyes locked on mine like she was searching for something.

“Billie…” I started, but my voice faltered.

She tilted her head, her lips twitching into the faintest of smiles. “Yeah?” she asked, her voice so soft it sent a shiver down my spine.

“I…” I couldn’t finish the sentence. The tension between us was too much, the weight of it pressing down on me until I couldn’t think straight.

And then Billie closed the distance.

Her lips brushed against mine, soft and tentative at first, like she was testing the waters. But when I didn’t pull away—when I leaned in instead, my hands gripping the fabric of her hoodie—she kissed me fully, her lips warm and firm against mine.

The world seemed to fall away, leaving only the two of us in the dimly lit living room. Her hand slid up to cup my face, her fingers threading gently through the ends of my short hair as she deepened the kiss. It was slow and deliberate, like she was taking her time, savoring every moment.

When we finally pulled back, both of us were breathless, her forehead resting against mine. Neither of us said a word, the silence heavy but comfortable as her thumb brushed gently over my cheek.

“You really have grown up,” Billie whispered, her voice barely audible.

And just like that, everything between us had changed.

🌙💚✨🎄🥂

#billie eilish #billie eilish fluff #billie eilish x fem!reader #billie eilish x reader #billie eilish x y/n #billie eilish x you #fanfiction #wlw #billie eilish fanfiction #billie eilish fic #taylor swift #debut #billie x reader #fluff

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cherrysolo · 2 days ago

Note

omg since you`re doing minifics inspired on taylor's songs, can u do you belong with me? its my favorite song <3

you belong with me

omg I love this idea and this song <3 it’s such a classic taylor song that reminds me of my childhood :( this is going to be sooo fluffy and predictable but idc these are fun to write!

warnings: none! just fluff

you and luigi were best friends ever since childhood, now in college together. he was always your person, he knew you better than anyone else. as you had gotten older, you’d began to realize you had feelings to be more than just friends. you had always kept your feeling to yourself though, never expecting him to reciprocate.

“You're on the phone with your girlfriend, she's upset

She's going off about something that you said

'Cause she doesn't get your humor like I do

I'm in my room, it's a typical Tuesday night

I'm listening to the kind of music she doesn't like”

“baby, I can’t right now I’m studying with y/n,” he mumbles into his phone one late february night. you try not to listen to his conversations with his girlfriend but it doesn’t help that she’s blowing up his phone.

“you know that y/n and I are friends, nothing more. we’re just studying that’s all,” he quickly glances to you, you return a small smile.

he sighs as he hangs up the phone, you can feel the tension in the air.

“you can go be with her lu, you know, if she needs you or something,” you begin packing up your things to leave,

“no, I’d prefer to be with you instead,” and his smile is what makes you stay. moments like these made you wonder if he’d want you in that way,

“ ‘Cause she wears short skirts, I wear T-shirts

She's Cheer Captain and I'm on the bleachers

Dreaming 'bout the day when you wake up and find

That what you're looking for has been here the whole time”

a couple weeks later, while sitting at a cafe on campus studying, you see luigi and his girlfriend walk by. he looks amazing, he’s laughing, his skin is glowing, and of course she was on his arm. she wore heeled boots, a navy knit sweater, a mini black skirt, and her blonde hair cascaded down her back. she was the leader of the alpha phi sorority, how could she have anything in common with lu? you sat there with envy, deep down you knew that you knew him better than anyone else, he was indeed your best friend. seeing her laugh at his jokes, ones that you had probably heard before. instead of going back to studying, you sat there daydreaming 'bout the day when he wake up and find that what he’s looking for has been here the whole time.

“Oh, I remember you driving to my house

In the middle of the night

I'm the one who makes you laugh

When you know you're 'bout to cry

I know your favorite songs

And you tell me 'bout your dreams

Think I know where you belong

Think I know it's with me”

you heard erratic knocking at your door,

“y/n, open up, it’s lu,” you unlock the door and see him standing there, his eyes bloodshot red.

“lu, what happened? are you okay?” he rushes in for a hug, gripping onto your sweater and breathing in your scent, it’s so comforting to him. “she cheated on me,” he sniffles.

“I caught her with another frat member,” he releases from your arms.

“I’m so sorry lu,” you try to console him before he interrupts you,

“is it weird I’m kind of relieved? I don’t even know why I’m crying,” he chuckles, which his confession is full of truth because you had only seen him cry twice before.

you both sit down on your bed, placing your hand on his forearm, rubbing back and forth.

“do you think love her?” you blurt out. luigi’s eyes meet yours, thinking for a moment.

“I don’t even think I liked her half the time,” which makes you chuckle.

“oh cmon, she is the definition of perfect though,” which you can confess, because she is everything you aren’t. luigi places his hand where yours lies upon his arm still, he slightly squeezes it. “well now I can spend more time with you, anyways could you hug me again? I think I need it,” he looks at you with pleading eyes. oh you were so far gone.

“If you could see that I'm the one who understands you

Been here all along, so why can't you see?

You belong with me

Standing by and waiting at your back door

All this time, how could you not know, baby?

You belong with me, you belong with me”

by the time spring formal comes around, your feelings have expanded times a thousand. you and luigi had been spending every waking moment together, your friendship had reached new heights. tonight you would be luigi’s date to upenn’s spring formal, even though you were technically only going as friends, you had never been so nervous.

you weren’t one for dressing up but for this night you went all out, a short navy blue silk slip dress with a twist front, and a pair of white kitten heels with a bow. you’d even spent hours on your hair, wanting to look your best. finalizing your look with lip gloss, you heard a knock at your door. you open your door and see luigi standing there, your breath got caught in your throat looking at him, he looked perfect. dressed up in a full suit and tie, with his tie colour matching your dress. you were both looking at each other up and down, not even sure what to say. you’d never seen him this silent.

“let me just grab my purse, you look great by the way,” trying breaking the awkward tension, you wanted this night to go perfectly.

as the night progresses, you grow more urgent to confess your feelings to luigi. a battle in your mind that you wish you weren’t having on a night like this, but his hand grazing your lower back and his wandering eyes were making you a lost cause. was ruining a friendship worth coming clean with your feelings?

you were both tipsy and walking back to luigi’s dorm, finally alone together. your heart starts to beat faster than it ever has before, maybe it was just the tequila. “lu, i have something to tell you, I’ve been thinking about you a lot lately,” you blurt out, almost not understanding what you were doing. you stop in your tracks and he looks back at you, up and down.

“can you picture it? you and I?” his eyebrow furrows, eyes dotting between yours and your lips. “i-i guess, but you liked […]” you step back almost in shock that he is imagining the same thing as you.

“I don’t like […], she’s not you. I’ve known you since… forever. you’re basically home to me, I can’t imagine being with anyone else,” he steps forward and pushes back a piece of hair behind your ear. “but wouldn’t us being together ruin our friendship?”

