#but instead it just makes me want to stop reading

[avisofapatite]

I never add directly to a post, but what I want to add would take too long to put in tags.

My immediate reaction reading this was assuming I would have done fabulously, but I decided since Bleak House is easy enough to find, I'd read the 7 paragraphs myself, try and grasp the meaning the best I could, and then return to read the study. I am not an English major, and I haven't performed academic work with literature since high school, so I wanted to see how I would fare. I have never actually read any of Dickens' work, and will admit to not successfully attempting any 19th century literature myself.

The passage did end up being more challenging than I had initially expected - it took a moment for me to adjust to some of the sentence structure Dickens used, and I found myself going over some of the passages a couple times to make sure I grasped everything. Most legal references I understood but some specifically 19thc British touchstones took some research (I understood the court setting, but needed to look up that the Chancery was specifically a property court, and was thrown off at first by Temple Bar thinking this referred to a legal bar before googling that name specifically). I had to find the definitions of about 3 words and came away feeling relatively confident in my comprehension.

Upon reading through the study, however, I was struck with a sudden understanding of how my trying best to read this text now had nothing in common to my approach doing the same in an academic setting. How I actually engaged with texts like this In School had me relating far more to the Approach of the readers having difficulty than I expected.

For instance, as I read the passage on my own, I jumped around a lot and went over passages multiple times, sometimes in fragments. The study required reading of the passage out loud from top to bottom, and I recall a specific moment in my schooling (in Grade 5) where I completely failed to comprehend a passage because of this format. However, I was never tested on my reading of texts in that manner after this age. Someone skilled in reading SHOULD be able to reliably comprehend things as they read them in the order it is presented to them - that in itself contains some part of the meaning! But I've only just realized I've never fostered that focus for challenging texts, relying on my ability to jump around the page, and that my schooling never stopped me from developing this habit.

The section of the study describing a strong reader made it clear to me I did not read that way in school, which has had lasting implications. While I would have preferred reading things properly, I often felt like I didn't have the time to properly read a text and would rely on my own being clever/online summary to fill in the gaps that I required. This feels like a problem coming from many sources - while I was certainly very busy with other work at that time, I also knew I could reliably receive a good grade despite not putting in the full effort, and perhaps this full effort would not have been so taxing if my reading skills had been more thoroughly exercised as I went through school.

I found myself reading the example of strong analysis realizing I failed to reach that particular depth of understanding, such being able to explicitly describe the idea of the crowd on the streets repeating the rhythms of a previous time, for instance, instead of just coming away with the image of the crowd jostling in the mud on that particular day. Worse of all, I realized on my own time, I would have been far more comfortable coming away from the text having put far less effort into its comprehension knowing that I wasn't about to be evaluated.

That specific notion of evaluation, and doing what is needed - and no more - to pass that evaluation I think is where the opportunity is lost for many. It certainly was for me, nevermind my personal tendency to spend more effort on cultivating the appearance of knowledge moreso than actual knowledge. I genuinely wonder whether I would have immediately fallen back on my mindset of trying to game the system with as much speed and little effort as humanly possible, assuming my inate skill would be enough to succeed, if I had been tested by the researchers in their setting instead of having done this little challenge on my own.

As someone in the 27-32 range that considers myself self-evidently literate, this did help me really examine my habits. But it was humbling to discover that if this system so successfully failed to train good habits into me Despite my ability to leap their hurdles, how impossible the challenge might be to those that at any point have had difficulty with reading and comprehension. The big question is how we can change the teaching of literacy to fix this. I'm going to be thinking about this for a while.

i appreciated this study: "They Can't Read Very Well: A Study of the Reading Comprehension Skills Of English Majors At Two Midwestern Universities"

essentially, a pair of professors set out to test their intuitive sense that students at the college level were struggling with complex text. they recruited 85 students, a mix of english majors and english education majors - so, theoretically, people focusing on literature, and people preparing to teach adolescents how to read literature - and had them read-while-summarizing the first seven paragraphs of dickens's bleak house (or as much as they made it through in the 20 minute session). they provided dictionaries and also said students could use their phones to look up whatever they wanted, including any unfamiliar words or references. they found that the majority of the students - 58%, or 49 out of the 85 students - functionally could not understand dickens at all, and only 5% - a mere 4 out of the 85 students - proved themselves proficient readers (leaving the remaining 38%, or 32 students, as what the study authors deemed "competent" students, most of whom could understand about half the literal meaning - pretty low bar for competence - although a few of whom, they note, did much better than the rest in this group if not quite well enough to be considered proficient).

what i really appreciated about this study was its qualitative descriptions of the challenges and reading behaviors of what the authors call "problematic readers" (that bottom 58%), which resonated strongly with my own experiences of students who struggle with reading. here's their blunt big picture overview of these 49 students:

The majority of these subjects could understand very little of Bleak House and did not have effective reading tactics. All had so much trouble comprehending concrete detail in consecutive clauses and phrases that they could not link the meaning of one sentence to the next. Although it was clear that these subjects did try to use various tactics while they read the passage, they were not able to use those tactics successfully. For example, 43 percent of the problematic readers tried to look up words they did not understand, but only five percent were able to look up the meaning of a word and place it back correctly into a sentence. The subjects frequently looked up a word they did not know, realized that they did not understand the sentence the word had come from, and skipped translating the sentence altogether.

the idea that they had so many trouble with every small piece of a text that they could not connect ideas on a sentence by sentence basis is very familiar to me from teaching and tutoring, as was the habit of thought seen in the example of the student who gloms on to the word "whiskers" in a sea of confusion and guesses incorrectly that a cat is present - struggling readers, in my experience, seem to use familiar nouns as stepping stones in a flood of overwhelm, hopping as best they can from one seemingly familiar image to the next. so was this observation, building off the example of a student who misses the fact that dickens is being figurative when he imagines a megalodon stalking the streets of london:

She first guesses that the dinosaur is just “bones” and then is stuck stating that the bones are “waddling, um, all up the hill” because she can see that Dickens has the dinosaur moving. Because she cannot logically tie the ideas together, she just leaves her interpretation as is and goes on to the next sentence. Like this subject, most of the problematic readers were not concerned if their literal translations of Bleak House were not coherent, so obvious logical errors never seemed to affect them. In fact, none of the readers in this category ever questioned their own interpretations of figures of speech, no matter how irrational the results. Worse, their inability to understand figurative language was constant, even though most of the subjects had spent at least two years in literature classes that discussed figures of speech. Some could correctly identify a figure of speech, and even explain its use in a sentence, but correct responses were inconsistent and haphazard. None of the problematic readers showed any evidence that they could read recursively or fix previous errors in comprehension. They would stick to their reading tactics even if they were unhappy with the results.

i have seen this repeatedly, too - actually i was particularly taken with how similar this is to the behavior of struggling readers at much younger ages - and would summarize the hypothesis i have forged over time as: struggling readers do not expect what they read to make sense. my hypothesis for why this is the case is that their reading deficits were not attended to or remediated adequately early enough, and so, in their formative years - the early to mid elementary grades - they spent a lot of time "reading" things that did not make sense to them - in fact they spent much more time doing this than they ever did reading things that did make sense to them - and so they did not internalize a meaningful subjective sense of what it feels like to actually read things.

like, i've said this before, but the year i taught third grade i had multiple students who told me they loved reading and then when i asked them about a book they were reading revealed that they had absolutely no idea what was going on - on a really basic literal level like "didn't know who said which lines of dialogue" and "couldn't identify which things or characters given pronouns referred to" - and were as best as i could tell sort of constructing their own story along the way using these little bits of things they thought they understood. that's what "reading" was, in their heads. and they were, in the curriculum/model that we used at the private school where i taught, receiving basically no support to clarify that that was not what reading was, nor any instruction that would actually help them with what they needed to do to improve (understand sentences) - and i realized over the course of that year that the master's program that had certified me in teaching elementary school had provided me with very little understanding of how to help these kids (with perhaps the sole exception of the class i took on communications disorders, not because these kids had communications disorders but because that was the only class where we ever talked, even briefly, about things like sentence structures that students may need instruction in and practice with to comprehend independently). when it comes to the literal, basic understanding of a text, the model of reading pedagogy i was taught has about 6 million little "tools" that all boil down to telling kids who functionally can't read to try harder to read. this is not productive, in my experience and opinion, for kids whose maximum effort persistently yields confusion. but things are so dysfunctional all the way up and down the ladder that you can be a senior in college majoring in english without anyone but a pair of professors with a strong work ethic noticing that you can't actually read.

couple other notes:

obviously it's a small study but i'm not sure i see a reason to believe these are particularly outlierish results (ACT scores - an imperfect metric but not a meritless one IMO for reading specifically, where the task mostly really is to read a set of texts written for the educated layperson and answer factual questions about them - were a little bit above the national average)

the study was published last year, but the research was conducted january to april 2015. so there's no pandemic influence, no AI issue - these are millennials who now would span roughly ages 28-32 (i guess it's possible one of the four first-year students was one of the very first members of gen z lol). if you're in your late 20s or early 30s, we are talking about people your age, and whatever the culprit is here, it was happening when you were in school.

i think some people might want to blame this on NCLB but i find this unconvincing for a variety of reasons. first of all, NCLB did not pass because everyone in 2001 agreed that education was super hunky-dory; in fact, the sold a story podcast outlines how an explicit goal of NCLB was to train teachers in systematic phonics instruction, because that was not the norm when NCLB was passed, and an unfortunate outcome was that phonics became politicized in ed world. second, anyone who understands anything about reading should need about ten minutes max to spend some time on standardized test prep and recognize that if your goal is truly to maximize scores... then the vast majority of your instructional time should be spent on improving actual reading skills because you actually can't meaningfully game these tests by "practicing main idea questions" (timothy shanahan addresses this briefly near the top of this post). so i find it very difficult to believe that any school that pivoted to multiple choice drill time in an attempt to boost reading scores was teaching reading effectively pre-NCLB, because no set of competent literacy professionals would think that would work even for the goal of raising test scores. third, NCLB mandated yearly testing in grades 3-8 but only one test year in high school; kansas set its reading and math test year in high school as tenth grade. so theoretically these kids all had two years of sweet sweet freedom from NCLB in which their teachers could have done whatever the fuck they wanted to teach these kids to actually read. the fact that they didn't suggests perhaps there were other problems afoot. fourth, and maybe most saliently for this particular study, the sample text was the first seven paragraphs of a novel - in other words, the exact kind of short incomplete text that NCLB allegedly demanded excessive time spent on. i'm not really sure what universe it makes sense in that students who can't read the first seven paragraphs of a novel would have become much better reader if everything else had been the same but they had been making completely wack associations based on nonsense guesses for all 300 pages instead. (if you read the study it's really clear that for problematic readers, things go off the rails immediately, in a way that a good program targeted at teaching mastery of text of 500 words or less would have done something about.)

all but 3 of the students reported A's and B's in their english classes and, again, 69% of them are juniors and seniors, so like... i mean idk kudos to these professors for being like "hold up can these kids actually read?" but clearly something is wack at the college level too [in 2015] if you can make your way through nearly an entire english major without being able to read the first seven paragraphs of a dickens novel. (once again i really do encourage you to look at the qualitative samples in the study, lest you think i am being uncharitable by summarizing understandable misunderstandings or areas of confusion that may resolve themselves with further exposure to the text as "can't read.") not to mention the fact that most students could not what they had learned in previous or current english classes and when asked to name british and american authors and/or works of the nineteenth century, roughly half the sample at each college could name at most one.

the authors of the study are struck by the fact that students who cannot parse the first 3 sentences of bleak house feel very confident about their ability to read the entire novel, and discover that this seeming disconnect is resolved by the fact that these students seem to conceptualize "reading" as "skimming and then reading sparknotes." i think it's really tempting to Kids These Days this phenomenon (although again these are people who in some cases have now been in the workforce for a decade) and categorize it as laziness or a lack of effort, but i think that there is, as i described above, a real and sincere confusion over what "reading" is in which this makes a certain logical sense because it's not like they have some store of actual reading experiences to compare it to. i also think it's pretty obvious looking at just how wildly severed from actual textual comprehension their readings are that these are not - or at least not entirely - students who could just work harder and master the entirety of bleak house all on their own. like i don't think you get from "charles dickens is describing a bunch of dinosaur bones actually walking the streets of london" to comfortably reading nineteenth century literature by just trying harder. i really just don't (and i say that acknowledging i personally have had students who like... were good readers if i was forcing them to work at it constantly... but i have also had students, including ones getting ready to enter college, who were clearly giving me everything they had and what they had was at the present moment insufficient). i think that speaks to a missing skillset that they don't know are missing, because they don't have any other experience of "reading" to compare it to.

just wanna highlight again that although they don't give the breakdown some of these students are not just english majors but english education majors a.k.a. the high school english teachers of tomorrow. some of them may be teaching high school english right now, in case anyone wishes to consider whether "maybe some high school english teachers can't read the first seven paragraphs of bleak house?" should be kept in mind when we discuss present-day educational ills.

[imnez-daydreams]

baptise in your thighs, till it hurts

pairing : andrew “pope” cody x reader

warnings : SMUT ❗❗fingering, messy pussy eating, cumming, squirting, violence, headlock, leglock, choking, slapping, scratching, putting pressure on a bloody bullet wound, biting, blood, pussy drunk pope. pet names : kid, kiddo, whore (once n affectionate), sweet thing, pretty girl, pope calls himself daddy once.

summary : read part 1 & part 2. pope teaches you self defence. he puts you in a headlock, then you put him in a leglock. 

wc : 2k

a/n : i blame @ozarkthedog for this because this gifset won't leave my mind. i did very slight research on fighting for this so i'm sorry for any inaccuracies. i also did in fact try to bite my arm as i put myself in a (loose) chokehold to see if it was possible lol. pretty please like, comment and reblog if you enjoyed, i love reading reactions <33. gif credits: @ozarkthedog. divider credits: @cafekitsune.

You’re helping J with school in the kitchen when Pope walks in. Stare heavy as he spots the two of you sitting shoulder to shoulder. 

“Don’t. Even start.” You call out without even having to turn around to sense his presence.

“M’ just lending a second pair of eyes for his assignment, not that his grades need any help.” Letting a small smile appear as you bump your elbow to J.

Your softness disappears when you turn a little, giving Pope a mean stink eye. Or as mean as you think you look. He still wants to squish your cheeks and peck your lips.

Pope gets closer to J, planting his hands on the younger man’s shoulders. J’s eyes briefly connect with yours before he gets dragged into a chokehold from behind.

You run a hand over your face as you witness the scene unfolding. To J’s credit, he’s holding his own against Pope, but the man has too much familiarity with bloody knuckles and faded scars. Something else festers in your mind as you watch J struggling in Pope’s flexed arms.

“Andrew! I said, that’s enough.” Your words are final with your hands on your hips.

Pope lets go of J. His eyes lingering on your frame as J coughs and catches his breath. 

His mind supplies a fantasy.

You scolding him like this.

Is this how you would scold him if you caught him feeding your baby girl ice cream before dinner?

Would you be helping your baby girl with her homework like you did with J?

Maybe he can let J be close with you if these are the thoughts that fill his mind now instead of jealousy.

Pope shakes J by the shoulders, playfully slapping him on the cheek once, twice.

“Good, that was good. No hard feelings, huh J?”

“... Yeah, s’whatever man.” J shrugs him off, making his way back over to you to collect his work.

“Sheeesh. Knew you were gonna leash our guard dog sooner or later.” Deran announces as he enters the kitchen just as J passes him by.

You slowly turn, hands still on the hips and squint your eyes at him. 

“I’m not making you lunch just for that comment.” You deadpan as you push and lead Pope to the bedroom.

“What? No, hey I was just playing around c’monnn you gonna let a poor man starve? Smurf ain’t home and you make the best b-” You slam the door in Deran’s face, stopping him trailing after the two of you like a lost puppy.

You spin, arms crossed over your chest. Pope is sitting on the edge of the bed. Still. And staring. As always.

“You mad?” 

Sighing, you cross the distance to him. Standing in between his legs, you run a hand through his soft curls.

“M’not mad … kinda want you to put me in a chokehold though.” You laugh shyly.

Pope’s eyes that were closed from your touch open back up. Confusion swirls in his gaze. A “why” evident with his tilted head as he looks up at you.

“Just … I dunno,” You continue while lowering yourself on his lap, “I liked your arms when you did that. The way they flexed, you know?” 

Pope’s face screams “No, I do not know”.

“You like my arms? That it?” It’s a genuine question, because he can't comprehend why you would.

You groan, thinking Pope’s not taking you seriously. Hiding your face in his neck, you mumble out,

“Why don’t you teach me some self defence classes? Show you how much I like em,” You pout, not realising he isn't making fun of you.

Not realising the dangerous idea you just gave Pope permission to carry out.

That’s how you end up here days later when the adrenaline from a mission is running high, Pope’s body littered with injuries.

He wraps his strong arm around your neck, confining you into a chokehold. You claw at the muscle as he twists the both of you around. But you're so focused on his arms and escaping his grasp, that you keep your legs unguarded. Pope manages to bring his legs over yours with ease, trapping them on the outside of his. Eye widening as you realise his play, but you’re just a second too late because Pope is already shoving his free hand down your pants.

“Oh, already dripping wet just from this kiddo? Just gotta throw you around a little, put you in a headlock and you soak right through your panties.” His gravelly voice mocks you.

You tear your claws away from his now scratched up bicep to dig into the wrist that’s disappeared below the waistband of your bottoms. But the pleasure from Pope rubbing circles and pressing down hard through your panties, makes your wires cross.

“Kid, can’t tell if you're tryin’ to pull my hand away, or push it deeper into you.” Pope smirks against the top of your head.

“But since your poor pussy’s clenching around nothing, let’s give her some attention yeah?”

Then Pope is pushing your panties to the side and plunging two fingers deep into you.

You whine, jerking in his hold from the intrusion of pleasure, rising your arms above your head to swat at his face. But when the slaps land, Pope only shudders at the pain and enters a third finger, hitting all the right places.

Bucking your hips at the feeling of being filled up when he cages his bicep around your neck just a little tighter. 

“Could cum just from hearing your pretty moans, y’know that kiddo? Makes me so hard when you cry out. And the noises your pretty pussy is making, fuck.” Pope groans above you.

The pressure on your airflow combined with his thick fingers hitting that g-spot on every thrust, makes your body pliable like jelly. Your body weakens in his embrace as the pleasure makes your mind fuzzy. Whimpers and slick gushing fill the room.

Pope tsks.

“C’mon kiddo, we’re still trying to learn something here. Already know you’re a little whore for Daddy, so why don’t you learn how to fight back a little harder? Know you can do better kid, I’ll give you a little treat if you escape my hold c’mon.” Pope nuzzles his nose into your hair, as if he isn't making you see stars with the onslaught of his fingers.

Pope slows down his deep thrusts by just a fraction, as if he knows the pleasure he’s giving you is clouding your ability to think straight. 

Your mind clears a little, and you reach up a hand even higher to yank at Pope’s roots. He groans, momentarily distracted by the pain. His pace falters when you rake your other hand across his bicep, nails breaking skin.

Curling your right shoulder inwards, you quickly fill the gap by taking back your hand in his hair and pushing at his arm. But Pope regains his focus even faster. He pulls out of you completely to reinforce the chokehold, his left hand now gripping his right wrist to cage you in again. The delicious pressure makes your eyes roll back.

“Think kid, know I didn’t fuck your pretty brains out yet. Focus on catching me off guard again.” He whispers into your hair.

Think.

What would make him distracted?

An idea forms just as tears well up in the corner of your eyes.

You open your mouth and bite down hard into his bicep, reaching a hand down to Pope’s bandage at the side of his chest. Ripping it open and pressing into the bullet wound. 

“O-oh, fuck me,” A gutteral growl in your ear sends a shiver down your body.

He finally releases you from the chokehold as you scramble up to sit up. You kick your legs as you move backwards to the side to land on the floor instead of on his body, freeing yourself.

Pope is up on his elbows, hissing as he puts pressure with the ripped bandage back on his bleeding wound. A prominent bite mark is visible on his bicep. Dark eyes meeting your worried gaze as you take in the blood escaping to the floor.

“Fuck m’sorry it was the only thing I thought of are you-” Your rambling gets cut off as Pope drags your ankle with the hand not at his wound.

Your back hits the floor from the movement, elbows braced backwards to stop your head from following.

He looms over you as he yanks at your bottoms, dragging your panties down along with it. 

“Pope, stop. We need to patch you up you’re-”

“Told you I’d give you a little treat if you got out, didn’t I sweet thing? So let me make good on my words.”

Your brows forrow in confusion but you can’t think any longer when Pope surges down and starts eating you out like a man starved for days. He moans at your taste, like you’re feeding him sweet honey. Your head lolls back, whimpering as his tongue reaches deep into you. He takes it back out to suck on your clit, making you whine out in ecstacy. 

You barely register Pope putting your thighs on his shoulder, too high on cloud 9 from him making out with your pussy. Only fussing and looking at him when he stops, meeting his almost completely dilated eyes that are already on you.

“Wrap your legs around me kid. C’mon pretty girl, put me in a leglock till you squirt all over my face.”

Oh, fuck.

You don’t need telling twice as you follow his instructions. Tightening your legs around his head, you cross them at the knees to hold him into place.

The new position allows Pope to ruin you. He’s hungrily licking and sucking. Slowly dragging his tongue from from your entrance all the way up to your clit, angling his head and sucking hard on your clit. Your cries fill the room with the slick sounds of your wetness. Grabbing at his sweaty curls, you grind your hips up into Pope’s face. The both of you rolling your eyes into the back of your skulls as the newfound position makes you two closer. Deeper, harder, faster.

His hands knead the meat of your thighs. Pope grinds down on the floor, trying to alleviate the need from feeling your pussy clench around his tongue, the weight of your thighs squeezing around him and the fucked-out moans echoing to his covered ears. He can tell you’re getting close, attuned to your body.

“W-wait! Andrew somethings weird- I feel weird, I can’t s’too much!”

Pope’s eyes irises are completely black, desire taking over him. He pushes his face into you even more, slipping his tongue impossibly deep before sucking and swallowing around your clit.

Your vision turns white as shockwaves are sent throughout your entire body. You feel it travel from your blank mind to your shaking legs, as you squirt messily all over Pope’s face. It makes your body go lax, weakening the leghold you have on him.

“Fuckkk, yeah that's it kid. Give it all to me, wan’ be drenched in you. Wanna suck it all up, won’t waste a drop I promise.” His words are slurred like he’s pussydrunk on your taste.

You’re too weak to even writhe in pleasure, your high pitched moans and cries music to his ears. The loud slurping of his makes your face turn red, as your vision of the room returns slowly. You're still panting, breathing erratic when you blurrily register Pope planting one last sweet kiss to your messy cunt before making his way up to your face.

His completely darkened eyes finally come into full focus as he strokes your cheek affectionately. Closing the distance, he kisses you deep and slow, the taste of you hitting your own tongue. He pecks your pouty lips when he retreats slightly, knuckles dragging along your cheekbones. You think he looks like the Devil with his dark, crazed eyes drunk on your pleasure.

“One more, kid? You can give me one more can’t you, my sweet girl?” He mutters softly against your lips.

You think Pope really might be, as he lowers himself once more.

a/n : likes, comments and reblogs are greatly appreciated as always muaks.

no pressure tags for beloved mooties/fellow pope enjoyers from previous parts : @erwinsvow @callsign-fangirl @mangonom @flofaiiry @superhoeva @flamingdisputes @loveslide @twentytoo22 @likedovesinthewnd / @awkwardpersonsthings @nyheartbreak @paintlavillered @roses-and-grasses @readerimagines666 @ultr4vjolence

[wendichester]

⊹ ࣪ ˖ two winchesters walk into a bar²,

summary. making a quick stop at harvelle’s has never been more fun

pairing. dean winchester x jo's cousin!reader genre. smut ( mdni )

wordcount. 1888

notes / warnings. needless to say we're the worst cousins in the world // explicit sexual content, exhibitionism, teasing, dirty talk, power play, alcohol, mild possessiveness, dean being the cockiest little shit

ᯓ★ read part 1

You should’ve left this morning.

Packed up your things, kissed Jo on the cheek, and peeled off down the highway like you always do — wind in your hair, music too loud, heart untouchable.

But instead? You’re here.

Back at Harvelle’s. Same stool. Different outfit. Lower neckline.

You claim it’s just another whiskey before the road. But the truth? You’re here because Dean said don’t be a stranger — and your spine’s still tingling from the way he looked at you when he said it.

He’s already there when you walk in. Feet up on the booth across from him, arms spread wide like he’s posing for sin itself. He spots you, and that smug little smirk curls up slow.

“Back so soon?” he drawls, voice like warm gravel.

“Jo owes me a burger,” you lie.

He doesn't buy it for a second.

“You sure that’s all you came back for?” he asks, eyes flicking down your frame like he’s checking for hidden weapons. Or weakness.

“Depends,” you say, sliding into the booth beside him. “You still being friendly?”

He hums low. “That depends.”

“On what?”

Dean leans in just a bit — his shoulder brushing yours. “How well you can handle your cousin being jealous when she sees you sitting here.”

You laugh, soft and dangerous. “You want to mess with the girl that fixes your drinks?”

He doesn’t answer. He just tilts his beer to his lips and lets the silence burn between you like a slow fuse.

Jo’s behind the bar when she spots you two — and her expression instantly flattens. “Oh, for fuck’s sake.”

Dean grins. “She missed me.”

You wink. “He’s a bad influence.”

“No shit,” Jo mutters, slamming a glass down a little too hard.

Suddenly, you're having way too much fun.

It starts small.

Dean orders you a drink before you can. Slides it across the table like it’s a peace offering laced with something illicit. His hand lingers too long when your fingers brush. He leans in to whisper something snarky — and doesn’t pull away.

He’s warm. Smells like smoke and soap and the kind of laundry detergent that makes you think of motel rooms and leather seats. His thigh brushes yours. Once. Twice. Then it just stays there.

You shift. He doesn’t.

Jo’s watching like she wants to throw a holy water bottle at both of you.

Dean catches her glare and leans closer, voice low. “She’s gonna kill me.”

You smile, all teeth. “Maybe you deserve it.”

He chuckles — and it’s dangerous, that sound. Makes your chest tight.

“You’re cruel,” he murmurs.

“You like it.”

You should’ve left. You really should’ve left.

An hour in, you’re on his lap.

Not intentionally. Not… not intentionally, either.

The booth’s too small, the group’s grown — someone brought cards and a second round of drinks. Jo has retreated to the bar like a defeated general. And Dean? Dean just patted his thigh and said, "You want room or not, sweetheart?"

So yeah. You slid in.

Now you're perched sideways across his lap, one leg crossed over the other, dress riding high and a little wicked.

And Dean?

Dean’s hand is on your thigh.

At first it’s harmless. Friendly. Maybe even gentlemanly, if you squint hard enough and lie to yourself.

But then his thumb moves.

Just a stroke. Absent-minded, casual — if casual felt like a live wire.

You shift slightly, pretending to adjust your dress. His hand follows.

Higher.

A little higher.

Your breath catches.

He doesn't look at you — just keeps talking to Ash and sipping his beer like he’s not drawing invisible circles on the sensitive skin of your leg.

And when his fingers creep even closer to the line where your thigh meets heat?

You squeeze his arm.

Hard.

He grins against his glass.

"You okay there?" he murmurs, voice like silk over sin.

You hum sweetly, leaning in to whisper in his ear. "Touch me like that again and we’ll be the reason Jo torches this place down.”

He makes a noise — low and rough — like you just threatened him and turned him on.

“Wanna test her patience?” he asks.

You pause. Smile.

“Dean,” you whisper, voice like a dare, “I am.”

Jo storms over ten minutes later like she’s had enough of the flirting and the smug and the thigh-touching that isn’t subtle at all anymore.

She slaps down a plate of fries in front of you like she’s trying not to aim for your head.

“You,” she points at Dean. “Out.”

Dean blinks. “Me? I didn’t do anything.”

You bite your lip, trying not to laugh.

“You think I don’t see what’s going on over here?” Jo hisses.

“I’m just sitting here.” Dean grins, hand now completely still on your thigh, a picture of innocent corruption. “She’s the one in my lap.”

You raise your hand. “Guilty.”

“Jesus,” Jo mutters, glaring between you both. “You’re like gasoline and a goddamn match.”

Dean leans forward, still grinning. “Yeah, but you’ve gotta admit — we make a hell of a fire.”

Jo throws her hands up. “I hate both of you.”

You sip your drink, smirking. “Love you too, Jo.”

She storms off.

Dean chuckles, soft and satisfied. His fingers trace one last teasing line just under the hem of your dress, and this time? You don’t stop him.

“You always this much trouble?” he murmurs.

You glance at him, eyes dark. “Only when it’s fun.”

He raises his brows. “And this is fun?”

“Dean,” you murmur, words syrupy slow, “this is so much fun.”

His grin goes full wolf.

“Can I make it even more?”

You barely have time to blink before his hand is on the move — slow, deliberate, fingers skimming up the inside of your thigh like he’s reading Braille in a dirty novel. You jerk, instinctively, but it’s too late — the dress doesn’t stop him. Nothing does.

And suddenly, he’s touching you.

There. Right there.

Skin to skin under the hem, where no one can see but you feel everything — the graze of his knuckles, the unmistakable slide of fingers stroking over your panties, testing the dampness like it’s a damn compliment.

You choke on your breath.

The table bursts into laughter at something Ash says. Dean just chuckles — all cool and casual, like he isn’t two seconds from breaking every decency law in the zip code.

You shoot him a look. Sharp. Wide-eyed.

His eyes flick to you for the briefest second, lazy and smug, like he knows.

He presses his fingers in.

Just slightly.

And oh — oh you’re wet. Already. Your cheeks go scarlet.

“You’re doing so good, sweetheart,” he mutters under his breath, lips brushing your ear like it’s an inside joke. “No one’s got a clue.”

They don’t.

Jo’s still at the bar, but she’s watching you like she’s waiting for Dean to try something. She has no idea it already started.

And Dean? He’s playing it cool — talking to Ellen now about hunting routes and some crap you can’t even hear because all the blood’s rushed between your legs.

You shift on his lap, trying to breathe, trying not to grind down, because his fingers are back — two of them now, stroking slow over the soaked fabric like he’s savoring it.

