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please-destroy · 5 months ago

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Someone Familiar

Natasha Romanoff x Pregnant!Reader

Word Count: 7.6K

Being able to build a family with the person you loved was a privilege. You knew that for Natasha, it was also a miracle.

Natasha did not believe in luck, only the absence of it. You could understand why good things made her nervous. You saw the effects of her childhood, of her entire life, every day.

Your relationship had clashed with Natasha’s understanding of the world. She’d told you, on your second date, that love was for children. Her brow had knitted in confusion when that had made you kiss her harder.

Natasha saw herself as fundamentally lacking because of her past. Natasha radiated steady love and then wondered why you trusted her.

You knew it was tied to the graduation ceremony that she’d been subjected to in the Red Room. It had taken years for her to believe in your relationship, in the simple success of it.

In a way, you understood her hesitance. There were too many pieces that had fallen into place. Too many hurdles cleared at the last second.

Together, you had already built something better than Natasha had ever hoped for. Then, one day, you asked her to build something new together.

You took the positive pregnancy test when Natasha was on a mission. You’d been trying for several months already.

Each negative test had stung more than either of you knew how to process. Everytime, your heart would sink heavily and you’d try to smooth out your expression. You’d meet Natasha’s wide-eyed stare and watch a raw anxiety wash over her. You hated that look more than anything. Natasha had held your hand and taken a leap of faith with you. With every negative test you felt like you were letting her down, asking her to have hope when there was no guarantee.

There was always an awful kind of silence after a negative result. Hearing Natasha’s shallow breaths echoing in the tiled bathroom. You’d bring your arms around her slowly, only tightening your hold as she folded into your arms. You’d wrap yourself around her softly, like a blanket, making your own heavy disappointment lighter so that you could carry some of hers.

‘It’s only negative this month.’ You would remind her carefully, repeating words you weren’t sure that you believed. After a moment, Natasha would kiss your cheek and you’d know by the way she avoided your lips that it was meant as an apology. Natasha was always apologising for what she couldn’t give you.

Natasha didn’t chase happiness, because she didn’t know how to have it.

When she first met you, every moment together felt a little frantic. She held your hand on unofficial dates and you watched her unsurely, waiting for her to change her mind. Kisses felt unintentional, hurried but passionate as if neither of you could help it any longer.

You couldn’t decide who this woman was, why the pieces of her didn’t quite fit together. You wondered when Natasha was ever just herself.

Initially, you only saw it in glimpses. But, Natasha shone through the smallest of cracks.

At night you faced each other in the bed, restfully watching each other in the silence. There was an electric kind of comfort in the space between you. It was those silent moments, in between heartbeats and shallow breaths, that made you certain of Natasha. That you fit together in a perfect way.

Natasha would lift her hand hesitantly and run her fingers over your skin. She drew light patterns that never seemed to end. You watched her marvel at the fact you were still in her bed. That you weren’t leaving. That you thought you could be whole with her.

For you, pregnancy was a dream worth chasing. A future that you could build with the person you loved. For Natasha, making a family was soaked in her own failing. The way she saw herself was unfair, it was untrue. Still, the feeling lingered.

It was past midnight when you took the positive pregnancy test. You’d had an inexplicable feeling and you’d been correct.

You smiled at yourself in the bathroom mirror. You barely recognised the person you saw, the giddy excitement reflected in your eyes. Natasha wasn’t there, but you heard your own hitched breaths echoing in the room and felt your joy double on her behalf.

You made no plan for how to tell Natasha. You knew the news would be surprise enough.

In the end, you didn’t even have to say the words.

Natasha walked through the front door around midday. A scheduled mission had overrun and she’d come home straight from the formal debriefing. You were leaning awkwardly against the back of the sofa, perched in anticipation as soon as you heard her car pull into the drive.

Subtle tension left Natasha’s face when she entered her home. Her smile widened in pleasure at the sight of you. Your returning one was soft and careful.

Natasha scanned your expression casually as she walked towards you. There was a second of normalcy where you met her unsuspecting smile. Your rapid heartbeat thudded in your own ears. Her scan of your face faltered and Natasha’s breath caught in her throat. Your smile widened as her eyes searched yours more closely. Your head dipped briefly in confirmation.

Natasha exhaled all at once, as if she’d finally been allowed to breathe. She dropped suddenly to her knees, a few feet from you. Her hand touched her own waist, bracing as the shock rolled through her. Her mouth stayed open but no air reentered her lungs.

You moved forward instinctively and your hand touched her shoulder. Natasha’s eventual inhale was long and ragged. Her hand brushed the back of your leg. You’d become adept at reading the muted signals of Natasha’s emotions. For the first time, there was nothing subtle in her expression of surprise.

Your hand moved to brush the top of her head, trying to ground her in the reality of the good news. Natasha looked up at you and her eyes had the same sparkle that you’d seen in your own in the bathroom mirror. You grinned familiarly.

Now that Natasha knew, the reality was settling with you too.

Her hands slid hesitantly under the front of your shirt. Her fingers grazed your stomach reverently. The warmth of her touch settled your jittering nerves for a moment. She started drawing light patterns across your skin and her lips pressed against your midriff. You loved her completely.

Natasha’s hands continued to trail up your sides as she returned slowly to her feet. Now, her fingers touched your face. She looked at you like you might not be real. You could feel the tremor in her touch.

‘Are you sure?’ She asked you suddenly, fingers stilling against your cheeks. You smiled even wider. You nodded again.

‘We’re having a baby.’ You said simply. The words sounded too much like fantasy. You took her hand and led her to the bathroom, to show her the test that had confirmed every impossible hope.

Natasha moved into a new kind of overdrive from that day forward. Nine months stretched before you like a precarious blessing.

Natasha gravitated around you whenever she could. The casual hand around your waist became a constant when you were together. There was a redheaded shadow for every mundane errand. It was flattering and a little unnerving to have such unadulterated attention.

Still, you saw the lingering carefulness in the way Natasha looked at you. The insecurities that led her to seek out reasons to touch you. It was fear that made her throat close up when you wondered aloud about baby names.

You were sure that Natasha was waiting anxiously for the bump to appear.

One morning, you caught her lingering, arms folded as she leaned against the bedroom wall. You were half naked, removing your pyjama top, when you noticed her interested gaze. You smirked as you turned around, lifting your clean shirt from the bed.

‘You can see your baby whenever you want.’ You reminded Natasha lightly, filling with a gentle kind of love for her. You held your smirk, waiting to see hers in return.

Your heartbeat stumbled when she glanced back at you with a hesitant incredulity. You placed the shirt back on the bed and reached out to Natasha instead. Natasha moved closer, her eyes watching your bare stomach nervously.

You ignored the way her stare made you feel like a stranger. She was always familiar to you.

Slowly, you pressed her hand softly against your stomach. Natasha knew your body well enough to recognise the slight change that couldn’t yet be seen. Her other hand moved to mirror the first. You felt her warm palms slide hesitantly along your bare skin. Your breath hitched and Natasha blinked in surprise at the effect of her touch. You watched her expression change as she felt the first proof that the baby was there. Her eyes flitted up to meet yours and you recognised what you saw there.

Natasha loved the baby already. You wanted to tell her that you understood, that you felt the same.

Your throat closed up when Natasha’s lips found your collarbone.

Suddenly, she was whispering hurried ‘Thank yous” against your skin. You moaned at the brush of her lips, though her words didn’t sit well with you. You wondered if Natasha understood how much the baby was already hers to love.

Natasha would have walked through fire with you. Still, you hated having to make her watch your morning sickness unfold. The waves of nausea found you in sudden onslaughts throughout the day.

You tried to push through it, ignoring Natasha’s clenched jaw as she watched you gingerly pick at your food.

Every time you ended up running to the bathroom, Natasha insisted on sitting with you on the miserable cold tiles. Her hand rubbed familiar circles along the small of your back. Her touch was filled with concern, but it still soothed you. Natasha always brought you balance.

As the weeks went on, you found yourself crying at every mealtime. The morning sickness refused to lessen and a new sort of uselessness flooded you whenever you couldn’t keep a meal down. Each time, Natasha wiped your tears silently before she cleared away barely touched dishes. You watched her move through the kitchen, her eyes closing for long moments as she fought her own frustrated tears.

You could feel Natasha’s misery at being unable to fix it for you.

The feeling of failure only highlighted your wife’s resilience.

Natasha tried every non-threatening food she could think of. She returned from grocery shopping with bags filled with the blandest foods imaginable.

Nothing worked.

You tried to hydrate as much as possible, tried to frame whatever food you did keep down as a positive. Still, you knew Natasha was starting to internalise your continued sickness as part of her own incapability.

Everything that she cooked or scoured from the shelves at the grocery store was rejected emphatically by the baby.

At last, your body finally granted you reprieve, just as the doctor had assured Natasha on several occasions.

You woke from an afternoon nap, indulging in the lazy weekend feeling of being at home with your wife. Selfishly, you loved being sure of Natasha’s proximity in the house. You wondered absentmindedly if Maria had had a heart attack when Natasha announced she was going to take all her unused time off, effective immediately.

You wandered sleepily through to the kitchen and over to Natasha. She was sitting with her back to you at the counter, scrolling on her laptop.

You rested your chin on her shoulder, snaking your arms around her back and letting out a satisfied sigh. Natasha let out an answering huff of laughter, leaning back slightly into your hold. There was a small jar of caviar open on the table. You knew she was sneaking it whenever she thought you wouldn’t have to see it. Your nose still scrunched at the thought of consuming something so fishy.

‘I want Mac n Cheese.’ You mumbled unthinkingly as a yawn overtook you suddenly.

Natasha stiffened in her chair and she turned to face you.