“we can’t be friends anymore though, I’ll always see you as something else. I only want you,” he confesses, “we should try this, don’t you think?” he steps closer placing a hand to your cheek, leaning in, you nod up and down to give him permission, because you’re far too nauseous to speak. his lips softy melting into yours, then pulling back to look at you. you both quickly go back in for another passionate kiss, his tongue prods at the seam of your lips and you open up for him. you both moan into each others mouths then pull apart, realizing you are both still outside. you both start laughing, luigi pulls you to his side and you begin walking. “you know, my family has been placing bets on when we would start dating,” he chuckles. “what? no they didn’t,”

“actually they starting saying that in high school we would,”you walk back to luigis dorm wrapped around each other. you two always belonged together.

#luigi mangione #luigi mangione x reader #luigi mangione fanfiction #luigi mangione x yn #free luigi #the adjuster #ceo shooting #deny defend depose #fanfiction #luigi mangione smut #luigi nicholas mangione

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themusingsofacurlyhairednerd · 6 hours ago

Text

Ludos Imperiales III

Summary: Saving your mates may cost more than you bargain for, but how far are you willing to go to save them?

Content Warnings: Branding; Mentions of Slavery/Abuse; Vomiting

Pt 1 / Pt 2

----------------------

Fables had largely been forbidden in the Empire, starting in the early reign of my Great Grandfather Hybern II. Fables and fairytales had no use in the practicality of his Empire. Stories and fables gave people ideas, it made them hope and dream of better worlds than this one. The Empire could not thrive on the backs of dreamers. And so books burned in the streets, and the oral traditions of many people died in the following years. Schools taught with books written by Imperial Scholars, all edited and fact checked by the Emperor himself. The world became what he saw fit to shape it as.

To him, the fairytale idea of mates was a weakness. He declared all mated pairs cursed by the Mother. A bond was a manifestation of a weak will. If you could not thrive on your own without needing another to carry you, then you were not fit to be in the Empire. He removed all mated pairs from service, both within the palace walls and in military service. Mated pairs were not allowed to own land within the Empire, Temples were not legally allowed to recognize or perform a marriage ceremony. They were shunned as lepers and regarded as subpar beings. The bond made them loyal to each other first and foremost, and that was an allegiance torn in his mind. He made sure everyone else saw it that way too.

Father would not have such an obvious weakness. In his earlier years, he’d scoured the Empire, searching every village he ravaged and town he conquered for signs of that supposed weakness. He’d felt a pull, to a small ocean village in Elfhaven, and that pull had led him to a healer’s cottage, tucked into the ocean cliffs. He’d stood on the threshold of her doorway, cursing the Mother, cursing whatever weak will he had managed to leave unchecked, and then, he’d tossed her into the sea. His father had thrown a city wide celebration in his honor. Finally, a son who could master himself and his weaknesses. He used to tell me that story at bedtime, when my Mother tucked me in. Love was for children. Mates were for lesser beings. Mother had never argued with him about it either, this was simply a fact in their marriage. Theirs was of convenience, a mutually beneficial contract, and I often wondered if that story was also a means to remind her that she too could be disposed of if a weakness revealed itself.

But, I had been a lonely, and curious child and would often sit with the Nymphs that lived in the bubbling brooks and streams around the River House, and would ask them all the questions I was afraid to ask my Father. They whispered their own tales of mates between the bubbling rocks and rolling waves and I’d latched onto their ideas of a bond so strong it could bridge a soul together. Perhaps it was my loneliness, my need for affection I couldn’t easily find at home, but I clung to that little piece of what everyone else swore was fiction like my life depended on it. It became my lifeline. I’d pray to the Goddess every night for something like that; for someone who could love me beyond reason.

A dream that slips through my fingers as I step into that cell.

Cassian, chained against the wall with a gorsian collar around his throat, spits at my feet as I enter. I’ve seen hatred enough in my lifetime to understand the fire that blazes in those hazel eyes.

All the air in my lungs leaves in a rush, as if he’d thrown a fist directly into my stomach. He hates me. Hates me for what I’ve done to him; hates me for what I allowed to happen in that arena. Hel, judging by the way he sizes me up next to Father, he hates me purely because I look like him in the eyes.

My chest aches like it just might crack open and spill my heart out onto the floor.

For the slight, one of the guards slams the butt of his spear directly into Cassian’s gut, knocking him to the floor.

Despite the obvious malice, I have to physically lock my knees to keep myself from moving towards him; have to bite the inside of my cheek to not tell them to leave him alone. Maybe it’s not his fault he hates me. Maybe I deserve it.

“Charming as ever, Cassian,” Father says.

Cassian glares through the locks of sweat slicked hair falling over his forehead, “Fuck you!”

The butt of the spear slams into his temple and it takes every ounce of training not to let the dark, obsidian power trying to unfurl from my clenched fists turn the guard to ash. It would be so easy, a mere flick of the wrist and the only evidence that he’d ever lived a bit of dust left to mingle in the dirt coating the floor. I want to. Damn me, I want to splatter all of them across the dingy walls; hear the last, sharp intake of breath gurgle out of their chests for putting their hands on my mate. There’s a possessive, ugly thing that rises in my chest, threatening to choke the life out of me if I don’t move, act, on this base instinct. The bond rattles against my rib cage, a beast in its own right. It demands action, swift and immediate. It demands blood.

“You sure you can handle this beast, daughter?” Father sneers.

Cassian regards me with the disdain of someone who stepped in shit while wearing new boots.

“I’m sure,” I say with more confidence than I feel, but I’m too much of a coward to look him in the eyes when I say it. My gaze flicks to the others instead, hoping against reason that I will not see the same hatred on their features.

Azriel remains tucked in the corner, where he can use his body to shelter his broken wings. There isn’t the same malice in his own hazel eyes, but there is a cold indifference that cracks me open just the same. His earlier appraisal must have told him enough, because there is no lingering curiosity, only apathy. I am not asking him to throw himself into my arms; hell, I don’t even need him to smile, I just need something, any hint that my name alone hasn’t ruined this before it even starts! But there is nothing.

I try to keep my shoulders back, try to stop my body from curling in on itself. I want to curl up on the floor and wait until the old stones absorb me.

“I am curious,” Rhysand says, the s slurred like he bit his tongue when he hit the wall. “Why keep us alive?”

“Why let you be a martyr?” Father counters.

Rhysand studies me, violet eyes--glassy from what’s certainly a head injury, especially with the blood still flowing freely from an inch wide gash across his temple--rove over me slowly, starting at my hairline and working down. His head tilts quizzically when his gaze reaches my cheek. He shouldn’t be able to see anything in this light, but I find myself shifting my stance just enough to block the view all the same.