“Keep that poker face,” he murmurs. “Or they’ll all know how bad you want it.”

You squeeze your thighs around his hand, but it does nothing. If anything, it traps him tighter. His knuckle drags against your clothed clit and you bite the inside of your cheek so hard you taste copper.

“Dean—”

“Hm?” He’s sipping his drink again, calm as a cat in the sun.

“You’re such a fucking—”

“A gentleman?” he offers sweetly. Then dips a finger under the edge of your underwear. Just enough to make you jolt.

You gasp — and laugh immediately after, high-pitched and breathless, covering your mouth like Ash just told a really inappropriate joke.

No one questions it.

Dean’s fingers dip again.

Lower.

Skin to slick skin now, fingertips barely ghosting your folds. He doesn’t even move much — just rests there, warm and teasing, a whisper away from slipping inside.

You shiver. You want to grind against him. Instead, you sit stock still like a statue carved by lust itself.

Jo glances over.

You smile. Pink-faced. Shaking a fry like it’s your new personality.

“Everything okay?” she calls, suspicion laced into every word.

Dean’s the one who answers.

“Peachy,” he says, eyes locked on yours. “She’s just a little warm.”

You swear you’ll kill him later.

He slides one finger inside you.

You nearly drop your drink.

The heat between your legs is electric. He doesn’t go fast — just enough to remind you he’s there. Inside. Real. And you’re on his lap, legs spread, heart pounding like a war drum while he finger-fucks you in a goddamn bar booth.

No one knows.

No one.

Dean's hand stays hidden, his body blocking any curious eyes. He murmurs something about cars to Ash, never missing a beat, while his finger curls — just so — and your eyes roll back for half a second before you blink them wide again.

You’re breathing through your nose like you’re in labor. Every shift, every twitch of his hand sends a wave of ohmygod rolling up your spine.

And the worst part?

You're close.

So close.

You clench around him without meaning to.

Dean exhales — low, dark, impressed.

“You’re filthy,” he whispers. “I fuckin’ love it.”

You fist the edge of the table, lips pressed shut in a fake smile.

And then—

He adds another finger.

That’s it.

Your hips jerk just slightly. Barely a twitch. But enough that you know you’re not gonna last. Not like this.

“I need air,” you gasp suddenly, rising so fast you nearly knock over your drink.

Dean lets you go with an amused little smirk.

“Want company?”

You glare at him, flushed and trembling. “I swear to god—”

But he’s already standing.

You don’t wait for approval. You bolt toward the back door of Harvelle’s like a sinner sprinting from church.

Dean follows.

The door swings open and slams behind you — the back lot bathed in silver moonlight and shadows. The cicadas are loud. Your heart’s louder.

You don’t speak.

Dean grabs your wrist, turns you — slams you gently against the Impala’s side with a thud and a dark, dangerous smile.

“You’re soaked,” he says, mouth brushing yours.

“You’re a fucking menace.”

His hands are on you again before you can finish — shoving your dress up, dragging your panties down just enough.

“I could’ve made you come in there,” he murmurs. “Right on my fingers. Bet no one would’ve even noticed.”

“You’re such an asshole,” you gasp.

“Yeah?” His mouth moves to your neck. “But you’re the one who sat on my lap.”

You kiss him then — hard, desperate, filthy. His hips pin you to the car, and the metal’s cold but his body’s burning. You can feel how hard he is through his jeans and it only makes you wetter.

He drags a hand between your legs again.

“You want me to finish what I started?” he growls.

You nod, breathless. “Please.”

And he does.

ꔛ. navigation 𓂃˖ ࣪ all drabbles ; compatibility readings ; support my work .ᐟ

[neodazed]

enhypen -🎀- squirting for them for the first time

ot7xfem!reader - when they make you squirt for the first time

warnings: unprotected sex, fingering, oral (f), cum eating, overstimulation, slight daddy kink, lmk if i missed smth

alr started writing this when I saw recent similar fics for enha but there’s like a hundred of these here so don’t think that’s an issue

my sunki fics flopped so bad i went back to writing imagines instead of my other drafts LMAO ty for more than 2k views on the last one and for 200+ followers. pls request after reader my post regarding that, i’d love to see and write ur thoughts!! have fun reading 💋 masterlist

HEESEUNG

For Heeseung it’s almost like squirting = marriage.

A new found level of possesiveness awakens in him, basically.

You’re laying flat on your back, legs spread as wide as they can go, and he is plunging three fingers inside you.

His pace is no other than harsh, not an inch of his being is trying to be gentle. To be honest, he doesn’t need to be anyway — that’s just how you like it.

Thank God you were wet, or else those ocassional spits on your clit wouldn’t be able to match the rough bones of his digits carving their well earned place in your fluttering hole. With each quick thrust, the low side of his palm bumps against your little nub, drawing a lovely whimper out of you.

He’s not leaning over your body, doesn’t press comforting kisses on your face or neck. He is sitting on his knees between your two trembling thighs, and watches your cunt gasping for his fingers hungrily.

It’s getting way too sloppy now, creating those nasty almost slurping-like sounds, and it almost makes him want to lean down and bury his mouth in there, but then again, the sight is so pretty for him.

So instead, he stares and he talks. And oh, his way of talking is dirty, all possesive. Speaking of your pussy as it was the most beautiful masterpiece hung up in his favorite museum.

Your hole clenches, tighter and more intensively than normally, and you feel a flood rushing down in your tummy, one that has you curling the tip of your toes backwards, gripping the sheets underneath you like you’re about to fell off a bridge.

You try to warn him in time, you swear. The weakest ‘Hee’ leaves your mouth, a mix of a somewhat scream and moan, and you grab his forearm, but as expected, it doesn’t make him stop, it just encourages him to increase every sensation he’s currently providing. So there’s nothing you can do when a gush of liquid spills out of you, high enough to latch onto his black fitted shirt.

His heart fucking flutters at that, pride swelling up in his chest.

‘You made that big mess for me?’

‘Only I can make you cum like that. I now that’s right.’

‘C’mon, squirt again for me. You know I’m not stopping ‘til you do.”

JAY

His head has been hitting your cervix repeatedly for some time now, his balls slapping against your ass with each stroke, shaft hitting your clit.

Absolutely no thoughts in your head, just dick dick and dick.

It’s almost like every vein was created just to brush your gummy walls with the perfect force he always settles on. He’s curved to fit right into you, and if he wasn’t, well, he carved out his place in there well enough by now.

Feeling full of him has to be the most precious feeling, talking about any of your holes. And his hands are rough, they grip and sink and have completely no restrain when it comes to your body.

It’s a release you don’t even really feel coming (maybe because he already emptied you so many times), it crashes onto you.

Your scream is one the neighbours will give dirty looks about later on, but truly, who cares in the moment? Not like he would have the strength to muffle it, or the attention, he is fixated on you.

On the way your sudden finish spurts all over his cock, his abs, his arms- he goes feral.

‘Oh my god, princess. What’d you do there?’ He laughs in amusement, his movements never stopping, just letting down from the pace.

‘You came all over Daddy’s cock? Without saying a word?’ He’s already back in full force, ignoring your whines and lightly pained whimpers, slamming into you even harder now.

‘I’m sure you can do it on command then, too. Come on, show me.’

JAKE

You already came three times.

Yet, no amount of tugging on his locks would make him lift his head up from between your shaking thighs.

See, Jake is a greedy man. Every time he gives head, he acts like a starved man who is on a strictly ‘pussy for all meals’ diet, and hasn’t eaten for weeks.

One orgasm is nothing to him. It’s like he doesn’t even notice it happened, he keeps going. Goes between munching at your folds and sucking on your clit.

Two orgasms make him hum quietly, like he’s just starting to get the taste of it.

Three? That’s a good number, but still, it’s not enough. If you managed to cum three times already, what’s stopping you from cumming one more?

That’s the logic.

And you would think the upcoming one would be just a tired suffer with minimal semen going into the mix of spit and cum, but it’s something else. He plunges his tongue deep into you, and begin to move it right there, and it almost feels like he’s flicking at your cervix.

You cry out, legs locking his head in space (not like he wasn’t glued there already). You swash right inside his open lips, on his tongue. He grips your thighs harder, and wait until you finish. When he lifts his head up, finally, it’s kinda…full of cum. Like, literally. His chin completely soaked, his nose wet, his eyelids covered too. It’s a sight for sure.

‘Baby…that was so fucking hot.’ He says in awe, blinking up at you. He’s so in love. You smile softly, though your face is going red more and more by the minute. You are still sprawled out, sticky and open, and now you feel a bit sheepish.

‘Can you clean me up, please?’ You mean with a towel. Obviously. That’s what normal people do.

But Jake’s smile turns slow. Dangerous. Still hungry.

He leans in.

You freeze.

‘Jake, wait-‘

But it’s too late. His tongue is already on your inner thigh, licking a slow stripe up to where you’re still dripping.

Then his mouth is on you again. Soft, wet kisses over the mess he made, drinking you down like it’s water after a drought.

You try to squirm away, gasping his name — but he just pins your hips down with a firm hand and grins up at you.

‘I’m just cleaning you up.” — Then, quieter — ‘Gotta take care of my girl, right?’

SUNGHOON

You were getting punished.

So how on earth was it so good?

The way he’s spanking your pussy should have made you cry a long time ago, but instead, it’s just keeps on getting…better? Sure, it hurts, how could it not? A very sensitive area, indeed, probably not made to be spanked, but…

It was the good kind of hurt. The one that kept chasing slick out of your hole after every swing on your clit. Your body is thrown between two different reactions, half squirming away, half desperately chasing the sensation.

No fingers inside, no thumb rubbing your bundle, no tongue stroking your folds — just rough, precise hits.

He is spreading you open with two fingers, but keeps them strictly there, no slipping in between. Only so that he can reach all of you, making sure it hurts enough. Enough that you realize what you have done wrong, refrain from ever doing it again. Enough so that you feel that this pussy belongs to him, and he can do whatever he wants to it.

To his surprise, it’s also enough to make you squirt.

To Fucking squirt.

One minute, he’s spanking your nasty little cunt, and you’re crying to stop, then the next, his pace has to falter, cause a flood of liquid splashes out of it.

He snorts. Not really in amusement.

‘You’re unbelievable, you know that?�� — He looks down at you with a scoff — ‘I’m trying to punish you here, and you enjoy yourself more than normally’

‘It’s just…sensitive’ You sniffle. The hurt now comes in stronger, when you are no longer getting stimulated.

Sunghoon tsk’s and pushes his dirtied digits past your tear-soaked lips. Your face crunches up from the taste, but you do your best to swallow all of it. And that fucker turns that around, too.

‘You really just slurped up all of it? Didn’t leave me anything?’

‘I-I thought-‘

‘I must take another taste, then…’

You cry out the moment his hot tongue makes contact with your red swollen clit.

SUNOO

He’s casually hovering over you, mouth on left nipple, finger rubbing your clit. The suckling and stroking movements are equally hard.

You guys’ve been at it for some time now, lazily making out, most of his energy being put into pleasuring you. You were already on the edge a couple of times but he stopped there and went back into it just to drag it out.

‘Shh, just a little more. You’re not that impatient, right?’

He earns himself an eye roll for that, but only snorts, and pushes you closer.

His bare chest presses against yours, kisses soft and deep, and it’d be romantic even, if you could forget that he’s been edging you for half an hour. He always says it’ll make your release bigger and better, but hasn’t really convinced you yet.

Until now.

Because when he finally settles on the good space, even after feeling your stomach tighten, it doesn’t take you any longer to squirt.

And, the ‘see? told you’ look on his face could not be more smug.

‘Wow. Look who was right?’

‘My new take is that I can make you squirt two times in a row. Wanna find out?’

JUNGWON

Jungwon, to put it simply, is flabbergasted when it happens.

Like, on his tongue?

Around his fingers?

Because of him?

What did he do in his past life to deserve this? Whatever it was he is one lucky mothefucker.

You couldn’t even prepare him or give him a chance to pull away (he would never), since you yourself didn’t expect it at all. The truth is, you’ve never squirted before. Orgasms with a little more force? Producing a little more cum than usual? Sure, those happened, nothing too crazy. But it certainly never splashed onto his face like a fucking cunami, Jungwon thinks.

Poor boy wants nothing but to bury himself there right away, but he's not sure if you'd want that, given that you're still shaking under him. Instead, he strokes your thighs (still around his head), and murmurs,

'That was...good, right?' He asks, voice suddenly shy like he forgot what was he doing in the first place.

'Baby...you just made me squirt into your mouth. It was more than good, trust me.' You say with a weak chuckle.

'I want to taste. Can I?' How could you even say no to that adorable pleading gaze?

'Go ahead, Wonnie. Taste how good you made me feel.'

RIKI

It was just a matter of time before your first squirt after you started having sex, you knew for sure.

Riki's ego didn't need a lift though, and since he never brought it up by himself, you just assumed he either didn't know you were capable of doing it. or he's just content with the usual five orgasms he brings you to every time you guys have sex.

He absolutely knew what he was doing to you every time, but this?

This he did not expect.

You were bouncing on his cock with your best of strength, and he was watching you with a smirk, layed back on his arms, annoying and hot as ever. He wasn't putting in too much effort, but when he did move his hips to meet your thrust, God it reached the most perfect spot without a single miss.

He made a few statements, and those were...

'Your tits are all up in my business. Just how they should be.'

'Fuck, Y/N, this pussy is squeezing me so hard. You were hungry for my cock, weren't you?'

'From this position, I'll come right onto your cervix, You're gonna be dripping so bad...'

With a rather loud cry, cum splashed out of your slick hole with a nasty sound. No thumb circling around your clit, no lips suckling on your nipples, just Riki's cock, raw and hard, all for you to fuck your little cunt on.

Of course he followed you immediatelly.

And of course, he had things to say.

'Oh. So we're squrting now?'

'Why wait a month? Were you shy to show how much you love this cock?' His finger is dipping down into your heat, bringing it to his mouth to taste.

'Riki, I'm sensi-'

'Shh. Let me see. You'll have to do it again now, anyway.'

[packyanderson]

Conversely, I remember when I took a Technical Writing class in college. I had already been working as a software developer for five or six years by that point (going to college at night) and I had had my fill of bad technical writing; I was prepared to learn how to do it well. Unfortunately, the professor (the chair of the English Department no less!) had different ideas. Whenever I turned in an assignment, it would come back with a B and the note "Would have been an A, but was too entertaining".

I went back and forth with the professor on this: she insisted that people didn't read technical writing to be entertained, they read it because they needed the information, so it needed to be "dry and strictly informative." My counterargument was that if the writing couldn't hold the reader's interest, they would go without the information and just make something up instead. Coming purely from academia, my professor could not comprehend the idea of someone going without information (which, trust me, in business happens all the time), and insisted that, regardless, even if my writing was technically correct and provided all the necessary information, if it was entertaining it would receive a full letter grade deduction. I was proud that practically everything I wrote for her got a B.

Except one paper. As an experiment, I took the famous MIT Project Athena paper, Designing an Authentication System: a Dialogue in Four Scenes. This was a paragon of clear technical writing, and was the kind of thing I aspired to. What I really wanted to do was submit the paper, have her ravage it for for being too entertaining, and then reveal that it was the product of some MIT PhDs. But I knew that would be a one-way ticket to plagiarism accusations, so I did the next best thing: I took the 8-page paper and boiled it down into a 4-page impenetrable fog of writing that I, as the author, could not verify was correct without having the source paper sitting next to it for comparison. If I was grading this paper, I would have given it a C because while it was technically correct and grammatically correct, it was the worst writing I could imagine.

It was the only paper I turned in that she gave an A to. After that, I stopped arguing, checked out during the class, collected the Bs on my "entertaining" papers and moved on.

never forget the universal rule of the order of things: People Will Not Read It

[rafeysvenicebitch]

Bunny⍣ ೋ

summary: Churchbunny!Reader starts writing to Criminal!Rafe through a prison pen pal program meant for the church’s older volunteers… but she chose him instead.

Criminal!Rafe x ChruchBunny!Reader

cw: fluff!!

You were never even supposed to be at that table. But you crossed that line.

It was set up at the chapel foyer after Sunday service, a small quiet program for the “overlooked and mischanced”. He named it letter of Mercy. A pen pal program for the incarcerated. Meant for the kind hearted women, motherly. Women with age softened hands and caring actions. No, not you.

But you’d been observing the table. Most people walked through the door, past the full table. You were about to walk to your car, then you stopped. You stopped behind the folding table like something called you. You ran your fingers along the stack of files before picking up one

Rafe Cameron.

Then a short summary: multiple counts of second-degree murder. Public indecency. Battery. Incarcerated for 20 years.

Somehow, to you that was the one. You snuck the folder with you.

The first letter was cautious, written in black ink on delicate stationary with pink flowers. You didn’t sign your full name but told him everything. How you woke up early to make cinnamon coffee and a breakfast sandwich for your dad, lay flowers on your mothers grave, drive the youth choir to competitions, and the clothes you thrifted and made to your taste. You told him how you felt unheard, missing, like you never connect to anything. And he wrote back.

He stayed himself, not changing. Told you what he did, how he did them. Names. Blood. You read them like it was the holy grail.

You’d never even kissed anyone, never even touched a man talk less of kiss. No never, not like that. You weren’t supposed to, you were meant to wait, wait for the right man. But he triggered something chemical in you. You wanted to learn more.

So you sent him a lock of your beautiful hair. Doused in Carolina Herrera perfume. Then a few weeks later, an old locket with your face in it.

You eventually went to see him, going through a centuries worth of documents. Your dress was modest. Pastel pink. Lace along the collar and white pumps. You had to get the permission to bring Rafe treats, just a few homemade cookies, and a small paperback Bible.

He smiled and inhaled around every single bite he took.

“Didn’t think you were real. Thought it was an investigation tactic from these assholes,” he muttered. “Thought God made you up to tease me.”

You blushed so hard you felt your ears burn. You covered you mouth with your hands bashfully, giggling.

Right after that very moment he started calling you Bunny. His Bunny.

“My Bunny,” he’d scrawl at the top of every letter with his surprisingly good handwriting, “tell me what you’re wearing today, and what kinda birds are outside your window..”

“What lipstick did your wear today?”

“Where do you go when you’re lonely?.”

You answered every question he asked with a million paragraphs, your heart swelling with adoration with each. You never stopped writing.

Each visit blurred your memory of what he’d done, all you could see was a broken man holding your soft hand with his calluses veined one, staring into your eyes with a daydreamy face. You told yourself that it was mission work. That you were softening a sinner.

You never asked him to stop calling you bunny.

Never. Not once.

Tagging Moots: @memoirofasparklemuff1n @rafesbabygirlx @ilovefiction4lmen @strawberries-and-lots-of-kisses @rafeyscumangel @rafeyscumangel-recs

[dark-fanfics-moon]

THE PET Remmick x Reader

Part 4

Synopsis: Remmick will use ALL methods to make you stay. But maybe that backfired a little…

Warning:…It’s smut. Here. I said it. I have never written actual smut before in my life. But Remmick made me want to. Also Remmick is kind of a switch in this. He gives as much as he receives I’ll say. If you do not like smut, do not read. If you like smut, do not hesitate to like and comment. With that, enjoy. 😄👍

Here is part 3:

Irish Gaelic vocabulary used:

A ghrá: My love

Mo mhuirnín dílis: My faithful darling

Le do thoil: Please

Mo chroí: My heart

Táim ag dul chun do scriosadh: I am going to destroy you

Mo shíorghra: My eternal love

Your back slammed against the doorframe as Remmick’s hand tightened around your throat—not enough to crush it, not yet, but enough to make your breath catch. The inn’s candlelight flickered wildly as he shoved the door open, dragging you inside your shared room like you weighed nothing. The door slammed shut behind you with a finality that made your heart leap to your throat. Remmick’s eyes burned with anger, hurt, obsession—all tangled into one. He pushed you back against the wall and stared at you, his face still wet with another man’s blood.

“You ran.” His voice was calm, but the weight in it was terrifying. He leaned in, his forehead pressing against yours, his breath cool and unsteady. “You ran from me, darlin’…after all that warmth. All that progress between us…? Ye disappoint me, pet.”

You tried to speak, to explain, to cry—but his hand was still on your throat. He was pissed.

“Ye got me feelin’ things, darlin’. Things I dunno know what to do with.” He gave a breathless little laugh. “And then ye go runnin’ into another man’s arms like it meant nothin’. Aww…tut-tut-tut. Bad pet. That ain’t kind.”

His lips brushed your ear.

“Tell me why I shouldn’t just drain ye right now. Tell me why I should let ye keep that sweet lil’ heart beatin’ after yer lil’ betrayal ?”

You wanted to lie, but instead you shook your head and a laugh escaped you. You were tired and just wanted all this to end. “Of course I wanted to leave. You treat me like a pet. You make me feel worthless. Why would I want to stay with you ?”

Your words hung in the air like a blade freshly drawn. Remmick froze. For a second, he didn’t breathe. Then his hand dropped from your throat. The silence that followed was suffocating. His jaw clenched, the muscles in his neck twitching as he slowly stepped back from you.

“Worthless…” he repeated, as though testing the word. He laughed once, low and hollow and raised his hand to his head in disbelief. “That really what ye think I see ye as ?”

He shook his head and looked at you, really looked this time—eyes flickering over your tear-streaked face, the way your chest rose and fell from everything he’d done. His voice, when it came again, was quieter.

“Ye think I dunno what I did to ye ? I ain’t stupid, darlin’. But I’m fuckin’ tryin’ here. I-I brought ye gifts ! I feed ye ! I take care of ye ! What more dye want from me, huh ?” He reached up slowly, brushing his fingers against your cheek as if the gesture could make up for anything. “You don’t know what it’s like…bein’ what I am. Cravin’ warmth every damn day and bein’ told you’re too monstrous to deserve it. So yeah, maybe I hold on too tight when somethin’ good comes near. But to hell with it…You’re the first thing in years that makes me feel alive.”

His eyes searched yours before he shrugged.

“But if ye want to go…I ain’t gonna stop ye this time. Door’s right there. But if ye stay ? You best mean it.”

The silence returned, pressing between you. The firelight crackled. He looked like he was bracing himself for you to walk away. You humphed and took a step towards the exit, but faltered and started thinking about what you would be returning to. Where would you go ? Your brother ? Your aunt ? They didn’t want to see you. They had their own life. Their own responsibilities. The people in your village hated you and you felt even more alone. To make matters worse…You felt Remmick’s hand hovering over your shoulder.

“…Me dolly. Ye know I could be good to you.”

Your breath hitched. That voice sent something skittering down your spine. Not fear this time, not entirely. Something deeper. Loneliness meeting loneliness. A cry in the dark met with another echo. You stared at the door again. Beyond it was freedom, yes…but also emptiness. Judgement. Cold nights and colder stares. No one waiting for you. No one calling you dolly like it meant something more than just another word in the wind. Remmick’s hand still hadn’t touched you, but you could feel its presence in the air just above your skin, like he was waiting for permission.

“…Why would you be good to me ?” you finally asked, voice quiet, tired, but not angry anymore. Just lost. He took a breath, slow and cautious, as if afraid you’d bolt at any second.

“Because I want to be,” he whispered, and his voice cracked ever so slightly. “Not just fer me. Fer ye.”

The next thing you felt was his fingers lightly brushing your shoulder. Gentle this time. Not grabbing. Not holding. Just there.

“I ain’t got much,” he continued. “Ain’t got grace or kindness like the stories tell. But I got loyalty. I got hunger. And if ye stay—I swear on my own grave—I’ll learn how to touch ye right. Speak softer. Bite less.”

A pause. And then, in that worn Irish lilt:

“Ye could teach me. If ye want.”

You stood still, the quiet of the room deafening, the door still there before you. You could just—

You lifted a hand to the handle. You opened it.

Remmick was standing behind you…his nose tracing the back of your neck. You closed your eyes at the feeling and shakily closed the door. You didn’t feel Remmick’s hand moving until it was back around your throat. But he didn’t squeeze. He wanted to hear your heartbeat and whispered in your ear:

“Good lassie. I knew you were smart…”

You could feel the cold pads of his fingers resting at your throat, and behind that—the warmth building in him, drawn straight from the frantic rhythm of your pulse. His lips brushed your ear, and he murmured again, his voice almost fond now:

“Smart and sweet. Me lil’ darlin’. Me dolly…” He inhaled deeply. “You made the right choice. Out there, they’d gut ye with words, starve ye with silence. But here ? With me ? I’ll never let ye go hungry. Never let ye freeze.”

His hand slowly slid down from your throat to your collarbone, then rested just over your heart. He was listening to it. Feeling it beat for him.

“Feel that ?” he whispered. “It’s mine now.”

You shivered and he smiled.

“Are ye scared, lil’ dolly ?” he asked and closed his eyes before pressing his temple against yours. “Or…are ye startin’ to see what I see ?”

Your lips parted, but no sound came out. His words had scraped something raw inside you—torn through every lonely night, every moment of aching rejection, and left you exposed.

Were you scared ?

Of course. Of course, you were. He was a vampire. A bloodsucker. A skilled manipulator. But what chilled you more…was how much you wanted to believe him. That he could be good. That you could teach him softness. That in all the darkness, maybe—just maybe—you weren’t just something he took, but something he chose.

“…I don’t want to be owned,” you murmured after a moment, barely above a breath. “I want to be loved.”

The silence that followed cracked like thunder.

Remmick didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. The tension in his fingers went slack, not retreating, but changing. His hand on your chest softened until it wasn’t a claim anymore, but a vow. You felt his forehead shift, the line of his jaw clench.

Then, in a voice so broken it barely resembled his own, he whispered, “I know.”

You turned your head, just enough for your temple to press into his. For your breath to mingle with his in the stillness.

“Would you ? Love me ?”

For a long time, the room didn’t move. The fire crackled. The air was thick with tension and promise. Remmick’s grip finally slipped away, replaced by both hands gently cupping your face. And then he kissed you—not rough, not claiming, not devouring.

But trembling. Searching. Trying.

Trying to be good. For you.

In a moment of pure madness, you turned around and kissed him back. Your hands found the worn edges of his shirt, fingers curling into the fabric, like if you let go you’d be swept away in everything he was—danger, devotion, ruin. His breath hitched, and for a split second, you felt him falter, as if he couldn’t quite believe you were really kissing him back. But then he melted into it—one arm wrapping firmly around your waist, the other sliding up to cradle the back of your head with surprising tenderness.

His lips, still tasting faintly of blood and desperation, moved hungrily against yours. It was chaotic and clumsy, the way all first true things are. His teeth grazed your bottom lip when he pulled away slightly, breathing hard.

You exhaled shakily, your heart hammering against his chest as your mouth opened to demand. “A-Again.”

That broke something in him. He kissed you again—slower this time, reverent, like your mouth was a prayer and he was starving for salvation. His fingers threaded into your hair. You could feel the tremor running through his body, the conflict of instinct and longing, of bloodlust and heartache, all crashing into the simple truth that he wanted you. You cupped his cheek, feeling the smoothness of his skin beneath your palm, and for the first time, you saw not the monster—but the man clawing his way back from the edge.

“D’not leave me, me darlin’…” He begged.

Your breath hitched.

“I’m not…going to—if you stop giving me reasons to,” you replied. “But you have to meet me halfway.”

A breathless laugh escaped him. “Aye, dolly. I’ll crawl the whole damn way if I have to...”

You kissed a third time. But then suddenly, flashbacks of what had happened to your father seemed to fill your mind and you stumbled back, your hand flying to your mouth in disbelief. Oh no…What had caused you to respond ? To say such things to your captor—your ravisher ? Remmick stood frozen, eyes wide, lips slightly parted where your kiss had just been. For a moment, he looked almost human—as if you’d stolen the breath right from his undead lungs.

Then, slowly, something shifted in his expression. His tongue ran over his bottom lip like he was tasting honey for the first time.

“Well…” he drawled, voice low and disbelieving. “Didn’t see that comin’. Such fire. Such passion. Ye kissed me back, darlin’. Ye chose to. Can’t take that back now.”

You shook your head, still backing away, eyes wide with panic. “I—I didn’t mean to—I don’t know why—”

“Oh, but I do.” His grin was hungry now, but not for blood. “Yer mine, and yer body’s startin’ to realise it before yer mind inevitably does.”

You trembled, torn between shame and something far more terrifying: the fact that a part of you—some wild, lonely part—wanted it. Wanted him. You tried to leave the room, but Remmick was quick and grabbed you again and started kissing your neck. “Ye could go…or ye could just lemme show ye how good I can be.”

You struggled, heart thundering, hands pushing against his chest—but it wasn’t with your full strength. Your body was caught in that awful middle place between defiance and surrender. He felt it. He knew it.

Remmick chuckled softly against your skin, breath cold as ice. “There it is again…That fire. That tremble.” His fingers curled around your waist like they’d always belonged there. “Ye do not want to run, dye me sweetheart ?”

Your breath hitched. He kissed you again—slower this time. Deliberate. Torturously tender. “Ye got no place else to go, darlin’. No one who’ll take ye in, no one who’ll see ye like I do. I could keep ye warm. I could make ye forget what it was like to be unloved.”

You were trapped—not just by his strength, but by the terrible, aching truth of those words. Your breath caught in your throat. His fingers, careful but unrelenting, moved slowly, slipping past the loosened fabric of your shirt as if he were unwrapping a gift he’d waited far too long to open. You closed your eyes tighter, trying to silence the confusion tearing through your thoughts. This wasn’t right. This wasn’t supposed to feel—

“You’re shiverin’, me lil’ warmblood…” Remmick whispered, his lips brushing just beneath your jaw. “It’s okay. I’ll warm ye up.”

His thumb swept gently across your stomach as he studied you, his breath heavy against your skin.

“I could take care of ye, y’know,” he murmured. “Make ye feel wanted. Ain’t that all ye ever needed ?”

You were silent—torn between the horror of the situation and the ache of years spent being unseen. His lips pressed just above your heart.

“Just say the word, me darlin’.” He waited, his cold breath still ghosting across your skin, the quiet between you thick as blood. You didn’t pull away—but you didn’t lean in either. You simply…stayed.

And that was enough for him.

A low sound rumbled in his chest, something close to a purr, as if your silence confirmed something he’d long suspected. His fingers resumed their slow exploration, reverent in their touch now, as if you were sacred—something rare, something stolen from the warmth of the world and given only to him.

He pressed his forehead to yours.