Her hand touched your chest, tilting back slightly so she could better assess your yawning expression.

‘Really?’ She asked you carefully. ‘You’re hungry?’

You smiled suddenly with the realisation that you were finally feeling able to eat.

‘All I want is Mac ‘n Cheese.’ You confirmed readily. Natasha got to her feet instantly. She looked at you for a moment and you revelled in the fondness of her attention. Her hands squeezed your shoulders in obvious satisfaction.

‘I have to run to the store.’ She rushed out hurriedly, kissing your lips briefly but emphatically.

Natasha’s love felt like a hot shower, encompassing and addictive. You watched her fly through the house, grabbing her keys and wallet. Her enthusiasm for you caught like a lump in your throat. You fought tears as you gave her a half wave, matching her wide grin as she glanced back before heading out the door.

Natasha’s mac and cheese tasted like heaven. As you helped yourself to a third helping, you began to feel sure that this was also your first craving.

Natasha had barely eaten any herself, continually putting her fork down as she watched you moan with delight with each bite. You grinned unashamedly, too blissed out from the relief of keeping the food down and the deliciousness of the meal itself.

‘How have we never eaten this before?’ You asked Natasha dramatically. Her answering smile was soft.

‘I had it a lot as a kid.’ She answered succinctly. Your surprise was evident, her reply was not what you’d expected. You tried to comprehend the Red Room ever providing Western classic dishes.

Natasha’s head shook in anticipation of your confusion.

‘I spent a few years in Ohio.’ She told you, a tightness in her voice as she forced a casual stab at some pasta with her fork. ‘It was an early mission.’

You stayed silent, knowing far more was omitted than what had been shared. Natasha stabbed another piece of pasta and you reached out automatically to touch her arm. Natasha glanced back at you and suddenly, she looked much younger.

You hated the people who had taken her childhood.

‘Was Mac n Cheese your favourite food?’ You asked, ignoring how strange it was for such an unassuming question to hold such weight. Natasha looked down at her plate when she shook her head. The food started to rest more heavily in your stomach.

‘Not my favourite.’ Natasha clarified in a carefully level voice. ‘Someone else’s.’ She paused again, choosing the right words. ‘A friend’s.’

Natasha looked back at you and you met her gaze steadily. No part of Natasha hinted that she felt off balance. Still, you caught the nervous energy emanating from her.

Your thumb brushed her arm soothingly and you didn’t ask any follow up questions. You both knew that she never had any friends in the Red Room.

‘Maybe it’s the baby’s favourite too.’ You said lightly, trying to alleviate the unspoken sadness that had settled between you.

You stood up, moving to clear the dishes. You took the opportunity to kiss Natasha’s forehead.

‘At least it’s not caviar.’ You muttered teasingly, stealing Natasha’s fork and the piece of macaroni on the end of it.

Natasha rolled her eyes and you knew she was settled by your familiar tease about her favourite food.

She stood up too, moving behind you suddenly. Her arms stretched around you to take the empty dishes from your hand, a silent insistence to leave the clearing of the table to her. Her lips touched your cheek and you felt immediate warmth spread through you at her affection. Pregnancy made Natasha’s love even more overwhelming.

Her lips lingered by your ear.

‘That’s okay. I’ve got plenty of time to teach them about having good taste.’ Natasha promised you, kissing you again before taking the dishes to the kitchen.

You stayed quiet, hiding a sudden beaming smile. You wondered if Natasha realised that she’d started making plans as a Mom.

Natasha circled the date of your sonogram on the calendar.

The calendar was already your favourite item in the whole house. Natasha had bought it a few weeks after you’d found out that you were pregnant. She’d filled in every important date that she could think of before hanging it in the front hall.

You had a suspicion that she was trying to recreate the domestic family life that she’d seen played out in movies. Natasha, the professional spy, was not who you’d expect to display important upcoming dates for anyone to view.

Your heart felt fuller and heavier when you saw Natasha attempt to become the Mom she wasn’t quite sure how to be.

You ached when you realised how little she had to go on. Natasha could learn anything and you watched her work to understand what she was missing.

Her bedtime reading became exclusively books for expectant parents. She studied with a quiet purpose that made you wonder if she was expecting a test at the hospital.

As the day of the sonogram approached, the two of you mentioned it less and less. There was a heightened feeling of anticipation that was hard to acknowledge.

You knew that Natasha didn’t actually care about the sex of the baby. Natasha didn’t believe in horoscopes either. Still, you’d found her plotting out the zodiac the other day, trying to figure out which star signs were likely for your baby.

Natasha was impatient to know her kid better. You related to the feeling entirely.

The silence on the drive to the appointment was full of awkward anticipation. You tried not to focus on your growing need to pee. They’d told you to drink some water before the appointment and you’d gone a little overboard. You turned on the radio for distraction, tuning in unexpectedly to a ‘Cheesy Hits’ station.

Dolly Parton and Kenny Rogers filled the car and relieved the tension. Natasha’s fingers started tapping out the beat on the dashboard. The shift in the air was tangible and, suddenly, you felt like you were going on an adventure together.

‘Dolly for a girl and Kenny for a boy?’ You suggested with a smirk, making sure to keep your eyes on the road ahead. Natasha was not thrilled by your insistence on driving today and you were determined to be the perfect model of safety behind the wheel.

Natasha leaned back against her head rest and you could feel her eyes on you as she turned to face you.

‘Mickey or Minnie.’ She suggested drily.

Your lips pressed together as you tried not to laugh.

‘Barbie or Ken.’ You countered and Natasha snorted. There was silence in the car and you knew Natasha was trying to think of something to make you laugh.

‘Kermit or Miss Piggy.’ She suggested suddenly and you found yourself desperately trying not to pee as you drove.

The giddiness you felt, as you checked in at the reception, reminded you of that first day together when you’d known that you were pregnant. Natasha’s fingers were interlaced with yours and her touch grounded you.

You didn’t speak in the waiting room, filled with a shared understanding of the moment. Natasha’s eyes didn’t leave your belly. The baby was part of you and so was Natasha. The three of you felt like one person.

Natasha told you that the jelly was going to feel cold before the nurse could. You wondered if she knew it from movies or from her studying.

Natasha was trying so hard to be a good mom. Things were already too heightened and you started crying unexpectedly. Natasha used her free hand to stroke your hair comfortingly.

‘Soon.’ She promised soothingly and you knew she thought you were crying with anticipation of the scan.

Natasha made your heart beat.

Soon, the room was filled with the sound of the baby’s heart beating too.

When the grainy black and white image of your child appeared on the screen, Natasha stopped squeezing your hand. Your eyes moved between the screen and her expression. Unadulterated longing was written across her face. Her eyes turned to you and you met her gaze readily. Her desperate hope mellowed as she watched your steady joy.

Natasha’s smile turned wide and free. You had never seen her entirely unburdened before. Your eyes turned back to the screen, loving your baby entirely.

The nurse informed you that it was a girl and the announcement didn’t even register. Natasha started crying, burying her head against your shoulder. Your arm curved around her back automatically. The nurse smiled at you and you smiled back. You felt free too.

You started laughing when you were back in the car. Elton John played out the speakers and Natasha stared down at a picture of your baby.

‘That’s your daughter.’ You reminded her happily. Natasha shook her head but her eyes stayed fixed on the picture.

‘I’m dreaming.’ She said dazedly and something about her tone made you blink back tears again.

You didn’t have the right words.

Instead, you placed Natasha’s hand back onto your rounded stomach. There was no absence of proof now that her dreams were coming true.

You didn’t drive back home immediately. You couldn’t resist heading to the baby store instead. When you took a left turn and Natasha realised your intention, she sent you an indulgent smile.

You wandered through the baby clothes section with a languid kind of confidence. You were going to have a daughter. Your skin tingled with happiness.

Natasha sought out a store assistant as you browsed. She wanted to know about the safety ratings on cribs. You couldn’t stop smiling when you heard her begin the interaction by announcing that she was expecting a daughter. The store assistant answered her questions readily and caught your interest in the clothing section of the aisle.

‘These are always my favourite.’ She told you conspiratorially as she approached, picking up a onesie that read ‘World’s Best Sister.’

‘We don’t need that.’ Natasha informed her immediately in a level voice. You resisted the urge to roll your eyes at her corrective tone.

‘Not yet.’ You added, sharing a smile with the store assistant before turning back to face Natasha.

You expected to see playful exasperation in her expression. Instead, you saw a fierce and inexplicable kind of hurt. Natasha’s gaze was painful to meet. The store assistant saw it too, she placed the outfit back and moved away quietly.

‘Natasha.’ You started hesitantly, feeling entirely unsure of yourself. Natasha just shook her head. Everything felt raw and you knew from the way her eyes darted around the store that this wasn’t the right time.

You kissed her cheek in wordless apology. You led Natasha out of the store, expecting some insistence that you should finish browsing. Her continued silence made you worried.

You saw the way that she swallowed uncomfortably and felt a corresponding lump rise up in your own throat. You didn’t have to understand the sources of Natasha’s pain to feel it too.

You let the Cheesy Hits station continue to play as you drove home. The silence was tense, but the music still offered some sort of reprieve.

You started humming along as the tune of ‘American Pie’ began to play. At first, you didn’t notice the change in Natasha’s breathing. Her hand gripped your arm suddenly and you startled at the unexpected touch.

You glanced over to her and caught her struggling to take a breath. Illogically, your first thought was that she was choking. Then, you heard her rattling inhale and recognised the panic attack.

Anxiety flooded you too as you tried to keep driving safely.

‘What is it?’ You asked stupidly as you started moving hurriedly through the lanes of traffic.

Natasha’s words were fearful and they didn’t make any sense.

‘I think my sister is dead.’ She told you as the shaky breaths turned to ragged sobs.