He frowns as his study goes lower, to the singe across my skirts, and the dirt stains from my stumble down the stairs.

“I’d rather be dead than dragged around like a dog!” Cassian spits.

Rhysand won’t stop looking me over, like he’s calculating something. Not exactly the acknowledgment I want, but I will take the intrigue of his study over apathy and hatred as if it is. Curiosity is better than nothing.

“You will honor your word, and send aid to my people?” He asks.

“If anyone is stupid enough to bet on you,” Father counters. “And if it makes it past the highwaymen and looters that have been waylaying my caravans. Your people might have more food if they weren’t attacking supply lines.”

My stomach twists. So Rhysand hadn’t been lying then, things have truly become that bad? Or have they always been that bad, and the sheltered nature of my upbringing had kept me from truly seeing it?

“Do you have supply lines that run through Illyria?” Rhys counters, not rising to the bait. “I can’t recall.”

“You will be branded,” Father says, jaw ticking as he doesn’t get the results he wants. “You will remain in chains and fight when called to fight. Any attempts at escape, and I will drag your people into the arena in droves. They can’t all be as adept at fighting wargs and Giants as you.”

Azriel’s gaze darkens at the threat.

Cassian’s lips pull back in a sneer, teeth flashing.

But Rhysand nods, gaze still on me, like he’s deciding something. I can’t, for the life of me, figure out what.

“Keep your end of the bargain, Highness, and we will keep ours.” He says.

“Rhys!” Cassian seethes.

“Quiet,” Rhysand returns. Briefly, his gaze leaves me to go to Azriel, and the other male nods, just barely.

“How noble,” Father sneers.

“We will do what we must to save our people.”

Father waves the guard at the door in. Another follows, holding a glowing hot branding iron in his gloved hands.

“On your knees!” The doorman barks.

The contents of my stomach rise in my throat. I can’t let this happen! I can’t let them do this to them!

Rhysand kneels first, well technically, Cassian’s still down from the blow to the stomach; Azriel follows, grimacing against the pressure it puts on his wings.

I cannot beg for them. I will give myself away. I will doom all of us.

I can’t let this happen either. I can’t stand here uselessly!

“You’ll do it,” Father says to me and my panicked train of thought slams to a screeching halt. What?!

The guard holding the iron snorts out a chuckle. “Doubt she can hold the damn thing.”

Father turns to fully look at me and I do my best to keep my chin up. I have to keep the mask up; I cannot let him see.

“You wanted this. You’ll do it.” He doesn’t think I have it in me; that much is obvious. He thinks me weak and spineless and meek, unable to do what is necessary. I have always known it, but I have never felt it so clearly as I do now.

And maybe he is right. How can I do this, even for the sake of protecting them? How can I raise a hand to my mates?

I swallow the lump in my throat. If I reach out to take that iron, my hands will shake and give me away. If I stand here and refuse, I give myself away. There is no winning; how did I think I could play a game like this? He wins; he always wins.

Not today, a voice whispers in the back of my mind. My body moves without my consent, as if I’m a puppet on a set of strings, being moved by an invisible hand. When I reach out for the iron, my hand doesn’t shake, even though it feels like every part of my body is trembling. The iron is heavy and warm in my hands, I have to use both to lift it, and though I should struggle to keep a grip on it, the invisible grip on me holds it steady.

Two guards move to grip Rhysand by the shoulders, pinning him in place, even though he offers his right arm willingly. His right arm that’s shredded from elbow to wrist from the wargs, blood still trickling onto the floor. The wound is deepest on the outside of his forearm, with enough space above the inside of his wrist to mark. This is cruel enough as is, but to add further to the injury…

One of the guards grabs the torch to reheat the rapidly cooling metal and my stomach is once again back in my throat. I can’t do this to him!

Don’t let him win, the voice whispers again.

My body is still not my own, still moving despite my best efforts to not. It feels like I’m watching myself from outside my body as the iron is pressed to his skin. I can’t even gag against the horrible smell of burning flesh, like someone locked the ability to react behind a wall of adamant.

Rhysand, to his credit, doesn’t even wince, just draws a sharp breath in through his nose. He holds eye contact with my Father the whole time in another silent challenge and I cannot decide if he is the bravest or stupidest male I’ve ever met.

The guards reheat the iron as my body moves away from him, and I’m sure they make some sort of snide comment, but it sounds like I’m hearing it from underwater as I take in what I’ve done to him. The blistering skin forms a perfect circle, with the Imperial emblem stamped in the center. It will be a crude scar and hard to hide. My heart clenches painfully in my chest. What have I done?

The guards move to hold Azriel next, and if I was unsettled before, I’m downright ready to throw myself on a blade now. The apathy has left his eyes, replaced now with barely concealed panic. He pinches his lips together, trying not to make a sound as I approach, but his chest rises and falls rapidly, scarred hands clenching and unclenching in front of him. Shit those are burns on his hands and I’ve got something on fire held out to him.

“What’s the matter?” One of the guards leans down to hiss in his ear. “Scared of a little fire?”

“You motherfucker!” Cassian shouts, trying to stand to get to Azriel. He’s quickly knocked back to the floor with the butt of a spear again.

“Do it!” Azriel hisses at me.

My body is still not my own as it moves to comply. The whole cell reeks of burnt flesh and it is by the sheer force of whatever will moves my limbs that I haven’t heaved up the contents of my stomach on the floor. What kind of mate am I?

Gods I am as bad as my Father! Cassian knows it too; when it’s finally his turn, the look he gives me is one I’ve seen thrown at the Emperor a thousand times. There is nothing but venom and hatred there and the bond in my chest feels raw and thin, like it has been scraped and worn down to a single, solitary thread. And yet my legs still move and my hands still hold the iron steady.

He won’t ever forgive me for this. Even if I can get them out of the Empire, even if I can save them from dying in the arena, it will never be enough. I’ve ruined my chance before it even had a chance to start.

Cassian growls when the brand touches his skin, but he doesn’t scream. None of them did. This displeases my Father, who frowns, even when it’s done. At least he is not proud of me; that would be the final nail in the coffin.

The invisible hand still won’t let go of me, I feel it holding me upright, like it knows, given the chance I’ll crumple to the floor and never get up again. How could I have done this?

Father turns to the guard closest to the door, “Go ahead of her to the River House, make sure the place is secure. Post extra guards.”

The elven male bows with an exaggerated flourish and disappears. I suppose I should feel relieved that we are almost out of this godsdamned arena, but dread settles in my stomach. It is not like my Father to make this quick, not for a convicted rebel, and not for anything I’ve shown an interest in. Taking them home now feels too good to be true and I am not inclined to believe luck or mercy have ever been on my side.

“The arena will have to be fixed before we can proceed with the Games,” Father muses. “I expect you to bring your new toys with you to entertain our guests at Amarantha’s celebration tomorrow.”