“I’ll ask again, every single time. ‘Cause I want ye willing, not afraid. So…Dye want me to take care of ye, me pretty thing ?”

You sighed and looked up at the sky. Father. Forgive me. Which one you were addressing that prayer to ? You weren’t sure. Maybe both…And with that, you nodded in agreement. Remmick smiled victoriously and then lifted his hand to remove your shirt. He then gently pushed it off from your shoulders, his eyes never leaving yours.

You instinctively covered your chest and closed your eyes. Alright. Maybe you should have thought this through. It wasn’t too late. You could still back out from this…right ? Remmick paused again, his eyes flicking to your hands covering yourself. His expression softened for a moment, but it was fleeting. His fingers twitched, as though battling with the temptation to disregard your hesitation and continue, but he stayed still.

He let out a soft breath and slowly withdrew his hands, not wanting to rush you, even though his desire burned beneath the surface.

“Yer not ready, are ye ?” His voice had lost some of its edge, replaced with a curious softness, an expression which seemed affectionate. He took a small step back, his gaze lingering on you. The room felt too warm, too charged with anticipation, but he seemed to respect the boundaries you had set, even if just for now.

“Take yer time. I got ALLLL the time in the world,” he told you with a smile. He then nonchalantly picked up his banjo and started playing a tune, humming along as he waited. The soft, rhythmic strumming of the banjo filled the room, its melancholic yet comforting sound breaking the tension. Remmick’s voice was low and soothing as he hummed along, the melody like a lullaby, though it felt strangely out of place given the situation.

His gaze remained on you occasionally, but he didn’t press further. His fingers danced across the strings with practiced ease, and the familiar tune seemed to wrap around the room, enveloping you in its quiet chaos.

You couldn’t help but feel a strange sense of calm amidst the storm inside your head. As his melody lingered, you found yourself standing there, caught between wanting to escape and the undeniable pull he had over you. His music, his voice—it was as if he was trying to soothe you, to make you stay without saying a word.

You could feel your heartbeat in your chest, thudding in time with the banjo’s rhythm. Despite everything, there was something gentle in the way he played, something that kept you rooted to the spot. As your hands slowly fell to your sides, the weight of the decision seemed to lift for a brief moment. His eyes flicked to you, but he didn’t stop playing, his fingers never missing a beat. He seemed content, as if the music was his way of reassuring you. He didn’t press you. He never would…

Remmick was waiting—waiting for you to decide.

And in the stillness of that moment, as his soft humming blended with the music, you couldn’t help but wonder: What would it be like to just let go ? Your hands then slowly lifted before you could command them to do so…reaching forward. He smirked knowingly, as if saying ‘finally’ and in a matter of seconds, the banjo clattered to the floor, and you found yourself replacing it in his arms, your legs straddling him before your mind could catch up. His cold hands settled at your waist with practiced ease, holding you firm, as if he’d known you’d end up there all along. His lips pressed softly to your bare shoulder, humming that same haunting tune. The vibrations of it hummed through your skin.

“Tha’s it,” he murmured against your skin. “Me good lassie…warm ‘n willin’…”

The warmth of his mouth against your skin, the grip of his fingers on your hips—it was maddening, terrifying, addictive. You never thought in a million years you’d be enjoying this. You felt yourself giving in to the intense sensations, his body between your legs, his mouth on your skin. Your hand moved down without your consent…You opened a few buttons of his slacks. He groaned when he felt your hand start to undo them. He looked down at what you were doing, and let out a sharp intake of breath. He then looked up at you quizzically, studying your face to see how serious you were. His gaze was a mixture of lust and something else…a strange, almost childlike curiosity or mischievous glee.

You didn’t know what you were doing. You were being reckless and irrational, but you were so far gone by now that you couldn’t think straight anymore. You were acting of your own free will…but he was the one driving you wild. His eyes didn’t leave yours, his breathing heavy, as if he couldn’t believe what was happening. His eyes were completely dilated, his breathing erratic. He looked like he wanted to say something, but he didn’t have the words. What was this ? He opened his mouth to speak, but all that came out were ragged gasps and moans of pleasure.

You were shocked and enthralled by this powerful creature, now so desperate for your touch. Your hand slid down, gently stroking him. He let out an undignified whimper and his head fell forward onto your shoulder.

This wasn’t the way it was supposed to go…He was supposed to have control and show you his talents to manipulate you into submission and yet—

“Stop.” He gasped and tried to push your hand away, but to no avail. You felt a smirk spread across your face at how much you were frustrating him. You moved your hand again, teasing him. He whined and grunted at your touch. You looked at him, studying him with curiosity. You had him trembling from the simple brush of your hand against him.

He had to stop this. He knew he had to stop this…but Remmick couldn’t. He hated himself for how badly he wanted this, how needy he was to feel your touch. He tried to push your hand away again, but you tightened your grip. He groaned, closing his eyes. You were completely in control now.

You whispered in his ear. “What’s the matter, Remmick ? Not used to being lead ?”

He moaned softly at hearing his own name. The way you said it…he had never heard it sound so good before. He gripped the sheets, his grip white knuckle as he fought to control himself. His body was shaking, he couldn’t believe this was happening.

“Damn ye…” He growled the words out from gritted teeth, and the words sounded more like a curse or a plea.

You loved seeing him like this, seeing him struggle. He was so powerful and had always been in control…and now you had this power over him. This monster who could have killed you with a snap of his fingers couldn’t even fight his need for you. He was desperate now. The sound of him groaning and hissing like a beast…you had never heard something so erotic.

“…Lay down.” You instructed and he looked at you, his expression incredulous. He was torn…he wanted to resist, but he also wanted to obey you. His brain was screaming at him to regain control of the situation, but his body was obeying you on its own. He tried to fight it, but something overcame him and he finally relented. He slowly laid himself down with a thump, his back hitting the bed in his eagerness. You released him…but only to unbutton his shirt next. His chest was pale and strong, the lines of his abdominal muscles were clearly defined. You took one finger and gently traced it down the middle of his chest, starting from the top of his sternum, all the way down to his stomach. He closed his eyes and his chest rose and fell, as he struggled to maintain control. He was already a mess. Every touch of your fingers made him shiver.

He reached up, wanting to touch you as well, but you swatted his wrist away. He was shocked at the gesture and you almost laughed at how wide his eyes became. He looked up at you, trying to contain his surprise and frustration. He then opened his mouth to protest, but you placed one finger on his lips, silencing him.

“Now…You let me do this.” You demanded.

He hesitated before closing his eyes, and his body relaxed back against the bed. This was NOT surrender—he tried to convince himself. A pet should have some fun sometimes. It was…the natural way of things. However, he underestimated your brazenness and didn’t expect the sudden feeling of your lips on his body. Your hands roamed over the pale flesh of his chest and your mouth followed, placing small, delicate kisses on his skin. He inhaled sharply and his hands were grasping at the sheets now. He wanted to touch you…He growled in frustration.

Meanwhile, you couldn't believe it either. This creature…this monster…was under your spell. He was almost whimpering at the feeling of your mouth on his skin. You ran your hand along the ridges of his abdominals, marveling at the power you were holding in your hands. You continued on with your ministrations, running your fingers across his skin…tracing along his body, exploring every inch of his exposed flesh. He let out another small moan, his body shaking under your touch. He was breathing heavily, trying to fight off the sensations. You couldn't believe the raw intensity of the moment…the look of pure helplessness on his face as you—

He let out a strangled gasp, his eyes snapping open and staring down at you in shock at the sight of your lips on his manhood. His body jerked involuntarily. Warm…so warm. He was panting, his chest rising and falling rapidly, his breathing ragged. But you didn’t let up. His breathing grew faster, more desperate. He couldn’t even keep his eyes open anymore. As you continued your ministrations, he felt like he might break, but he didn’t want this to stop. The urge to touch was so strong…but every time he tried, you would stop him.

His body was begging for release, but you were keeping him on the edge. Suddenly, you stopped and lifted yourself up to be face to face with him as you kept stroking him. You wanted to see his face. His eyes were wide open in shock and it was so very satisfying to see him speechless. You flattened his black curls and your mouth hovered over his. But you wouldn’t let him have the satisfaction…You kept squeezing and stroking him while staring into his eyes. His mind was reeling. He let out a strangled groan. He was trying to speak, but the sensations you had stirred up in him were making it difficult to form a sentence. He leaned forward, trying to kiss you, but you pulled back, keeping a small gap between your lips. You were teasing him…you were making him wait.

He tried to lift a hand to pull you closer to him, but you gently took his wrist and moved it back to the bed. He grunted in frustration, every part of him begging you for a kiss, for a touch, for anything…

“A ghrá…Please. A ghrá…” He called for you. His breath caught in his throat as soon as he heard his own words. A ghrá. It was an old term of endearment he hadn’t used in centuries…Hearing him speak in his original language made your blood boil in return. You relished the fact that you had him pleading. You leaned in a bit closer, letting him feel your breath on his face. He leaned forward, trying to catch your mouth once more…but you pulled away once again. It was a game…and you were winning. He was panting now, desperate to touch you.

“Please…A ghrá…” He growled. He couldn’t take this anymore…he was losing his mind. “A ghrá…I need ye.”

You looked down at him, enjoying the sound of his soft Irish lilt when he spoke his first language. He was now gripping your hips, trying to pull you closer. He was desperate, but you still would not let him kiss you. You looked down at his sharp teeth piercing through his gums now and the drool smeared acres his cheeks and chin.

…Were you really gonna do this ? Lose your innocence to this monster ?

He suddenly opened his eyes and stared up at you, his face filled with hunger and need and desperate desire. He was a monster…but you couldn’t deny the pull that he had over you. His breath was ragged and his hands were shaking violently, still staring up at you with those dark, lust-filled eyes. He was trying desperately to pull you closer, to feel your body against his, but you were still holding yourself just out of his reach. He growled in frustration.

“Mo mhuirnín dílis…Le do thoil.” He begged, saying things he wouldn't have dreamed of saying before. His body was shaking, his hands trembling as he fought to restrain himself. “Please, a ghrá…I need ye. I want ye. I'm begging ye. Lemme kiss ya…”

You gritted your teeth and forced yourself to remain unyielding. “No. You are still a monster. A creature from hell. A bloodsucking ghoul. You deserve…nothing.”

His eyes widened and his mouth did as well and you could see the sheer desperation in his gaze.

“Ach, a ghrá…darlin’…” His breath hitched as he felt you lower yourself onto him—but still not allowing him entrance. He was fighting for control, his body trembling, his fangs bared. “Darlin’…don’t. AH !”

He let out a moan as he felt himself enter you just a bit. It was so good…bliss. But you wouldn't let him have more. He looked up at you, his expression pained. He was trying to maintain his composure, but he was losing his mind.

“Please…a ghrá. Mo chroí, I need this…please…”

You saw how desperate he was, and you took pleasure in knowing how much power you had over him at the moment. You had him begging for your kiss…you had him begging for your touch. You had taken the most powerful, dangerous creature in the world, and reduced him to a trembling, needy mess. You wouldn’t even let him touch you…and you felt more powerful than you had ever felt in your life.

You leaned down closer to his face and smirked as you repeated mercilessly.

“No.”

He let out a whimper at your words. You had reduced this creature to a needy, desperate mess. He was begging you for the smallest amount of release.

“Me darlin’. P-Please. T-Tell me I can enter ye. Please. I cannot…enter ye fully without an invitation.”

You smiled down at him, almost cruelly. You had this monster completely in your power. “No. You don't get to touch me. You don't get to kiss me. And you don't get to come inside me neither. You don't get anything from me.”

He suddenly roared in frustration. “LET ME IN, YE WRETCHED WOMAN !"

He was screaming now, his whole body shaking. He had completely lost his composure. You had destroyed him, and it was the most satisfying thing you had ever seen. His eyes were red now and he was screeching like a banshee—his claws tearing through the sheets.

“LET ME IN ! NOW !”

He was like some feral animal. He was so desperate, he didn’t know what to do. You leaned down, and whispered to him in the softest voice you could muster.

“No. You don’t get to have me. You don’t get to have what you want. You will do as I say and take what I give you, you filthy bloodsucker.”

He let out a low, animalistic growl as he heard your words. He was almost beyond words. He was ready to do anything, say anything, to have you in any way he could.

He whimpered in frustration, and tried again. “Please…I’m beggin’ ye. I’ll do anything ye want. I’ll do whatever ye say. I’ll give ye anythin’ ye want…ah ! I just need to be in ya !”

Your smirk grew wider as you looked down at him, taking satisfaction in his desperate, begging state. He was at your mercy now. You whispered again, your voice soft, but commanding. “No. Beg all you want, Remmick. You don’t get to have me. Do you hear me, you pathetic bastard ?”

He let out a pitiful whine in response, his face contorting in pain. He was so close, but yet so far…he couldn't take this any longer. His body was trembling, his mind was racing…he needed you. He needed you so badly. He was almost in tears now as he pleaded with you. “Please…I can’t stand it. Please, A ghrá. Please, please let me come in ye. Just a lil’ bit. I know I don’t deserve it, but just a lil’ bit. Please…C’mon !”

You shook your head. You could see how desperate he was, and his sounds of despair were like music to your ears. You leaned down, so your mouth was only a few inches from his ear. “No. You don’t get any more than what I’ve given you. You don’t get anything from me…no matter how much you beg. You don’t get to touch me, kiss me, or come in me. You’ll come without me and I will relish your utter defeat…”

That was it…he couldn't take it anymore.

He screamed out, a primal, anguished howl. He couldn't do this anymore. He was a wreck, his whole body shaking. He pleaded and whimpered and cried. He was beyond words, beyond reason. He let out a strangled cry as he tried to form words again.

“Please, a ghrá. I’m beggin’ ya…I’ll do anythin’ ! I’ll crawl for ya. I’ll get on me knees. I’ll worship ye, mo shíorghra…” His words became more desperate and incoherent. He was begging and pleading. “Please, a ghrá. Gimme just a bit more, please. I’m beggin’ ye. I’ll do anythin’ fer ye, anythin’ ye ask. I’ll kiss the ground ye walk on, just please, PLEASE…let me come inside you. Just a bit. I’ll be so good. I won’t even move. Just a bit is all I’m askin’. Just a lil’ bit, darlin’ please, I’m beggin’ ya, darlin’ ! Lemme inside !”

You felt a surge of excitement in watching him plead so desperately. You leaned down and purred to him. “No. I like seeing you beg like this. It amuses me. But you don’t get to have me. You don’t get to come inside me. You’re going to come without me. You’re gonna spill yourself all over like a dirty pig—like the animal you are—and I am gonna watch. And I am gonna enjoy it. And you will feel humiliated—just like I have been for the past few weeks.”

His body tensed up, and you could see that he was getting close. He looked up at you weakly, helpless to stop himself. He let out a strangled whine, his voice barely above a whisper—one last desperate attempt to make you change your mind. “Please…a ghrá…PLEASE. I’m BEGGIN’ ye, a ghrá. Please, mo shíorghra…”

Your smirk grew even wider as you saw how completely helpless he was to stop himself and he took your wrist to kiss it and lick it. You had him right where you wanted him…You leaned down, your mouth hovering over his ear.

“No.”

As he came, you saw a look of despair and helplessness in his face, and you felt a pang of pleasure. His body convulsed as he came. It was the most intense and pleasurable experience he had ever had in his life, and it was ruined. He had become undone, and he hated you for it. Yet you felt nothing but triumph. He was a monster, and you had utterly, completely, totally dominated him. He hated you in that moment. He looked up at you, completely spent. He tried to say something…but no words came out.

He glared at you. “…Yer gonna be so fuckin’ sorry fer that, darlin’.”

You weren’t impressed by his threat. You sat back calmly. Seeing him on his back like that, so helpless, filled you with complete satisfaction. You looked down at him, a smirk on your face. “Oh really, you’re gonna turn the tables on me now, are you ? Just a few moments ago you were pleading me for even one more little inch of me. So tell me, vampire, how exactly are you going to take your big revenge ?”

He suddenly pounced on you. He pushed you down on the bed with his body, pinning you underneath him. He was so angry, that animalistic look back on his face. His fangs were bared, and his face was mere inches from yours. He was glaring down at you, his breath labored, and he was still trembling. But then, his eyes went down and he grinned.

“Let’s see if ya like that, mo shíorghra…”

He then went straight between your legs and before you could stop him, he licked a strip. You gasped from surprise, and then tried to squirm away. You should’ve seen this coming, and yet you were caught completely off guard. You tried to push his face away, but he didn’t budge. He was pinning your thighs to the bed, and there was no way you could escape as his tongue pried you open. You had felt powerful up until this point, but now he was showing you how much that was an illusion. He wasn’t begging anymore. He was going to do whatever it took to show you just how little control you really had and that whatever control you had over him was because he allowed it. He looked up at you with those dark eyes and gave you a fiendish smile. You felt a shiver go up your spine, and you couldn’t look away from his gaze. He was gloating, enjoying every moment of this. You felt his hands tracing up your thighs, and then he pushed your legs even further apart.

“That’s it…just like that…spreadin’ yerself nice and open fer me, darlin’…Lemme show ye a good time.”

You tried to close your legs, but he held you in place…You were slowly realizing you had maybe bitten off more than you could chew. He then looked up at you from between your legs, and his eyes were so dark. All the meekness from before was gone. He was in control now, and there was nothing you could do about it.

“M’gonna take me time with ye, darlin’…” He grabbed your thighs and lifted them on his shoulders. “Now gimme everythin’ and don’t hold back. I’ll know.”

You looked down and saw him staring up at you with that intense gaze. It was a look of pure hunger, as if he had gone centuries without having enough to eat. You tried to control your breathing, tried to keep your composure, but you couldn’t. Your legs were shaking, and you gripped the sheets. He was powerful…he was dangerous…and he had you praying for your salvation. He held onto your legs, keeping you steady as he slowly ran his tongue over your lower lips. His eyes were locked onto yours the whole time, and you felt gooseflesh go up your body just from the feeling of his tongue. He ran it across your skin, leaving a trail of damp heat and you bit your arm to stop the screams.

He then chuckled.

“All those memories in me head of sex and tastes and sensations…But ye know what ? You’re the first person I’ll be able to use me new skills on.” He looked up at you and his eyes lit up. “…Or ye would like someone else ? Is this body attractive enough to ye, baby ? I could always ask fer another…Stack is rather handsome. Bo as well…We’re all the same. We’re all part of the hive. I could ask them. They wouldn’t mind.”

You had so many thoughts running through your mind. You couldn’t even begin to process this. He was a monster…he was a vampire…but he was also making you feel a lot of things at the moment…and your body would not let you forget that. You felt your heartbeat getting faster, your temperature going up. He knew he was getting to you. He could probably smell it. Then why ? Why would he ask this ?

You looked down and saw the way he was looking at you. Then it hit you. Remmick had lived a long life, but his body would never change—not really. He was short, pale and sickly-looking. He had mentioned that he had tried to attract ‘warm ones’ before with no success. So perhaps in the past his mistresses had asked him for favours such as this. But you did not want to. You shook your head. “…No. I…don’t want another…I want you.”

He looked up at you, a slight surprise on his face. He wasn’t expecting to hear that. “Oh ?”

He was still holding on to your thighs. He was trying to keep his composure, but this time, you had surprised him. He stayed there, his expression curious. You stared into his eyes—panting. He stared back at you, his expression slightly unsure. He was supposed to be in control now…he had you right where he wanted you…but then you had to go and say something like that. He studied your face, looking for some hint of a lie, some hint that you were just telling him what he wanted to head. But he found none. You meant what you said.

For a moment, his smile seemed genuine as he gave it to you before he decided to suck and lick on your nub to make you come. He wanted to see what other sounds he could pull from your mouth. You had surprised him, and it made him hungry for more. He was getting more and more aggressive now, his tongue working over your skin with an inhumane intensity.

You couldn’t take this much longer. Your body was trembling, your mind was going blank…

Meanwhile, Remmick was putting the effort to get you there. He had never had anyone want this body—his body. He had tried to get the warm women to look his way—but this body never seemed to interest them. But you…You writhed under him, your body trembling as he continued to lick and suck. He knew just the right spots to touch, just the right tempo to make you lose your mind. He was driving you to ecstasy…and you didn’t care about anything else. You wanted more, more…You felt yourself teetering on the edge. You were so close, you just needed a little more. You were getting lost in the pleasure he was driving you into. It was all you could think about…He wanted you so badly…and he wanted to watch you come apart.

“C’mon, me pet. C’mon.” He encouraged you. Every brush of his tongue was like a jolt of electricity, taking you higher and higher…you couldn’t take much more. He was pushing you to your limit…he was so good at this. So good…it was like he was made for this. Your hand found itself in his hair. Not to grip, but to wordlessly stroke his dark curls…

He gasped, clearly not expecting that. He looked up at you, a small moan escaping as you ran your hand through his hair. It was such an intimate gesture, so unexpected…he almost lost his focus for a moment and looked up at you to ask again. “…Lemme in. Lemme in, me darlin’.”

His voice was like honey…and it was going straight to your brain. You knew what he was doing to you. He was trying to break you down…to get you to do what he wants. He was trying to make you give in to your primal instincts, ignoring consequences. He kissed your inner thigh.

“…Grá mo chroí. Gimme a home between yer legs. Please.”

You felt another rush of heat at his words. His accent, coupled with that honeyed voice, was like a spell. He knew he had you…he could smell your arousal, and it was driving him wild. His tongue continued to assault you, making you delirious. He was trying to break you down, to get you to throw away all sense of reason.

He looked up at you with those dark eyes.

“…Say ‘yes.’ Just say it. Invite me in, me darlin’.”

His command was like a shot of adrenaline… your mind was screaming to say no…but your body was begging for more. You could feel yourself coming undone. You knew if you said no, he would stop, and the thought filled you with frustration. His licks were getting more deliberate, more demanding. He knew exactly how to work you up, how to break you down. It was like he was playing a symphony, and your body was his instrument.

He looked up at you with those dark eyes, and you could see the hunger in them. He growled, his voice raw with need. “Say it.”

You felt like you were losing your mind. His licks and his touches…his voice…all of it was driving you mad. You were so close…you couldn’t think straight anymore. You felt the words leave your lips before you could stop them.

“Yes ! Yes…”

You heard a low, victorious chuckle come from his throat. He knew he had won. He couldn’t believe that he had actually got you to say yes…he had finally broken you down. He had a satisfied look on his face, an expression of sheer triumph. He was finally getting what he wanted. And he wasn’t gonna waste it. His tongue thrust into you and you cried out in pleasure. Your body was his now, and nothing could stop him. He was no longer asking permission. He was going to have you, in every way possible. His eyes were almost glowing with hunger, looking like that of a wild animal. You felt like he was about to eat you alive.

His hands were gripping your thighs with such strength, it almost hurt. His fingers would probably leave bruises, but you didn’t care. You wanted this…you needed this.

His eyes shone wickedly, and you could see a hint of the animal inside him. This was an older, darker part of himself. Once you came, he did not stop. He kept shoving his tongue inside you…collecting the blood from your broken hymen. When you felt his tongue finally slide out of you, you let out a gasp. You were so overwhelmed, so sensitive…you didn't think you could handle any more.

But he wasn't finished with you yet.

He looked up at you, his mouth glistening with your juices. His expression was dark, almost feral. There was a hunger in him that wouldn't be satisfied…a hunger that wouldn't be sated, no matter how much he took from you.

He climbed up your body to face you completely.

“Táim ag dul chun do scriosadh…” He smirked before slowly entering you. His eyes rolled to the back of his head and you gasped. You felt him slide inside you, and it was like nothing you could have imagined. He filled you completely, and it felt so good…so right. His head fell into the crook of your neck as he tried to be slow and steady. He was trying to control himself, trying to keep it together…but it was obvious it was taking everything he had. The same words were whispered into your ear, low and rough. “Táim…ag dul chun do scriosadh, mo shíorghra.”

Once he was all the way inside you, he started moving, slowly at first, but his pace quickened with each stroke as drool ran down his chin and he closed his eyes. He was enjoying himself and it showed. He was taking his time, enjoying the feeling of being inside you. He was still trying to be gentle, but he couldn’t hold back anymore. He was getting rougher with each movement. His face was buried in the crook of your neck, and you could hear him murmuring things in his language that you couldn’t quite make out.

Then you heard him bite out the words, “I'm going to destroy you, me sweet one. Yer life is no longer yers. I’m goin’ to take yer life and ye will be here with me ‘till yer soul no longer goes up to the heavens without me corpse…wrapped around ya.”

He was getting more desperate now, his pace picking up…he was losing any self-control he had left. He was murmuring in his native tongue…a stream of words and curses you couldn't understand. But you could still make out the way he was calling you ‘m'aingeal’ and you could hear the way he said ‘ag dul chun do scriosadh’ repeatedly. He grabbed on to you, his fingers leaving marks all over you. He was losing himself in you. And that’s where you heard it…He growled and whimpered like an animal when he came deep inside you. He nuzzled your neck and his mouth opened. He wanted to bite you…but he restrained himself and only kissed your skin instead.

You came alongside him and you thought you might pass out. He was breathing heavily now, trying to catch his breath. He was still buried deep inside you, and you could feel his heart pounding. It was a strange feeling, hearing his heart beating—and then you realised it was yours you were hearing.

He then let out a low laugh, like he couldn’t believe what he had done. It was like he had just discovered fire, and now he didn’t know if he should use it, or if he should put it out.

“Mo chuisle…” He called you, and it was like a confession. But you knew better. You hesitated before flattening his hair to the side to look into his eyes. He swallowed heavily, his expression filled with confusion. You had broken the spell, and now he was slowly coming back to himself. It was like he was seeing you for the first time all over again. But you could see the hint of darkness still lurking behind his expression, like a shadow just lurking around the edges of his mind.

You smiled and felt tears in your eyes. “You were meant to be beautiful…Remmick.”

He looked at you, surprised at the tears in your eyes. His expression softened, and he took your face in his hand.

“Are ye cryin’ fer me, darlin’ ?” He asked, and there was a hint of shock in his voice…as if he never thought someone would cry over him before. Your heart squeezed in your chest.

“You look so young…You love music…You love to be loved. But you were so lonely…You could have been so wonderful. But then…All that changed…because you wished to have a family again.” You sighed and pressed your forehead against his. “…I am sure your heart used to be so full.”

He was taken aback by your words, and he looked at you with surprise—almost fear. It was like you had looked deep into his heart and seen things that he had hoped no one would ever know. He was speechless, completely caught off guard…he didn’t know what to say…He swallowed heavily, his face twisted by an emotion you couldn’t name. He didn't know what to make of you…you had seen so much…you understood so much. It was unsettling and comforting all at once…

He took a deep, shaky breath, and he managed to croak out a word.

“…Darlin’…”

You stroked his cheek.

“…To the ones who made you decide to change, I wish an eternity in hell for taking a bright light away from this world. I have never met a man like you. And yet, your way of seeing your hive as a family, caring for your children as you do, singing and dancing…I know you used to be so beautiful. And it hurts me to know that nobody had the courage to see you as such and to tell you.”

His eyes locked onto yours. He let out a low breath, and the words came out of him like a whisper.

“…But I am still beautiful…right, me chuisle ?”

You hesitated. He was watching you closely, waiting for your answer. His face was still so close to yours, and he was still holding onto you. He seemed almost desperate…like he needed you to say he was beautiful. There was a moment of silence, and he finally spoke again.

“…Darlin’…Please. Call me beautiful.”

Your eyes watered. “I wish I could…Parts of you are still beautiful but…”

His face fell, and his expression darkened. You saw the hurt in his eyes, the hurt from centuries of loneliness, of rejection, of being seen as a monster. He was silent, trying to hide his emotions. He looked away, and the moment was gone. But still…he was clinging on to you, like a drowning man holds on to driftwood.

You couldn’t help but hold him too.

“…It would be so easy to hate you. So easy. But at the same time, it would feel so wrong. For I know it is not entirely your fault that you are the way you are.”

He let you hold him, his face pressed into your neck. He was still trembling, his breathing ragged. He was in a state of shock. He had been shattered, stripped down to his foundation…and now he was a mess. He inhaled deeply, relishing the smell of you…he took comfort in your gentle touch. You looked at him, and you saw just how broken he was. It was like you held this wild creature in your arms, and suddenly he was just…broken. He was a wreck…he needed comfort, but he had been so alone for so long, that he couldn't even let himself ask for it.

His words came out as a shaky whisper, and he was holding you for dear life.

“Ye should not say such things to me…I should turn ye fer sayin’ them.”

You stared at him, and you saw the anguish in his eyes. He looked like he was at war with himself, the monster and the man fighting for control. And suddenly, you realized something. He was begging for an excuse to let go. He was holding on as long as he could, but you could see the battle he was fighting. You saw the man who had lived for over half a millennia…the man who had seen so much, and lived through things that should have killed him.

You saw a glimpse of the tortured soul behind the monster. You could see the torment he was going through, the internal struggle he was trying to contain. His body was so tense, every muscle wound up tight, his eyes staring at you with a desperation you had never seen before. He wanted a way out. All he had to do…was give in to his baser impulses. And just…bite you. You were just here. He knew you had no way to resist. You could see the pain behind his eyes, the torment of the conflict raging inside of him. He was trying so hard to hold himself back…he was trying to fight the urge, but it was getting harder and harder. He let out a low moan, sounding tortured. Every muscle in his body was tense, his body shaking with the effort of holding back. He wanted to bite you. He needed to feed. You were right there…he could do it.

Your heart sped up, and you could feel the tension in the air. He was so close, and you knew if he lost control, there would be no stopping him. He let out a ragged breath, and his eyes had that feral look in them.

He looked at you…and you saw the look in his eyes was predatory. “…Tell me one reason…why I shouldn’t turn ye…”

You smiled sadly at him. “If I was a part of your hive…my soul would go. And I would be just like any other of your children…hollow. My blood would be gone, and so would be my humanity.”

He let out a breath, and you could see the moment he realized you were right. He knew what it meant to turn you. He knew it would consume you—body, mind, and soul. He was left with the reality of the situation….what he wanted, and what he could not have. He suddenly snarled and stood back up.

“I need to feed. Stay here. Do not leave this room !”

He turned away, got his clothes back on and you could see the anger suddenly consume him. He was furious. At himself, at you, at the whole situation. It was like a switch had flipped. He no longer looked human.