You pulled over at the side of the road. You moved towards Natasha, ignoring the uncomfortable sound of the other cars rushing past.

‘Breathe love.’ You directed her calmly, resting your hand on her shoulder in an attempt to ground her.

With military effort, Natasha forced herself to breathe regularly. The sound was still shaky and her inhales were desperate. You’d never seen her spiral like that before.

You turned off the radio unthinkingly and Natasha sagged with a weighted kind of relief. You glanced at the car speakers in alarm. You tried to guess what her words could have meant.

Natasha’s breathing regulated and you confirmed your suspicion.

‘The song?’ You checked carefully. Natasha nodded once, blowing out a slow breath.

‘You have a sister?’ You asked now and she nodded one more time, eyes squeezing shut for a second. You nodded too, trying to reconcile this new piece of information.

‘At the store.’ You began softly as the pieces clicked. Natasha gave you a pained look in confirmation.

‘That song was her favourite.’ She told you in between carefully controlled breaths.

You couldn’t help your eyebrows raising in confusion. The song was too American to fit with Natasha’s past. In a flash, you remembered the Mac and Cheese. You remembered her ‘friend’ in Ohio, you wondered how long that early mission could have lasted.

‘I don’t know where she is. She could have died in the Red Room.’ Natasha confessed and her eyes were filled with an awful self-loathing. You wondered how long she’d been living with this private grief.

‘Can you track her down?’ You asked her unsurely, feeling the conversation drain away all your earlier joy.

‘I mean, can we track her down?’ You corrected immediately, because Natasha wasn’t doing this alone.

‘No.’ Natasha shook her head and her voice caught. ‘She, uh, she wouldn't want to see me.’

‘Are you sure?’ You prompted quietly and Natasha nodded.

‘We’re not. We weren’t real sisters. There was a mission. It was all pretend.’

You could see the guilt resting on Natasha’s shoulders, you watched her bend forward under the weight of it. Her hands covered her face briefly.

‘That doesn’t mean it didn’t feel real.’ You reminded her quietly. ‘Blood doesn’t make family.’

You took her hand then, it felt too cold. Instinctively, you covered it with both of your own, trying to give her warmth. You ignored the fleeting concern that Natasha wouldn’t see her daughter as really hers either.

Natasha shook her head slowly and abruptly you were sure that you’d said the wrong thing.

‘It felt too real.’ Natasha murmured. ‘She was too young. She didn’t know the truth. Not until they sent us back to the Red Room.’

‘Oh, Natasha.’ You said softly, because your heart was breaking. Your arm slid softly along her arched back.

Sometimes, you could imagine Natasha as a kid, the abandoned girl that monsters had raised. You had seen how protective Natasha was of you, of the child that was still inside of you. You imagined another little girl, trusting Natasha as family.

You ached for Natasha’s loss, for the failure you knew she saw as hers.

‘She might be living happily somewhere, just like you.’ The words fell out of your mouth that evening. You were already in bed, you’d placed the sonogram photo on top of your nightstand. Your mood had swung sharply all day between bubbling joy and weighted tension.

Natasha was undressing at the foot of your bed. Her breath caught and she looked at you. You saw the same desperate longing in her eyes as you had at the sonogram. You felt the urge to keep speaking.

‘If she’s anything like you. She’ll be busy causing trouble and making a family of her own. She’s your sister, it’s not impossible.’

The images sounded too fantastical and you paused uncertainly. Natasha’s eyes clung to yours. She moved over to you, hands touching your thighs as she crawled up the bed. Natasha looked vulnerable and your eyes searched hers carefully, trying to determine what she was looking for.

She lifted your top slowly and pressed her lips to your belly. You watched her reverence and felt a slow heat build inside you. Natasha kept moving up your body and you felt her breasts brush over you as she curved herself around you.

When she reached your mouth, she leaned in to kiss you. There was the slightest hesitation and then you felt her gratitude for your farfetched comfort. Giving Natasha hope was all you knew how to do.

Natasha pressed her lips against yours for a second time. When the kiss broke, more words fell from your mouth.

‘What was her name?’ You asked simply.

‘Yelena.’ Natasha replied and the sound of it was precious.

You celebrated Natasha’s birthday on the 1st of December. It was unlikely to be her actual date of birth, but it was the one she used. All Natasha knew was that she’d been born in winter.

Your baby was also going to be born in winter, but not until the new year. You felt too large now, missing the simple flexibility that you’d taken for granted your whole life.

You’d had plenty of time to think of a birthday present for Natasha. A Russian ballet had seemed like a risky surprise. You’d asked her about it before you’d booked the tickets.

Natasha’s smile had been shy at your suggestion.

‘I always wanted to be a dancer.’ She informed you hesitantly and you wondered if you’d ever stop finding new ways to love her.

Her birthday had been a languid and casual affair. You were getting tired more easily and yet hormones had woken you before daybreak with unbearable excitement.

Your eagerness had lasted through most of the lunch at her favourite restaurant. Natasha had flushed self-consciously in front of her friends when you kissed her enthusiastically after she cut the cake.

Clint’s sarcastic applause seemed to rally Natasha and she marked your nose teasingly with a piece of frosting just to make him roll his eyes.

By the time you returned home, you were living in a new state of exhaustion. Natasha ended up driving in silence whilst you napped in the passenger seat.

You knew she didn’t mind. Natasha gently led you back into the house and onto the sofa. Your eyes barely opened, trusting her guidance entirely. You remembered nothing after the moment your head had touched the sofa cushion.

You startled awake when Natasha’s fingers lightly touched your shoulder. You smiled lazily when you saw her face hovering above yours.

‘Happy Birthday!’ You told her, arms going wide in a half stretch and half celebration.

Natasha stared down at your upside down smile and blinked back tears.

You were no stranger now to sudden rushes of happiness. You moved her hands over to your belly.

‘You can’t get one of these every year.’ You mumbled, still sounding half asleep. ‘Takes much more baking than a cake does.’

Natasha laughed easily, the sound bubbling up in a way that was rare for her. You grinned with satisfaction and your eyes closed for another brief moment as you soaked in the warmth of it.

Natasha helped you to sit up. She lingered awkwardly next to you on the sofa. You knew instinctively what she wanted to do. You lifted your top slightly and gave her a knowing smirk.

‘Love you.’ Natasha mumbled as she kissed your bump. Her cheeks reddened and she purposefully avoided your eye contact as she straightened up. Still, her hand reached out to help you as you moved to leave the sofa.

When you stood up, you didn’t let go of Natasha's hand. You tapped her wrist twice and Natasha turned to face you automatically.

‘You can’t be shy about loving your daughter.’ You reminded Natasha quietly, trailing your fingers up and down her bare forearm.

Natasha’s embarrassment flickered for a moment and then turned into something quieter. Her lips touched your neck as she brought you close to her. You felt her cheeks touch your skin as she started to smile widely.

‘I can’t believe I have a daughter.’ Natasha whispered, more to herself than to you.

You grinned suddenly, hearing the dawning realisation in Natasha’s voice that never went away.

‘I can’t believe I married such a MILF.’ You teased back, arms wrapping around her. Natasha’s head tilted and she left small kisses up the side of your neck.

Since your second trimester, Natasha could turn you on with a wink. You moaned loudly at the sensation of Natasha’s lips on your skin and you felt her smile again.

‘Ballet.’ You choked out, trying to stay focused. ‘Ballet, Birthday.’

‘Ballet.’ Natasha repeated and her lips met yours in a gentle kind of kiss.

‘Birthday.’ She told you, before kissing you again.

‘Baby.’ Natasha added and her hands touched your stomach again. Her eyes were bright with excitement and you felt her joy like it was your own.

You leaned forward yourself now. Your cheek brushed hers as you moved next to her ear. ‘Boobs.’ You whispered, reaching up to squeeze them meaningfully.

Natasha rolled her eyes playfully. Her smile seemed permanent as her gaze trailed over you.

‘Bedtime.’ She promised and you tried to ignore the way heat pooled between your legs. It was going to be a long night of anticipation.

You watched Natasha far more than you watched the ballet dancers. Everything captivating in their performance was reflected in the focus of her attention. Her eyes were fixed on each dancer in turn as they made impossible moves seem effortless.

You found yourself coming out of a trance at the interval. Natasha turned to look at you and you watched her lips draw back into a smile.

‘I always wanted to be a dancer.’ She told you again and the thought of it made you smile. You tapped the top of your belly.

‘Maybe she’ll want to be one.’ You pondered playfully, reaching for the brochure resting in Natasha’s lap.

“What name should we pick?’ You considered thoughtfully as you began to suggest the names of various listed dancers.

Natasha’s hand on your thigh silenced you before you could finish half-seriously suggesting ‘Katarina.’

‘We can’t call her something Russian.’ Natasha informed you obviously. Her voice was light, but you could almost taste the sudden tension in the air.

You tilted your head questioningly.

“Why not?’ You challenged immediately.

‘She’s not Russian.’ Natasha answered simply and you recognised the resoluteness in her eyes. You’d been together long enough to anticipate each other’s arguments. Still, you refused to give up.

‘Her mother is Russian.’ You emphasised pointedly.

‘Not really. Not biologically.’ Natasha countered with a sudden softness. You hated that her tone had changed to appease you.

‘I’m naming her Natasha Jr.” You decided stubbornly, rubbing wide circles over your belly in an attempt to calm yourself in the large theatre. ‘Good luck avoiding the child support payments.’

There was a pause as Natasha considered your expression. You refused to look at her, staring determinedly at the empty stage below you. If you focused on your anger for too long, you knew that you’d end up crying.

After a moment, Natasha’s head moved to rest on your shoulder. The moment settled immediately between you. You knew she was thanking you for loving her so certainly. You found her hand, still resting on your thigh and held it gently.