They’re throwing her a whole parade for her exports over Illyria, of course she’d want them there to see it. I doubt they’ll be the only Illyrians in attendance.

Cassian growls at that. I’m inclined to share the sentiment.

“As you wish,” I say instead. Hopefully, if I can manage to not let the guilt clawing its way up my insides to consume me, I can remain upright long enough to find us all passage out of here by the morning. This will all be a terrible dream. Even if we have to part--the bond roars in my ears at the thought--at least I will have saved them. It might be the only thing I have to give them.

Father leaves first. I don’t let myself look at my mates as I follow. The guards untether them from the wall and push them out after me, keeping a guard in between us, just in case they attempt to attack while my back is turned. I wouldn’t blame them if they tried; I’d attack me too.

I can’t get the smell of their burnt flesh out of my nose. Every time I blink I can see their blistered skin behind my eyelids. I branded my mates.

The way out of the tunnels beneath the arena is a blur, it doesn’t even register that we’re out until the sudden flash of harsh summer light sears my eyes.

There are horses waiting, and a wagon. At least he’s not forcing them to walk behind my horse, as some of the lords and councilmen make their sponsored champions do.

I don’t remember swinging into the saddle. I don’t remember urging the horse forward, or when my caravan of guards split off from my Father’s. We rode together until we didn’t. Starlight, my childhood horse, does all the directing, taking me home on instinct. The house I grew up in, the house I sequestered myself in with the curtains drawn for months and months looks foreign. The staff coming out to greet us swim in and out of my vision. I must answer their questions, because they move things around for our new guests, instructing the guards to take the wagon around to the back of the house, where there’s a guest wing turned into a cell for them. All this sounds like it happens under water.

I hear the wagon roll that direction, and even though I feel eyes on my back, I don’t allow myself to turn. I cannot bear what I will see.

Someone helps me to my rooms, holding me by the elbow, telling me I look pale and sick. I feel like I’ve stepped outside my skin. The tether in my chest feels raw. What have I done?

The sizzle of the iron on skin echoes in my ears. I can’t stop seeing the smoke. Can’t stop thinking about the panic in Azriel’s eyes. I hurt my mates.

I hurt my mates.

Whatever invisible force had been holding me together in the cell gradually releases me. Inch by inch I become aware of my body again. And I make it to the toilet just in time to hurl the contents of my stomach up. It’s the wine first. Then breakfast. And the acidic burn of bile out my throat and nose.

After Mother’s execution I hadn’t been able to stop crying for days. I’d laid in my bed with the covers over me, hiding in the dark where no one could hear the ugly sounds of my wrenching sobs. I’d thought I’d never weep that hard again. I was wrong. This is far worse.

When I no longer have the strength to hold myself up over the edge of the toilet, I curl into a ball on the floor, the tile cool and smooth against my flushed cheeks. The tears won’t stop flowing and the thing in my chest coils and tightens until it feels like a rock. What have I done?

Eventually the tears run out. The thin slit of a window in the wall bathes the room in varying shades of orange, then pink, then purple as time passes by, uncaring to my turmoil. I still can’t bring myself to get up, even as the heat of the day turns to a cool, evening chill. No amount of cold could move me now, a little suffering is what I deserve.

Someone knocks on the bedroom door. I don’t remember closing it behind me.

I shut my eyes against the noise. All this crying has given me a headache, the echo of the door against the tile makes my head throb. Good. I deserve that too.

Another knock, more insistent this time.

Why should I answer it? I should just lay here until the earth swallows me.

Another knock, followed by a muffled, “Highness?” Anise, my maid. Anise had come with my Mother, a gift from her father as she travelled here for the wedding. Mother had freed her from her servitude and Anise had asked to stay as part of the staff. She loved my Mother like she was her own; I have always thought of her like an Aunt.

“Don’t make me kick the door in!” A grumpy Aunt, granted, but her temper is always warranted.

Shakily, I manage to maneuver myself onto my knees. She really will kick the door in and her joints are old and worn, she’ll likely break an ankle, or a hip, trying. It’s for her health that I manage to get up and get to the door, not because I feel well enough to get up.

She pushes her way in as soon as I turn the handle. “You look awful!”

I feel awful. “Thanks.”

“What the hell is all of this?” She demands, waving a hand towards the hallway. She’s half Dryad, her skin like tree bark, her graying hair made of vines and leaves. Though she is old and weathered, her emerald eyes are still bright and shining. “And why are you so distraught over it?”

She paces as she speaks, not letting me get a word in as she wrings her gnarled hands together. “What’s with all the guards? And those… winged males? They are strange and gruff and I don’t like the looks of them. Which reminds me, why the Hels are they asking for you?”

My heart skips a beat in my chest. “What do you mean, Anise?”

She stops her pacing to come take one of my hands, a gesture for a Dryad that is closer to a hug. Her other hand pushes some hair off my cheek to see the yellow tint of a blooming bruise. “Did they hurt you?”

I’m going to be sick again. “No, Anise, they didn’t.”

“You promise?”

“Trust me, if anyone did any damage, it was me.” And I’ll never forgive myself for it.

She nods. “Ok, then, I will tell you.” Dryads, like Ents, are known for their long winded conversations. They never know when to get to the point. I am used to her extra long pauses and rambling tangents.

I am not, however, prepared for her to say, “Well they were brought food and a medic, as the guards ordered, but they refused it.”

Why the hell would they do that?! Was this some kind of hunger strike? By the Mother did they think I was trying to poison them?

“They said they wouldn’t touch it until they’d spoken to you.”

I think the heat has gotten to me. Did she just say they asked to speak to me?

“It’s very strange,” she continues. “Males in that bad of shape usually fight for a chance to see a medic, but they said they wouldn’t let anyone touch them until they’d talked to you alone.”

Alone? They wanted to talk to me alone?

“Are you sure that’s what they said, Anise?”

“They were very adamant about needing to see you. Rude if you ask me. Who demands to see the head of a household like that? They’re trouble, I’m telling you now.”

“They didn’t say why?” I ask.

“No. They wouldn’t say it around the guards either. I don’t like this, Highness. It’s a bad omen if you ask me. The winds have been whispering all day. Bad, very bad things will come of this, mark my words.”

Bad things had already come, couldn’t she see that? They were not the issue; I was the issue. This whole damn Empire was the issue. We ruin everything we touch. They knew that better than anyone, so why ask for me? What did they want? It certainly can't be the bond.

I absently rub my knuckle against my breast bone. The bond feels like a bruise. No, they can’t be asking about the bond. If they know it’s there, they’re not tugging on it. There is no curiosity, only pain. I’ve ruined the chance for anything more, of that I am certain.

This has to be something else, but how can I face them? There is only so much I can bear.