He made his way to the door, and he paused before passing through. It seemed like he was about to tell you something, but reconsidered. The door slammed behind him, and you were left with your thoughts. You laid down on the bed and started fidgeting.

Was that your life now ?

———————————————————————

You were left in that dark room…alone with your thoughts. You tried laying down on the bed, but you couldn’t seem to find a comfortable position. Your mind was racing, your feelings all jumbled up. You felt completely overwhelmed. You hadn’t even known him for more than a few weeks, and yet your life had completely changed. You tried to take a deep breath and relax, but you couldn’t seem to stop thinking about what had just happened…and what it all could mean.

You suddenly heard screams…You covered your ears and tried not to cry.

You sat there in the dark, trying to ignore the horrible sounds outside. You wanted to tell yourself it was just your imagination…but you couldn’t stop hearing the desperate wails, and it was making you nauseous. You tried to drown out the sound, but they seemed to be everywhere. You pulled the pillows over your head, trying to block out the terrible sounds. You tried to remind yourself that you were safe here, in the room where he had left you. But you could still hear the screams…you could imagine what he was doing to whoever he was feeding on…Once he was fed, you heard the door opening behind you. He stood there. You didn’t turn around. You knew what you would see…

He was quiet, and you could feel his eyes on your back. There was silence…and you knew that he was watching you. You could vaguely smell the metallic scent of fresh blood…but you were afraid to turn around. You didn’t want to see what had happened, what he had done.

He spoke up, and his voice seemed quieter…almost tender.

“Darlin’…turn around.”

You didn’t and replied dismissively. “I am…tired. I think I will go to sleep now.”

He let out a low chuckle and walked closer, the sound of his footsteps getting louder.

“That right ?” he said, and you could hear the amusement in his voice. “Don’t ye have any other words fer me, darlin’..? C’mon. The night’s still young. And I just got a burst of energy that I wanna spend ALL on ye."

You could feel him sitting down on the bed, and the weight of the mattress shifted underneath him. He laid down next to you, and the smell of blood got stronger. His hands were on your waist, and he curled himself up against your back. He was so close…You restrained the nausea that suddenly took over you and the need to throw up. He was holding you from behind, and he had now wrapped his arms around you.

“Mmmm…y’smell so sweet…” he murmured appreciatively. “…like honeysuckle and sunshine…”

You could feel his body pressed up against you. He wrapped his arm around your waist and pulled you closer. His hand found your hair, and he curled his fingers in it. His other hand was trailing up your side, and his touch sent a shiver down your spine.

“How about a second round, mo chuisle ? I am suddenly feelin’…extra affectionate.”

When you didn’t answer, he took offense and frowned.

“Don’t be silent now, me darlin’. Speak t’me…tell me what ye thinkin’ about at least…” Your breath caught in your throat, and you suddenly felt the urge to turn around. His hand was still in your hair, gently tugging at your locks/strands/curls. He was stroking your face with the other…and you could feel something hard and…substantial against your hip. “…Or maybe I should tell ya what I am thinkin’ about ?”

He was getting more and more handsy. His fingers were trailing over your body, tracing over your curves. He was holding you tight, his face buried into your neck. He was starting to kiss you, leaving a trail of hot kisses on your skin. One of his hands was tenderly fondling your breast. His hand found your jaw, and he gently twisted it to the right, so your head was facing him. He moved in and kissed you. But this time, his mouth was open, and his tongue was pushing past your lips. You were taken aback and the taste of blood made you physically recoil and gag. He seemed amused by this reaction, his hand on your chin preventing you from turning your face away. He broke away from the kiss, but he was still holding you there.

“What ? Ain’t me kisses to yer likin’ anymore, darlin’…? They seemed to suit ye just fine earlier.”

You could taste the coppery flavor of blood in your mouth. “Remmick. Remmick please…I do not like the taste.”

His expression darkened as you said that, and he seemed to get annoyed. “Yer tellin’ me no…?”

He looked down at you, his eyes blazing. “Ain’t I got the right t’kiss ye how I want ?”

You winced. “The taste…Please. Just wash your face.”

He looked down at you, his expression hardening. He was clearly annoyed, and he took a moment to breathe deeply. He sat up and got off of you. He seemed angry, and he stood there for a moment, his body tense.

He was quiet for a moment, and then he just left the room. You heard the faucet in the bathroom turn on. You sighed in relief. You heard the water running in the bathroom, and you could finally relax. You sat on the bed, trying to collect your thoughts. Your mind was still reeling from what had happened. You spat in a bassin nearby…He then came back from the bathroom, his face looking clean enough.

“How do I look now, me darlin’ ?” He asked with a smile.

You tried to keep your expression neutral. You still had the bitter aftertaste of blood in your mouth, and it was making you feel sick.

“…Fine. You look fine.”

His grin widened and he took a few dancing steps forward—a clumsy attempt to make you laugh. He was trying to be light-hearted, and it somehow worked a little. You couldn’t help but let out a smile…He suddenly stopped, noticing that you smiled at him. But then he smiled again and grabbed his fiddle to start a song.

“In the emerald fields, where our love's tale begins, Where the green rolling hills lead all hearts to mend, I found my home in my true love’s embrace, In the land of Ireland, beyond time and space.

Oh, Irish love a flame that forever glows, With a passion to vanquish all gallant foes, In the warmth of your touch, my soul is reborn, Our love, like Ireland, forever adorned.

Underneath the moonlit sky the banshee may wail, But we pay no mind as we dance through the gale Whispers of love carried on the Irish breeze, Our spirits more wild than tempestuous seas…”

You couldn't help but smile at his words…his singing was rough and a little off key, but it was charming in its own way. You could hear the passion in his voice, and you realized that this was something he loved.

He took your breath away, the way he sang to you. The song was a mixture of sweet and wild…it was like hearing the voice of the Irish landscape singing through him. It was beautiful, and it was strange…like a song that touches your very heart.

He continued as he danced around the room and smiled.

“…Through the fields of Athenry, we'll wander hand in hand, Where British army soldiers no more will walk this land Our love it will endure, through battles fierce and long My life is yours forever more, through conflict I’ll be strong

Oh, Irish love a flame that forever glows, With a passion to vanquish all gallant foes, In the warmth of your touch, my soul is reborn, Our love, like Ireland, forever adorned.

But now I must bid thee a lover’s goodbye To battle I go for to free Erin’s Isle Our hearts, my love, always aligned In this Irish love song, forever enshrined.”

He was singing with passion and dancing in tandem. He was in his element, and it was clear that he loved being able to perform for you. He was a completely different person when he was dancing and singing…it was like he was completely lost in the moment. Every movement seemed to be filled with joy. He was completely in the moment, fully alive, like his very soul was being filled with happiness.

Seeing him like this…it was beautiful. There was a light in his eyes that was breathtaking. You felt your heart open up at that moment, as you watched him give into the music and let himself be completely happy. It was so unlike the dark, dangerous man you had seen just moments before. It was like two different people…but the same.

Tears fell from your eyes as he sang, not because you were sad, but because you were moved by the beauty of his words. You could feel the deepness and the pain of the lyrics, and you realized that this song was a part of him.

He finished singing, and he looked at you with a look of deep affection. He looked like he couldn’t believe that you were there, listening to him. He walked over to you and took your face in his hand.

“Look at ye, lassie. Cryin’ over a lil’ song meant to cheer ye up ! Silly filly…”

You tried to laugh and wipe the tears from your eyes. It was true. You were crying over his song. It was just a song…but it seemed like so much more than that. He sat down next to you and wrapped his arms around you, pulling you close to him. He kissed the top of your head, and he rested his chin there.

“…Me darlin’ lassie…did I get to ye ? Forgive me. ‘Twas just a song.” There was affection in his voice…a tenderness to his touch…it was so different from the way he had acted before. “…Yer tears ain’t what I was lookin’ for, darlin’. I ain’t here to make ye sad. What should I do, then…to get ye smilin’ at me again, hmm ?”

You couldn’t help but let out a small laugh. It was such a silly question…You looked up at him and smiled.

“…Just sing me another song, okay ?”

There was a light in his eyes at the sound of your laughter. He was relieved. You could feel his body relaxing as he held you, as if he had been wanting to hear your laugh the entire time. He gave you a sly grin, and he ran his hand over your hair.

“Another song, eh ? Ye liked that one so much that ya want another ?” He pretended to think about it before grinning. “A’right ! But this time, I want ye to sing long ! Lemme hear yer pretty voice…”

You gave a bashful laugh, wiping the lingering tears from your cheeks. “Sing along ?” you echoed, your voice still a little shaky from the wave of emotions. “I don’t even know the words…”

He scoffed playfully, sitting upright with a dramatic gasp. “Then I s’pose I’ll have to teach ye, won’t I ?” He gave the fiddle a little tune, plucking a few strings and humming thoughtfully as he worked out a melody.

“You’ll catch on quick,” he promised with a wink. “It’s just a bit o’ nonsense…but I promise it’ll stick.”

And then, with a little flourish and a grin like a devil on a mission, he launched into the next tune—faster this time, jauntier. A playful rhythm that felt like springtime in a pub full of laughter and spilled ale.

“Oh, I met a bonnie lass down by the shore, She said, ‘Sing for me once and I’ll ask for no more !’ So I sang her a song, and I danced her a reel, And now she’s stolen my heart like a thief in the field !”

He pointed to you on the last line, waggling his brows dramatically, and you laughed out loud before you could stop yourself.

“Ohhh the lass with the eyes like the sea after storm, Her temper is fierce, but her heart’s kind and warm ! If she’d let me, I’d kiss her and call her me bride, But she’s likely to punch me and run off to hide !”

You burst into a fit of giggles, covering your mouth, and he looked delighted beyond words. His eyes sparkled as he leaned in close, coaxing you with his grin.

“C’mon, lass. Join me on the chorus. It’s easy !”

He slowed just enough for you to follow.

“So hey-ho, my wild Irish rose, With cheeks like fire and fists like blows, I’ll love her ‘til my dyin’ day, If she don’t chase me away !”

You sang the last line with him—nervously, out of tune, but with laughter catching in your throat. He beamed like a fool, proud as ever.

“See ? That’s it !” He winked again, this time more gently, brushing your hair from your face as the final note died off.

You looked up at him, cheeks warm from singing, from laughing, from feeling again. And for a long moment, the two of you just sat there, close and quiet. Something delicate hung in the air between you—soft as lace and just as easily torn.

He tilted his head, eyes roaming your face like he was memorizing you. “Y’know,” he murmured, voice low now, “I think I like this version of ye best. All lit up and laughin’.”

Your breath caught slightly at the honesty in his tone. You reached for his hand—tentative, unsure—but he met you halfway and laced his fingers through yours. He then pulled you closer, resting his forehead against yours, his free hand still holding the fiddle between you. And outside, the world was quiet. Just the faint hum of the night and the echo of his song still lingering in the corners of the room.

He couldn’t believe how beautiful this was—this moment. He slowly put his hand on your waist. He was looking at you like he was seeing you for the first time. He whispered words in Gaelic, but his voice was soft and it was like he was just speaking to himself. You couldn’t understand what he was saying. The language was unfamiliar to you, but the way he said it…it was as if he was speaking a prayer.

He was looking at you with a different look in his eyes. He kept his hand on your waist, and he gently pulled you closer, putting his other hand on your chin and tilting your face up to his.

He leaned in and gently captured your mouth in his, and the kiss was so tender.

You closed your eyes. The kiss was soft, like he was scared you might break if he pressed too hard. It was a completely different kiss from the ones he had given you before. It was careful and thoughtful, like touching something precious and delicate. He was gently cradling your face in his hand, and tracing your features with his fingertips.

“Yer mine, right lassie ?”

You looked up at him, completely stunned by the pleading tone in his voice. His dark eyes were boring into you, and he was waiting for you to respond.

But then he pressed gently on your waist with his hand—insisting. “Right ?”

Your eyes fluttered and you suddenly had a moment of clarity. What was happening to you ? You had been kidnapped just nights before, and now…you were in the arms of the monster who had stolen your life away. And yet, you couldn’t seem to find the will to deny him.

You swallowed heavily and looked straight into his eyes as you finally replied. “Yes, I am.”

He let out a sigh of relief and closed his eyes, like he was thanking the universe for its gift. His hand was still on your chin, and he held you there for a moment, like he was savoring the moment. He then smiled and kissed your jaw.

“…Good. ‘Cause am yers too now, a ghrá.”

[aheathen-conceivably]

It was well past sunset by the time Josephine went to look for Gio. She was used to him staying out after dark; when they were in their cabin together it was constantly filled with tension, although the variety of which changed nearly every hour. She figured he did it for the same reasons she went out driving most afternoons, with some intention to either escape the next looming fight or to finally provoke it. But now, with the stars fully shining in an inky blue sky, she had begun to grow worried. 

Out on the porch she looked toward where his truck usually sat parked, unused and forgotten. She didn’t know what she had expected to see, but when she realized that it was there her heart skipped a beat like she had been afraid that it would have been gone. 

From inside the other house all the lights were dimmed except for a single lamp upstairs where Zelda was no doubt still reading. Jo’s gaze shifted rightward toward the corn field where somehow, she already knew that’s where he was.

A full moon above was conspiring with the stars to illuminate his face, although he seemed to be trying to hide it amidst the shadow of a hundred dead leaves. His hands and his legs were fully one with the red dirt below, like he had long ago stopped caring whether the coarse grains got into every fraying hole in his pants. It was hard for her to imagine what he could have been doing motionless and morose for so long, but then she felt the heavy weight of an aging quilt beneath her and saw a pile of dying flowers at her bedside; and then, she knew exactly what.

“I know it's all dead. You don’t have to remind me.”

She walked up to the haphazard hole in the fence, seemingly there more due to the fact that someone had run out of wood rather than to make the whole thing a proper enclosure. She stopped before walking past it, just as unnerved by the dead corn as she was by Gio’s posture on the ground. “I wasn’t. I came to ask you to come inside. Its freezing.”

He didn't seem to hear her request, or if he did, he simply didn’t care enough to answer it. “Zelda was here earlier. Found me a job. A Works Progress Job. Roadwork. Something. I don’t know.”

He picked up a handful of dirt which looked dry even in the bright moonlight. Good! For fuck’s sake stand up. You aren’t defeated. Stop acting like it. Stand up, have a drink, and move the fuck on. Instead she chose her words carefully, conscious of just how much he must have spiraled sitting out here alone for hours. Neither was it lost on her just how patient he had been when she had done the same. “I know it's not what you wanted but at least it pays, right? I - you know we have another payment and this won’t sell…”

Like sand in an hourglass the last grains of dirt fell from his clenched fist. “So that’s what you’re here for, is it? To kick me when I’m down? Skim another twenty five percent while you’re at it?”

She had brought up the topic dozens of times before, always aware that there was another deadline looming just over the horizon. But that hadn’t been her intention. Not this time. Not here. Something about the corn was making her uneasy. There was no breeze in the air, but the stalks still seemed to sway; or maybe it was just that she owned the majority of this dead ground now. 

“Oh for God's sake. Must we do this? I’ll pay it if I need to. You know I will. But then you will get the job and it will become something and it will all be better. Now can we please go inside?”

“Of course you will. What’s the cost this time?”

“Do we really have to do that now? Here? Gio, I’ll pay it the way I’ve always paid it. In return for half your share. I mean must we?”

“And then what happens after? Will you sell me back my shares? A loan, Jo. You said it was a loan.”

Something snapped inside of her and the sympathy that had been staying her hand melted away. “After? Do you seriously want to do this now? I only asked for the same thing you offered Antoine and you goddamn well know we would be fucked if I hadn’t. Every last one of us would be on the street without me and yet you want to run this race over and over again every time I bring it up. After!” 

A cruel laugh escaped her lips, like she was losing control of her perfectly pointed insults. “You don’t even know what after means! Some job. Fucking roadwork. At least I know where my next paycheck is coming from and I can promise you it's enough to pay for this shithole three times over no matter how many times this goddamn corn dies.”

Dry, red soil rained down around him as he slowly raised himself up off the ground. Surrounded by corn stalks standing beside him like sentinels, he looked her dead in the eyes, every last insult seemingly deflected from his dirt stained pants except for one. 

“Antoine's not my wife.”  

“I’m not your wife either, Gio.” 

A breeze must have come down from the far reaches of the mountains, because all around them the soft sound of dry leaves rang out. She knew that she had gone too far for seemingly no reason at all. That fight had been long settled, and she knew what he had meant. He’s not my partner. He’s not supposed to trust me and rely on me the way you are. The way I rely on you now, for everything.

The look of hurt in his eyes radiated across the field and she glanced down at the red dirt just past her feet. She had stayed on the other side of the fence almost subconsciously, not even realizing just how much she didn’t want to take even one step inside. But burying the unease in her chest, she walked into the rows, conscious that if she so much as brushed one of the dead leaves it would fall to the ground in noisy protest.

As she reached him, the pain written on his face twisted deep inside her stomach. She hadn’t wanted him to fail. Jesus Christ, especially not like this. She could still see him a decade before, lying in their bed half-clothed and wide eyed, rambling of his plans and his dreams that would never come to fruition. She was thankful that foresight hadn’t imagined this; and that that boy couldn’t see himself now, stained with defeat like the red dirt covering him from head to toe. For once in her life she wanted to break her back and scrub her fingers raw over the wash tub, cleaning every stain off of his clothes until they were fresh again.

“Listen I’ll go with you to the WPA office as soon as they need you to, alright? Before my next tour we can go together.”

The pacification in her words only seemed to partially thaw his anger, made deeper and colder by every dead stalk surrounding them. His placid silence was somehow just as unnerving as the corn, like they were linked somehow, and maybe the passion that her insults would have usually elicited had died with the leaves too.

She brought her hand to his cheek, and when she felt him lean into her touch, relief flooded her body. “You need sleep, okay? Let’s go inside. It will be better in the morning.” 

He nodded subtly, although his feet stayed locked in place. She ran her thumb back and forth along the line where his beard met the softness of his skin, watching as his eyes closed at the touch. She wanted bring her lips to his eyelids and both of her hands to his chin. Then she could cover the exhausted defeat on his face with her own skin, taking it from him little by little until he was himself again.

When he still didn’t move she ran her hand down the length of his arm, interlacing her fingers with his. “Come on. You can do this. I’m here with you. We'll do it together.”

Finally he lifted his leaden foot, both of them leaning onto the other’s shoulder as they left the dead corn behind them. But buried in a shallow grave between the rows was a question still hanging over their heads like an axe. Will you sell me back my shares, Jo?

Previous / Next

[spicytattoo]

Fuck, Marry, Kill

When a friendly game subtly increases the tension burning between Y/N and another fellow Yellowjacket.

The evening had started out innocent enough. Everyone’s spirits were higher than average after Natalie and Travis had returned earlier during the day with the bounties of a successful hunt hauled over their shoulders - It’s amazing how their happiness is now solely reliant on something they took for granted back home.

Shauna quickly prepared dinner, and with that the evening fell into a light and comfortable atmosphere, everyone was laughing and teasing each other with the same friendly comradery they usually displayed in the locker rooms after a soccer match - That is until Mari decided it would be fun to play a particularly daring game… Fuck, Marry, Kill to be exact.

…

The group is gathered close around the fire. Everyone’s a little sleepy, a little punchy. Misty just finished her turn.

Misty - ‘’ Okay, okay- Fuck Travis, Marry Coach Ben, and Kill Lottie’’

The group groans and laughs as she smugly answers. Then Van grins and turns to her side.

Van - ‘’Alright, Y/N. Your turn.’’

Y/N looks up from where they’re gently whittling a stick, slowly blinking in confusion.

Y/N - ‘’...My turn for what?’’

Taissa - ‘’Fuck, Marry, Kill. Come on.’’

Y/N - ‘’I-I don’t-’’

Natalie - ‘’You know the game. Don’t pretend you don’t.’’ Her teasing smirk adding more tension to the situation.

Mari - ‘’Let her pick from us! Ooh - Van, Nat, and me. Go.’’

Y/N’s eyes widen slightly. She stares into the fire, visibly computing. You can almost hear the dial-up tone in her head.

Y/N - ‘’Uh.’’

Akilah - ‘’She’s buffering.’’

Lottie - ‘’Oh my God, she’s blushing.’’

Y/N - ‘’I don’t want to kill anybody.’’ Her tone is soft and innocent as her eyes stay focused on the fire, hoping that the flames hide her internal meltdown.

Van - ‘’She’s too pure for this game. I change my answer, I will marry Y/N.’’

The whole group erupts into laughter. Y/N ducks her head, hiding a shy, crooked smile.

Y/N - ‘’Can I just… I don’t know. Make them all a nice dinner instead?’’

Natalie - ‘’That is not how this game works.’’

She reaches over and gently flicks Y/N on the arm. Teasing her.

Natalie - ‘’You’re so lucky you’re cute when you short-circuit.’’

LATER THAT NIGHT

The fire has burned low, and most of the group has trickled off to sleep. Y/N sits on the porch step of the cabin, strumming her guitar softly in the dark.

Natalie slips out, arms crossed, watching her for a moment.

Natalie - ‘’Still thinking about fuck, marry, kill?’’

Y/N - (quietly, without looking up) ‘’... It’s a cruel game.’’

Natalie - ‘’Cruel? Come on. You got off easy.’’

Y/N - ‘’I didn’t answer.’’

Natalie - ‘’Exactly.’’

She leans against the doorframe, a teasing smile tugging at her lips.

Natalie - ‘’But if it helps… I’d be fine with being two of the options.’’

Y/N stops playing. Her hand hovers mid-chord. She slowly turns her head.

Y/N - ‘’...Which two?’’

Natalie shrugs, almost too casual.

Natalie - ‘’Guess.’’

Y/N just stares at her. You can practically see the error message blink behind her eyes.

Y/N - ‘’I - I should… I should check the traps in the morning.’’ She attempts to change the subject and hide the not-so subtle blush that creeps onto her face.

Natalie - ‘’Mmhmm. You do that.’’

She pushes off the doorframe, grinning, and heads back inside - leaving Y/N completely stunned, guitar forgotten in her lap.

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

Thank you for reading! This is my first attempt at writing, so any feedback is appreciated. I hope to get some more stuff published soon, let me know if there is anything you want to see in particular.

[maxinehufflepuffprincess]

Fight

Yeon Si-eun x Reader x Ahn Su-ho

(So, whilst writing this. I realised I have no idea how to write a fight..so I kind of didn't, but also did a little bit.)

Taglist. Masterlist. Progress Update. Love at First Fight Collections.

Warnings: Violence, Cursing.

Summary: Si-eun has been taken by Young-bin, and Beom-Seok asks Su-ho for help.

You were happily holding onto Su-ho as you both headed toward the next destination for a delivery. It was one of the nights that you helped Su-ho with his deliveries. His bike came to a stop next to a bus. He honked the horn and waved at someone in the bus. It took you a moment before you realised who he was waving at, Si-eun. He lifted his visor before turning to lift yours.

Si-eun opened the bus window in confusion. He had been having a quiet bus ride before he heard the honk. He hadn’t been expecting to see his two guardian angels on Su-ho's bike. He watched as the two of you waved at him.

“Hi, honey.” Your voice came first. A small giggle left your lips. Si-eun was starting to realise that pet names were your thing. Though he didn’t recall you calling anyone other than Su-ho by such names. 

“Hey! What are you doin’ here? Were we married in another life? Anyway, where are you goin’?” Su-ho had asked. His words caused you to giggle.  

“Me? Home.” Si-eun’s voice hadn’t quite reached the two of you. 

“What?” Su-ho leaned closer to hear better.

“Home.” Si-eun repeated after looking around the bus.

“After cram school?” You asked him curiously. 

“Yeah.”

Su-ho leant forward, his arms resting on the handles. You leant forward with him, snuggling into your boyfriend’s warmth. Si-eun watched the two of you as you both watched him. It was oddly comfortable. Su-ho smiled lightly at Si-eun, causing the shorter male to let out a small, shaky breath. If either of you noticed, you didn’t show it. 

“I’m sorry.” Si-eun spoke, his voice sincere. 

“It’s okay. You were upset and angry. It’s water under the bridge.” You told him happily. 

“Are ya? You can buy me and my Princess a meal if you wanna apologise. Oh, the light. See you around.” Su-ho pulled down his visor. 

“See you at school, sweetheart!” You called out to Si-eun before lowering your own visor and holding onto Su-ho as he drove off.

—-------------------------

Something had shifted that morning. Whilst Su-ho slept on three desks, Si-eun came in as usual. However, instead of turning on the lights and opening the curtains, he sat and studied in the dark. Well, until you gave him your book light. He had watched you sit back in your seat, stroking Su-ho’s hair as you opened your Instagram to make a new post. 

Unlike Su-ho, you were pretty active on Instagram. Most of the pictures were of you and Su-ho. A lot were selfies or were pictures of Su-ho doing different things: sleeping, sitting on his bike, playing with animals, and at the gym. Most were in-the-moment pictures that show who he truly was. His smile. His tiredness. His kind nature. How silly he could be, his love for food. Pictures of your family. Some were food and drinks. You had a few pictures of different views around the city, of the sunset. Then there were random ones. Like the odd study picture or the latest book you were reading or the new plushie Su-ho won for you, or that one Stray Kids concert the two of you had gone to.

—-------------------------

Si-eun made his way over towards you and Su-ho. You had just finished packing your stuff when you noticed Si-eun walking over. He nodded at you as you smiled at him. 

“Hi, sweetheart.” He thought he would have minded all these sweet nicknames, but he didn’t mind at all. He had noticed you seemed to favour 'sweetheart'.

“I’m treating you both to lunch,” Si-eun told you. He watched as your smile softened. “You don’t have to do that.” 

Si-eun shook his head. “I want to.” He reached out and shook Su-ho’s shoulder once, twice. Nothing. 

You smiled brightly. “Like this.” You said moving closer to your boyfriend. You ran your fingers through his hair. “Hubby, time to wake up, my love.” You pressed a kiss to his cheek. 

Su-ho blinked away. He smiled seeing you in front of him. His gaze moved from you to Si-eun. He was a little confused as to why the male was standing there. “Hmm?”

“It’s lunch time.” Si-eun told him. 

Su-ho shook his head and lay his head back onto his pillow. “Mmm. Ah, I’m good.” 

“You wanted me to treat.” That had Su-ho’s head shooting up off his pillow. 

“Why are you looking at me like that? I won’t eat.” His head went back to his pillow. 

Si-eun let out a sigh before turning to look at you. His eyes are asking for your help. You nodded in response. 

“Babe, Si-eun is trying to be nice here. You need to eat. As soon as you’ve eaten, you can go back to sleep. I promise. Please come have lunch with us. Pretty please, my love.” As important as his sleep was, it was also equally important that he ate and drank.

—-------------------------

That was how the three of you found yourselves in the cafeteria. You and Su-ho sat side by side, and Si-eun was sitting across from you both.

“I wasn’t asking you to buy something expensive, but I can pay for my own school lunch.” Su-ho told Si-eun. You and Si-eun had already started eating. You have been thanked so many times. Because he truly didn’t have to do this, but he did anyway. 

You and Si-eun spoke up at the same time. 

“Then don’t eat it.” 

“Su-ho, be polite.” 

“I’ll eat it.” He took a big spoonful of rice and shoved it into his mouth.

“By the way. Why do you sleep here?” It had been a burning question in Si-eun’s mind. Every morning when he arrived at school, Su-ho was always there, sleeping. Sometimes you were there. Either sleeping on Su-ho’s chest or reading quietly beside him.

“Oh, I come here after my part-time job. If I went home, I wouldn’t wake up on time. My grandmas said it’s okay not to go to college, but I have to have perfect attendance and my high school diploma.” Su-ho explained. Si-eun looked between the two of you. 

“Are you music-obsessed or something? You’re always wearing earbuds. It’s kinda rude, bro.” Su-ho’s comment caused you to look at your boyfriend with a raised eyebrow. 

“You know what else is rude? Talking with a mouth full of food.” Su-ho swallowed his food before sticking his tongue out at you. “You’re a child.” You said flicking his nose.

“You love me.” Su-ho grinned as he kissed your cheek. Si-eun watched the two of you. He watched your cheeks become flushed. The way you both acted was so natural. 

“And convenient.” Si-eun spoke, looking down at his food.

“What?” You and Su-ho turned to look at Si-eun.

“It’s to prevent people from trying to talk to me.” The shorter male confessed. 

“You’re a freakin’ weirdo, you know that?” Su-ho continued eating. 

“You might want to look in a mirror.” Si-eun’s words caused Su-ho to let out a chuckle. You let out a laugh. It was fun seeing someone who could and would give Su-ho a run for his money. Someone who could match his comebacks. 

"You know, I could download some good songs for you." You told Si-eun with a bright smile.

Su-ho shook his head as if it were a terrible idea. "Don't do it. She'll only download her favourite Stray Kids songs and force you to listen to them on repeat. Save yourself, it's too late for me." He let out a laugh as you pushed his shoulder, a smile on your face.

—-------------------------

It was the end of the school day, and Su-ho was busy sleeping. You had set an alarm on your phone so that the two of you could leave, so that Su-ho could get some food before he had to go to work. You had promised him that you’d accompany him to the restaurant today, and you had insisted on helping out. 

You made your way to the classroom to see Su-ho. You had heard his voice yelling from down the corridor. The people in the room were watching your boyfriend. You stepped into the room.

“What’s going on? School’s done?” He asked. 

“Yeah.” One of your classmates spoke. 

“Why do you guys have to hurt my feelings? Nobody woke me up.” Su-ho was practically pouting. His pink pillow on his arm. 

“You had told us not to.” The same classmate had told him. 

“I did?” He didn’t remember that. “Can you wake me up in ten?” He sat back on his chair. 

“Babe, we have to go. If you want food, we need to get a move on. You can sleep on my couch whilst I cook.” You told him. You ran your hands on his shoulders and then onto his chest. You rested your chin on his shoulder.

“Ten more minutes, baby girl. Please?” You let out a sigh but nodded. “Alright. Ten more and that’s it.” 

—-------------------------

Beom-seok rushed into the classroom. His eyes landed on you and Su-ho. You looked up from your phone.

“Are you okay?” You asked him. 

“It’s Si-eun.” He told you as he shook Su-ho's shoulder. “Hey, Su-ho.” Your boyfriend stirred. “That asshole Yeong-bin took Si-eun somewhere.”

“What?” Su-ho asked, still waking up. 