Those who’d left the theatre during the interval began to return slowly to their seats.

‘My mother was in the ballet.’ Natasha said quietly into the loud chatter that surrounded you. You fought the urge to turn your head. Instead, your arm moved instinctively around her shoulder, squeezing lightly in comfort. Natasha’s head tilted on your shoulder as she focused down at your bump.

‘I mean, I used to pretend she was.’ Natasha corrected herself. ‘I always wanted to go to the ballet, in case she’d recognise me in the crowd.’

You didn’t speak for a moment. Natasha had been too young, it was unbearable.

‘It’s hard.’ You began hoarsely, in the moments before the ballet resumed. ‘Things have been so unfair for you, but that’s made you exactly who you are.’

The tears began to catch up with your words.

‘And you’re going to be such a good mother.’ You choked out, feeling sadness like a tremble through your skin.

Natasha didn’t say anything in return. She shifted in her seat slightly, moving almost imperceptibly closer to you.

When the ballet finished and everyone around you moved to their feet, Natasha finally looked at you.

‘I love you.’ She reminded you quietly as she took your hand. You gave her a small smile.

“I know.’ You assured her, because you did.

You hadn’t known how to tell Natasha that you weren’t looking forward to Christmas. You’d entered your third trimester and begun to dread any days that called for increased stamina.

More than anything, you’d found yourself desperate for the moments when it was just you and her. You were on the precipice of something new and you found yourself seeking comfort in the steadiness of what you’d already built with Natasha.

You should have known that you didn’t need to tell her.

When you woke on Christmas Day, it wasn’t because of the alarm that you’d set the night before. Natasha was sitting up in the bed next to you, engrossed in a parenting book that you’d left wrapped under the tree the night before.

You hummed lowly in sleepy confusion, shifting in the bed as you tried to piece together the unexpected morning. You should have already been driving to see Clint’s family. Natasha looked down at you and everything about her smile was calming. Her hand brushed the top of your head and you felt assured that everything was going to plan.

‘Don’t worry.’ Natasha murmured and you couldn’t help yawning. ‘I only opened the one present.’

You nestled into Natasha’s side as you fell back asleep. Her hand stayed resting lazily on the top of your head. You loved all of Natasha’s warmth.

You hadn’t bought any one big gift for Natasha this Christmas. You’d noticed in past years that, more than anything, she seemed to get a thrill just from the act of unwrapping. You had a feeling it was another way that she chased the American fantasy that she’d seen in movies.

Natasha’s giddiness on Christmas morning was your favourite thing. You watched her surreptitiously from the sofa as she opened each of your gifts in turn. You never took a photo of her though, the look in her eye seemed too precious to share.

Natasha was completely herself on Christmas morning. It was magical.

At last, she opened the present that you were most nervous for her to see. You held your breath as Natasha unwrapped the wide book eagerly. She stilled as she read the simple cover.

‘Becoming Mom.’

Natasha turned to the first page unsurely. She startled in surprise, just like you’d anticipated. She’d known that the photo inside had been taken, but she’d never looked at it herself.

You’d offered your phone to the nurse during the sonogram.

Natasha’s cheeks were tear stained in the picture and her hand was clasped loosely with your own. The other touched unthinkingly at her own waist, as if the baby on the screen might as well have been inside of her.

Everything about her emanated a precarious kind of bliss.

Natasha closed the book suddenly and glanced back up at you.

‘The rest is for you to fill in.’ You mumbled unsurely, feeling a sudden need to avoid Natasha’s gaze. Natasha had never looked more vulnerable than in that photo. Everytime you looked at it, you loved her more fiercely than ever.

Natasha didn’t love herself like you loved her. You weren’t sure what she was going to say. Her pause lasted an eternity.

Finally, Natasha’s choked voice cut through the silence.

‘I look like a Mom.” Natasha said quietly, and you decided that you’d never stop falling in love with her.

‘You are a Mom.’ You reminded her surely. Natasha’s hands moved to your stomach and suddenly you felt like time had lost all meaning. You felt like you’d always known her. Her touch felt more familiar than your own.

‘I love you.’ You told Natasha softly. The corner of Natasha’s mouth twitched upwards immediately. When she looked up at you, her eyes glittered.

‘I know.’ She replied simply, and you knew that she did.

Before lunch, Natasha led you out into the backyard to show you your present. You were having Mac and Cheese for Christmas lunch, saying farewell to a food that was now steeped in different layers of nostalgia.

The air was crisp and immediately you were grateful for Natasha’s insistence that you wear a jacket. Natasha’s cheeks turned red as she stood to your left hand side in an attempt to buffer you from the icy wind.

When you turned the corner, you saw what Natasha had made for you.

The wooden swing and slide set stood perfectly in the corner of the backyard. You gripped Natasha’s hand tight at the warm rush of being loved entirely. Suddenly, the air didn’t feel cold at all. Tears threatened as you tried to process the emotion.

The swing was too big for your baby, it would be years until your daughter could play on any part of the structure. You didn’t care. It made everything better. Natasha had planned for years in the future.

‘I had one like this in Ohio.’ Natasha told you with a serenity that you didn’t expect to hear. Her eyes trailed over the swing set as she spoke. ‘I know it’s not quite right for now, but it was my favourite place in the whole world.’

‘Why?’ You asked timidly. You’d loved Natasha for years already. You realised you were in love with a sun that was still rising.

Natasha started walking again. Her hand slid around your waist, slipping down to squeeze your ass once familiarly, before resting at your hip.

When you reached the swing, Natasha gestured for you to sit and you did. Your fingers tangled in the metal chain as you watched her face in anticipation. You knew that she’d heard your question.

‘Whenever I was swinging, I would close my eyes.’ Natasha started, and you knew she’d spent the silence planning out her answer in her head. ‘And when my eyes were closed, I could pretend that my parents had bought me the swing set. That people loved me, really loved me, because how else could I have something so nice?’

Her hand covered yours on the cold metal chain. Natasha stood next to your shoulder. You closed your eyes, imagining the impossible feeling that she’d described to you.

You gripped the chain heavily as you pulled yourself back to your feet.

‘I need to show you something.’ You told her as you led her back into the house. You walked quickly, feeling certain of what you were about to do but entirely unsure of Natasha’s response.

You picked up the baby book that had been left on the kitchen counter and handed it back to Natasha.

‘Look inside.’ You directed her with an encouraging gesture. Natasha’s eyes dropped down to the book. She turned the page again, this time moving past the one of her at the sonogram.

The next page had been specially embossed. You’d glued in the card that was presented there. Natasha gripped the book tightly as she read the subsection title.

‘Yelena, aged 0 - 1 month’

When Natasha looked back at you, she seemed uncertain.

‘After her Mom’s sister.’ You said, feeling uneasy about her lack of response. Your fingers played with the edge of your jacket and you found yourself avoiding her eyes.

‘We don’t have to do it.’ You hedged carefully. ‘I just want her to have a piece of you that can’t be taken away.’

Natasha didn’t speak and you glanced back up. Your shoulders relaxed at the familiar love in your wife’s eyes.

“And you won’t let me call her Natasha Jr.’ You added pointedly, with a sudden urge to lighten the mood.

The book snapped shut abruptly. Natasha moved towards you so suddenly that you didn’t have time to register her proximity before her lips were on yours.

Natasha filled your senses with a perfect familiarity. You loved the heat of her lips, the feel of her body pressed against you, the touch of her hand on the back of your neck as she deepened the kiss.

Natasha was home and you couldn’t feel lost anymore.

Sharp relief flooded you as you realised that your daughter was going to have the name that you’d been hoping for.

The kiss broke at last and your hands moved to Natasha’s shoulders as you tried to look at her face. Natasha took a small step back, eyes still closed.

A wave of understanding rushed over you.

‘You don’t have to keep your eyes closed.’ You promised Natasha softly. ‘I’ll still love you when they’re open.’

Natasha’s lips twitched into a shy smile and slowly she opened her eyes.

‘Yelena.’ Natasha repeated as her hands trailed up your sides and gently lingered at the top of your bump.

‘We can save Natasha Jr for the next one.’ You teased again and Natasha smiled wide.

Her hand pressed lightly on the back of your neck and she pulled you in for another kiss.

#natasha romanoff x reader #natasha romanov x you #natasha romanoff imagine

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spockiguess · 2 months ago

Note

Same anon as before, with the fic idea

This feels like a younger doctor thing (so John Carter) to me, but it could work for Robby too

Rubber gloves. The rubber gloves that medical staff put on before touching patients? Those. John/Robby just teasing/fingering you over and over again while wearing those

Thoughts?

The Gloved Beast

Summary: While helping a patient, you and John get into some workplace flirting. You don't exactly realize just how much your seemingly innocent comments would set the new doctor off.

Pairing: Dr. John Carter x FEM!Reader

Warnings: Smut, Overstimulation, Mentions of Injuries/Gore

A/N: So, literally like fifteen minutes after I received this request, I got to work on this fic. I wrote the first 1,500~ words last night, got too tired to continue, then wrote the other 1,300~ words this morning. This request was so effing good, it got me so effing excited, I was like, "Holy shit!!!!! I need to do this right effing meow!!" Thank you so much Anon for this request, and please, if anyone else has a request for any Noah Wyle characters, send it!!!!! I'm so excited!!!! Also, sorry for the stupid title, I'm going back to my roots.

It–your current situation, that is–started with a simple, clean conversation. Nothing more. The conversation would have originally been classified as wholesome, even. What happened, though, was that Dr. John Carter, your boyfriend of about a month, had sustained a gratefully shallow cut while helping an overwhelmed father who found himself pushed through a window’s toy display just a week out from Christmas. The father was desperately searching for the season’s newest Super Soaker, a bright neon orange and chartreuse, just as the rest of Chicago was that evening. Apparently, no one had thought to check the store’s displays until the father snuck past a disgruntled worker and set off a whole tragic event that actually landed a couple of other parents in Cook County General Hospital, as well.