“You’ll make them wait, won’t you?” Anise continues. “You certainly should. It’s improper for a host to be asked for this late into the evening.”

They need medical attention. Their wounds have to heal. And they need to eat. They have to be starving, I doubt they were given a last meal before being thrown into the arena. Raw and damaged as it is, the bond still prompts me to move, even if I’d rather hide from it for the rest of my life.

“No,” I might as well rip the bandaid off. Maybe they need to tell me to my face that they hate me and never want to see me again. It can be arranged for us not to interact, even with me sponsoring them.

If that is their wish, I will honor it. Whatever it is they need, I’ll find a way to make it happen. I owe them that. “I’ll go see them.”

------

Taglist: @sirenpearldust, @saltedcoffeescotch, @littlemissfix-itfic, @waka-babe, @raisam

@anainkandpaper, @rafeecameronsbitch, @whothehelliskayleigh, @lifetobeareader, @blimpintime

@hjgdhghoe, @krowiathemythologynerd

#rhysand x reader #rhys x reader #azriel x reader #Cassian x reader #poly!bat boys x reader #bat boys x reader #gladiator!bat boys #gladiator!bat boys x reader #acotar #acotar au #acotar fic #my writing #my fanfics #bat boys x reader angst

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klseay · 2 days ago

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╰┈☆ 𝐵𝑒 ℎ𝑜𝑛𝑒𝑠𝑡 | 𝐹𝑟𝑖𝑑𝑜𝑙𝑖𝑛𝑎 𝑅𝑜𝑙𝑓𝑜 ☆┈╯

𝑾𝒂𝒓𝒏𝒊𝒏𝒈𝒔: 𝑚𝑎𝑡𝑢𝑟𝑒 𝑐𝑜𝑛𝑡𝑒𝑛𝑡, 𝑠𝑚𝑢𝑡, 𝑡𝑜𝑝!𝐹𝑟𝑖𝑑𝑜, 𝑏𝑜𝑡𝑡𝑜𝑚!𝑅𝑒𝑎𝑑𝑒𝑟, 𝑜𝑟𝑎𝑙, 𝑓𝑖𝑛𝑔𝑒𝑟𝑖𝑛𝑔, 𝑝𝑟𝑎𝑖𝑠𝑖𝑛𝑔, 𝑠𝑤𝑒𝑎𝑟𝑖𝑛𝑔.

𝑨𝒖𝒕𝒉𝒐𝒓'𝒔 𝒏𝒐𝒕𝒆: 𝐹𝑖𝑟𝑠𝑡 𝑡𝑖𝑚𝑒 𝑝𝑜𝑠𝑡𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑎𝑛𝑦 𝑠𝑚𝑢𝑡 𝑠𝑜 𝑏𝑎𝑟𝑒 𝑤𝑖𝑡ℎ 𝑚𝑒, 𝑖𝑠 𝑖𝑡 𝑡𝑜𝑜 𝑐𝑙𝑖𝑐ℎ𝑒 𝑡𝑜 𝑠𝑎𝑦 𝑒𝑛𝑔𝑙𝑖𝑠ℎ 𝑖𝑠𝑛'𝑡 𝑚𝑦 𝑓𝑖𝑟𝑠𝑡 𝑙𝑎𝑛𝑔𝑢𝑎𝑔𝑒? 𝑃𝑟𝑜𝑜𝑓 𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑑 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑒𝑑𝑖𝑡𝑒𝑑!!

𝑤𝑜𝑟𝑑𝑐𝑜𝑢𝑛𝑡: 5𝑘 (𝑎 𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑙 𝑡𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑡)

Sunday evening, the 12th of August. Barcelona had just pulled a 5-1 victory against Real Madrid, winning an el clasico always made every player insides flutter.

“Great game” when her husky low voice met with your eardrums all other sounds got completely drowned out, the loud cheering from around the stadium was quickly muffled. The only thing that was ever your focus was her skin on yours as she pulled you into her warm, safe embrace.

That pair of arms that you not so often found yourself in, at times it was almost as if she were a stranger. And that hurt you deep to the core, for you didn’t want her to be unimportant.

A stranger.

Only teammates.

Pretty much the one way to describe the ‘friendship’ lingering in the air between you, the very fact made you feel sick to your guts, threatening to spill out everywhere.

“Thank you... you were great too” your soft voice mumbled into Frido’s shoulder was a sharp contrast to her harsher one, though never did it make anyone feel threatened as she did have ways with her words.

A voice emerging from behind the significantly taller swede made your shoulders sink as you exhaled deeply, never had you ever been so glad to be interrupted and pulled apart as right now when everyone huddled around, yelling and celebrating.

“So, are we going out tonight or what?” You speak trying to calm down the team that’s jumping frantically around you.

“Oh yeah, we are so going out” Alexia comes up and wraps an arm around your shoulder, squeezing it, her aura shining within her eyes.

“Yeah, regular place, Opium in Barcelona, at 10?” Patri speaks up, everyone around in the team agreeing.

The air in the locker room was thick with emotions, you could practically feel everyone, and everything vibrate. The Champions League trophy stood in all its glory, shining bright as stars in the night sky. It all felt too surreal, nothing felt real, you had dreamed of this all your life. And now it all feels too good to be true.

Pushing your feelings aside you quickly packed your things into your bag. A celebratory night out felt like just what was needed. Your thoughts were interrupted by the sound of your phone buzzing.

Ashley.

Your best friend had sent you a message letting you know she couldn’t drive you. Her mom had urgently needed her help with her tv.

“Jesus Christ” You muttered under your breath, sighing deeply. “Alexia? can you drive me home?”

The room goes quiet as you finally spoke the first words after being silent for the last 16 minutes.

“Sure thing, Ashley couldn’t come?” She spoke as she sat down beside you, the rest of the team continuing their conversations.

“No when can she ever? Something important always comes up, she never got time for me” you muttered, leaning your head against the cold wall behind you.

“Who’s Ashley?” Frido and Ingrid had been having a conversation from the other side of the locker room. It wasn’t a secret to Ingrid that Frido obviously fancied you, but Frido would never admit it.

“Uh I don’t know, girlfriend maybe?” Ingrid says, untying her boots. Her attention split between studying her best friend’s expression and the two across the room.

“She sounds like a wanker though; I mean do you see Y/n’s expression every time she doesn’t show up?” Frido spoke, her voice rough and sharp.

“You get less subtle every week” Ingrid teased, her eyebrows raising and a playful smirk on her face.

“Oh, shut up” Frido spoke as she threw her shirt at Ingrid’s face. “It’s not like that and you know it”

“Mmm sure” Ingrid chuckled.

Arriving at your apartment, about one and a half hour before you’re meant to be at the club, you hurry through getting ready. Taking a quick shower, blow drying your hair and styling it, letting it fall down your back in soft curls.