“I said Yeong-bin took Si-eun somewhere.” Beom-seok repeated. His words caused you to stand up. 

“Yeah, and?” 

“What? You should help him, Su-ho. Don’t you think so? Don’t you do martial arts?” Beom-seok was confused. Why wasn’t Su-ho helping? 

“We’re not really that close, you know.” Su-ho replied. 

“Okay, but how close do you have to be to help him?”

“Go tell the homeroom teacher to help him. I have work.” Su-ho finally stood up. 

“Su-ho. Maybe we should go help. Si-eun could be in some serious trouble.” You told him, your voice was firm. It didn’t feel right walking away from this. From Si-eun.

“Darling, you know I have to get to work. Don’t give me that look. I’m sure he’s fine. We have to go.” Su-ho shook his head and began walking to the door.

“How about if I pay you?” You both looked at Beom-seok. “I’ll pay double.”

You and Su-ho shared a look. That was a lot of money to be offered. A part of you wished he’d help Si-eun because he wanted to, and not because of the money. However, you also understood why Su-ho would take the money. It meant more money to help his grandmother. It also meant extra money to put away in your future funds. 

Su-ho walked over to Beom-seok and bowed. “My pleasure, all right. At your service. Let’s go.” You grabbed your back and followed your boyfriend, Beom-seok, not far behind you.

The three of you made it to Su-ho’s bike. Su-ho put your helmet on your head and helped you fasten it. You didn’t need the help, but it was routine at this point. He then passed his helmet to Beom-seok. You got on the bike behind Su-ho, your hands finding his waist. Beom-seok then got on the bike behind you. 

—-------------------------

Thankfully, you had found them. You and Su-ho ran into action. You watched as Su-ho ran towards the group of bullies. He used Tae-hoon’s body as a springboard and kneed Yeong-bin in the face. Causing him to fall to the floor. He then spun and kicked Tae-hoon in the face, making him also fall to the ground. 

“Oh, that was hot.” Su-ho heard your voice. He preened and grinned at you.

Su-ho looked down at Si-eun on the ground, who was coughing. “Are you okay?” He asked as he held out a hand to the male. Si-eun lay there panting for a moment, causing Su-ho to speak up again. “Ugh, my arm is hurting.” That had Si-eun moving. He placed his hand in Su-ho’s, and the taller male helped him up. You helped to fix Si-eun's grey jacket as Su-ho turned to face the group.

“You can stop now. Okay?” The three of you walked away. Su-ho made sure that you and Si-eun were in front of him. “Come on, we’ll get you cleaned up, Sweetheart.” You told Si-eun, concern filled your voice. 

“Hey.” A voice came from behind the three of you, causing Su-ho to turn. Su-ho was able to dodge the punch that was thrown at him. You were so focused on Su-ho that you didn’t notice Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dumb walking towards you and Si-eun. 

Si-eun did notice, however. He pulled you softly behind him before taking off his backpack and aiming for the two. Jung-chan managed to get Si-eun to the floor when he was distracted. The two began stomping on him, and Si-eun used his bag to protect himself. 

“Leave him alone, you fucking twat.” You harshly kicked Tae-hoon away from your friend. You were lifted off the ground by Yeong-bin. “Get off me!” The male threw you to the floor, causing a pained yelp to leave your lips. Yeong-bin walked over to some bottles and picked one up. Both you and Su-ho noticed this. Su-ho was still in the middle of a fight, and though he tried to go over, his opponent wouldn’t let him. 

You pushed yourself off the ground and ran towards Yeong-bin. He noticed you. “Grab the bitch.” Tae-hoon did as he was told and grabbed you by your hair, pulling you closer to himself. Yeong-bin smirked when he heard you scream. He raised the bottle over Si-eun when he was suddenly knocked over as Beom-seok came out of nowhere and ran full pelt at the bully, hitting him with the helmet.

Su-ho got up from the ground and made his way to Tae-hoon. He tapped his shoulder, causing the male to look at him. “Don’t touch my girl.” He slammed his fist into the male's face, causing him to let you go. No one touches you and gets away scot free.

Su-ho wrapped an arm around your waist, pulling you close to him. He looked over at Beom-seok. “Nice hit.” He then turned to face the trio of school bullies. “All you guys, aren’t you embarrassed about ganging up on him? If it were me, I’d die of humiliation. My girl would be a widow.” He stated. He watched as you held a hand out to Si-eun. The quiet male stared at your hand for a moment before slipping his hand into yours and letting you guide him to your side.  

“Hyeong,” Yeong-bin spoke, looking at the male who had been fighting with Su-ho. “What’s up? What’s next?”

Su-ho let out a sigh. “Hi there.” He waved at the males who were getting closer. “Your hyeong must be embarrassed.” 

Said guy sighed and began to walk away. “Let's call it a day.”

“Look, he’s leaving,” Su-ho stated as he shoved his free hand into his pocket.

Si-eun looked at the male with the busted nose. “Jeon Yeong-bin. Enough. Just stop.”

Su-ho turned. “Let’s go.” He kept his arm around your waist as he led you back to the bike. Since you had hold of Si-eun’s hand, the male also followed. Beom-seuk followed after the three of you, coming to stand on Si-eun's other side. 

Su-ho leaned across you as the four of you walked. He grabbed Si-eun’s injured hand. “It’s pretty scraped up. Baby can fix that up for you.” 

“Stop it.” The shorter male spoke. 

“Hey, I have a name.” You told your boyfriend, your voice full of sass and tease. Su-ho grinned. “Opps, sorry. My wife can fix that up for you.” He pressed a kiss to your cheek. 

“You did good, darling. That kick, very sexy” That made you flustered. 

As the four of you got back to the bike. “I’m hungry after all of that.” Your boyfriend spoke. “Let’s go eat. I know an awesome place we can go. Time you pay your bill, hmm?” He asked Beom-seok. 

Su-ho let you go to help you put on your helmet. He then got onto the bike. You slipped on behind him. Beom-seok didn’t get on, he turned to look at Si-eun who had let go of your hand. 

“Hop on.” Su-ho told him.

“I have cram school.” Si-eun replied. 

“Come on. We came to your rescue, and that’s all we get? Not even a thank you? This place is really good.” Si-eun and Su-ho locked eyes. Si-eun wasn’t sure. He really had to get to cram school. “Alright, time for the big guns.” Su-ho turned to you. “Work your magic, sweetheart.” He pleased, lifting your visor. 

You looked at Si-eun as you held up Su-ho’s helmet. “Pretty please, Si-eun. At least let me clean up your hand. I promise you won’t regret coming with us. I know it’s illegal for four people to be on a bike together, but I promise, Su-ho has never had an accident. He’s always super safe when he drives. Plus, the restaurant isn’t too far, so we’ll be okay. Good food, good company. We’ll understand if you don’t want to come with us, but I really hope you do join up.” You said your pretty eyes sparked as you held out your boyfriend’s helmet to the male. 

Si-eun looked between you and your boyfriend. You had both bulldozed your way into his life. Though a part of him couldn’t say he was sad about that fact. Maybe just this once, he could skip cram school. Oh, maybe he was going to regret this later on. However, the male looked at the three of you. “Fine.” He sighed. 

You and Su-ho high-fived and helped Si-eun with the helmet. He sipped on behind you, Beom-seok went on behind Si-eun. It was a tight squeeze, but it would do.

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

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[godmadeaterribleerror]

Chapter 21 - If You Want To Survive

Series Masterlist - Main Masterlist

Author's Note: This week on Babylon - long distance relationships!

Chapter Title from Dog Days by Florence + the Machine

Word Count: 18.5k

Chapter Summary/Warnings: You run, and Dean waits. Usual Warnings.

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

Chapter 20 - Chapter 22

Read on A03!

“You’re doing it wrong.”

You know you’re doing it wrong. Your feet are dangling off the edge of the bench, and your fingers are still a little swollen from when you slammed them into the door, and you’re trying but you don’t know how to do it right-

“Hey. Breathe.” Rufus grunts your name, prying your hand from the strings of the guitar. “Nothin’ bad about to kill us right now. This ain’t life and death, it’s a fuckin’ guitar-“ 

He cuts himself off, scanning over your open face with a long sigh.

“Don’t tell Bobby I swore at ya. He’s been reading a bunch of parenting books. They’re all sayin’ swearing is bad for kids.”

“I’m not a kid-“

“Yeah, you are. Or at least he’s tryin’ to let you be.”

“That’s why he won’t let me do hunts, isn’t it.”

Rufus snorts, shaking his head. “No, you’re not allowed to hunts cause no kid should be doin’ hunts.”

“What about the boys staying at home?” You raise your chin, narrowing your eyes. “John’s sons. The older one hunts. I heard Bobby complaining to you about it.”

“You eavesdroppin’ on us now?”

“I- No-“ You get a pointed look, and bow your head to frown at your feet.

You’d liked these socks. They were fuzzy and covered in little rainbows, and you’d always kept them at Rufus’ because they made you feel better. You show up at his doorstep covered in a bit of dirt, with everything prying apart in your body and something dark in your body trying to seep out of your skin into the world, but it’ll be okay. Rufus will help you inside and make you some food, you’ll get a long bath, as much chocolate as you want, and your fuzzy socks.

But it doesn’t stop hurting.

It’s never fucking stopped hurting.

“I- I was.” You swallow, grinding your fingers further into the strings of the guitar. “I’m sorry.”

Rufus only laughs. “I don’t give fu- crap. Good you got away with it, too. Doin’ better than a lot of other hunters already.”

Your eyes widen. “Other-“

“Your family is hunters. You’ve got hunter in your blood.” Rufus sighs, running a hand over his face. “If we get say in it, you’re not gonna need to hunt. But Bobby don’t listen when I tell him that might not be his choice. But-“ Rufus’ voice turns firm, his eyes locking onto yours. “Don’t try nothin’ when you still can’t touch the fu- freakin’ ground.”

He bumps your feet with a small grin, and you return it, even if it’s toothless and nervous. 

And you don’t have hunter in your blood. Rufus knows that you don’t have anything but insanity in your blood. But he’s never treated you like you’re anything less than Bobby’s daughter.

You wish you were. That you’d come from him rather than the darker, twisted horror you were born into, with too clean floors, never enough food—despite the sheets being silk and the floor being marble, you’d never had enough food—and no fuzzy socks.

Still, you didn’t know how to just wait. How to just sit in the fucking pain like it had to be a given—it might be—and wait for your feet to hit the ground. You don’t think they understand how much it hurts. And how if it doesn’t hurt, you’ll make everything else hurt instead. How you can’t be trusted anywhere, and you might not deserve this kindness, and you still have nightmares about big and smooth hands wrapping around your throat and telling you it’s time.

“John Winchester’s sons have hunting blood.” You mumble, glaring back to the carpet, and Rufus sighs, giving you an almost amused look.

“You ain’t droppin’ this, are you?”

“It’s not fair-“

“Nothin’ is fair. And those boys shouldn’t be huntin’ at all.”

“But they do-“

“Only when their Daddy’s got no one better.” Rufus mutters, and you frown at him. “John drops ‘em with Bobby when he’s not looking for company on a hunt. And if he is, he takes Dean like the boy ain’t thirteen.”

Dean. The big one is named Dean.

And somewhere through the swirling fog of the world, there’s an iridescent light that whining and howling and aching. It’s hurts almost as much as the Darkness does. 

Did. 

You’re a little dizzy, and you know that when this happened, Dean was nothing more than a name. You think he was nothing more than a name. You might have felt the White rolling and humming for him, even then. 

“I’m not that much younger-“

“That ain’t the point-“

“And John takes both of them hunting all the time! And I’d know more! I have all the lore memorized, and I- I could fight-“

“You can’t shoot.”

“I could try-“

“No, ya couldn’t. I remember when you just saw Bobby’s gun, kid.”

“But I’d get over it- And if the Winchester’s can do it-“

“It don’t matter what those boys can do. You’re not like ‘em.” Rufus mutters your name, the look on his face almost sad. “And John- You know Bobby don’t want you near him for a reason. And I agree. Even if we were pro baby-hunters, you know you can’t be out there.”

“But- I- I can’t- I don’t-“ You take a shaking breath, the dark thing starts to twist around in your body, all your skin itching with the pain of keeping it down. “It hurts-“

“I know it hurts.” Rufus sighs, guiding your fingers back to the guitar strings. “That’s why we’re doin’ this.”

You shake your head, trying to curl back into your body. “I don’t wanna-“

Rufus grunts your name, giving you a firm look. “We keep doin’ this, or I tell Bobby ‘bout the door.”

You’d swallow, your eyes wide on his and he lets out a long sigh.

“There are ways to deal with it that don’t hurt, kid. I’m just tryin’ to find you some.”

“Ways like drinking?” You wrinkle your nose at him, and Rufus lets out a dry chuckle.

“Nah. I’m not a preacher, I don’t gotta practice what I’m sellin’. Go back to g-cord.”

You shift your fingers, but pause, staring ahead as the light turns in your body. 

It still hurts. Everything always hurts, and you feel small, and you’re safe here but it still feel like you’re being ripped in half. And you love staying at Rufus’, but it hurts, and it doesn’t matter that if you go back home you might get more hurt. You’re already hurting, and you- You don’t know what to do with all this fucking pain-

“I wanna go home.” You whisper, your eyes starting to sting, and Rufus only sighs.

He’s used to the swings. To the way it becomes too much, and you grow small.

You wish you could control it. Be better. Be more than a sick fucking problem, but it’s all you are. All you’ve ever been. And you want to go home.

“I know,” Rufus mutters, squeezing your shoulder carefully. “But you can’t, kid. Not until it’s safe.”

The world starts to shift, the fog around you glowing and bathing everything in a softer light, and your feet can touch the ground again. 

When this had happened, Rufus meant safe for you. That you could go home when it wouldn’t end with John Winchester putting a bullet through your brain. 

Now John was long dead, and you- 

You were still so fucking sick. There wasn’t hunter in your blood, there was power. Power and a long, long line of horrible, wrong creatures that even Heaven hated. You may be holy, but it might be the way the plagues of Egypt were holy. Wrathful and awful and vengeful. Sick and destructive and wrong.

You’re so fucking wrong, so home isn’t safe from you.

Nothing is safe from you, and the horror you bring. 

And you want your feet to go back to being too small. To having little blisters on your fingers from holding the guitar, instead of whatever put them there now. You’d only read books because it passed the time, and you didn’t think twice about the notes you were writing, and home was somewhere you could return to.

You want to go home. 

To return to not knowing that John would’ve been right. Being afraid of him was always so much easier than being afraid of yourself. It would be so nice to go back to this. It was lonely but simple. You were filled with sickness, but it poisoned only yourself.

But Rufus would’ve always said Dean, and you would’ve always felt the White howl.

You miss him most of all. 

“Where are we?”

You sigh, dropping your head to the side on his shoulder. It’s always a little like you summon him, and then he’s there. Warm and Golden and almost real.

Almost.

“I’m learning how to play guitar.” You mumble, strumming a smooth key that comes out twangy and weak, because that’s how it had sounded when this actually happened. 

Dean chuckles, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. “Wow. You’re kind of shit at it.”

“That’s the learning part, Deano.” You twist to prop your chin on his shoulder, and his grin is wide. Strong. Happy. “Hi.”

His grin grows, a hand rising up to hold your face. “Hi, Princess. You look good.”

“You always say I look good.”

“Well that’s cause I’m not a liar, sweetheart.”

You snort. “Shut up.”

“So bossy,” he hums, tracing his thumb over your cheekbones, and everything but Dean is fading into the background. Even your memory of Rufus is being painted in Gold. Just to remind you.

Dean isn’t here. Not really. But you still love him. And it’s still all the way down.

“How do I look?”

You scan over his face, with heavy bags until his eyes and a slightly swollen cheek. 

When you reach up to trace a hand over it, he doesn’t flinch. Dean just lets out a soft sigh, and leans into your touch.

“Tired, De.” You whisper, and he chuckles.

“Haven’t been sleeping good. Fighting with Sammy again.” He pauses, his voice growing a little hoarse. “Miss you. Wish Cas would tell me where he dropped you, so I could come carry you home.”

“I know. I- I do too.” 

And you do. 

Because if Dean tracked you down and tried to carry you home, you’d never fight it. You’d always just go, because you love him, and it’s not indulging or making it about you if Dean’s demanding it. 

“I miss you.” You mumble, and everything is starting to wash away. Leaking with a light that hurts to look at, the bench and Rufus flickering in and out like a mirage on water.

There’s a loud, blaring sound, coming from far, far away, and you have to go. 

Dean must know it too, because his grip tightens. “Come home. I- So much shit is happening and it’s all freakin’ insane, and you’d know what to do. You always know and I fuckin’ miss you, baby, please come ho-“

The alarm rips through the world, crashing through everything you can see, and Dean vanishes.

You shoot up in your bed and let out a loud groan. The frame is so fucking small, and your legs are cramping, and the sound is still fucking going-

“Fuck.”

Your mumble is mostly to yourself.

There’s no one else to hear it anyway.

The month since you left hasn’t exactly been spent making friends. It’s been research and moving and finding ways to keep yourself afloat.

Cas had dropped you in Rome, and apparently didn’t stop to consider that you don’t fucking speak Italian. It had helped that most people here spoke English, but after about a week you’d gotten sick of not being able to read anything, and gotten—technically stolen, with Dean’s voice in your head humming I thought you weren’t a criminal, Princess—an Italian for Beginners book.

It’s mostly been tourist phrases. Where is the bathroom. How do you say taxi. I do not speak Italian.

You’ve used that last one liberally. 

And you don’t talk that much, all together. There seems to be a drastic shortage of monsters to hunt and a beautiful plenty of books to read, so you’ve focus all your energy there.

On looking for answers.

About anything. Lilith. The seals. Heaven. The Magdalenes. Witches.

You.

Everything you learn about yourself is something you had to teach. You can’t feel anything holy, but you can’t really feel a lot right now. It’s all just a lot of fucking pain. And as you force yourself out of bed for the day, your gaze falls to your hands, and you can still see it. 

Pastel blue. Glistening and crystallized on your fingers. The Gold has faded slightly, but the Blue is still clinging to you. Whenever you wash your hands, you’re afraid it’s going to run away with the water. When you wake up, there’s a dread in the pit of your stomach that you’ll glance down, it will fall off like an icicle from a roof. Maybe it will have been wiped away in your sleep, stained on the sheets, never to be returned. 

And then it’s there, and the dread shifts to just more fucking pain. Your eyes sting, and you freeze on the edge of the bed as you stare at it. The last bit of Jo, bled onto you when she-

Bile rises in your throat, and you swallow it back down. 

You don’t deserve it. You don’t deserve to be sad when you did this to her. Made Jo nothing more than a little bit of a mark on your fingers that no one else can see. Ellen didn’t get a little bit of Jo to carry all the time. 

Ellen didn’t even get to be there when it happened.

Jo wants you to tell Ellen something. And you’d cut her off, because you’re a fucking parasite, and you’d been so sure you could fix it. You would’ve done anything to fix it, but the Sky wouldn’t let you, and now she was gone-

A weak, sniffling noise escapes your throat, and this time there’s no bile. It’s only a heavy, crushing weight around your skull, and a searing feeling as your nails dig into your skin.

You need to move.

Most mornings, it takes too long to remember how.

And it’s never anything spurring you into action. You’re numb and hollow and breathing only because you have to, and then it all settles down and you move.

It’s mechanical. Sleep shirt off and in the backpack. Top. Bottoms. Socks and shoes and jacket. Your knife, spin it once in your hands just to move, then tuck it against your body. 

Go. 

You have to move and go, because you promised you’d be okay, and turning to stone is no way to be okay.

You don’t remember how to be okay either. 

But you’ll get through it. 

You always do.

You’d had to leave the city within a few days. There were too many people, too many colors, all of it bleeding together like a kaleidoscope or supernova and making you dizzy. Too many not-smells, giving you a migraine. The countryside was better. Quieter. Sometimes there was golden light reflecting in the rivers, and you got to pretend you could grab it and keep it. 

And there are less people to hurt, if something goes wrong. 

Because something always goes wrong. 

Even when your day is just reading and scratching notes in the corner of a library, something will find a way to go wrong.

Maybe that’s part of the Magdalene curse. Maybe angels and demons can’t kill you, but the world just shifts and rots around you from your presence. You are made of the same thing as Lilith, and she made things as wrong as they could possibly be. Maybe this ends with you either destroying the world, or imploding onto yourself. 

You’re closer to the second. You’re tired, and your teeth hurt, and every shadow is longer than you thought possible. The pencil is heavier than it should be in your hand, and you can’t tell if there’s something in the air or if your lungs simply can’t figure out how to breathe anything but iron. Your skin feels wrong on your body, but you can’t remove it or that final bit of Jo in the world will vanish.

You miss Dean. You miss him all the time. There’s no one here to hold you until you sleep, no one to calm you down when the souls start to swarm around you, and it’s like you’re being drowned. Nobody is making you drink water or eat through the grief, and some days you’ve just been forgetting until you stand up and almost fall over.

Then you have to steady yourself, but no one is as good at steadying you as Dean is. 

You love him. And every time you wake up from a dream—just like this morning—you could swear you could fucking smell him. On the air around you, stronger than the cotton and dry wood of your room. You’ve stopped wearing perfume, so that it can linger on the edge of the air through the day. 

But you’ve stopped doing a lot of things.

It’s why, when something goes wrong, nothing riots in your body to warn you. The most you get is a faint tug from the right of your chest, and then it’s too late.

“Look at what we have here.” A taunting, male voice crows over your shoulder, and your blood goes cold. 

You don’t have to turn to know that it’s something evil. You can hear it in the drawl of his words. Fucking smell it, metallic and rotten on the air, like blood and-

Sulfur.

Fuck-

Two hands close over your shoulders, pinning you down to the chair, and a cold breath fans over your neck.

“Took me so long to find you. Don’t move an inch, darling. We’re just here to have a conversation, and I might not be able to kill ya’, but I don’t think you can kill me either, can you.” The demon laughs. “I think you might be havin’ some performance issues.”

You swallow, trying to force your voice to stay even. “Would you want to bet on that?”

The demon laughs. “Why don’t we find out? I’ve been dyin’ to get my hands on you, princess.”

There’s a prickling, burning, white-hot feeling on wrong over your heart. 

Only Dean calls you that. Only Dean is allowed to call you that, because he says it with a teasing voice, but there’s always something under it that makes your body relax and the Spiderweb glow. It’s made of something soft and a little intoxicating. He says it as if he believes it. As if it’s not just a joking nickname that stuck, but a title. 

The demon says it like he knows how wrong it is. Like he’s slicing you open and driving a poker right into the Spiderweb, then laughing as it whines for something you both know it can’t have. Dean’s across the ocean, and you’re not a princess. Dean might look at you and see more than a monster, but the demon isn’t fooled. 

He knows what you are.

Like him.

Worse than him.

Demons are turned from years of torture. Demons are evil, but at least they were once human. 

You’ve never been anything but sick. You were born twisted. And you’d never asked Cas if Lilith’s daughters were born before or after she became a demon.

You don’t really want to find out.

“Calm down, sweetheart. Can fuckin’ taste your fear.” The demon sneer in your ear. “And there’s no need to get hysterical. You get to be special again. For once, I ain’t here looking for that delicious panic and pain.”

You don’t want to be special. You just want to go home. 

You just want Dean.

“What- Why are you-“

“I just thought I’d come see what all the fuss is about.” The demon hums, rising back up. “I’ve heard so much about you. And darlin’, the stories aren’t doing you justice.”

The demon rounds the table, and your nails dig into the scar on your palm. 

He’s like Lilith.

A little darker of a gray, but smooth. Refined. Nothing bursting out of where he wants it to be, and he’s fucking hideous and hateful and wearing it like a badge. Every shift of him is like a raised chin and a sneer.

You recognize him. You can’t place how, but you do.

“Dean needs to get better at tellin’ stories.” The demon hums, and even his vessel is twisted in a horrible, crude smirk. “Even all his fawnin’ and whinin’ didn’t manage to capture just how perfect you are.”

It’s so fucking wrong. In a way worse than Lilith, every fiber of your existence knows this demon is fucking wrong. And the Spiderweb hates him. It’s crawling and twisting in your body like it’s trying to fucking hide, stinging and whining as if just the demon’s presence makes it feel sick.

And he’d said Dean. 

He knows Dean. 

You do know him. 

The pieces snap together in a second, and you’re moving the next. Grabbing your knife out of your jacket and flying across the table, driving the blade right into the Alistair’s chest. 

Nothing happens. Alistair just laughs, pulling the knife out of his chest and examining it with a smirk.

“This that knife Dean got you, isn’t it.” Alistair raises his brows at you, and sighs when you only glare at him. “I’m tryin’ to have a conversation with you, you know-“

“I don’t want to have a conversation with you.” Your words are spat, and Alistair just rolls his eyes.

“There’s those dramatics I’ve heard about you havin’. Always so emotional,” he hums your name, sliding the knife back across the table. “I was building up to a compliment, sweetheart. Dean had good taste. I can feel a lot of anger and fear on that thing.”

The bile is back. It’s spilling into your voice. “What the fuck are you here for. I’ve stopped interfering-“

Alistair scoffs. “I don’t care about that. I woulda preferred you stick around, but Lilith said it wouldn’t work out in our favor if ya did. Shame. I was really lookin’ forward to killing Dean in front of you, then seeing what type of pain you’re really capable of causin’.”

“I-“ There’s something tight and horrible around your throat. “I’m not-“

“Yeah, you are.” Alistair smirks, scanning you over once more. “You want to know Dean’s worst nightmare?”

You really don’t. You’re only clinging to your knife like maybe it will summon Dean to your side, trying to wait Alistair out. 

The only other option is stirring deep, deep in your body. Starting to pick up and roll around. Shining bright enough to split through that gaping, infinite void of too much and nothing at all that seems to follow you with death.

And you can’t use the other option. So you just have to fucking hold on, and last through this new, awful thing.

“That boy has always been a little more creative than is good for him.” Alistair smiles, almost fondly, and you want to punch out his teeth. “Made him a beautiful subject, and a perfect student. But sometimes he’d get cold feet. All sad and whiny ‘bout hurtin’ people. But all I’d have to do is show him that nightmare of his. Dragged it from his head after about a year, and- Well, why don’t we just look together. Brace yourself, sweetheart. It’s a good one.”

Alistair reaches up, and before you can stop him, his hand is pressed to your brow.

You’re back in Hell. The screams and heat and colors running below your feet.

Not your feet. 

Lower than your feet. 

You’re suspend, on the same rack that you’ve seen before. And Dean’s right there. Golden, but tattered and mauled and frozen. Just staring at you, as something gray and horrible runs over your body, and you want to scream but you can’t breathe, and Dean’s still not moving.

The Gold is rioting, but Dean’s not moving.

Alistair laughs in your ear, and the Gold seems to be trying to press out, to get to you, but then it hits an invisible barrier, and Dean doesn’t move. 

You don’t think he can.

When the library comes back into focus, you’re panting. Every breath is too fast and short, your grip on the table driving splinters into your hands, and you can’t fucking breathe-

“Warned you.” Alistair hums, and his voice is driving right into your fucking brain. 

All you can see is Dean. Frozen, watching you with fear.

Dean was never afraid. He was angry and worried and stressed, but you’d never seen him look only afraid.

The Spiderweb is almost whimpering, shimmering with a soft light and still trying to bury itself deeper than Alistair can hurt it.

But the Silver-

It’s starting to move. To wake up.

Fuck.

“I’m gonna tell you a secret, darlin’. That little nightmare? It always was fun to feed, but it’s never gonna be the plan. I’m thinking, when we win and I get to take you home, we’ll find wherever the reapers stored sweet little Jo, and pull her out. To join the party, you know?”

The Silver rears its head. And you’re drawing blood on your skin, but your nails are short and chipped, and you still can’t really breathe-

“And then I’ll give Dean a choice. He can either torture Jo while you watch, or I’ll make his nightmare come true.” Alistair laughs to himself, and the Silver is starting to climb up. 

Or curve in. Building up by caving in. Like a fucking black hole, crushing down so it can-

“And he’ll choose you. He’ll hate himself for it, but you’re his girl. His Princess. He ain’t gonna do anythin’ that’ll hurt you. Not on purpose.”

The Silver is so close. But there are people here. People and animals, and a- You saw a fucking teenager, and she had a walk that kind of reminded you of Sam’s-

“But here’s the kicker,” Alistair says your name like you’re old friends. “After he finished chopping up Jo, I’d freeze him just like in his nightmare. And I wouldn’t touch you. That’s boring. If I’m makin’ art like this, I’m making it the right way.”

It’s going to fall out of your mouth. You can’t fucking control it, and all the Silver can feel is the pain of the Spiderweb, so all it knows is something’s wrong and you can’t stop it-

“No, here’s what I’ve got lined up instead. Good ol’ Sammy will be walkin’ around up here, well,” Alistair laughs. “His body will be. But point is, can’t use him. And I think what I’m left with will work better anyway.” Alistair’s smoke moves back into that ugly fucking smile, and the Silver reaches a stasis. A silence.

A split second before the storm.

“I’ll drag good ol’ Daddy Winchester out to play. Let him do whatever he wants, while Dean’s watchin’. And maybe it’ll just be what Dean did to Jo, but you never know.” Alistair smirks. “Those men of god never could resist a Magdalene.”

Everything stills. Moves to match the stasis of the Silver, and it’s almost serene. You’re everything, and it’s all waiting for you. The walls will fall to shield you. The wind will turn to a hurricane to protect you. The grass outside will grow and flourish to protect you.

And the Sky is smiling at you. You can feel it, and not just watching.

Over you. Shining with praise, because this, this is that holy wrath you’re supposed to have all the time. 

You don’t fucking want it.

You just want to go home.

Alistair smiles at you again, a second before you lose control.

“There you are.” 

You don’t know how he gets away in time. You can’t tell through how you’re everything, and you can’t see anything but the blur.

All you know is that you explode.

Detonate.

Destroy.

The Silver razes through all it can reach.The building turns to ruin, rivers of blood run under your feet—although, as far as you can see, there are no bodies—and the forests and walls start to bloom with flowers and plants you’ve never seen before. 

They’re beautiful. Strangely shaped and delicate, glowing softly and filled with an iridescent light. 

But it’s all beautiful. 

The apples hanging from the ceiling are beautiful. The small, condensed bits of life floating through the room are beautiful. The countryside, now littered with pastel blue roses, is beautiful. 