What happened then, to credit the father’s recollection, is blurry. All he can remember from then on is ending up on an ambulance’s gurney with a thousand or so pieces of glass sticking out of his puckered skin, give or take. Once he arrived at Cook County, it was your job as one of the hospital’s essential nurses to painstakingly pick out every little shard. Dr. Carter had come in and out of Exam Room One through the entire process, checking in on your progress, and not so subtly trying to spend as much time with you as he could. Since your relationship was so new and shiny, you acted like lovestruck teenagers around each other.

Eventually, it was time to stitch up the dedicated father, him and his thousand cuts. Luckily for you, Dr. Carter had just finished up with a hectic shootout in Trauma One and Two, so he was able to graciously extend his hand, literally, and patch the parent up. Carter had gone so far as to lay said hands over-top yours, in an equally unsubtle attempt to coach you through the procedure. You were somewhat ashamed to admit that the maneuver actually worked on you, forcing an embarrassing giggle out of you.

John asked what got you so giggly, rich coming from him in the awkward position John took up just to be near you, but even then, you quietly admitted, “Well, you’ve got nice hands, John.”

The confession took the newfound doctor off guard, which earned you a slightly higher-pitched, “Well, thank you,” before he continued with a choked-off cough, “Is that–is that a thing?”

You snorted, handling the needle with ease despite John’s stubbornness to keep his hands on yours, “What do you mean ‘is that a thing?’”

John shrugged, “I’ve heard it from the other nurses. That women like hands, or something.” Then, John muttered out a lame excuse for a teaching moment with the particular stitch you just pulled.

“Ah, the cat’s out of the bag, I guess,” donning a vaguely wizard-like voice, you continued, “Our greatest secret revealed! Curses!”

Carter snorted, too, before his voice suddenly deepened and he leaned in closer, his lips just a few inches away from your ear, “So, you like my hands?” Just to be a problem, Carter flexed the muscles in his hands, showing off the various veins through the thin layer of his crisp, latex gloves. This is when the conversation veered off of the nearest cliff into the dangerous waters of workplace flirting.

Trying to retain an air of neutrality, you confirmed John’s suspicions, “Oh, sure. They’re strong, and quite large, too.”

John huffed out a haughty ‘heh,’ your answer only further fueling his undoubtedly enormous ego, but you didn’t mind. No, you were stuck in this fast sinking car, so why not plunge yourself deeper into unprofessionalism?

“The gloves only make them look better, too.” John’s breath caught in his throat, momentarily causing him to choke as his head struggled to reel from your brazen teasing.

Unfortunately, your poor bedside manner was now too much for the poor father you were attempting to help. He groaned, palming his face with a free hand, “I get that you’re kids, but shuddup, for the love of God.” That all but ended the conversation in its tracks, the car now being towed out of the ocean and back onto unforgiving land.

The father’s plea didn’t necessarily end your situation, though. No, it was only the beginning of a cruel test of fate set upon you by the higher beings of this world, because once John Carter found himself struck with a stupid idea, he was determined to see it through.

So, that’s how you ended up locked in a storage closet with one Dr. John Carter, who was eager to find out more about this secret, shared female obsession.

With your back against an entire case of medical supplies, John’s closeness nearly suffocated you in the tight space, but the way he was holding the back of your head while you shared a steamy kiss made you care a little less. His mouth was slow, but aggressive, like you had all the time in the world. The kiss was full of passion and drew your breath from you even more, while Carter’s hands on your hips forced your plain, white panties to be just that more soaked from the sweet friction they provided to your balmy skin. It made you hot, unbearably so.

You had to take a short moment to separate–to gather your breath and yank your similarly plain, baby pink tee over your head while Carter’s hands devoured your body further, a single bead of saliva still keeping the two of your mouths connected. Once his hands made contact with the soft lace of your matching, white bra, your mouths met again.

This time, you allowed yourself to moan into the kiss, now past the point of caring for whoever might hear you outside of these tight walls. Carter met you in tandem, moaning too when your tongue pressed against his. The shared moment was wet and heavy, making the air feel like weighted lead in your chest whenever you dared to steal another breath. It was perfect, this little evening rendezvous, you didn’t think it could get much better.

But then, Carter parted from you and this wicked smile dawned on his face, wholly unlike the usually adorable demeanor he had on most days. You had seen this smile before, though, it only crossed his complexion when he wanted to get into trouble. A very wicked smile, indeed.

“Do you want me to put some gloves on?” John asked with nothing but a whisper. You stalled, undeniably shocked at his words.

Still, the idea excited you greatly, “Really? You’d do that?”

John nodded, already teetering forward to attack a box of gloves just behind your head, ripping the contents out onto the shelf and floor. While John grabbed a pair, you laughed, now aware of the sound you two were producing.

You shushed your boyfriend, trying to urge him to be a little quieter, but he was solely focused on getting the pair of rubbery gloves on his perspiring hands, which proved to be a difficult feat. Carter ripped the first glove attempting to yank the garment on, and he lost the other due to pure excitement coursing through his veins.

It took an extended period of time for him to finally win the battle against another pair of slippery, combative gloves, but it didn’t dull your shared anticipation as you finally got to gawk at his covered hands. The rubber shone under the bright, fluorescent bulb that hung above your heads, and you took the opportunity to grasp one of Carter’s hands in yours, your fingers exploring the material in a new light.

Again, John flexed his hands, obviously preening under the close attention. You didn't mind one bit, you were happy to finally indulge this fantasy with a guy you were totally head over heels for. And John seemed happy to indulge, too, with public sex being a not-so-secret fantasy of his. This was the perfect combination of time and place, something you hadn't seen quite yet with the doctor.

Most of these meetings hadn't even gone past some heavy petting in empty exam rooms, but the deciding forces that be turned your fate to a destination most unknown. It made you a little giddy, to say the least.

Especially when Carter brought his hands to your breasts, again, feeling the mounds of plush flesh through another, added layer. The cold latex stuck against your chest every time his hands moved from one spot to the other, forcing a shiver to run down the base of your spine. Goosebumps prickled on your skin from the touch, which John bravely tamped down with warm kisses, in reality only reigniting the bumps further.

Soon, Dr. Carter worked his way downwards, stoking a great fire with every kiss he planted on your skin. When he found himself kneeling before you, he anchored his fingers in the belt loops of your pants and tugged. Your simple, cerulean blue jeans came down easily, as you decided against a belt that morning. John smacked kisses against the expanse of skin just below your navel while he helped you out of your pants, his hands immediately flying to the swell of your ass when they finally came off.

There, he groped and squeezed, the off-white material of the gloves still cool to the touch and awakening embarrassing reactions out of you. You moaned as John moved his hands from your ass to the front of your midsection, ghosting his palms along the peaks and valleys of your body. Now, you were getting hotter by the minute, and Carter’s reluctance to help quench that flame only stoked the heat more. It was when Carter hooked a finger on either side of your underwear that you became antsy.

You whined when John didn’t move even a single inch from those spots, just keeping his fingers firmly in place while he continued to kiss all over the front of your body. “C’mon, John, we don’t have much time,” you said, out of breath.

Carter removed his face from the enveloping heat of your upper thighs to say, “I’m just trying to commit all of this to memory. You can’t fault me for wanting that.”

When John got in a teasing mood, you knew you’d stay on the precipice of pure pleasure for a long time, your nerves building and building until they couldn’t hold out much longer. “But what if someone tries coming in? This’ll be over before anything actually happens.”

Carter looked up at you, his big, brown eyes reflecting the white light from above while he sports a sly smile, “Are you saying that nothing is happening right now?”

You huff, threading your hands through John’s hair and itching his scalp, a sure-fire way to get the young doctor riled up, “No, of course not, I just…”

“‘You just’ what? Tell me what you need,’ Carter breathed against your lower stomach, massaging your thighs.

Your stomach flip-flopped with arousal, you were too far gone to worry about being honest or not, “I need you, John. I need you to touch me more.”

John continued to press white-hot kisses to your skin, “Where exactly do you need me to touch you? Gotta use your words.”

Again, you whined, the sound high and reedy in your throat, “Aw, John, don’t do that to me.”

“I’m not doing anything, just asking you to be clear with what you want.” John could be a real cocky shit sometimes, but it always got you worked up. Maybe that’s why Carter only acted like this when he was with you in these intimate moments, he knows how much it affects you.

You couldn’t work up the nerve to say what you really wanted, but you could show John. So, you grabbed John’s hands and led them to your clothed cunt, bucking your hips when you finally felt the cool rubber situate itself there. Carter gazed up at you again, awestruck, before finally leaning in and touching along the fabric of your panties.

Carter’s thumb swept along the curves of your cunt, right along the middle of your folds, before pressing against the bud your clit, hidden beneath the fabric. Your hips bucked again, entirely of their own volition, and you tried to keep any wanton noises from escaping you in this particularly vulnerable moment.

John kept this up for a couple of minutes, just teasing you through the layers of fabric and latex, the sensation wholly new to you. Unfortunately, you couldn’t keep the noises down for long when a loud, shrill whine escaped the confines of your throat. John only laughed, now hooking his free hand back under the waistband of your panties while his thumb continued to alternate between pressing against your clit and sweeping along your folds.

You didn’t know if John could feel how wet you were through the gloves, or if he just hadn’t mentioned it yet, but you were beginning to sport a puddle in the gusset of your underwear and you were begging God for John to do something about it.