The room was dimly lit as you worked on putting on your makeup, nothing too much, concealer, blush, a little bit of highlighter and mascara would do it just fine. Not that there was enough time for much more anyway.

Picking out an outfit however was anything but easy, you had no clue on how to dress, in the end after much forth and back on what to wear you finally settled. It was a matching black two piece consisting of a long-sleeved top that hugged your figure perfectly, showing off your cleavage, leaving very little to the imagination. Aswell as a short skintight skirt that went mid-thigh.

Both piece's had rhinestone details making the black a little less boring and a lot classier. Not bothering to be out partying in heels all night you threw on a pair of regular white air force's before grabbing your keys and hurrying out the house to call a cab.

Fifteen minutes later you found yourself outside Opium in the centre of Barcelona, the music was pumping, the sound of your own heartbeat getting lost in your ears and replaced by the beats of the music.

Your hands pulled on your skirt, adjusting it just the bit before making your way through the crowd to find your teammates.

"Here!" Alexia's voice snapped your head into the direction, you hurried their way, squeezing past people before reaching the team who were all sat in a booth.

"Frido and Ingrid should be here soon, but I couldn't wait so I ordered some shots" Mapi said before returning to her conversation with Cata who sat with a wide grin on her face next to Mapi.

Alexia, Patri and you had just floated into a light conversation when the server came up with a tray of shots. Everyone sat in the booth picked up a shot, so did you.

"To Y/N for scoring the winning penalty" Mapi shouted, making all of the girls’ cheer and lift their shots into the air. Laughing, you clink your glass with alexia's before downing the glass content.

You felt the hot liquid burning your throat as you tilted your head backwards, making a little face at the strong after taste. "Straight up tequila?"

"Damn right it is" Cata cheered, pushing Mapi playfully.

"Room for two more?" your head snapped at Frido's voice; it felt as the world got quiet as you took her in. She was dressed in black suit pants, with a white t-shirt and gold jewellery scattered across her, glistening in the lights of the club. Something so simple but oh so attractive.

"Fuck yeah! Come on!" Cata yelled again, very much likely already tipsy. The two sat down in the booth, Ingrid close to Mapi and Frido sat down next to you.

Once again everyone floated into their own conversations, leaving you and Frido sitting quietly. Before things went to an awkward silence you spoke up "You look great tonight"

"So do you..." She answered while her eyes started to roam your body, you felt yourself grow hot under her lingering gaze, shifting just the tiniest in your seat to lessen the feeling. However, it was an unsuccessful try.

"I heard Ashley didn't show up..." Frido's attention had now shifted in front of her, not really looking at anything or anyone.

"Yeah... to be honest I couldn't care less, knew it was coming" you chuckled, taking a swig of the beer in front of you. Frido's eyes shifted to you again. "Who is she, if you don't mind me asking. Girlfriend?"

You almost spit your drink out at this, shaking your head you swallowed the liquid before replying "God no, I'd never date Ashley. She's just a friend, not a great one though recently" You shrugged, you really didn't fancy talking about her tonight.

"Well forget her, she's a twat" Frido spoke as she studied your face carefully. You gulped at her blue orbs flickering over your face, something about them made you feel so drawn in. Almost as if something pulled on your heart.

"Yeah, she is..." You managed a smile, looking down in your lap as your hands occupied themselves by fiddling with the beer bottle in your hands.

Frido was just about to say something more but got interrupted by Alexia who pulled on you. "Come on let's dance!" She spoke above the music, sending a weak smile to Frido, you got up and followed Alexia as well as most of the girls.

While you were dancing away with your teammates, Frido and Ingrid still sat at the booth. "Stop drooling" Ingrid nudged Frido's shoulder with her own, who in return glared at her.

"I'm not drooling, I don't drool over people" She spoke clenching her jaw, but her eyes kept drifting to you and the way your hips moved as you danced.

"Come on Be Honest, it's painfully obvious you fancy her." Ingrid groaned in frustration, "I- Fine she's nice to look at" Frido's voice was low, almost as if she was ashamed of admitting it.

"So why aren't you doing anything? I mean flirting never hurted anybody?" Ingrid spoke fiddling with her drink that stood in a crystal-clear glass on the table. "I'm too old for her" Frido sighed, running a hand through her blonde hair.

"No, you're really not-" Ingrid got cut off by Frido before she could finish her sentence. "Ingrid, stop bullshitting, of course I'm too old" Frido chuckled irritatedly, finding it humorous that Ingrid thought differently.

"It's only 4 years, come on, you're making a deal out of nothing. This is only because you want to avoid it" Ingrid speaks, sighing deeply at her best friend's antics. "She's attractive, you're not the only one with eyes, but if you don't do anything she's going to get picked up by someone who will"

Ingrid nodded her head in direction of the dancefloor, where you stood dancing with a stranger. She wasn't your type by any means, but affected by the alcohol you couldn't say no to a harmless dance.

Frido's teeth gritted together, and her jaw tensed up at the sight, fire lightning in the pit of her stomach. She couldn't help but stare down the girl, her hands clenching harshly every time she touched your body or grinded up against you.

"Why is she touching her like that?" Frido mumbled, the possessiveness in her growing, and it didn’t' go unnoticed by Ingrid. "Only an idiot would be stupid enough not to make a move on a girl like that"

Frido shook her head and temporarily took her eyes off you. "No, I can't Ingrid" Ingrid let out a simple hum "Why? I really struggle to see what's so difficult"

"I just- never mind, it doesn't matter, she's already occupied" Frido scoffed mockingly, shooting daggers at the girl dancing with you. "Oh my god you're so daft, just go up and steal her away it's not that difficult?"

Frido sighed deeply, she felt conflicted and confused, a part of her was begging for her to do something and not just being sat slouching and having an attitude. But the other part thought it was the most reasonable thing to do, if you wanted that girl to grind up on you, she wasn't the one to stop you from doing so.

"Hey love" Mapi spoke as she sat down next to Ingrid, giving her a quick kiss to the cheek. "Mapi please make Frido go up to Y/N before I lose my fucking mind"

Mapi looked between the two, Ingrid's face scrunched up with irritation about her friend's stubbornness, Frido's tense face, her body slouched against the back of her seat.

"Frido vamos, stop being a baby." Mapi spoke, Frido's head turned to Mapi. "Jesus did you not see the way she looked at you when you walked in?" Frido's eyebrows furred together in confusion, her face telling the story of not quite believing Mapi's words.

"She's right you know" Ingrid spoke to which Mapi looked at Frido with an expective face. The blonde took one last look at you before sighing in defeat "Fine, but it’s not for any of you”

Ingrid smirked giving her friend a light shove "Whatever floats your boat!"

Frido had already made up her mind as she stood up from her seat, brushing out her suit pants and straightening her shirt before making her way with purposeful strides in your direction. The swede made her way through a couple of people before reaching you, putting her hand on your shoulder.