And the souls stained on the walls are beautiful, too. 

And you have to go.

The angels will be here soon.

That must be the real reason Alistair was looking for you. He’d taunted you right to the fucking edge, then pushed you over. Forced you to lose control, and send up that loud, neon signal telling Heaven I’m here! Come and get me!

And you’ve been so fucking careful not to draw attention, but it’s not really up to you anymore.

Because the Silver’s been like this since Jo. Dormant and silent until it’s forced to move, and then reactionary. Worse than a live wire, worse than a sickness, worse than a monster.

Damnation. 

That must be why the angels are still after you, even though you did what they asked. Even though you left.

Zachariah had said to muzzle you.

And you weren’t muzzled.

You were feral.

And now you have to run again.

But you don’t want to be the sickness. You don’t want to be what the Sky keeps demanding of you. Blinking down over you and asking doesn’t it feel good, to have this kind of might in your body, to not be burdened by things lower than you are?

Nothing is lower than you are. They might not be talking to the Sky, but it’s lonely. Higher than anything else, but that seems to be more of a curse than a gift. And all the things it keeps telling you are lower are made of more than the Sky is. Every soul spilled on the ground around you is a little dented and tainted, but it’s beautiful.

It’s all so beautiful. 

You need to go. It’s not safe for you to stay. 

But you do. For longer than you should allow, you grab every soul you can and shove it back into its body. And you can’t heal them. Can’t fix whatever damage the Silver has done, because you can’t call it forward to mend what it broke. They’ll be alive, but maybe different. Maybe completely morphed, maybe just a little cracked, maybe shattered beyond repair. But they’ll be alive. And even if you could fix them, the Sky might decide you were overstepping again, and rip them right back out. 

It never stops you from cleaning, though. From finishing your little ritual. It shines in warning, but you flip it off.

“You’ve got something you want from me,” you hiss, narrowing your eyes. “Come and get it your fucking self.”

It doesn’t.

It just keeps watching.

So you run.

You don’t stop until dusk. Until you’re sure you’re far enough away that whatever angels Heaven sent won’t find you. 

And this is how it is now. You move from town to town like some sort of phantom. You miss Dean every second, but you can’t go home. You dodge angels and read in the dead of night, staring at your phone and willing it to-

You jump out of your skin a little, when the screen lights up. 

Possible Spam.

You’ve never picked up the phone faster.

Dean’s shouting your name through the speaker, when the call connects. There’s something strained in his voice. Almost distressed.

You raise your voice, just enough to get through to him. “De-“

“Oh, thank fucking- Son of a bitch, sweetheart, I- Are you good? Safe?”

“I’m fine.” You draw your knees up to your chest, trying to make your voice sound light. “It’s just- Long day-“

“I know about Alistair.” 

You freeze, and Dean’s voice grows a little hoarse. 

“He admitted it. Told me he’s seen you. It’s- We’re working one of the seals and he’s here, and I- He said-“

“He didn’t hurt me.” You whisper, squeezing your eyes shut. “He was just taunting me. Trying to make me- You know. Do the thing.”

Dean’s silent for a long, heavy second. “Happened again, huh.”

“Yeah.”

“Any progress on-“

“No.”

Dean lets out a dry laugh. “You didn’t even let me finish talking.”

“I-“ You swallow, a heavy lump starting to form in your throat. “I’m sorry-“

“Hey, wait, don’t- I’m teasing you, sweetheart.” Dean’s voice is so gentle. You can almost see the slightly panicked look on his face. “Don’t cry, it’s okay, you’re good-“

You’d been trying not to cry.

You really had. 

But you miss him. And you’re so fucking tired.

It’s impossible to swallow the choked sounds or whimpers. The sniffling as you wipe your nose with your sleeve, or the heavy breathing as a weight pressed onto your chest. You don’t want Dean to hear. You know he’s still dealing with the seals, and an angry Bobby—although Dean won’t admit they’re fighting about you, you know they are—and a Sam that’s still working with Ruby. He doesn’t need to hear you cry when you’re the one who fucking left. You’re the one who wouldn’t stay. 

You’d hated Dean so long for leaving you, so many years ago.

But then you fucking left him.

And he’s staying on the phone with you. Not speaking, but humming low and deep as your head drops to your knees, and your breathing evens out.

It’s steady.

Ragged and impossible, but steady. 

“De- I-“ You swallow, wiping your cheeks with your palm. “I wanna go home. I miss Bobby and Sam and I- I don’t know what to do. I miss you, and I can’t sleep, and I-“

I love you.

You’re not allowed to say it.

So you just strangle yourself on the sound, and hold the phone as close to your ear as you can.

“I know.” Dean’s voice is a rasp through the speaker, and it makes a new wave of tears fall. “Just come home, Princess- I- Fuck, I’ll call Cas and he’ll come get you right now-“

“I can’t.” You whisper. “You know I can’t.”

“But-“

“Please. Don’t.”

Dean can’t beg you to come home. 

If he does, just as always, you’d listen.

“Did-“ Dean clears his throat, and you’re grateful. He listened. “What did Alistair say to you? To set it off?”

You can’t tell Dean what Alistair really said. He’d drive himself mad about it. Doing something reckless, get himself hurt. And all of this is always just so Dean doesn’t get hurt.

But you can’t lie to him either. 

“Jo.” You mumble, leaning back and rubbing at your wrists. “You. Sam. Just- What he’d do, if they win.”

“Fucking bastard.” Dean mutters, and you smile into the air. 

You miss his glare. The firm one that he’s always aim at you, but never hurt you. It was always a glare that wrapped around you. Told you he was angry because he cared, and didn’t know how to do anything with it.

He still cares.

Dean knows what the past month has been for you. Nightmares and explosions, souls staining the ground and painted over your hands—although they always fade fast, as nothing but Jo seems to be clinging to you longer than it has to—and never getting more control or answers.

You only find more questions. More reasons to stay away. And Dean should give up on you, but that’s not what he does. You know how pissed he is at Sam, but he’s not giving up on dragging him away from Ruby. He wouldn’t.

Just like how he’s only ever held you when everything became too much. Only ever gone to help, whenever Sammy called. Had held you and tried to make you stay, after Jo.

And he still picks up the phone. Still calls you, even when you know that—wherever he is in America—it’s an unreasonable hour. Talks to you like nothing has ever gone wrong at all. Asks you to come home like it’s not ripping out and healing your heart all at once. 

“You know I’d never let that happen, right?”

You blink, frowning at the wall. “What?”

“Alistair.” Dean mutters. “No matter what happens. He’s never gonna touch you.”

I’ll drag good ol’ Daddy Winchester out to play.

You know. You know I love you, baby.

“I know.” You whisper, even though you both know that’s not really up to Dean. “How was your day?”

“Kinda shit. You?”

You let out a soft laugh. “Kinda shit, too.”

“You could come home, and our days could be shit together-“

“Dean.”

“Yeah, yeah. Alright. Had to try.”

He did. He always does. And he’s nothing more than a voice in a box, but the Spiderweb still lights up under his attention. Still thrives from just to sound of Dean saying your name and telling you about astral projection, and you could fucking swear you smell spice-

“It felt fuckin’ weird,” Dean mutters your name, and you can hear something moving in the background. “I was solid, but it was soupy.”

You smile into the air. “Soupy?”

“Yeah, like chowder-“

“Those are two different feelings, De.”

“No they’re both globby.”

“Globby-“

“It works- Sammy!” 

You hear Sam’s voice grumble something in the background, and wait patiently.

“Being all ghost-like felt globby, right?”

“You sound insane, Dean.”

That breaks through, and you giggle.

“Hey.” Dean’s voice is a little firmer. He’s talking to you. “I heard that. It’s not my fault Sammy isn’t a poet like me-“

Sam snorts in the background. “I heard you say soupy before. Are you talking to-“

“Yes.” Dean snaps. “She’s mine, Sammy. You can’t have her.”

He means the phone. You know he means the phone. 

It still makes the Spiderweb fucking shine.

“I just wanna ask her about a seal-“

“Call her later.”

“But-“

“No. Back off, or I’ll shit on your bed.”

“That’s so gross- Dean-“

A door slams on Dean’s end, and Sam’s voice goes muffled.

“Sorry about that, Princess. Don’t know who let Bigfoot into my hotel room like that.”

You hum, smiling like an idiot at your knees. “You know, one day he’s really gonna get sick of you doing that. It’s the third time this week.”

“Nah.” There’s a pause. “Are you getting sick of me, Princess?”

Sam’s right. He’s insane. “No.”

“You sure? Not finding some other guy with a sweet ride-“

“I’m not looking, De.” You whisper before you can stop yourself. “And nobody’s got a better ride than you, car boy.”

"Thanks.” Dean mumbles, clearing his throat. “I’m taking care of the Firebird. Drive her once a week-“

“He.”

"What?”

“My car. It’s a he.”

Dean pauses. “You, uh- You named him?”

“Not yet.” You shrug. “I’m brainstorming.”

“How about Dean Junior-“

“No.”

You only get a laugh in response, and this night doesn’t hurt as much as the others. You talk to Dean until the sun rises, and he mutters that his phone is about to die, and Sam will kill him if they’re not on the road early tomorrow. You don’t say goodbye, when you hang up. You never say goodbye. 

Instead the line goes dead, you shuffle out to find coffee, and return to your room for the rest of the day. You’re in no rush. You’re safe—for now—and all your work lives in reading and researching. Going over the emails Sam has sent you and responding with what you find. Combing through your own books for some sort of fucking clue. How many other Magdalenes there were. What they brought. How they controlled it, if it was something that could be controlled. So far all you have are a big do not attempt warnings on burnt pages,  a bunch of fake Magdalene spells—like plastic knockoffs of what you’ve found in the book, and made yourself—and the Sky watching you.

Nothing ever mentions the Sky. And it’s not like you’ve found anything explicit about Magdalenes. But you’ve learned to spot patterns. Clues. Draw timelines and pour over history books until you passed out, Dean called you, or something went wrong.

It would be lovely and simple, if you’d taught yourself that.

But it isn’t. And you didn’t.

“I heard you killed an angel.”

You’d spun around, and there she’d been. Standing in the corner of your room, smiling at you with that awful affection.

“That’s impressive, little one.” Lilith had hummed, her smiling growing. “Even I could never have done that, even at my brightest.”

“Cool.” You’d mumbled, rubbing at your wrists as you watched her. “How did you find me?”

“We are the same.” Lilith had shrugged. “You might be more, and but I can still know. You’d know too, if you just thought about it. And it took a little extra effort to find you, but I had to. You put on quite a show, almost locking all the seals. If those fucking uptight featherdicks hadn’t interfered, you might have succeeded. I mean, maybe if I’d sent the cavalry, too. But Ruby was begging me not to send Alistair himself. You did quite a number on her.”

“Ruby-“

“That’s not for you to worry about.” Lilith had waved you off like it was nothing. “I’d be concerned with yourself, little one. The angels are starting to look for their master, and mine- He will be here soon. And you should be ready. And I am reaching my purpose, but I can’t wait to learn, one day, what you do”

“I-“ You’d shaken your head, walking back to the wall. The Sky had flashed out the window.

If Lilith could see or feel it, she didn’t show it.

“I don’t- I’m not going to serve-“

“No, you won’t.” Lilith had hummed. “If you’re smart, they will bow at your feet for all of time to come, and you will never be a toy to those vile fucking animals again-“

“I-“ Your voice had been so small. You’d pushed through. “I’m not a toy-“

“Not now, little one. But you’re still attached to Dean Winchester. I can see him all over you.” She’d shivered. “You’ll get through it. We all have. Even I had a Dean, but- It doesn’t matter. Men of God. Doesn’t matter which one you chose, they are all the same in the end.”

And there it is again. Your hand freezes over your notes—a mindless scribble of Dean’s name in Enochian half-written—as the memory echoes, and you put it together.

Men of God.

Alistair had said it. So had Anna, before you crushed her like some sort of bug. 

And Anna had been an angel. She knew enough to know your name was written in places in Heaven that Castiel has never seen.

Lilith had spoken of them like they were everywhere. She’s said that all of you had one. That yours was another case of being special—more complicated—but you still needed to be stronger. That they always promise freedom, only to try and cut you up and morph you and put you in a cage.

Dean would never do that. He’d set you free. 

He was waiting for you.

You’d worry about that later. Right now, for the first time since you left, you had something.

It’s a good thing Europe is full of churches.

The months start to blur together, the longer you’re away. You didn’t expect it to be immediate, but it has to be something. Lilith, Alistair, and Anna wouldn’t all say Men of God only for it to just be some kind of weird Heaven and Hell phase. It’ll only take time. And you’ll comb through every library and visit every church and do whatever the fuck you need for just one answer.

And it does seem to be a marker. Every Magdalene you’ve found—Lilith had been right, you’d just had to try, and it would call to you like some distorted song—has had someone in their orbit. And there has to be a reason. Even if no one can place what the Magdalenes are outside of danger and change, even if there’s no idea for how you were made or why you exist, it can’t just be a coincidence.

Dean says there are no coincidences in this life. 

He’s usually right about this kind of stuff. He’s usually right about most stuff. 

And whatever Men of God are, Dean isn’t one. Not the way Lilith says, at least. He’s yours, but the Magdalenes you’ve found always ended up betrayed or abandoned by theirs. Dean would never do that. Even if he doesn’t love you, he just wouldn’t. That’s another thing he doesn’t do. 

Run away.

He’s stronger than you are. It’s why, whenever you run, he really has been always so good at catching you. At wrapping you up and keeping you safe, when he should’ve put you down. 

And Lilith had said the one you chose.

Dean’s never been a choice. He just is. You love him because he’s Dean, and that’s better than anything. He’s never been just one star you picked from the sky. 

He’s been full of gravity, like a planet. Not a flower from a garden, but a strong, unbreakable tree that could be split with lightning and still be the prettiest thing you’d ever seen. Not a rock from the ocean, but an island that you’d always returned to, because there’s nowhere better to rest.

And there are more differences—between you and the other Magdalenes—the longer you look. Some of them have been labelled as crazy or hysterical, but none of them are ever mentioned talking about all the colors. None of them ever claim to see demons and angels. 

Not one mentions the Sky. 

That seems to be another horrible, awful, exhausting thing that’s just for you. 

And time keeps passing. You keep reading and reading and finding something that’s really nothing, and nothing that looks like something, but it’s just a trick of the light. Things keep going wrong—a woman grabs your wrist in a coffee shop, you walk into a church and the stained glass begins to glow, you see an angel on the street and wipe them out with the whole block—and the Sky keeps watching. 

It doesn’t seem to mind you looking for answers. It almost seems to hum whenever you find something. A tattered page in a church catacomb, that’s a similar—but less detailed—to your own notebook. Colors and names scribbled in a French, like a personal guide. And then there’s the half-burnt, Portuguese version of the Book, and another Magdalene buried Florence, Italy.

You can go to Florence. 

You can raid a grave, to see if her bones are made of anything that tells you how she controlled it. If she left you anything. She must have. 

She did.

Maps of Heaven and Hell. You don’t know what you’re supposed to do with them, or how she got them, but you know the Sky is happy you have them. 

Lately, the Sky only ever seems angry when Dean calls. 

You always pick up anyway.

“Hi, De.”

“Hey, Princess. You still in-“

“Nope. Nice try, though.”

He sighs. “Had to take the shot. How was your day?”

You smile into the air. “It was… long.”

“Did you eat?”

You’re silent for a second too long, and Dean snaps your name.

“Goddamnit, you need to-“

“I know.” You sigh. “I just- I got distracted, I promise. I got a new book, and it’s just regular witchcraft, but maybe Cas could use it-“

“Actually, uh-“ Dean clears his throat. “We kinda lost Cas.”

“You- How?”

“He’s a human again. We’re working on it, but Sammy-“ Dean lets out a long, heavy breath, and you sigh.

“Is Ruby still-“

“Yeah.”

“Did you tell him-“

“He won’t listen.” Dean mutters. “Thinks you must have misunderstood, or that Lilith was just messing with you.”

“But-“

“I know, Princess. But- I- Can you talk? Please?”

You swallow, staring up at the ceiling. You’d told Dean, what Lilith had mentioned about Ruby begging her. You’d hoped it would be some sort of evidence, to prove to Sam that Ruby can’t be trusted.

But Dean says he went a little off the deep end, after you left. That he thinks he should’ve been stronger and not gotten knocked out, or been more cautious about the ritual, or done more so you didn’t lose Jo. So you didn’t leave.

Whenever you talk to him, he never mentions it. That you left. And it’s not in the way Dean does, where he just knows you’ll come back. It’s a little hollow. His voice sounds heavier all the time, but more determined all at once.

Dean just sounds tired.

And it rips the Spiderweb in half.

“What do you wanna talk about, De?”

He lets out what might be a long breath of relief. “I, uh- I don’t know. What did you do today?”

“Read. A lot. I started looking at a map-“

“A map?” You can hear Dean’s frown in his voice. It’s adorable. “What, you hunting for treasure without me?”

“It’s a map of heaven. And,” you smile into the air, and you hope he can hear it. “I’d never hunt for treasure without you. There is no one else I’d rather treasure hunt with.”

“Damn. Not even Bobby?”

“I don’t think Bobby would be all that good at treasure hunting.” You shrug. “He’d get bored, and say that this kinda shit is pointless anyway.”

“Yeah,” Dean’s soft laugh is a little muffled through the phone. “You’re right about that. How about Sammy?”

“He’d be fine. Do you not want to go treasure hunting with me, Deano?”

He snorts. “Princess, if I ever go treasure hunting with anyone, I’d want it to you.”

“Thanks.” You mumble. “Why?”

“Cause you’re smart, and you’ve seen a billion of those freakin’ treasure movies. You’ve studied, sweetheart. You’re a nerd.”

You scoff. “Well, if I ever need to commit crimes for the good of the community, I’ll call you, Cowboy.”

“Aw, you think I’m a Cowboy-“

“Dean-“

Dean cuts you off with a tsk, and suddenly you can see him. It’s just in your head, but it’s so close to real. Standing in front of you with a boyish, cocky smirk, his eyes alight on yours, every bit of him so fucking Golden, and all focused on you. Handsome. Always handsome. His hair a little spiky and out of place, his nose a little more crooked than the last time you saw him, but his body just as broad, and-

You can feel an ache between your legs, and it only deepens when he drawls your name.

Shit.

“I gotta tell you a secret, Princess.” Dean hums, and you swallow. “Our job is doing crimes for the good of the community. And you’re the best damn criminal I know.”

You flush, and the ache gets worse. “Shut up.”

“Bossy-“

“And I’m not a criminal-“

“Yeah, you are.” Dean laughs. “But it’s okay, we’re all criminals. You and me would’ve run the wild west, sweetheart, I’ll tell you that much.”

Your ditzy, slightly stupid smile is back. “Really?”

“Hell, yeah. Sammy would be the sheriff, and Bobby would run the bar, and I’d be the awesome, lone cowboy passing through the town. I’d stop at the bar look for a drink but instead I’d find you-“ Dean cuts himself off with a cough. “And Bobby. And instead of just passin’ through, I’d plant my roots, and team up with the sheriff to take care of the town.”

He might be the most adorable person on the planet. “You’ve thought about it. Sam might be right about that cowboy fetish, De-“

“It’s not-“ He groans, and the sound doesn’t help your situation. “They’re cool. They’re really freakin’ cool, and they’ve got awesome hats. Is it so wrong to like something?”

“No.” You hum. “But that’s a fantasy, Winchester. You have a cowboy fantasy. And you call me a nerd.”

Dean’s silent. For a little too long, Dean’s silent. And right when you’re about to ask if he’s still there, he mutters your name. “’S nice to have a fantasy, Princess. Something to want. Bet you have them too.”

You do. 

You have two. 

The first one you think of is the one that always slams into you like a blow to your gut. It’s made of Jo. Of what you’d told her, the last night she was alive. Of a world where her fantasy was reality. And that’s what you think of there, and you break down on the phone with Dean—again—and he stays on the line through it. 

The second one makes you feel like a piece of fucking shit. Because you sob to Dean about how you miss Jo, and you want to come home, and you’re still looking for answers but everything still fucking hurts—it always fucking hurts, it never stops hurting, the only way to stop hurting is to stop being and you’ve never figured out how to do that—and then he goes. With a soft reminder to call him tomorrow, or text if you can’t, Dean has to leave and deal with human Cas.

And you’re worse than a monster. 

Because when you’re done sniffling into your pillow, your head wanders back to Dean’s words.

Bet you have them too.

His voice had been so deep—and it’s always been deep, but it only seems to get deeper—and a little like a lullaby. A low, soothing promise that’s vibrated in your bones when he’s held you, and still sparks in your blood whenever you hear it.

And you can still see him, in your head. Broad and strong, soft in all the right places and grinning at you. Always grinning at you, and touching you. Dean’s touched you. He’s had hands skimming right under your shirt and resting on your hips, and he’s held you by your lower back so often, but never on bare skin. 

It lights you on fire. 

And you have fantasies.

You might have a lot of fantasies.

They’re all made of the memory of Dean’s lips on yours, and his taste on your tongue, and the warmth and Gold of him being everywhere. It would feel better than heaven, if he’d hold you right against him, his palm splayed over your lower back, his voice moving right through your body as you grind down onto his thigh. Calling you Princess and his and teasing you until you’re scratching at his back, and he’s just chuckling.

C’mon, baby girl. Just a little more, I’ve got you, you’re doing so good. That’s it, scream my name-

“Dean!”

You cum with a shaking body, and short, shallow gasp.

When your eyes fly open, you realize that scream wasn’t a part of the fantasy. That was loud, for anyone to hear as you’d orgasmed, grinding onto the sheets and pretending your hands on your breast were Dean’s.

The pricking, sickening shame hits you so fast. Jo’s still gone. Dean’s not even here, and you’re turning him into something he might not even want to be. Not for you. He’d been looking for comfort, and you’d made him your fantasy.

But he is your fantasy. 

No matter how you try to push it down, now that the idea has crossed your mind, before you sleep you think of Dean.

Something must be wrong with you. Your days are spent staring at books and rubbing at your wrists, looking over your shoulder to make sure there’s no one behind you. No one to try and hurt you, only for their soul to end up splattered all over the ground. Someone tries to get your attention on the street again, and a redwood shoots out of the ground in Germany. You see a man that looks an awful lot like Ketch in a cafe—already putting you on edge—and then a little blonde girl with the same eyes Jo has starts crying, and a Javan tiger is seen running through Austria.

You don’t know how you’re doing it. Only that the Silver detonates, and everything is destroyed and remade all at once. You can’t find any records of that happening to other Magdalenes—or, really, at all—but you’re still looking.

You’ve found that Men of God is seeming to be a loose term—maybe a title—more than a solid rule. And when the trail runs dry on Magdalenes, you shift back to witchcraft. It’s easy, even without the Silver, and it makes you feel like maybe you’re being useful.

Not just running and destroying and sitting in the dirt near a river, staring at the blue on your hands.

Jo would like it here. She would like all the sun and beer, and she would like how the hotel shampoo smells, and she would love all the stray animals and stupid, fancy wines. She would drawl that all wine is wine, but this tastes like rippin’ off rich idiots. 

You stole a bottle for her, and poured it into the river. Then you just sit there. Ignoring the Sky over you, pretending that when you stand up things will be better.

They won’t.

Jo’s still gone, and it’s still so fucking hollow. You’re trying to eat more, for her. Trying to sleep more too. You’re getting better at it, as the time passes. At not dying from self-neglect.

And she would’ve wanted you to talk to Dean. To let him convince you to come home, so he could hold you until it hurt a little less.

You don’t want it to hurt less. When it hurts it means you’re thinking about her, and if you stop thinking about her—sobbing on the riverbank, watching your fingers because one day the blue will fade and you don’t know what you’ll do—then who will. Someone has to be in pain for this. Someone has to pay, you’d already killed Anna, and Zachariah seems pretty fucking occupied with Sam and Dean. 

Pain, numb and hollow and vast and fucking crushing—pressing on your lungs and head, faint in the background until it slams into you and breathing becomes a labor—is a price you deserve to pay. 

So the days pass, and they’re lonely and repetitive, as the Sky keeps watching.

But your nights are spent collapsing on the bed, and calling Dean.

“Are the souls different? Wherever you are?”

You smile at the ceiling. “I mean, they’re different soul to soul.”

“You know that’s not what I meant, sweetheart-“

“They’re the same as home, De. All souls are the same.”

“Huh. You, uh,” he clears his throat. “You see any other golden souls?”

You can’t stop your laugh. You’ve never seen another golden soul. Not like Dean’s. And even if you did, no soul is made of the same primal, pure thing his and Sam’s are. 

“What’s funny-“

“Nothing, it’s-“ You shake your head. “No. I haven’t seen any other souls like yours.”

Dean grunts, and you can picture his pouting scowl. “Alright. Good. But- I still don’t get why you were laughing, Princess.”

“It’s a soul joke. You wouldn’t get it.”

“Can you help me get it?”

“Dean-“

“C’mon. I show you stuff all the time. Taught you to drive stick, showed you how to clean a gun even though you never use them, explained all the work I did on the Firebird-“

“I didn’t ask you to do that one.”

“Yeah, but you were listening. You liked it.”

You had liked it. But that had been more to do with how—when he’d been talking—he’d been covered in grease and wearing a really tight shirt, smiling at you like there was never anything else to do and bouncing around like there’s never been any pain at all. 

Dean doesn’t need to know that.

“I- Souls are really complicated-“

“I don’t care. Just-“ Dean pauses, sighing into the speaker. “I wanna hear you talk, Princess. It’s been a long fuckin’ week, and I- How about this. If you tell me about souls, I’ll teach you whatever you want, when you get home. Pinky promise.”

You swallow, and suddenly there’s a very clear image of Dean above you, his hand in your hair and his lips curved in a wide smirk as he guides you up and down his-

Fuck.

“I, um,” You pause, trying to regain control over your voice. “What do you wanna know?”

“I dunno. Explain the joke?”

“It’s- It’s not really that funny, I’m just tired-“

“You been sleeping?”

No. You’ve been talking to Dean and drinking coffee and you’re pretty sure you can feel every single nerve in your body, but that’s not the point. “Yes.”

“Lie. You need to fuckin’ sleep-“

You cut of Dean’s snap of your name with a sigh. “Are you sleeping?”

There’s a beat, and his response is so low you almost don’t hear it. “No.”

“Then shut up and stop telling me what to do.”

Dean chuckles. “So bossy, b- Princess-“

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

“Yeah, alright. Go.”

You don’t explain it all. You tell him more about how souls tend to move and blend together, twining with other souls and staining each other in more and more colors until it’s almost kaleidoscopic. You mention the elements, but you’re vague—only that they all made of different things, not that you know what those different things are—because if you explain too much, Dean will ask what element he’s made of, and you’re not even sure what an honest answer would be.

To be fair, you never explain it all. You tell Dean you’re getting more leads on Magdalenes, but not a word about the Men of God, because he’ll freak out. You’ve explained all your outbursts, but never told him about the Sky. You never tell anyone about the Sky, because it makes you sound fucking crazy. Even in this life, saying the Sky is watching me and it hates when I talk to you, Deano would end with a strange look. Just like when you were a kid, telling your mother that the Sky is watching me, and making me promises, and I don’t want them. I don’t. I’m scared and I want to go home.

“Is it ever- Can you turn it off?” You can hear Dean’s frown through the phone. “I mean, that sounds like you’re being shoved into one of the carnival funhouses all the damn time.”

“That’s… Not far off.”

“But it’s gotta hurt your eyes or some shit-“

“I’m used to it,” you mumble, running your thumb over your palm. “I’m a big girl. I can handle it.”

“Yeah, but you shouldn’t have to-“

“Dean. It is what it is.”

“Yeah, but- It shouldn’t be.” He lets out a long breath, and tears start to prick at your eyes. “There’s gotta be something that helps.”

You. You help, Dean. You’re so Golden it’s impossible to think about anything else.

“Maybe start looking for that?” Dean hums, and the lump starts to form in your throat. “How to control the soul-vision shit?”

“Soul vision?” You smile, even though it’s crushing over your ribs. “Creative, De.”

“Shut up. You love it.”

I love you. “I don’t hate it.”

“Good. Maybe work on-“

“But I don’t want to turn it off.” You glance down at your hands, and your voice is far too soft. Dean with be able to hear. “I- I can’t turn it off, Dean.”

He mutters your name, and you shake your head. 

“I- I can’t. She’s still on me, her soul is still on me, and if I stop seeing it, she’s gone.” You’re breathing too shallow. You can’t stop. “I can’t let her be gone like this too, I couldn’t- It’s all I’ve got left, it’s the only piece of her left and only I can see it- And if- I- She can’t be gone, Dean, I can’t let her be gone-“

“I know.” Dean mutters, his voice so low and soothing, even through the choppy speaker. “I know sweetheart, I’m sorry-“

“I wanna come home.” You whisper, and Dean goes silent. “I miss you, and I don’t-“ I’m scared. I’m scared and I want to go home. “Dean, I don’t know- Please.”

You don’t know exactly what you’re asking for. But somehow, Dean does. 

“It’s gonna be okay. I promise it’s gonna be okay. I’ll send Cas out for you right now, if you want-“

You make a strangled noise, and Dean’s voice gets stronger. Firmer.

“Or we can just keep talking. You wanna keep talking, ba- Sweetheart?”

You nod, and even though he can’t see you, Dean still knows. Still understands. It rips another small, weak sound from your throat.

“I ate some pie, yesterday.” Dean hums, his voice still low and careful, and you let out a soft laugh.

“You eat pie every day, De.”

“Yeah, but this was cream pie. You’d like it, it had a bunch of chocolate on the top, and it was fucking full of that stuff they put in the donuts-“

“Cream?” You smile at the ceiling, and you don’t know how he does this. Every single time, even when he’s just a voice, Dean brings you back down. “I think it’s just cream, De.”

“Alright, whatever. Point is this thing is stuffed with cream-“

He can’t be doing this on purpose. You wouldn’t put it past Dean to do it on purpose, but this is the kind of thing he would talk about to see Sam get uncomfortable. But all you can think about is how even his voice is fucking pretty, and he keeps saying stuffed and cream and filled, and your skin is prickling with an aching, pleasant warmth, your thighs starting to press back together.