God had seemingly heard your prayers because Carter began to inch off your panties, carefully sliding them down past the curve of your hips and thighs. Once your panties were fully off, you shuddered at the feel of Carter’s gloved hands swiping at your pubic mound, just above where you needed them to be.

The icy latex stuck to your skin, making a clacking noise every time Carter moved his hands everywhere but where they should be most. You didn’t have to see Carter’s smug smile to know that it was there while your body bucked wildly at his movements. You even began to beg Carter to do more, to help release the growing tension that was building at the base of your gut.

“John, please. I need more. I need you,” you said, your voice a couple octaves higher than where it usually sat in your vocal register.

“Since you asked so nicely, I guess I’ll help you out,” John said, his own voice low and full of want, which utterly betrayed the cool persona he was trying to wear now.

Finally, John gathered a heap of wetness from your core and circled your clit with his gloved fingers, the fevered way he touched you now crumbling your willpower and reducing you to nothing.

You keened, your hips moving in line with John’s ministrations as he applied full pressure to your clit, his other hand snaking its way up your thigh. Once his other hand found your core, two fingers began to prod at your seeping entrance, your cunt wet enough to take them both at once. John still kept up with his movements at your clit, having forgone the teasing for now.

After a couple of moments, Carter finally pushed his two fingers into your cunt, curling them inwards as his thumb sped up at your clit. The material of the gloves was cold and smooth against the warm, spongy walls of your core, providing a contrast that made your toes curl in the confines of your Converse. You could see from this angle that John had a determined look in his eyes that would rival many of the other residents at Cook County.

You nearly screamed with pleasure, the coil in your core winding tighter and tighter with the continued movements from your boyfriend below. Your release was so close now, especially as Carter kept moving his fingers and thumb in tandem.

Eventually, your release came in the form of a rush of wetness from your cunt and a barely hidden scream behind your hand. John was fully satisfied with himself, but he didn’t let up with his movements.

No, John kept fingering you, even well past your release. The sensations began to creep into overstimulating territory, almost painful now. Still, the pleasure you felt was unparalleled, and you bucked into John’s hand again and again.

Tearing away from his work, John looked up at your heaving form with self-satisfied eyes, “You’ve got another one for me, don’t you?”

You nodded yes, feeling another orgasm quickly approaching as Carter pushed past your feelings of overstimulation, the pain finally subsiding.

After a couple of moments of Carter’s gloved hands working your cunt, another orgasm barreled through you, taking you completely by surprise and nearly alerting everyone in the near vicinity to what exactly you and your boyfriend were getting up to.

Another rush of wetness escaped you and completely coated John’s hands, surges of electricity shocking your entire being like you were a live wire. John didn’t seem to mind though, he was thoroughly entranced by your orgasm and couldn’t find it within himself to look away.

Even as you were coming down from this second release, John cocked his head to the side and asked, “You got another one in you?” You didn’t realize earlier just how much your comments would set John off, so you were really in for it.

#er nbc #er 1994 #dr john carter #john carter #dr john carter x reader #john carter x reader #er fanfic #nbc er #er 1994 fanfic #noah wyle

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seresinhangmanjake · 11 days ago

Text

What He Has To

Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen x Reader

Summary: Despite being betrothed to Rabban, you've been having an affair with Feyd for months. The two of you agreed to stop once you're married, but Feyd decides that doesn't work for him.

Notes/Warnings: Sort of smut, i guess (so 18+). Arranged marriage. There was a request for a fic with Rabban, and though there were a lot of other details included in that request that did not make it here, this was what the request inspired. It kind of took on a life of its own. Sorry.

Words: 3300

Feyd-Rautha Masterlist / Main Masterlist

Feyd POV

It wasn’t supposed to be like this. It wasn’t supposed to mean anything. He only intended to take something valuable from Rabban. But in the process of the theft, Feyd tasted the thing that rightfully belonged to his brother, and once he tasted you, he couldn’t stop. He hasn’t stopped.

He’s enjoyed having you too much. He likes that your eyes always search for his if the two of you are in the same room. He likes that you spend more time in his bed than in the one in your guest quarters. He likes that all of your touches belong to him, and only him. He likes that you don’t speak his brother’s name.

When Feyd convinced you one night to fall into his bed, he imagined the look on Rabban’s face upon learning that his most desired object had been defiled by another. He planned to call Rabban to his room the following morning and show his brother exactly what he’d done, presenting you with his bedsheets pooled around your hips, displaying your bare back as you slept on your stomach. The thought alone was enough to keep him up the whole night in anticipation.

But once the time came, he couldn’t do it. Where Feyd’s rage rests at a sizzling, low boil, bursting when necessary, Rabban’s is a constant overflowing wave. He would’ve killed you on the spot. Shoved a blade into your spine before your eyes had opened for the day. Your blood would’ve seeped into Feyd’s mattress before he’d gotten an opportunity to kiss you one final time. So, instead, he proposed that what had formed between you remain a secret, and to his satisfaction, you were willing and wanting the same.

“Just until the wedding,” you told him as you rocked back and forth on his cock for the second time. Between kisses and moans, you said, “We can’t continue this once I’m married. I can’t risk anyone suspecting that his heir might belong to someone else.”

In a lust-addled haze, Feyd agreed. But ever since, his clear mind has heavily protested.

Would you pretend to enjoy being with his brother? Would you moan for him? Whimper? Bite your tongue when Feyd’s name threatens to tumble from your mouth? Or worse, would you like it, and bask in the attention enough to find pleasure. Is it possible that your eyes could squeeze shut and lips could part with shallow breaths without the memories of Feyd rolling around in your mind? Could his brother really learn your body better than he has?

Thoughts of you in Rabban’s arms, Rabban’s lips attached to yours, Rabban’s fingers grazing over your skin, turn Feyd’s stomach each time they slither into his head, so aggressively he nearly loses whatever meal most recently consumed.

If he could change the rules of his world, if the future Baron of Giedi Prime was decided based on skill and intelligence, not age, then he would have you. You would have him and the title of Baroness. Agreements between Houses would be kept, and all involved, with the exception of his incompetent brother, would be pleased. But altering a hierarchy is not easily done, if possible at all.

—

Reader POV

It’s the last night. Tomorrow, you will be married, and what you and Feyd have will cease to exist, leaving you only with captured memories of how he feels, of how he makes you feel.

You pray those memories can sustain you through a lifetime wedded to his brother. You beg whoever is willing to listen that time does not shrivel those memories to scraps. You can’t allow every bit of him to be taken from you. If you can’t be with him, then you deserve the remnants of what you’ve shared to remain fully intact and accessible whenever you need them.

Turning your head, cheek meeting pillow, you watch him sleep. He’s unnaturally peaceful, and the sight of it tightens the organ in your chest. So handsome, beautiful lines and edges that make up the features of his face. Not like Rabban, whose features seem to bulge off of his rounded head.

It is those differences that will make it impossible to sneak around with Feyd behind Rabban’s back once you are married. Should you fall pregnant with Feyd’s child instead of your husband’s, upon birth, it will be much too obvious. You will undoubtedly be put to death, your baby discarded, and Feyd likely shamed in front of all of Giedi Prime for disrespecting his uncle’s strategic arrangement between House Harkonnen and yours.

You twist onto your side, placing your palm on Feyd’s cheek and stroking his sharp cheekbone with your thumb. His skin is smooth, soft, and you always find it fascinating. While most people learn to harden their outer coating to protect their squishy insides, Feyd’s hardened insides are protected by a supple shell—one more difference between him and his brother that you cherish.

You lean in closer and press your lips to his. One second, two seconds, three, then he’s replying to your kiss, groaning, tangling his fingers into your hair, and flipping you onto your back.

He slides into you. Rests his forehead on yours. Your eyes stay locked together, exhales playing and curling around one another.

It’s on the tip of your tongue—the declaration. Just a few words that sum up what you know you’ve been feeling for a while. But you can’t give it to him. To do so will only make it harder to cleave the two of you apart when morning comes. It will make him all the more unwilling to let you go. And should he repeat those words back to you, all hope, minuscule as it is, that you might one day find peace without him will vanish.

Feyd thrusts deep. Your walls pulsate. You feel him fill you.

He stays there for a moment as he rests his comfortable weight on top of you, lips hovering a half-inch above yours.

“Don’t drink it,” he whispers.

You blink. Your brow pinches. Your body squirms the slightest under his. He’s never asked that of you. “I have to.”

Finding purchase on his muscles, you push him off of you, and despite despising the emptiness now between your legs, it doesn’t stop you from sitting up and reaching for the tonic on the bedside table that ensures no child will plant within you.

Feyd sighs and falls onto his back, forcefully dropping his head into the pillow. He stares at the ceiling as the rim of the bottle touches your lips.

You pause to look at him, and for a moment slip back into the recurring dream of what might come of you putting the bottle down, leaving your tongue untouched by the liquid. Something lovely could grow inside of you. Menacing, but lovely. And were it truly a choice, you would make it, pray for that outcome. But it isn’t a choice. You both know it.

You take a deep breath, then swallow the bitterness in the bottle.

Feyd turns over. His back faces you.

—

Feyd would have kissed you once it was announced in front of the Great Houses that you were officially man and wife. Rabban doesn’t, and you are thankful for that.

You don’t want his mouth near yours. Nowhere near your body. Earlier, when his lips brushed the shell of your ear as he whispered what he intends to do with you once you’re alone, you flinched and clasped your fingers together to keep their trembling unnoticed.

This morning you believed it would be fine, that you could settle into the role of the agreeable, dutiful wife. Despite knowing you will always love another, your priorities remained set on fulfilling your purpose for being sent to Giedi Prime in the first place. But that was before you were married. Now, you’re not convinced you can play the part required of you without great difficulty. Peace between Houses no longer feels as vital to you as it once did. However, you’re not so selfish as to neglect that the opposite is true.