This made both you and the stranger in front of you who you were dancing with stop dead in tracks, "Do you mind if I steal her?" Frido questioned, it wasn't really spoken as a question, more a demand.

"Yeah, I do actually! You see-" the redhead in front of you had no time to finish her sentence as you did it for her “Sorry… she actually promised me a dance” it was alie, Frido hadn’t promised anything.

But it seemed to be the best way to de-escalate the situation as you watched the girl turn on her heel and pushing through the crowd. Clear annoyance in both her body language and voice. "Lovely" Frido hummed through her clenched jaw.

"Hi" you said ever so softly, smiling up at Frido widely. Frido's heart caught in her throat, "Hey short stuff" She chuckled, putting her hands on the curves of your exposed waist, feeling your skin under her fingertips made her entire self-tingle and tickle.

Your own arms found their way up to around Frido's neck, letting them hang over her shoulders loosely. Every time her thumbs grazed the exposed skin on your waist you could feel your chest growing, breaths growing more rigid by each time. Something she clearly picked up on, though Frido refrained to speak about the matter.

"Who was she?" Frido said as she jerked her head to the direction where the girl had left. "I have no clue" the chuckle that left your lips were like freshly harvested honey; she’d never get tired of hearing you laugh. But right now, she had things on her mind that were by far more important than folding over your giggles. "Really? Cause it looked like you did."

With your eyebrows knitted together in confusion at Frido's tone you replied, "What's going on?" you tried to study her face for any sign, but much to your disappointment it was to no use, far too intoxicated to notice the obvious signs of jealousy.

"Nothing’s going on. I just don't believe she had the right to touch you like that since y’all don't 'know each other'." If the dizziness was apparent before it had just gotten ten times worse, the whole world spinning at your feet. "It wasn't anything, she's not my type, like at all.”

“Why won't you just tell me what's bothering you?"

You thought the bare minimum would be for her to at least answer your question, but she didn’t, the only reaction noticeable was Frido’s jaw clenching. "I'm taking you home" her hold on your sides tightened causing her nails to dig into your skin, if you weren’t as invested as you were right now the action most likely would have pulled out a yelp from you.

"What? Why?" you’d never felt this level on confusion before in your 26 years of living, Frido was acting up, she rarely ever did and that must say plenty to how odd this were. "Because I swear to god, if I see one more girl that's not me touching you like that I'll rip someone’s throat out” She practically growled, fuck that was hot, so hot that a surge of heat started pooling in your abdomen.

Your eyebrows shot up as you desperately tried to disguise the growing uncomfortability between your legs, with eyes flickering all over her face for any sign of banter you found nothing, she was serious…."You- wait, just so we're clear-" you had no chance of completing your sentence before she cut you off.

"I want you. And it's been painful sitting, watching women graze your body with their filthy hands all over you" She spat out, her jaw was so tense it wouldn't be to your surprise if it exploded soon enough.

"Frido you... you can't just say things like that when were in a club..." You said looking around you, people minding their own business, having no interest in your conversation. It wasn’t because the thought of being overheard scared you, the pounding music was far too loud for anyone to hear what was said.

The problem was just simple as you didn’t know how to control yourself, how could you ever stay composed after what she just told you when you barely could be around her.

"That's why I want to take you home; now will you follow me?"

Fuck her and her commanding tone…

(Oh, you were going to fuck her)

The swede let go of you, much to your disappointment; before reaching out a hand for you to grab which you did, smiling ever so slightly letting out a breathy “Yeah”

She grinned, licking her lips wet before pulling you along to the booth. "Hey, I'm taking her home" Cata, Alexia and Ingrid looked up at the two of you. Ingrid smirking as her eyes flicker between you and Frido, she knew oh well what would happen.

"Yeah, we're also going to get going soon" Cata spoke, sending the both of you a small smile. Frido gave a nod in return as she continued pulling you along, her hand moving to rest against the small of your back.

“Use protection!!” Ingrid’s voice rang through your ears that forced a chain reaction to your body, heat trailing from your very earlobes, down to your cheeks, chest, stomach until it finally added to the already pool in your core.

“That won’t be needed” her words were more to herself then to Ingrid or you, but nonetheless it made your face grow even hotter, coming outside into the chilly air outside the club was very helpful though.

Frido’s place wasn’t far from where you’d just stepped out off so you decided to walk the walk instead of taking an unnecessary uber that would simply only contribute to ‘poverty’. No, you were quite wealthy both of you, but to put it straight there was no point for you to take a ride when it was only a 15-minute walk.

Though you realized quickly that not calling for a ride might’ve been a mistake due to how significantly the tension grew in the biting air around you. Her hand held steadily onto yours, her thumb drawing soft, irregular pattern to try and soothe your obvious tense state.

As her apartment complex came into sight the bundle of nerves inside you started clamming together, the bare feeling making you subconsciously tighten your grip on Frido’s hand.

She waited until you were right outside her door before speaking up “Hey, you know we don’t have to do this, yeah? We could always just chill and- “

“No, I… I want this. I want you.” Her striking azure-coloured eyes made you feel small, so small, but in the most pleasing way ever. Frido wasted no time in fishing up her keys from the pocket of her trousers, fiddling with the lock for a moment before the door opened.

“You first” she spoke invitingly as she held out her arm presenting her home to you, with a hesitant look in your eyes you took a few steps into the open space. The minimalistic furniture reflected her so well, to a difference it did not make the place feel cold or distant.

The soft orangey lightning that spread throughout the hallway served its purpose, making it feel homey yet the simple décor.

When you turned around to face Frido her hands were on you, gripping your hips in an instant, her nails digging through the skimpy material of your skirt. Soon enough her lips crashed against yours in a bruising kiss, it wasn’t rushed by any means, but it was rough and harsh.

There was no point in trying to win the battle of dominance in regards of your tongue fight, you had come to senses that she would take control long ago.

And you were not complaining.

She backed you through the apartment careful not to run into anything as she guided you towards the bedroom, as for your focus it was completely on her, all other thoughts completely clouded.

Under time your hands arms had moved to wrap around her neck with one hand caressing the back of it gently, stroking up and down with your thumb, occasionally giving it a squeeze.

Your knees buckled beneath you whenever you focused in on the sloppy sounds that your soaked lips made.

Eventually Frido had managed to manoeuvre to her bedroom and with very little force she kicked the door open impatiently. “You still sure about this?”

You nodded eagerly as you felt the back of your knees encounter the edge of the bed, she helped you lay down onto your back, climbing to be on top of you.

Looking down at you with expectant eyes as she had shifted her hands to use them whilst propping herself up on each side of your head, “I need words baby”

She whispered against your plump before pulling you into another kiss, one that made your back arch, and your toes want to curl.