And Dean does eventually have to go. Once he’s satisfied with your lack of hyperventilation and the steadiness of your voice, he mutters that he has to go deal with Sam.

“Get some rest,” He mutters your name, and you swallow. “Or I’ll track you down and make you.”

The line cuts off before you can respond, and this is the part where something is wrong with you. You’re a fucking mess. Your cheeks are still stained with tears, and you’d been sobbing less than half an hour ago, but now you’re wet. Dripping. Your fingers trail between your legs, and over and over the sound of Dean saying you’d like the cream pie, Princess, replays in your head. The one time in his life that Dean wasn’t making an innuendo, you’re losing your mind with hunger for him.

And there are the fantasies. 

Dean over you in bed—you don’t really care which one, as long as Dean is there—and his fingers shoved into your cunt as he kisses all over your face. And you’re breathless and clinging to him, but he’s holding you just as tight, and when he buries himself fully inside of you, he lets out a low groan right in your ear-

I’ve got you. I love you, baby. You know I love you.

You don’t. Dean’s never said that. But Dean’s voice has. And it spoke with a long drawl and soft affection. Your mind is taking that and running with it. 

You cum with another gasp of Dean, your back arching off the bed, and you try not to think about it when you roll over and gather the blankets until they’re in a vague shape of Dean for you to hold all night.

And the Sky doesn’t get to see it. You always close the curtains when Dean calls, because you’re going to keep picking up the phone.

You’ll keeping missing him, too. And loving him.

And dreaming of him. 

You never stop dreaming of Dean.

“No wanderin’ off.” Bobby grunts, scanning around the room. 

It’s big. Almost as big as the rooms in your family’s house. There’s something different about it, though. Even though the air is colder, there’s a warmth to the walls and a comfort to the floor. 

You don’t tell Bobby that. Not because he wouldn’t want to know, but because he already has enough to worry about. 

“I’m not gonna wander.” You mumble, picking at the skin of your nails. “Promise.”

Bobby snorts. “I wish I believed you, kiddo.”

“Bobby-“

“I trust you.” He says your name carefully, holding your gaze. “But you like exploring and testin’ my fuckin’ blood pressure. I told you not to get distracted by the house, and what did you do?”

You pout at your shoes. “I sang on the staircase.”

“And why don’t we wanna do that.”

“Cause there’s an ubume running around.”

“Cause there’s a-“ Bobby pauses, frowning at you. “A what?”

“Ubume.”

“I ain’t sure what that is-“

“It’s the spirit of a woman who died in childbirth.” You mumble. “They’re not usually violent, but sometimes they try to steal children. And they like rocks, and there are all those rocks outside.”

Bobby blinks down at you, and shakes his has. “Fuckin’-“

“I’m sorry-“

“You’re righ-“ He cuts himself off, frowning down at you. “The hell are you sorry for?”

“I- I don’t-“ You swallow, the Darkness starting to turn out and press under your skin. “I don’t know.”

“Wel, ya shouldn’t be.” Bobby shrugs. “You’re right. The kids have been gettin’ the worst of it, so- They’re called ubumes?”

You nod, and Bobby sighs. 

“You’re not in trouble, kiddo. You can relax.”

“But I- I wasn’t supposed to get involved with the hunt-“

Bobby runs a hand over his face. “I told ya that cause I didn’t want you tryin’ to take on this shit yourself. But if you know somethin’ I might not, always say it. Deal?”

You nod nervously, and Bobby extends his hand.

“C’mon, kiddo. If we can wrap this up by the afternoon, I’ll let ya go back to the staircase.”

Your eyes widen, even as you take his hand. “But the family-“

“They ain’t home. What they don’t know ain’t gonna hurt them.”

“Who aren’t we hurting?”

You blink, and turn to see Dean next to you. 

Once again, you’re a little taller than before. And Bobby seems completely unaware of Dean’s presence, still running through the script of the memory as you walk through the house. 

“A rich family from California,” you explain, Dean trailing behind you. “Bobby heard about their haunting, and he decided to take care of it while they were out of town. I got to come because Rufus was busy, and I’d been having a lot of freak outs, so he didn’t want to leave me alone.”

“Huh.” Dean nods slowly. “Why are you holding his hand?”

“Because right now, I’m eleven.” You pause, and extend your free hand to Dean. 

He takes it without question, falling right into pace at your side and leaning down to whisper in your ear. “Where are we going?”

“To kill the ubume.”

“What the fuck is an abummy-“

“Oo-BU-me.” You hum, and when Bobby settles in the families kitchen—where you’d been keeping all the books and weapons—your hand doesn’t leave Dean’s. “Dead pregnant lady ghost.”

“Huh. And you killed it?”

“Bobby killed it.” You shrug, watching the younger version of Bobby shuffle around the room, asking you questions that in real life you’d answered, but in the dream are only met with an echo of your words as you keep talking to Dean. “I wasn’t allowed to leave the salt circle.”

“Why-“

“She was napping kids. I was a kid.” You sigh, resting your head on Dean’s shoulder. “And if he tried to take me, I would’ve lost it. And if I lost it, I probably would’ve had an even bigger freak out about losing it.”

Dean hums, keeping your hands interlocked as he slings an arm over your shoulder, pulling you right into his side. “Did you? Lose it?”

“Not today, no. This hunt ends with the ubume ganked-“

Dean smirks. “You said ganked.”

“Shut up-“

“Bossy-“

“You gonna listen, Winchester?”

“Sorry, baby.” He’s still grinning, leaning down to press a kiss to your brow. “Keep goin’.”

Baby. I love you, baby.

Fuck.

“It’s not important.” You mumble. “I get to sing the Goodnight song from the Sound of Music on the stairs.”

“Oh, I remember that.”

You frown at him. “You-“

“You told me about it. When we worked that mall case. You said you wouldn’t sing for me, cause you wouldn’t kill for me.” Dean leans down, his lips brushing over your ear, his voice sending a shiver up your spine. “Would you kill for me now, Princess?”

“I-“ You swallow, turning your head to meet his gaze.

Mistake.

He’s so close. And even though you know this is a dream, he still looks so fucking real. Golden and pretty. All you’ve ever wanted. 

All you ever could want. 

“I think I would’ve killed for you then.” You whisper, and he blinks.

“And now?”

“I’d do anything.” You can tell him that. This isn’t real, so you’re not breaking any rules by telling him. “You’re- I-“

“I know.” He mutters, and he doesn’t kiss you on the lips. Dean just wraps his arms fully around your body, pulling you right into his chest and combing his fingers through your hair. “Me too. I- I miss you, Princess. I need you to come home.”

Your fingers curl in his shirt. “I want to, De. I- I’m so tired. And it hurts. It always hurts. This fucking sucks.”

He lets out a dry laugh. “It really fucking does. But life’s a bitch, sweetheart. Always gonna hurt. Better to have each other for it.”

“Alright.” You giggle into his body. “When did you get so wise?”

“When I started missing my girl all the time.”

You sigh. “She misses you too.”

“I know. But I hope she knows-“

There’s a bang on your door, and it rips you away from your dream. Away from Dean.

And the Silver is stirring. Nothing has happened but another loud, almost violent knock, but the Silver is already starting to hum and writhe.

That can’t be anything good.

You lay flat on your back, holding your breath until you’re a little light-headed. If it’s nothing, and the Silver is just going haywire, the knocking will stop. Whoever’s on the other side of the door will give up and move on.

But you’ve never been that lucky.

A bored, taunting voice says your name, and the sound is muffled through the door, but you still recognized the fancy, stupid accent.

Fuck.

“We know you’re in there, darling.” Ketch hums from outside. “It’ll so much easier for everyone if we cut to the chase, and you let us take you in.”

You stay silent, but your hands move to your wrists. You’ve been rubbing them until your skin was a little red and raw, and it stings to the touch, and the Silver is starting to turn and turn. It might not be the worst thing to explode on Ketch and whoever else he’s brought. But you’re in a cheap inn, and you’d passed a family when you were checking in. You won’t be in enough control to stop the damage from hitting them too. 

But if Ketch tries to grab you, you’re not going to be able to stop yourself, either. 

If you were a little better of a person, you’d let Ketch take you. You should be locked up. Contained. Kept where you’ll never hurt anyone, ever again.

But you’d never see Dean again, either. And you’d vanish, and he’s think you’d abandoned him. That you’d given up, or really run away, when it was supposed to be all the way down.

You’d promised Dean all the way down.

You’d promised Jo you’d be okay.

So you can’t go without a little some sort of fight. You’ll try and keep the Silver down, but if Ketch thinks this is going to go in his favor, he’s disgustingly wrong.

God, this is still going to suck.

Ketch repeats your name, and you take a long, steadying breath.

You can do this.

“You’re just dragging it out,” he calls. “We’ve got you surrounded, and we’re well prepared. You won’t be getting away this time. I promise, darling, it will be better if you come quietly.”

You almost laugh.

He has no fucking idea what he’s in for.

“I’m busy!” You call, slowing pushing up out of bed, your knife already in your hand. You’ve been sleeping with it. Just in case.

Plus, it reminds you of Dean.

“Can you come back later?”

Ketch laughs, and Jesus, it’s not a pretty sound. “I’m afraid we’re quite busy later. And you are not the type of girl one wants to take a rain check on. You might lose her after.”

You roll your eyes, spinning your knife in your hands. “I think you’ll find that you’re going to lose me anyway.”

“Wrong. We lost you last time because you left our jurisdiction. But now? You’re in our territory. And we’ve been watching you.”

“Of course you have,” you mutter. Your jacket is on, your bag is packed, now you just need to get out.

“You’re quite the fascinating little creature,” Ketch drawls your name, and you wonder—if you punch him hard enough—if you could make all his teeth fall out. “If we can figure out how to tame you, I think Mick would be right. You’d be quite the addition to our organization.”

Organization. You’d guessed they weren’t just a team of fancy fuck hunters, but that confirms it. “I think I’ll pass. But thanks for the offer.”

“I’m afraid it’s not an offer, darling-“

“Oh, well in that case,” you swing the door open, and give Ketch a wide, mocking smile. “I’ll just say suck my dick.”

It’s good to see that he hasn’t fully recovered from the ceiling you dropped on him. He’s holding his gun differently than before, and there’s a slight, forced slump to his shoulders.

He’ll probably get better eventually. But you hope it’s a long, grueling journey until he can fully throw his shoulders back again.

“You always have been so vulgar.” Ketch sighs. “We’ll work on that.”

“No.” You shrug, keeping your smile plastered on your face, even as the Silver grows. “I’m going to recommend you let me past, Ketch. It’ll be easier for all of us.”

He laughs. “Always so overconfident, too. I told you, we’re ready. I’ve got snipers trained on you, in case you try to use that cute little blade. This place is warded, darling. Your magic tricks are useless.”

“Oh no.” You drawl. “It’s warded. What am I going to do.”

“Well, you-“ Ketch’s eyes narrow. “You are being sarcastic.”

“I have never been sarcastic in my life-“

Ketch snaps your name. “You are not working this in your favor, by being uncooperative.”

“I think you’ll find I’m being incredibly cooperative.” You shrug. “I’m trying really hard not to kill you all.”

“Oh, are you-“

“Yep.” Your eyes narrow. “Stand down. Now.”

“I think I’ll pass.” Ketch says, his voice bored, and you sigh. 

“Alright,” you swallow, glancing up to the Sky. 

Silent. Uncaring. To it, Ketch is nothing more than a firefly. More than just a bug, but still disposable. 

“Your funeral.” You give Ketch a grimacing smile. “Let’s dance.”

There’s a moment—as you watch the men behind Ketch raise their guns to your head and your spin your knife in your hands—where you think you might be able to get out of this the normal way.

Then Ketch grabs your wrist, and you’re gone. Tearing through the world once more, growing out and out and out until the Silver is satiated, and the ground doesn’t want to move up and protect you. 

It crashes back into you, the blur clears, and it’s such a fucking mess. Another building in ruin. A fucking jackalope hopping around in the strange, black and golden flowers, and a white stag prancing on the high way. 

When you sweep the damage, it looks like you got lucky. Most people were out for the day. There’s only a rose-pink receptionist to hold and push back into her body, all of Ketch’s men—they might have had guns aimed at you, but they’re still people—and Ketch himself.

A muddied orange on the pavement. And you could leave him. Dean would tell you to leave him, that he’d tried to kill you and kidnap you, and he has tortured you, so it’s not unjustifiable to just leave him for the angels to find. And they will find him. You’ve already lingered too long, and the angels will be here soon.

But you can’t stop thinking about Jo, draining of all her blue. Growing hollow, just like how Ketch’s body is passed out on the ground.

Before you can think about it too hard, you’re grabbing Ketch’s soul, and shoving it back where it belongs.

You might regret that. You know you’ll regret that.

But it’s done. You aren’t going to take it back.

And you have to go, and not look back.

You’re getting better at not looking back.

Except with Dean.

You’ll always look back for Dean.

He hasn’t seen you yet. Dean’s attention is all focused on John. Shouting at him and raising his hands, high enough that Dean flinches, but never landing a hit.

Dean looks young. Younger than you remember knowing him. His face is softer, and his nose is still crooked but his hair is a lot lighter. While John yells, he’s bowing his head in a way you’ve rarely seen before. There’s no fight in him. He seems to be absorbing every verbal blow John throws at him, only fidgeting with the cuffs of his sleeves as he waits for it finish. 

“He could be hurt, you fuckin’ dumbass- He could be goddamn dead and it would be your fault. I give you one fuckin’ job, and it ain’t makin' him happy-“ John groans, running a hand over his face. “If you don’t tell me where the hell your brother ran off to, Dean, it’s gonna be your fuckin’ head-“

“Why is he mad?” You whisper in Dean’s ear, and he starts slightly.

“Son a bitch, Princess. You scared the shit out of me.”

You grin at him. “Aw, are you jumpy-“

“I don’t get jumpy.” He grumbles, and before you know what’s happening, Dean’s arm is looped around your waist and his face is buried in your neck. “I’m tough, sweetheart. Just didn’t think you’d be here.”

“Right.” You let your fingers wander up to his hair, glaring as John just keeps shouting like nothing’s different at all. “Of course you’re tough, Deano. You’re a cowboy.”

“I know.” He mutters into your skin. “‘M your cowboy.”

“Yeah. You are.” You sigh, glaring at John over his head. “Why is he yelling at you?”

“I let Sammy have a sleepover, while Dad was on a hunt. He got back early. He wasn’t happy I let Sam out of my sight at all, but then I refused to say where he went. That made him pissed.”

“You lied to your dad?”

“Sometimes, yeah. When I had to.”

“This was a have to?”

Dean grunts into you. “Was a sleepover with a girl. Sammy had just turned sixteen.”

You laugh. “Right. Obviously.”

“And I lied to Dad for you, too.” He grumbles, his arms tightening around you. “Never told him about our hunts.”

“I- Why?” You ask before you can stop yourself, and Dean just shrugs.

“He woulda stopped me seeing you. Never wanted to stop seein’ you.” He takes a long breath. “You always smell so good. Drives me fucking insane.”

Jesus. “I don’t smell like anything, De-“

“Wrong. Smell like fucking heaven, I don’t even- Wish I could figure out what it was. Spent so much time trying to figure it out.”

“You lied to John to smell me?”

“Kinda.”

“Oh.“ You swallow. “Did you ever lie so you could have a sleepover?”

“A sleep- You mean to fuck someone?”

He’s so all around you. It’s just a dream, but Dean’s still Golden and surrounding you and almost folded over your body, and you’re not sure how you remember to speak. “Yeah.”

“Never needed to. Only to see you. And I didn’t get laid for that.”

“You didn’t ask to get laid.” You mumble, and Dean chuckles.

“Would you have said yes, baby?”

Baby. I love you, Baby.

“Don’t answer that.” Dean mutters before you can even open your mouth, pulling back with an almost sheepish grin. “Already know the answer.”

You don’t think he does. Even the Dean in your head doesn’t seem to know that you love him. That you’d do anything for him. But he’s holding your gaze, and he’s your Dean again. A little taller, small scars littered on his face that make him look even more like that Cowboy, skin more tanned and eyes far heavier. When his hand lifts up to trace over your features, it’s calloused and rough, and his lips have gone chapped, but he’s still so pretty. And his Gold is still strong.

“I think I woulda run away with you.” He murmurs, and his voice is like a spell. You couldn’t move away if you tried. “Met you a year after this, and- Son of a bitch, Princess, I wish I’d stayed, that night. Pushed my luck with the smartest, prettiest girl I’d ever seen. Missed you then, too. Always missed you. Shouldn’t have listened to Dad. He- I knew he didn’t like me, but I never thought he’d hate me that much. Taking you away from me.”

You let out a slow breath, and shake your head. And you hate John. You hate him more than anything, for what he’s done to you, and Sam, and Dean. But you never want Dean to think anyone hates him. If Dean thinks John did all this because he hated him, Dean will make it his own fault. Make himself a failure, when it was John who failed him. And John—in his own, horrible, selfish, fucked up way—had cared about Dean. You wish he hadn’t.

But he did.

“He didn’t hate you, Dean.” You whisper. “He was just a piece of shit, and he hated me. There’s a difference.”

“Yeah, well, hating you is hating me. You the awesomest part of me.”

You flush, and Dean’s grin widens. “Awesomest isn’t a word.”

“Could be.”

“No-“

“There’s no a better word for you, Princess.” Dean swoops down, kissing your cheek and squeezing your hips until you giggle. “And I don’t care if Dad hated me. You like me.”

“I do.” You whisper, your stupid, ditzy smile returning. “I really do.”

You wake up slowly. Blinking as light seeps through the windows, your blanket still wrapped in your arms as a crude mockery of Dean.

And the better days are like this. Moving slowly through your gathered books—often finding nothing, but sometimes coming across a new spell or ritual or empty clue—and picking at your food, Dean’s voice in the back of your head humming eat, Princess. You need to eat.

You really have gotten better at it, over the months. You register when you need to go to the bathroom, and don’t fight it until it’s unavoidable. You eat less than you maybe should, but enough to not grow dizzy when you stand up. You keep water next to you all the time, and when your hand starts to cramp, you let it rest a little longer than one flex. You’d promised Jo you’d be okay.

And you’re not. You’re still tired, and breaking down, and you want to go home. But at least nobody will look at you, and see a girl that’s really more of a ghost. 

Today is one of those better days. Good might be too far a stretch, but it’s better. Simple. Read and eat and drink, go for a walk because fresh air is good for the pain over your skull, take a shower because it’s nice not to feel grime on your skin.

And you could swear the Sky is growing brighter. 

All day, it seems to be somehow building brighter and brighter. 

And growing. It seems insane, but the Sky seems to be fucking growing until it’s wrapped around more than you. Like it’s bracing you for something you don’t understand.

But everything is peaceful. No demons crashing into your motel room. Nothing from Ketch or his organization since your last detonation. The grass shifts easily in the wind, but the flowers seem to be holding their bloom. You haven’t seen a bird all day. You’ve seen people, nothing else. No bugs, no rabbits, no spiders.

Only a snake in the flower bed, and a dog who whines as he passes you.

It’s strange. Eerie.

Wrong.

Something is, in a way you don’t know how to articulate—but sits and shifts deep in your bones and intestines—wrong.

The Sky is so big. It’s still only watching, but it still seems to be reaching for you.

Not to swallow you.

To veil you. 

Hide you.

When the sun sets, the Sky is still shining. Nobody can see it but you, and it’s not making the world luminated, but the Sky is pure white and glaring with danger.

You don’t know from what.

But you know that the Silver is waking up. Nothing has even happened, but the Silver is rolling around inside of you. And you know Dean’s not picking up the phone. You try him, when you can’t sleep under the white of the Sky, but he doesn’t pick up.

He always picks up.

You’ve called him when it was the dead of night for him, and he’s answered with a muffled grumble and sleepy grunts. You’ve called him in the middle of a hunt, and he’s picked up just to tell you he’ll call you back. Once you called him during a movie, and he turned it off to talk.

Dean always picks up. 

Something is really fucking wrong.

You try Sam, and you know he’s been put in the panic room for demon blood reasons—although you’re still worried about how long the infection will take to clear his soul—but maybe he has phone privileges-

Nothing. 

Bobby. He always picks up after three rings, but this goes all the way to voicemail. You’ve never heard Bobby’s voicemail before. It’s brisk and says nothing more than if you’ve got this number, you know what to do, but Bobby has never been anything if not efficient.

You didn’t leave Sam a message. 

You leave one for Bobby.

“Hey, It- It’s me.” You mumble your name, drawing your knees up to your chest. “I’m sorry, I should’ve been calling more, but I thought you’d be mad at me for leaving. I know you’re mad at Dean about it, but he was just trying to- Please don’t be mad at him. I miss you, and-“ You swallow down a sob. The point. You need to get to the point. “I think something’s really wrong, Bobby. It’s- It’s just a feeling, but somethings wrong. And Dean’s not picking up the phone, and I’m really worried, so please just call me back and tell me everything’s okay. I need to know you’re okay, and I- I’m sorry-“

“Fifteen seconds left.” A cool, automated voice hums, and you take a sharp breath. You’re going to fucking cry again.

“I’m sorry. I miss you and I’m sorry and please tell me you’re okay. Something is really wrong, Dad, and I need to know you’re okay, I’m so-“

The machine beeps. You wipe your nose with your sleeve as the message sends, and the feeling of wrong only grows, the Silver pushing up with it. It’s shrinking, like it’s trying to hide in the darker corners of your body, but still gnashing with sharp teeth for when things go wrong.

Things are going to go wrong. Something so fucking primal is rolling over your every nerve, telling you something is wrong. And the wind is howling a warning, and the earth is pressing up to try and guard you like the Sky, and when you turn on the tap water, it’s singing you a soft song. It’s almost soothing. Not like a sedation, but a comfort. 

You hole up in your motel room, closing the curtain to try and block the Sky. You pray to Cas and he doesn’t answer, and you try Dean two more times with no luck. Your knife is clutched in your hands, and you’re curled right against the wall, and the water is still singing in all the pipes through the building, and it hurts but the comfort seems to be an anesthetic, and-

You’re not sure where you are. Only that its’s dark and cold and lonely. And high. You’re so fucking high up. 

Or low.

You can’t actually tell. 

The whole word seems like it’s folded into itself. The sky is at your feet but it’s also above you and at your side. Like an illusion, keeping you contained with smoke and mirrors and light.

There are shadows, creeping forward and trying to touch you. But something always makes them recoil, as if you’re a toxic or poison or feral or-

Silver

It’s the Silver.

You’re only the Silver, and the shadows can’t stand it. They hiss and sneer at the feeling of it, but still try to touch you. Then after they retreat, they try again, Like maybe this time, they’ll be strong enough.

Or you’ll be weaker.

But you’re not growing weaker. The more the Silver is poked at, the bigger it gets. 

The bigger you get. 

You are the Silver, and you’re more than glowing. You’re bioluminescent and blinding, but still filled with every space between the starts and all the colors colliding and shimmering through you. 

Somewhere in the shadows, there’s something red. Bloody, electric red and shining like a black light. 

It has more eyes than you can count, and a billion fists, and a million wings. But it’s not made of fire.

It’s made of the same gleaming, wrathful light as Sam and Dean.

And when it smiles at you, the earth shakes.

“Wow. You’re prettier than he deserves.” It hums. “Don’t worry. I can help you fix that.”

You swallow, but before you can respond, everything splits open. All of it. A crack leaking through the mirage, filling with light.

The light of the Sky.

“This is me.” The Red smirk at you. “I’ll see you soon. Don’t worry. We’ll have a lot of fun.”

The Red bursts up, and then it’s gone.

But you don’t move. You’re not trapped. You could follow the Red thing through the crack, but you don’t know how to move. You’re all Silver, and it’s too much. There’s nothing to tether too. Nothing to shrink back into. You just everything and nothing all at once, and it’s as if you’ve been turned into mist and filled with iron all at once, then told to run. 

You don’t know how to do anything but sit here. The Sky is watching you, through the crack, and you can’t tell if it’s urging you to move or demanding that you wait for it to grab you by the scruff of your neck-

It yanks you out of the paralyzing sleep. The blaring sound of some screaming part in a Led Zeppelin song. 

Sam and Dean don’t to ringtone, but they’re also both legally dead and criminals. You’re a ghost. You don’t run scams, and as far as the government is concerned, you’re a stale missing persons case. 

So you get to do ringtone. 

And you’ve never been more grateful for that than now. 

You grab the phone and answer without checking who it is. You already get to know.

“Dean, fucking- God I was so worried-“

“You were worried about me, Princess?” Dean rasps, and you don’t miss the exhaustion leaking through his voice.

“Of course I was worried about you.” I love you. “Are you okay?”

He sighs. “I’m in one piece. So is Sammy, and Bobby- He will be.”

Will be.

Your stomach twists.

“Something happened, didn’t it.” Your voice is barely a breath, and leaving was a horrible idea. You know something’s wrong, and breathing is starting to become a labor as your skin itches off your body, but there’s no one here to hold you.

Dean’s not here to hold you. 

“I-“ You take a shaking, unsteady breath. “I don’t know what’s going on, but something’s wrong. I know something’s wrong, Dean, I can feel it-“

“I know.” Dean whispers, and your hand moves up to hold your throat. 

The Silver is dormant. But it’s still too much, and old habits don’t decay when you don’t know how to plant anything new.

“It’s- We- Son of a bitch.” Dean clears his throat. “We kinda fucked up.”

You can’t breathe. “What?”

“We failed.”

“Dean-“

“The cage.” Dean mumbles. “It’s open. He’s out. Shit it- It’s bad, sweetheart.”

“Oh.” You whisper. “Fuck.”

“Yeah. It’s- Son of a bitch, you were right,” he mutters your name, his voice almost hushed. “It was Ruby. She’d been working with Lilith the whole time, and she tricked Sammy, and he’s such a fuckin’ idiot but I’m worried about him-“

“Dean.” You whisper, and you wish you could touch him. Move his face into your neck, like in your dream. Maybe fold yourself around him and be that damnation for him. “Are you okay?”

“I- Yeah. We got out, everything intact. Something sent us away. We lost Cas for a minute, but turned out something wanted him to stick around. Some demons went for us in Bobby, and he got hurt-“

“Bobby-“

“He’s fine, Princess. Gonna be fine. Stable. We’re actually about to go see him right now. And Sam’s fine too. Detoxing. He’s angry, and we’re- We’ll be fine.”

“Okay.” You take a shaking breath, keeping your eyes fixed on the ceiling. “Dean?”

He grunts, and try not to let the strain in your whole body grow audible.

“Are you okay?”

“I told you-“

“You told me Cas and Bobby and Sam are fine. I’m asking about you.”

There’s a long moment of silent static, and you know by now to wait. The line’s not dead. Dean’s just thinking. 

And when he speaks, his voice is barely a rasp.

“I- I need you to come back.” He mutters your name, and it’s too soft. “Son of a bitch, I- I can’t keep worrying about you and doing this.”

“Dean.” You sigh. “You know I can’t, they’ll-“

“I don’t give a shit what they do. Heaven or Hell or any of them. Demons rip me up and the angels will just pull me right back out. They need me. Some bullshit about Michael wanting to use me as a condom-“

“What-“

“Long story.” He mutters. “But I don’t fuckin’ care what consequences there are, Princess. Come home.”

There’s another silence as a lump forms in your throat, and you need to speak but words feel far away-

“Please.” Dean’s voice is so low and exhausted. “I need you.”

There it is. What you’ve been asking him not to do for months. 

He needs you.

Dean needs you.

And you don’t think you could say no if you tried.

“Okay.” You whisper. “Is Cas- Will he hear me?”

“Think so. Are you-“

“I’m coming home.”

You can hear Dean’s sigh, and it’s filled with relief. 

You’re really don’t think there’s anything you wouldn’t do for him.

“See you soon, Princess.”

“I- Yeah. Bye, De.”

It’s quick, to pack up. Most of your possession now are old, fragile books that better fucking survive angel travel, or you’ll punch Cas in the face. You don’t pray immediately, though. While there was no destruction, whatever had happened last night—Lucifer escaping, you’d been responding to Lucifer escaping, and you don’t know what the fuck that means—the wall are covered in vines and a little waterfall has formed from the window edge, falling down on to the floor-

Ground. You’re standing on the ground. Grass and flowers and tiny trees, and it’s buzzing with life below your feet. Like a little ecosystem, confined to your room.

That’s something the angels will probably be able to track. 

You can’t call Cas here. 

It’s a short walk than usual, and you stop at a Church. If the angels are sweeping the area, they probably won’t think to find you here. It’s hiding in plain sight.

You close your eyes, and pray. 

Cas. Help. Please.

There’s a whoosh, almost immediately. 

But it’s not Cas’ low, gravelly voice that comes from behind you.

“You should be careful, sweetheart. Praying in a church.” The bright, almost cheery voice laughs. “You might attract some unwanted attention.”

When you turn, the voice belongs to a shorter man, with longer, blond hair and bright eyes. 

But that’s not what makes you stumble back a step. 

He’s blue. 

He’s so fucking blue. 

Like the blue of Cas, turned up to a million. And he has an uncountable amount of eyes shoved into two, a billion fists curled into the same, and a million wings pressed to his back-

“You’re an archangel.” You whisper, and the Blue laughs. 

“Wow. That was fast. You know, everything I’ve ever heard about you said you’d be pretty, but smart? Don’t think he planned for that. In for a big surprise.”

You swallow. He can’t smite you. Or hurt you. Zachariah said nothing was allowed to hurt you. 

So you raise your chin, and hold the Blue’s gaze.

“What do you want?”

It doesn’t seem to faze him at all. “Damn. Moxie, too? They don’t know what they’re getting with you! A little spitfire.”

You frown. “Moxie?”

“Sorry, forgot you’re only what, thirty?”

“Twenty-six.”

“Shit. Even younger. Basically a fetus.” He shrugs. “Well, kid, moxie means you’re headstrong, little bit sassy-“

“I know what moxie means.” You mutter, rubbing the scar on your palm. “And that’s not correct. I just haven’t heard anyone use the word seriously.”

“Who says I’m serious?” The Blue winks. “I’m the fun one. I’d ask if you wanted to see, but I don’t think that would end in my favor. Already pushing it just by bein’ here.”

“I-“

The Blue cuts you off with a tsk. “I’ve got something to say, sweetheart. Something you’re gonna wanna here, before you do anything stupid.”