From across the room, Feyd is leaning against the wall, his arms crossed and eyes fixed on you. You’ve seen him angered before, you’ve seen him indignant; you know what that looks like on his face. But the downward curve of his lips and the divet between his brows display those emotions more clearly than ever.

Internally, you will him to stop. Should anyone notice him staring at you for too long, they will catch on. You’ve been on Giedi Prime for months—everyone is aware of it—and, as rumor has it, you wouldn’t be the first child of a Lord to stray from their betrothed before the day of their wedding. Months are enough time to partake in a premature affair, enough time to develop an obsession. And obsession, possessiveness, is written all over Feyd’s hard-set features; it bleeds from the tension in his body. Anyone with half a brain could guess what is going on, and no one in attendance tonight is a fool.

Should your affair be discovered, or even suspected, there will be harsh punishment awaiting you, and you can’t begin to imagine what horrors a Harkonnen could inflict. But when Feyd gives you a final steely look before disappearing from the party, you, too, slip away.

You’re just going to talk to him, set him straight, tell him to get it together if he cares for your life. When you find him, though, he appears too erratic to listen to anything you might say. Back and forth he paces, mumbling and shaking his head as long, aggressive strides carry him up and down the hallway.

And then he notices you, and he stops short. His chest is rapidly filling and deflating. You open your mouth, but before you can utter a word, he is stomping toward you, grabbing your face in his hands, and slamming his lips onto yours.

He swallows your noise of surprise as each of his steps forward pushes you back until your spine hits the wall. The impact shoves the air out of your lungs and you break the kiss to release it.

Your heart is throbbing, beating so violently you think it may burst and coat your ribcage. It nearly does when he leans in to kiss you again, but you turn your head away before lips can connect.

“Don’t,” he says.

“We discussed this. We agreed.”

He holds your head firmly in place, forcing you to look at him. The sheer determination in his glare is overpowering. You couldn’t break your locked gazes if you tried. “I don’t care.”

“It doesn’t matter if you care,” you retort, grasping his wrists and ripping his touch from your face, only for his hands to plant firmly on the wall on either side of your head.

The stare between you is dense, thick, but then it begins to shake, shake more recklessly with each second until it shatters, and you have to look away once more. If you don’t, you’ll give in completely. And you can’t give in.

To solidify your decision to have last night be the last time you’ll ever have him, you drew a line between you. And that line is the sole method you have to ensure mistakes will not be made. If you cross it, you know you’ll forget the existence of the line altogether. One mistake will become two, two will become three, and it will only be a matter of time before those mistakes are uncovered.

With your eyes to the ground, you swallow hard enough to strain your throat. “I’m not doing this,” you tell him. Then you duck under his arm, intent on heading back into the party.

Before you can get three steps in the right direction, his fingers wrap around your bicep. You’re jerked backward. Chest flush with his, your mouths meet, and this time, as you feared, you’re made a fickle fool of. Your body gains a mind of its own. It conquers and rebels against your brain, making you rise on your toes, link your arms around his neck, and kiss him with as much fervor as he is giving, as if to negate the idiotic things that left your mouth moments ago.

Your back hits the wall again. Hands graze down your waist to the swell of your hips. Fingers fist the fabric of your gown and pull the material up your legs. Cold air touches your thighs, partially shielded by the warmth of one of his palms on your skin. As that warmth inches toward your center, you hear the unfastening of his pants. It’s that sound that shocks you out of your drunken state.

You tear yourself apart from him and shove at his chest until he stumbles out of your space. Your dress falls back down your body.

“I can’t,” you mutter, unable to look at any part of him other than his boots, and even that proves to be a challenge. Seeing where he stands just four feet from you, you could grab him and pull him close, kiss him some more. But you don’t.

He doesn’t make another move toward you, so you command your legs to stop their wobbling before heading back down the hall and reentering the reception.

—

As you wait to be escorted to your husband, you run over the list you’ve compiled, the options you have laid out to aid you in getting through the night. Alcohol consumption being one. Feigning illness, another, though you’re not sure how effective that would be.

You decide that you’ll think of Feyd. You’ll shut your eyelids and imagine it’s him. His mouth, his grunts, his fingertips digging into your waist as Rabban holds you and thrusts over and over. You’ll do that every day for the rest of your life if you have to, praying that Rabban never does anything to dispel the trick you intend to play on your mind. You hope he doesn’t speak, his voice not quite the same octave as Feyd’s. You hope he doesn’t kiss you, his lips not close to the fullness of Feyd’s. And as horrified as you are to think it, you hope his cock is similar to Feyd’s. If too large or small, too thick or thin, it will be a struggle for you to mentally replace him with the man you love.

A knock breaks through your racing thoughts. You stop picking at your cuticles and make your way over to the door. When you open it, a Harkonnen guard is on the other side.

This is it: your final moments of knowing only Feyd’s touch and taste. Your nose stings as you tamp down the budding tears. The guard doesn’t notice the glassiness of your eyes as he turns his back to you and starts down the hall. Or maybe he does notice and simply doesn’t care.

Following like an obedient child trailing after its mother, you walk from the guest rooms to the adjoining section of the fortress that holds the rooms of the Lords. Your gut somersaults when you pass Feyd’s room. That’s where you should be going. That’s where you belong.

You wonder if he has locked himself in there for the night, if he’s drinking himself stupid to forget the reality of your fate, as you would be doing had he married another woman. You picture him throwing things, fragile items flying across the room, glass shattering. You picture his fists bloodied and bruised from slamming into walls. You continue to picture him as Rabban’s room comes into view.

With a straightened spine, you prepare yourself for what’s to come, but when the guard does not stop, confusion creases the space between your brows. “We’ve passed it,” you tell him.

“Baron’s orders,” is all he says, and you trek onward.

Minutes of being led through the fortress finally come to a halt outside the council room. Important things happen in there. Decisions are made. Discussions are held that you would not normally be privy to. Married to a Harkonnen or not, you’re still a foreigner, and foreigners' opinions hold little weight with any matter concerning Giedi Prime. Everyone, including the guard in front of you, knows you have no purpose here. So why are you here?

The guard pushes through the door. He enters first, his broad back blocking your sight as you step in behind him.

“Ah, and here she is,” the Baron says in his gritty voice. The guard moves aside, allowing you to take in the space: the Baron seated on a throne placed at the top of a short set of stairs; Feyd standing at the base of those stairs, facing his uncle. “Come closer, girl.”

You feel your blood rushing, fuzzing in your ears, but you do as you’re told, your legs carrying you to Feyd’s side. You both keep your eyes forward. Your head briefly dips in the Baron’s presence. “My Lord.”

A grumbling sound acknowledges the gesture of respect, then he wastes no time getting started. “I have some troubling news,” he says, weaving his fingers together and resting them on his swollen stomach. “We have been informed of an unexpected...tragedy.”

Your heart stops. He knows. He must know. You and Feyd stand before him at this unusual hour, and for what other reason would there be than to face punishment for your lewd acts of defiance and disrespect? Tragedy is the foolishness, the idiocy of brazen behavior that will snuff out the rest of your life. Any moment, guards will take you by the arms and drag you to a cell to await public execution.

Death is a fate you once thought preferable to marriage with another man. However, much worse is knowing you will never look upon Feyd’s face again, you will never be in his presence, and that is a thought so unbearable you realize you would rather survive, even if survival means a miserable existence without him in your arms.

Your shoulders tense as you listen for Baron’s final judgement. But it doesn’t come. Instead, he crooks his finger at the servant to his left, ordering her to bring him his pipe. As he shoos her away, his lips wrap around the tube, sucking in deeply, then heavily releasing a plum of smoke.

“My nephew, it seems, has met his unfortunate end,” he says.

Bits of shock trickle through and taint your composed expression—brows raising, jaw slacking and lips parting. Surely that does not mean what you think it means. Your head snaps to Feyd, but he still doesn’t look at you, so you refocus your attention on the Baron.

“I don’t understa–” you start.

“A poisonous substance was consumed,” the Baron says, taking a long draw from the pipe and holding it in his lungs. “And death is the consequence of ignorance and weakness; that is all you need to understand.” He coughs, clears his throat. “Fortunate are we to have a competent spare.”

“A spare?”

“You will wed Feyd-Rautha,” he tells you. “Our arrangement with your House will remain intact.” Your muscles go rigid. Suffocation follows the collapse of your chest. You’re not sure you’ve heard him correctly, but then he says, “The ceremony will take place in a week’s time,” and your knees just about buckle under your weight.

You get yourself together enough to dip your head once more in agreement. To your right, Feyd does the same, and for the first time, you notice the calmness radiating from his body. Not once did you hear a shift in his breath; his fists did not clench at the discussion of his brother’s untimely death. He had done nothing but stand there in silence.

“What did you do?” you whisper.

A beat goes by before he answers.

“What I had to,” he says.

#feyd rautha x reader #feyd rautha x you #feyd rautha fic #austin butler #dune 2 #feyd rautha #feyd rautha harkonnen

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freeluigihesbae · 3 months ago

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𝓹𝓸𝓹𝓹𝓲𝓷𝓰 𝓫𝓾𝓫𝓫𝓵𝓮𝓼 - 𝓹𝓪𝓻𝓽 1

(3,081) words

summary: you're mean. you're bad. but your smart enough to get grades and attention and yet, breaking luigi mangione to be the kind of person you are doesn't seem to work.

little do ya know, he's about to break you instead.

ᴛᴡ: ɴᴏɴᴇ, ꜱᴇxᴜᴀʟ ᴛᴇɴꜱɪᴏɴ, ɴᴏᴛ ꜰᴜʟʟʏ ᴘʀᴏᴏꜰʀᴇᴀᴅ

Computer Science.