“Please…” it was an embarrassingly needy whisper that left your mouth in between the kisses, right now you couldn’t give more fucks about how you sounded.

“Please what?” Frido said as she nibbled on your lower lip seductively.

“Fuck me… please”

That was enough for Frido, honestly more then enough if we’re being honest. “As you wish… but first. Strip”

Oh, fuck her and her commanding tone.

Without hesitation you did just what she had asked of you, stripping out of your top and skirt, a dark chuckle leaving her lips at the sight of you so desperately shedding your clothing.

“Nuh uh baby, these too.” She pulled on your bra strap likewise as the waist bands of your panties, letting both go with a snap making you grimace at the stinging sensation that burned where she’d touched.

Your reactions did unholy things to Frido, absolute nasty things, her lower stomach might as well be a swimming pool at this point.

God how you wanted to swim in that pool though.

You didn’t question her or disobey her, but instead simply shed your underwear along too, leaving you bare naked.

“Fuck…” her murmur made your body vibrate when they were spoken against the subtle flesh of your lips, “so. fucking. pretty.” Frido breathed out in between kisses as she began trailing them down from your lips to your jaw and neck.

She absolutely didn’t hesitate to start nibbling, biting and sucking on the sensitive skin that your neck consisted of. She later found that one, spot right over your pulse point drew out godlike moans from you, so she put most of her attention on that patch of skin.

You had been so focused on her lips that you hadn’t noticed the hand that trailed up the inside of your thigh, her slender fingers gripping it to bring you back to reality.

“Frido…” you moaned, the action sending shockwaves through your body, all its yearning was for her to touch you, to still your needs. “Patience… be good for me”

Fuck, would she ever stop doing that? You squeezed your eyes shut trying to not focus on the painfully discomfort that emerged from your core. Suddenly it was stilled as you felt her fingers run through your slick folds.

“All of this for me?” she stopped kissing you, a wide grin etched on her face as she was clearly pleased with what she had accomplished.

You nodded desperately “just for you, all for you” your mind barely had time to catch up with your thoughts before the words came out of your mouth.

“That’s my girl” she smiled against the skin of your chest before kissing her way down to your breast, working on stimulating your clit slowly meanwhile her other hand and mouth worked magic on your hardened nipples.

Stretched moans filled the room, your moans to be exact, they only grew louder as two digits entered you and curled up inside. “Oh fuck!” your hand took a hold of Frido’s muscular arm, whilst she started to pump in and out of your hole.

Her long fingers reaching spots you had never experienced feeling before “God you feel so good” she grunted out which only increased your moans, it was such a turn on hearing her praise how you felt and looked.

“More… please” you whispered, your stomach curling at her small giggles against your stomach. “I don’t know…”

“Please Frido, I need more, can’t…” your face scrunched up as you tried to supress the high-pitched moans threatening to spill from your lips.

“When you stop holding in those gorgeous sound, I’ll give it to you” she didn’t want you to hold back, and that was scary, but the need overcame every insecurity you had.

So unwillingly you released you lip from between your teeth and let it all out, only then feeling her fingers increase its pace and roughness. A gut-wrenching whine served Frido’s ears like dessert as she swirled her tongue around your erected pebbles.

And then without warning her other hand had sneaked down between your legs to start tubbing circles on your clit, adding to the already indescribable stimulation you were receiving.

“That’s it, baby, doing so good for me…” she bit your nipple, giving you that look, the one that could single handedly been the last straw for you.

“I’m… gonna.” Somehow you managed to push out a few words that were understandable.

“Go ahead” she encouraged you as her lips attached to your clit, sucking harshly, and that was enough to send you completely over the edge. Into a mind blowing, absolute picture-perfect orgasm.

She helped you stabilize by pushing down your thighs into the bed as your whole body shook and your back arched, nails digging into the flesh of her biceps, would leave marks.

“There you go, you’re fine” she reassured you right as you had come down from your high, slowly pulling out of you and licking her fingers clean from the mess you’d made on them.

A moan leaving her lips at the taste “you good?” she asked you softly, pushing a few sweaty baby hairs out of your face.

You nodded.

“Still need words baby”

“Yeah, just mm… tired” she gently stroked your cheek before leaning in to place several soft kisses against your lips.

“I know baby, but we need you get you cleaned up before sleep. Okay?”

You shook your head grumpily.

She sighed and picked you up in her arms, carrying you to the bathroom where she proceeded to shower you clean. The hot water and her caring touches making your limbs relax in an instant as you found yourself leaning into the touch.

Letting yourself relax and allowing yourself to have trust in that she would take care of you, and she did.

After she had cleaned you off she helped you dry yourself before she left you in the bathroom to change into a fresh pair of underwear and clothes provided from her.

You could hear the faint sound of fabric rustling outside the door, that being frido changing the bed sheets into fresh ones aswell as changing herself into clean clothes and washing her hands.

“You done?” she knocked lightly on the closed door, it wasn’t locked, just closed.

“Carry me” you whined as she pulled the bathroom door open, this pulled out an amused chuckle from her.

“Of course, princess.”

She stepped inside and pulled you into her arms with ease, carrying you before setting you down on the bed and tucking you in. Your arms immediately reached out for her as you made grabby hands her way.

“Coming, baby.” Before joining you in bed she went by the bedroom door to turn the headlight off, making the room almost complete black except for the small light from the streetlights outside that shined through the ever so slightly opened blinders.

Frido settled in bed next to you and instantly pulled you close to her, with your head resting on her shoulder and an arm draped around her she felt content.

As did you with her snuggly arms wrapped tightly around you, leaving you to feel a huge sense of security and completeness. It didn’t take long for the exhaustion to completely take over, her soothing smell making it easier for you to fall into that deep sleep you so were so closely grasping.

“Frido?”

“Yeah? Something wrong?” you could almost see her worried face in front of you even though you saw not a single thing, only due to her deep etched tone.

“No, I just wanted to see if you were awake still… that’s all” your whispered words were spoken into the fabric of her shirt, muffling them ever so slightly.

“I’m not sleeping until you have fallen asleep” she was too good, too good for you.

“You’re too good for me” the guilt in your voice was evident “I didn’t even give you anything… back”

“Hey” the second Frido picked up on your embarrassed tone she squeezed your waist to help ground you. “Tonight was for you; I don’t need anything back for that. And there is plenty of time for that whenever we feel like it, okay? Don’t rush it, we’re okay.”

Her words made a content sigh leave your lips, you were exactly where you wanted to be, in her loving arms. Surrounded by millions of words laced with reassurance and pure adoration, god you couldn’t wait to show her how much you loved her.

First time writing smut, kind of struggled as the build up might've been too long? Or idk, do y'all prefer straigh to the main event or these prolonged ones? Excuse me for the lack of details aswell, I wanted to sleep so bad :))

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