Your eyes narrow. “I’m not doing anything-“

“You’re trying to go home.” The Blue shrugs. “And it is stupid. I know what tree you’ve been barking up, sister, and it’s not the right one.”

“Sister-“

“No.” The Blue cuts you off quickly, shaking his head. “Just a nickname. You’re not my sister. That would be…” He wrinkles his nose. “So fucking gross. Like, we’re a fucked-up family, but not that fucked up. There’s gotta be a line, y’know? I think it’s there.”

The Blue speaks in circles and riddles, and it’s worse than Cas. At least Cas is amusing, and simply doesn’t know better. This guy just seems to be trying to set you off-

“That won’t work.”

You blink at him. “Wha-“

“Your little magic trick. The bam.” He makes a crushing gesture, raising his brows. “Afraid you need to have a little more control and self-love than you’ve got now, to take me out. I mean, the other thing you’ve got, the boom-“ Another gesture. “That might work, actually. Not sure. Let’s not find out.”

Now you’re just too confused, and you’ll hand it to him. The Blue’s vagueness seems to keep the Silver only brimming in your body.

“Look, I’d love to talk with you forever, but we’re kinda on a timer.” The Blue sighs, his tone suddenly falling into something serious. “That tree? The one where you’re trying to work out what you are and how to control it? Stop it. Stop barking.”

“I-“

“You don’t understand what you’re doing.” The Blue says your name, and it’s a little distorted. Louder. Musical.

Enochian.

“You’re changing things. Things that shouldn’t be tampered with, let alone moved around and rearranged however you want.”

“No- I-“ You shake your head, your hands drifting up to rub at your wrists. “I left. I stopped interfering, I promise-“

“You already interfered.” The Blue sighs, giving you an almost sympathetic expression. “Just your existence, just by letting them into your orbit, you’ve done more than you can-“

“But I stopped.” You’re almost pleading. You’d left to stop. To make sure nothing you did hurt anyone you loved. That was the fucking point, you’d stopped-

“Look.” The Blue run a hand—hands?—over his face. “We’re behind schedule, because of you! Little Sammy Winchester actually held on longer against Ruby and the blood, because you planted a little extra doubt in his head! Because he and Dean were fighting, but they fought all the time! He just knew you’d always end up with Dean, and he didn’t want to lose you with his brother, so he held on!”

“I- I don’t-“

“They’re ahead, too! Sam and Dean aren’t fighting as much because of Sam trying longer, and Dean’s thinking about what you would do! And you turned sweet, hopeful Castiel over to their side too soon, and now they’ve got some extra steps on everyone, which is going make this drag. People are gone that should’ve stuck around, and some of them are early, and you’ve made a mess that’s going to take forever to get in order!”

The Silver is still silent, as the Blue throws his hands in the air. 

You wish it would turn in, and rip you to shreds.

“I didn’t mean to.” You whisper, your hand returning to your throat. “I promise I didn’t mean to-“

“I know you didn’t.” The Blue shakes his head, and there’s that fucking sympathy again. “But you’ve gotta stop, kid. You’re making this even more complicated than those chuckleheads ever could.”

“But I- I want to go home.” You sound like a child. You don’t care. “I’ll just lock myself in my room, I promise, I but I- I need to go home-“

“Sorry,” The Blue says your name, in Enochian once more. “No dice. He’s looking for you, and that’ll make this all worse-“

“He-“

“My brother.”

“Oh.”

The Sky flashes over you.

The Blue doesn’t seem to see it.

“It’s better if you get some sleep, I think.” The Blue frowns, and it sounds like he’s mostly talking to himself. “Yeah. Sleep will be good for you.”

You don’t want to sleep. You need to get home. Back to Dean. You’d told him you’d come home, so you need to come home-

“Probably won’t hold, but it’s better than the other option.” The Blue raises one of his bursting, electric hands. “Don’t worry. I’ll make it feel good. Send you someone nice.”

You want to scream, to run, to fight, but the Silver hasn’t built itself up, and you’re frozen. 

And before you can call for Dean, the Blue presses to your brow, and the world goes dark. 

“What don’t you think is real?”

You blink at Dean in the dark of the Impala, and a little bit of chocolate milk is smeared on his upper lip.

He’d grabbed a beer, insisting that he didn’t want anything else. But you’d grabbed two chocolate milks, because you know him.

Love him.

Miss him. 

You know this is a dream faster than usual. The whole world—even in the dark of midnight—is bathed in gold, just like when you dream about Dean without you. You remember what’s supposed to happen here.

You don’t really want to stray from the script, though.

You love this one.

“What do you mean?” You reach up to wipe the milk off Dean’s face, and he grins at you.

“Y’know. Some of this shit has to be fake.”

You hum, watching him carefully. “Like what?”

“Unicorns.”

“Unicorns are real-“

“I- No they’re not-“

“I’ve seen one.”

“Ah.” Dean grumble, taking another large drink of his chocolate milk. “Of course you have.”

You giggle, scooting a little close to his side to grab the jerky from his lap. His arm goes around the bench. Your shoulders. Casually keeping you pressed against him. 

It had never even crossed your mind to move.

“What don’t you think is real?” You ask, and he shrugs. 

“I believe what I can see. What I can kill. Monsters, ghosts, me, you-“

“Me? Should I be worried you’re going to kill me?”

“No.” He scowls. “You know that’s not what I meant. And I’m being serious-“

“I know you are, Deano.” You give him an amused look, reaching up to wipe the milk off again. “Do you believe in me?”

“Course I believe in you-“

“Do you believe in Sam?

“I-“ He sighs. “Just say it, sweetheart.”

Okay. You’re being dramatic.”

He’s almost pouting. “No, I’m not-“

“Yes, you are.” You sigh. “It doesn’t matter what might be real or not. I’m real. You’re real. This,” you poke him, and his gaze never leaves yours. “Is real. And I know it.”

“You know it?” Dean shakes his head. “How-“

“I just do. Do you know I’m real?”

He sighs, and nods. “Yeah. Guess I do.”

“Oh, you guess-“

“Shut up.”

You giggle, and Dean grins at you again.

“I’m glad you’re real, Princess. Would suck if you weren’t.”

You smile up at him, and you look stupid, and nothing has ever felt better. “I’m glad you’re real too, De.”

What you want to say—what you always want to say—is I love you. Dean Winchester, you perfect, Golden idiot, I could never love anyone but you.

But you can’t be allowed to. Not even in a dream.

So instead you just lean press your face into his chest, breathe him in, and hope that this moment lasts forever.

End Note: introducing new lore mechanics is always very special to me because I get to share about something I’ve been keeping secret for MONTHS and also you guys get to be confused.

Thank you so so so much for reading!! If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3

Buy me a coffee!☕️

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[hellfiremunsonn]

Not So Into It. Eddie Munson x Reader.

Not So Into It.

I DO NOT ALLOW MY WRITING TO BE REPUBLISHED ANYWHERE OTHER THAN MY OWN BLOG WITHOUT MY CONSENT

Summary: Sometimes you try to push through when you shouldn't and Eddie notices right away.

18 + IF YOU ARE NOT 18 OR OLDER DO NOT READ OR INTERACT WITH MY WRITING. IT IS NOT INTENDED FOR MINORS. I AM NOT RESPONSIBLE FOR THE MEDIA YOU CONSUME.

Warnings: Fem reader though no real fem descriptions used, pet names obv. Not entirely explicit. Reader tries to endure the rest of sex though she's not really feeling it anymore. Eddie is super sweet and makes sure she knows its fine whenever she wants to stop. (IF THERES ANYTHING I MISSED LET ME KNOW)

AN: Slightly self indulgent (as most of my fics are) I've realized recently that I've pushed through having sex with partners despite no longer being in the mood, because it's 'easier' that asking them to stop, and making them upset. (rather the fear of making them upset) so I was day dreaming about how Eddie would react and then started writing this. Also I did not make a header for this and it feels naked and I hate it so I'll probably add one later maybe or not idk I have ADHD.

Word count: 764

You've been at it for maybe about fifteen minutes now. The roll of eddies hips as he thrusts into you lazily, occasionally picking up speed before slowing back down. Kissing you all over, and murmuring words of filthy praise.

And it's wonderful it is; And the foreplay before hand was even better, but now you've sort of just, lost interest in it. But Eddie is fucking into you so nicely, and he's so worked up that you don't want to stop him.

Especially because he spent so much time working you up on his fingers and with his mouth, so only for you to 'spoil' it by stopping so soon felt mean. So instead you wrapped your arms around his neck and buried your face into the crook of it, trying to encourage him to go faster, to chase that release you know he wants, and you want to give it to him. 

It doesn't take Eddie long to notice that you're no longer into it when you sort of go quiet. You're not clinging to him like you usually do, and when you do make any noise, it's not full of pleasure and want, it's more involuntary. He pulls back enough to catch a glimpse of your face, watching how you close your eyes almost immediately, biting at your lip as if you're pretending it feels good. 

"Babe?" Eddie murmurs out, a little breathless and hoarse, slowing his hips until you open your eyes. 

"Yeah baby? Why'd you stop?" you say cheerfully, cringing at the sound of your own voice because you know it doesn't sound very convincing. 

"Are you okay?" He asks instead of answering your question, his eyes searching your face for something.

"Yeah" you reply quickly, because you are technically okay, you just don't really want to be having sex anymore. 

"You're not really into it right now though are you?" It's more of a statement than a question, because he knows you.

You hesitate for a moment, debating lying, but how could you when you have the most wonderful boyfriend in the world looking down at you like that. "Well... N-no not really, but it's okay you can finish, I don't want to like blue ball-"

"Blue ball me?" He scolds, rolling his eyes before pulling out of you slowly, pulling his boxers back up over his hips and moving to sit next to you. 

You cover your face with your hands. Face heating up in embarrassment and guilt. "I'm sorry" you mumble, feeling an annoying wave of emotions creep up on you. 

"Sorry? baby you've got nothing to be sorry about" Eddies confused, and his heart hurts seeing you upset, especially over something like this. "It's okay that you wanted to stop, it's always okay when you want to stop" He says firmly, pausing so you understand the sincerity of his words."I just wish you had said something sooner" he murmurs softly, reaching up to gently tug your hands away from your face, sighing when he sees your wet eyes and the tears that roll down your temples. "C'mere" he says while tugging at your hands once more, pulling you over to him until your head rests against his chest, warm where your cheek is pressed. 

"I just didn't want you to be upset" You mumble. You know it's stupid, because Eddie has never once been upset when stopping before and you've never felt like you had to perform for him, but you just couldn't help the lingering guilt of past experiences creep up on you. "You d-did all that work for me, it's not fair that you have to stop"

"Baby I'm going to stop you right there... no pun intended" He giggles. "I don't care if I do all the work and then some, I like pleasing you just to please you, it barely has anything to do with me, and if I was really that desperate, I could literally just go jerk off" he says this so easily, because truthfully it is, and deep down you know that, because consent and love are two beautiful things especially when combined. 

"Now why don't we get you dressed back up on some comfy clothes, and we can cuddle for as long as you want. Sound good?" He trails his fingers across your hairline, down from your temple to your jaw and back up until you give him the smallest nod. He kisses you on the forehead and helps you get dressed before pulling you back against his chest where he holds you until you feel just a little bit more normal again. 

[oogaboogasphincter]

Lie to Girls | Joel Miller x f!reader

loosely inspired by Lie To Girls by Sabrina Carpenter

summary: Joel tries to get you back one last time, but he just breaks your heart even more.

warnings/word count: MDNI angst angst angst | 1,100+ words | read part 1 to get caught up on the details of this situationship lol

a/n: i really want to create a longer series about these characters but i only have the patience for oneshots 😭 so if one day these posts disappear, they'll be reincarnated into a series!! 🥳 let me know if you guys prefer multi-chapter series or just one shots, and i hope you enjoy! :)

Being without Joel was numbing. You cried more over the strange, unnamed feeling that fogged your mind than his loss. Your daily routines were messed up. There was no brewed coffee in the morning handed to you with a smile. Your patrol pairing was silently changed. You felt the severity of the cliche when you came home and your couch remained empty, though you didn’t really want him there and that stung the most. You wanted the man you fell in love with, not the man he had become. You were mourning over what was, what could have been, instead of what is. 

Everything had gotten more difficult. Patrol felt meaningless; maybe an invasion would spark that feeling of finding something to fight for again. Distracting yourself bore even less fruit. You’d lay in bed for hours, trying to kindle anything between your thighs — with your fingers, your vibrator, different motions — to no avail. The toy sailed through the dark as you threw it and it crashed into the opposite wall while you turned over in groveling defeat, trying to ignore your swollen yet unsatiated petals and the shame they harbor.

–

One afternoon, there’s a knock at your door. You answer it and it’s him, with his hands on the doorframe like he’s ready to push it in if you hadn’t answered. You turn away, closing the door on him, but he grabs it and yanks it open. You’re too empty to stop him. 

You step back as he comes towards you, backing up until your heels hit the couch and crossing your arms. Somehow your cheeks got wet. He steps forward, slower, like he’s approaching a wounded animal; a dog he tripped over without meaning to that he knows doesn’t understand forgiveness, that makes him helplessly panic in trying to find a way to atone. His footfalls are heavy, cautious, so familiar it’s nauseating. He cradles your face in his hands, fitting his freezing cold palms to your jaw. 

“Babygirl, it’s me,” he says and his broken voice transports you back to a time when you licked his wounds. When you loved him, when he was your entire world. When looking at him was like the sun shining hopeful rays on the dismal world below. When all the horrors felt lighter just because you knew he was there. 

You squeeze your eyes shut as your heart tightens in your chest, wishing him away with all your might.

“It’s me, honey,” he soothes despite his betrayal. He leans in close and presses the curve of his nose to yours. You shake your head in his hands, telling yourself it’s not him, to not fall for his trap again. 

He wraps an arm around your back and his other cradles the back of your head to his chest, pulling you close. He breathes, “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, my love.” He bunches his hand in the back of your jacket, crushing you against him. If only he could hold you so close you’d absorb into him and he could heal you from the inside without his medicine being jumbled by his stupid, stubborn mouth. 

“Please,” he prays with a series of delicate kisses to your forehead, “Come back.” 

His hands never stop moving, caressing your back or knotting in your hair with dual nurturing and possession or squeezing your arms. “I’ll stop going to therapy, you were right, it doesn’t do shit for me anyways. I’ll stop unloading all my bullshit on you, baby, just please—”

You pull back and he grants you a few inches, but nothing more. The rain outside robs your attention and you watch through the window as the drops slide down the wind chime, falling below and splatting on the back of the rocking chair Joel used to sit on and strum away on his guitar. You sigh, “Maybe there’s something wrong with me. I don’t know how to live here, in this community with all these people. I feel like an animal.”

His head shakes like his fingers trembling incessantly. He brushes them across your cheeks, murmuring, “You’re no animal, baby.”

“What if I’m comfortable being an animal? I’m good at surviving, not…” The leather couch goads in its comfortability behind you. The plates neatly piled in the kitchen sneer with prejudice at your wrinkled shirt. On the counter sits a vase of flowers, still fresh from when Joel picked them for you a few days ago, and they laugh. “...this.”

He assures solemnly, pitifully, “I can help you.”

A shake of your head, “No.” 

“We can go somewhere else,” he offers hastily as the fright of losing you again starts to settle in. To him, he still has a chance to convince you to come back. He knows there’s a thread of him permanently woven into the tapestry of your heart, one you couldn’t rip out if you wanted to. He takes advantage of its mercy, plucking at it incessantly. Tears fall down your face with every cruel strum. 

“You won’t leave Ellie. You won’t leave Tommy.” You swipe at your tears, casting yourself further out into an isolated ocean with every word you speak. “That’s normal, Joel.”

He pauses, thinking. Impatient with knowing he’s losing the battle, he gruffs, “I’m not letting you go out there by yourself.”

Agitated, you sigh. “Leave me alone,” you order. 

“No!” he barks louder than he meant to, incredulity and anger cranking his brows down low.

Unfortunately, a comforting sense of belonging weighs your heart down. It blooms through the cracks even though the sun hasn’t shone for millennia. The freedom you crave could always be satiated with the proper hand, one that lets you roam as you please but gives you a permanent resting place when the torrents rock you too hard. Joel’s case is tempting and it makes you itch.

Somehow, you get him to sleep in separate beds for the night. He doesn’t speak his vow, but you know he’ll be at your doorstep tomorrow. 

–

You leave the next morning with Joel in your heart, nudging you along the trail up the snowy mountain. He was right; he’d never leave you alone, at least not your spirit. You’d take him in your heart with you across the hills and valleys, across the country until you found a home for the two of you while maintaining just the right amount of physical distance. But for now he was where he needed to be and so were you; him in Jackson and you on the wander. 

You pause at the top of the mountain, looking back down on the town. You wonder how long it’ll take him to notice you’re gone and you start to imagine if he’s already running through your house, throwing apart rooms trying to find you… his distress makes your blood pressure spike and you quash your curiosity with haste. You can’t afford to change your mind again, so you turn with a choked sniffle and leave. You just pray he doesn’t follow you.

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taglist: @pascalpanic @pedrostories @maievdenoir @uncassettodiricordi @harriedandharassed @scentedcandletidalwave @joelsflannel @readingiskeepingmegoing

[fictoweirdoesten]

Only Just a Dream

cw: gn! reader x lads men (poly). use of petnames (pipsqueak, pips, sweetie, kitten, 'darling light', cutie). dialogue by color (because I'm not confident that y'all will understand who's talking because my writing skills suck). mostly fluff but hard-hitting angst(reader has depression)towards the end, and then slight fluff right at the end.

a/n: let me know if the color dialogue is too distracting, I'll change it back. wanted to write this to forget about my ex-bsf for at least 30 minutes because heh, bpd, can't stop thinking about them.

update: bpd is so funn that I don't miss them anymore and instead completely hate them<3

idk i just wish i had the lads guys as friends maaaaaaaaan im really going through it rn uhhhh hope you enjoy reading ♡

"Cuuutie! Wake uuuuup!"

You groan, clutching onto your pillow as you try to ignore the person waking you up.

"Pleaaaase? You've been asleep aaaall day!"

The person tugs at your arm before gripping on it, attempting to pull you out of the bed. It's not until a few tugs later that you fully register what's going on. Your eyes suddenly widen, darting to the man beside you. Your heart races when you take in his appearance, the way his pretty blue and pink eyes stare down at you with a mix of confusion and admiration. He eases his grip on your arm, leaning closer to you with a slight smirk on his face.

"What? Had a nightmare?" he teases, but there's a hint of genuine concern in his voice. He moves his hand to your cheek, carressing it gently. "Don't worry. Your very strong boyfriend is here to protect you."

He chuckles, but you don't. "I can't believe it," you think to yourself, eyes darting all over the Lemurian. "Is he...? Am I...?"

"That big dummy is making breakfast." Your heart beats at his words, already guessing who this 'big dummy' could be. Rafayel notices your sudden excitement and lets out a scoff, shrugging his shoulders. "I knew your back was big, but man, didn't know you'd get that excited over-"

Before he could finish, you're already out of the ridiculously-large bed and pacing down the hallway. You stop, almost turning into a puddle of goo right there as your eyes spot two men in the kitchen. One of them is wearing nothing but a frilly red apron and some gray sweatpants, his attention on the stove as he holds the pan with one hand and a spatula on the other. The other is holding a cup of coffee, his hazel eyes slowly glancing up from his phone to you as he takes another sip.

"...Well good morning," Zayne gently smiles, setting his mug down and resting his chin on his hand. "You slept long enough. We were starting to get worried yknow." Caleb quickly moved his gaze to you when he heard Zayne, a lovestruck grin on his face. "If you keep sleeping in like that, I might have to start breathing down your neck every night until you fall asleep at an appropriate time, pipsqueak."

Before you could respond, Zayne interrupts you with a slight chuckle. "Your 'pipsqueak' has been mentally exhausted lately, Caleb. I'll jump in if it becomes an issue." Caleb lets out a quiet "hmph", focusing his attention back at the stove. "I'm almost done with breakfast. Pancakes for Sylus and Zayne, waffles for Rafayel and Xavier, and french toast for you and me."

Sylus? Xavier?

Caleb winks at you, giggling at the flustered look on your face. "What's wrong pips? Looks like you're spacin' out." You let out a slight, almost forced laugh, eyes glancing around the room for Sylus and Xavier, but you don't notice them. You also don't notice Rafayel walking past you, letting out a whine as he leans his head against Caleb's back, rubbing his forehead against his apron.

"When's breakfast ready? I'm hungryyyyyy!"

"Soon, you bratty fish! Now-"

You quickly tune them out, still trying to figure out the whereabouts of the last two men. Zayne notices, letting out a fake cough to catch your attention.

"Suprisingly, those two woke up earlier than you today. Since it's a bit cloudy out, Sylus wanted to go walk, and Xavier went to join him."

"If I'm right, they should be here about now-"

As soon as the words leaves Zayne's lips, the sound of the door unlocking catches your attention. You start walking towards the front door, watching as the two men walk inside and instantly meet your gaze.

"Kitten? I thought you were busy hibernating today," Sylus smirks, leaning down to kiss your forehead, his hand resting on your shoulder momentarily before he lets go, walking past you as he takes off his jacket. Xavier decides to lean his head onto your shoulder, letting out a satisfied hum as he nuzzles against you. "How was the walk Xavier," you ask, your hand moving to his hair, fingers dancing along his scalp. "Mh. It was okay-"

"Not fair! Why didn't I get a pet today!" You glance behind you to see a pissed off Rafayel darting towards the both of you. He flicks at Xavier's forehead, causing the man to groan and stare daggers into him. The both of them are pouting now, and you can't help but giggle as you move and rub your fingers gently against Rafayel's temple. Rafayel lets out a sound similar to a purr, leaning against your touch as he grabs your hand and rubs against your palm.

"Hey! I want a pet too!" You hear Caleb shout from the kitchen, his voice playful, but there's a needy undertone to it that you almost miss. Sylus and Zayne let out a sigh as they sit across from each other at the dining table, shaking their heads like disappointed, but doting parents.

"What are we going to do with them, Zay?"

"I don't know, but I would like it if you wouldn't steal my coffee, Sylus."

Sylus's smirk becomes devious as he glares at Zayne, his hand stopping at the mug's handle. He eventually lets go after a brief staring contest between them, sitting back in his chair as he shrugs and glances away.

"...Your coffee is too sweet for me anyway."

You can't help but let out a fit of laughter at everything that's going on. You haven't felt this happy in a long time. It feels so good to laugh, you suddenly remember.

"Wooow, someone remembered how to be happy, guys."

"My darling light, what's got you so giggly this morning?"

"I've almost missed that laugh of yours, you know."

"Looks like this kitten realized just how loved it is."

"Hey, my sweet baby apple, breakfast is-!"

Your eyes snap open. You glance around, dread slowly creeping in once you realize that you're back in your bed again. That it really was a dream. That you won't ever have that clingy somebody waking you up in the morning, that you won't be greeted with breakfast and a smile, that you won't ever feel as loved as you were in that dream.

And then your phone buzzes. It isn't anyone, you already know, but you can't help but hope anyway. Hope that maybe someone does care.

Love&deepspace:

Rafayel: Cuuuutie! Where are you??? I'm bored in this dumb studio, come say hello!

Xavier: I'm sleepy....let's cuddle together...

Zayne: When I'm done with work today, do you want to hang out? I'm in the mood for sweets.

Sylus: In the mood to shop sweetie? I'll come visit you this evening, be ready.

Caleb: I've made breakfast for you, so come over, okay?

...maybe...maybe you really are loved, after all.

[erwinsvow]

https://www.tumblr.com/erwinsvow/783483947154849792/reading-that-last-anon-ask-made-me-think-of-nicky

Ughhh I just love this so much!!!

Like Pope is confused, everyone else is confused and she’s just so sure in what she wants, so forward and flirty with Pope, bc how could you not be? he’s perfect!

And seeing him nervous and stuttery, and crushing is so cuteeee (like him when he called Amy and met up with her in season 6… going to the restaurant hours before to make sure it was perfect, ahhhh I’m getting side tracked, but I love him so much!!)

He’s such a loverboy and he deserves a horny younger woman who is obsessed with him (…it’s me, he deserves me)

literally this!!!!!!! woke up extra early so i could take a study break and answer some of these but i would looooove if nympho gf (can i call her that. is that fine?) gets pretty worried after her attempts aren’t working for a while. like discouraged and then kind of like oh, he doesn’t even like me, that is embarrassing. & then maybe you take it down a lot of notches to save yourself further embarrassment and then obviously at first he was just confused and ? about the whole thing. still doesn’t get why you picked him to give all your attention to. does not like the comments from craig about “dude, are you gonna hit that or what?” and how you don’t seem to care what anyone has to say about him and still flock up to him daily like you’re not scared of him!!! like you’ve never been scared and have no reason to be scared. and then the more you’re around the more he can appreciate how you do, in fact, really like him. asking him how his day was everyday. walking away from conversations with his brothers if you see him. finding him at every party and sitting quietly next to him instead of socializing with other people. and then eventually he just found some peace in listening to you yap about your classes and this dress you bought when he finally asks you on a date and how you like the shirt he’s wearing and there was one at the mall you should have gotten for him. and he’s just content to sit and stare and listen while you talk but you get sad and worried when he doesn’t ever make another move.

so you just conclude you’re annoying him and try to lay off and then one day at another one of Smurf’s parties he finds you in the usual place you guys sit just drinking a beer and staring at the stars, after a week of not really talking to him and fuck if it doesn’t burn!!! he doesn’t even realize what’s happening or get why you stopped because your attention had been really really sweet and he was getting very used to it and then it just slowed down (you still say hi and ask him how his day was but you stop with the flirty jokes and the arm touches and staring at him like you’re thinking about all the ways he could bend you over. he misses the arm touches the most though.) or :( he thinks it’s just you discovering something else about him that made you scared and youre just doing what everyone else does—leaving. i stand by the fact that nympho reader is only a nympho for andrew like she’s not interested in anyone else and doesn’t enjoy parties or being over if he’s not there. so that night is no exception and you sit and wait to see if andrew will come talk to you like all the other times but you give up when you don’t see him after an hour or two. have a headache from the gross beer and how sad you feel and stupidly you think if he’s not at home, maybe you can sleep in his room and drive home in the morning since they all know you anyways. and you know no one is gonna go in his room, youd be safe to crash there. so you do and when you wake up Andrew’s sitting next to you so you have to sleepily apologize and tell him in your tired state how you thought no one would bother you if you slept in here. and i think it kind of lights a fire in him lol to think that you feel protected just being in his room, not even in his presence, that you still went there even when you couldn’t find him earlier (he was in the garage taking his frustration out with power tools). cue sleepy heartfelt confession and kiss and make up time!! <3 how long could either of you keep it up when you clearly miss each others company so much. and then the next time everyone sees you two you’re hanging off his arm and showering him in PDA and you start wearing his shirts and a little A necklace and getting chased around in the forest and fucked against trees!!!!! yayyyyyy

[callofdoobie420]

AN TOAST TO WATCHING IT BURN

Rafe x pogue!reader (also kinda x sofia)

You had overheard something — a conversation you know wasn’t meant for your ears. It wasn’t your fault though! You had just been doing your job.

Out at the docks, doing a last walk through before locking up. As a Pogue there aren’t too many job opportunities in Kildare, and you really didn’t want to end up at the wreck with Kie. No matter how many times she had offered.

The water was like a second home to you, and working at the yacht club just seemed to make sense. It just also meant sucking up to annoying Kooks. The tips may be nice but it was slowly eating away at your soul. Especially when people like Rafe Cameron were around.

He was a frequent pain in your ass, and always out here with Topper and Kelce causing problems. Though you also couldn’t deny the more lust filled glances you had thrown his way (you sure as hell would try).

So when you heard murmurs coming from one of the yachts, and Rafe’s name mentioned you couldn’t help yourself. Quietly stepping near the boat and moving closer to the voices.

“I’m not asking you to do anything illegal, not even unethical,” you hear an unfamiliar voice say, “you’re just helping me, help Rafe make a good decision.”

“How much?” You strain to hear, that voice. That sounded familiar.

“Twenty-five dear, no questions asked, the deal happens you get the money.”

“Hollis,” the familiar voice clarifies who the other is, “this is a swindle isn’t it, Rafes the mark-?”

Nothing else filters to you once you hear that. Rafe? That voice, that familiar voice — Sofia. You scramble away from the boat carefully avoiding the creaky boards.

Cursing internally, you pull out your phone and shoot a text to the one person you thought you’d never speak to. And that you know you shouldn't be speaking to.

Hey. I’m tired of everyone lying to you and using you. Ask Sofia where she was tonight.

Clicking so your phone locks, you tossed it in your purse heading for your bike. Knowing you just lit a match and dropped it on a puddle of gasoline. But you meant what you said.

While Rafe was a major pain in your ass, he was yours. And you were getting sick and tired of seeing people abuse what was yours. Though you two have hated each other since elementary school, somewhere along the way something else had formed.

It was rough and ugly. But you would be damned if Sofia got to reap all the benefits now that Rafe was finally trying to be better.

He could be better with you.

You would accept him, but push him to thrive as who he is — not smother it like Sofia. She didn’t see his raw potential. But you did. And now, you’d be sure Rafe saw yours.

He’d had his fun. He’d tried it with the sweet little Pogue. Now it’s time to try it with the one who could kick his ass.

Feeling your phone buzz, you stop your bike to read the message.

You better not be fucking with me Maybank.

Giggling to yourself as you thought, not fucking with you...yet. Instead sending him a serious message.

I told you...tired of you being used. Now delete those texts, there cant be proof I was nice to you.

Across town, Rafe couldn't help the small smirk that spread over his lips at the text you sent. He would be lying if he said he hadn't ever thought of you that way — in all ways. But you were a Pogue...and a Maybank at that. He couldn't ever allow himself to stoop that low.

But here you were reaching out a potential olive branch of epic proportions. You didn't have to warn him, but you had. Even said that you didn't like people using him.

He wasn't used to someone thinking of him like that. Caring about what happened to him. He just shook his head, not wanting to get a headache thinking about this.

I'll think about it ;) thanks for the tip Maybank.

You simply roll your eyes at his response. Continuing on your way home content with the havoc this would cause. You hadn't ever thought you were better than Sofia, no...just better for Rafe.

(Just dipping my toe into the obx world. Kinda cant stop thinking about Rafe needing someone that challenges him...)