Now, hear me out would be the best phrase. Yeah, that's right. You're a woman in computer science at one of the snarkiest, headstrong universities in the country. Penn wasn't all that bad excluding the thousands of students that made it up. Normally, situations would push you be the bigger person and reserve some sense of decency. But in such a competitive market where you were paying to get paid, you had to be nasty.

It just so happened that what started out to be a guide now turned into you. You were and still are a snarky, irritating person that somehow turns heads every time you walk into the room. You've got the typical high-school style clique of girls fawning over you and everyone elevates your position because they are no better.

It does you good, this attitude, because it took you all but two whole semester to kick your grades up so high and absolute shatter the expectations of the degree that people didn't mind ignoring your arrogance to admire how smart you must've been.

Don't get it wrong, because you were and are smart. You're a student but better, you're the Kris Jenner of your year. You were good at marketing shallowness that somehow, was keeping you afloat with profit coming in the form of grades, internships, and attention.

In process, it became frustrating to see others who happened to be in a similar place. You wanted all the eyes on you so you went low with your actions and words to make sure it stayed that way but then, Intermediate Systems - COMPSCI 1570, rolls around and you're paired with Luigi Mangione.

Not paired with, actually, but put in a class with him. But paired in the sense of competition - who could get the most attention. You hate eo admit it, but the guy has got these ridiculously well-defined curls that are so tame yet alluring, it makes you want to rip his head off. You hate the way his smile is effortlessly charming and warms you heart. You hate the kindness that it makes bubble up inside of you.

On the more technical side, you hated how well-rounded the competition between you two was. He knew exactly who you were and you knew him, which meant he always played to get at you. You heard from everyone about how his nose was deep in the books and computer, trying his best to ace the exam only to quietly pass his grade to you. Sometimes, you did better. It made you feel like you're walking on Cloud 9, knowing this irritatingly handsome asshole could be squashed beneath your foot for this one moment, but other times? Oh, he decimated you. The professor would let his name escape from their lips, rather than yours.

It was an ultimate motivation, as you sit there, digging your nails into your palm and wondering why Luigi deserved it. How dare he step above you? How dare he pursue ambition rather than letting you have it all for yourself?

It was such a selfish notion and pursuit that had managed to seduce you with such blindness you never thought to question how you could be such a cruel, tasteless indivdual.

Yet he did. And he did so in all fairness. He, unlike you, was friends with everyone. With the bright-hair colored wimps in the corners and the sluttiest-for-him girls that applied themselves onto him with utter desire which he only combated with smiles and ultimate respect.

How frustrating, really, because even when you did beat him in an exam score, you could never beat him character wise. He would always stand above you and in truth, you were the bug. You were the dust beneath his feet so apart from your degree, you had another thing to acheive.

Him.

Not sleeping with him, no. Not fucking or kissing him throat deep. No.

Rather, being able to break his goody-two shoes act, you called. In reality, it was just him. Luigi Mangione just was a good person and that truth was so sour you only looked at him to arrogantly call him such a good boy and you hated it

You had to make him mean and nasty just like you.

That's exactly what you were going to do.

Or try to.

Luigi is sitting at his computer, working away on a new project the professor had assigned a few days ago. No matter where he was, he caught your eyes and this time was no different.

You walk over, swaying your hips a bit too seductively, biting your lip and wearing a stupidly sardonic smile. Your top is a low v-cut, exposing the rounds of your breasts that you were sure to apply body glitter on so everyone's eyes would stare like they were the prize. Your skirt was hiked up just enough to stir wonder and want, and as always, these were only ingredients for your experiment named Luigi Mangione.

"Hey Luigi." You wink before pulling a chair and sitting down next to him, tilting you head to the site with a pout while staring at the screen, scanning his code. It was habit, so your mind was translating the numbers and symbols into understandable language, hiding how impressed you are at all costs.

You're also relieved because you have the same answers, but we don't speak of that, now do we?

"You again." Luigi turns his head and you feel like clawing your heart out of your chest just to stop the butterflies you feel in your stomach. His lips are parted and puffy, the gap speaking a quiet invitation as if they're meant to be kissed. His nose bridge is screaming an intelligent form of dominance over the situation, as his facial curves the remainder of his gentle vice towering over you, soft yet present in all its overwhelming glory.

"Don't like me Lu? Am I too smart for you to admit?" You giggle, high pitched and bend forward, letting your biceps squeeze your breasts more as you bite your lip and look up at him with poisonously doe-y eyes, trying to make him fall. He takes a cursory glance, though, at your body before chuckling and typing away at his code.

"Are you too poor to figure that out for yourself?" His words cut at your ego and your expression instantly falls, sitting back in the chair and your loud, shocked exhales doesn't go un-missed by either of your. You curse at yourself quietly for letting it make a sound while Luigi only types away, as if he heard nothing.

He heard. Oh, yes, he did.

"Mangione is being an ass today? Code giving you a tough time Lu?" Your voice shakes at first, tears coming to your eyes in reaction to his demeaning question and he doesn't make that much better, ignoring you but smirking as if you're in desperate need of pity and attention.

Because you are and without saying it, he loves showing it to you time and time again.

The lack of answer enrages as you as you feel your heart rate shoot through your chest, prompting you to slam a few keys on his keyboard to which he only pauses, staring at your fingers. He watches how they shake, your acrylics getting stuck in the gaps between the board and keys. The way they wince from the tug of those pauses yet, there is an innocent and pitiable need that he sees and recognizes but staying silent.

Luigi turns his head toward you, cocking his neck down and to the side.

"You done? 'Cause I'm almost finished my code and seeing your excursions on Instagram makes me think your situation is otherwise." He smiles at you and you pant, removing your hands from his keyboard.

"You infuriate me Mangione." You dig your hands into your palm before continuing. "I'm finished dimwit. It's a one-part project and I submitted it yesterday because as always, I would never submit it the day its due, which is today and which is fairly typical for you." You twirl your hair between your fingers, uncaring if he admires you body as your get drunk in the expectance of hearing him sarcastically compliment you.

It's still something, even if he won't mean it.

But instead, his mouth parts and his eyes widen before contorting into a concerningly amused smile and before you know it, he's bending over the table and laughing into the table before looking back up at you.

Your expression is unchanged, but your body goes rigid with expectation.

He pulls his body away from the computer, shutting it down and putting it in his back before he places a hand on your knee.

A shiver makes its way from his fingers to your neck.

"Sweetheart," He starts talking, drawing out the pet name before his other hand slams a packet on the table.

You stare at the papers and back at Luigi.

"Is this a lecture for how I'm supposed to be a good girl?" You bite at him, words unforgiving. He raises his eyebrows before shaking his head and standing up. Your eyes follow, taking in the beauty of his height.

Heat seizes your comfort in the moment as he bends down and speaks into your ear, letting both arms cage you in the chair.

"It's a 3-part assignment. You forgot to scroll all the way down, sweetheart." You eyes widen and you turn your head up to look at him, nearly whimpering when you realize his lips are less than an inch away from yours. Suddenly, all your egotistic ideas and bubbles burst and melt away, leaving you naked as you fight the obligation to cross your eyes from how close he is. He stays in place, pushing himself back while staring into your eyes.

Your lips are parted, vulnerable in arousal and shock as a hand comes to push some loose threads behind your ear. You blink slowly, lips quivering as your realize your royally fucked because one part took four days and now, you had to complete two more in less than eight hours.

Luigi coos, watching how you break slowly in front of him, before his face is back the stoic yet kind approach he utilizes.

"See you at the submission deadline. Or not." He leaves after lifting a hand of yours and placing it on the flipped over directions packet, one that held a dirty, ugly, and devastating truth that you were lef tto fend with until 11:59pm.

"You look like you need a beer." Your roommate, Kate, pats your head as you're hunched over, posture despicable as you somehow manage to finish the second and half of the third part using some of your own ideas and resources.

Those resources... which aren't supposed to.

But you could care less.

"Right." You give a curt reply, ignoring the sound of a Coke popping open in Kate's hands, which you don't even need to see to realize.

"Why don't you just let loose for the evening?" Kate casually asks and you half slam your hands on the table.

"I've got this stupid project for my Systems class which I need to finish. Didn't read all the directions and now I'm cramming, so no thank you Kate." Kate raises her eyebrows before laughing.

"Hey, isn't that the class that Mangione guy is in?" She asks curiously and you freeze up.

Not him.

You rolls your eyes, ignoring how your breaths falter as you turn around and nod. "Yeah, what about 'm?" You furrow your eyebrows, licking your lips as they suddenly dry up. Kate gives you a suspicious look.

"I've heard he's one of the smartest guys. Maybe you should ask him at his frat party later." Kate supplies and before you can scream and shout in retaliation, she gets up and opens her closet.

"You can unshackle yourself and get that assignment done. Win-in to me." She rummages through her bling and glitter bodycon dresses, unbeknownst to your fuming.

You had to let her know that was out of question.

"Over my dead body." You spit the words out and Kate turns around, a dress in her hand but she barely reacts.

"And a shit GPA. Suit yourself hardass." She nudges your sitting figure with her hips before before leaving the room, leaving your to your thoughts.

This was, like any other, a crucial project and this was one of the most important classes because a stellar grade in this class meant a higher chance at a scholarship you were applying for. They liked you, but they wanted to see the grade you get in this class as a deal-breaker. If you aced, you got the scholarship.

It was everything, then, this class. You already were utilizing ChatGPT, your textbook, GitHub, and every source on the planet.

Just a half-part more.

But somehow, the last half was the hardest and it ate away two hours of your time already. Every late submission was docked 30% which would drop your grade into a B+ range, something you did not want to admit. Something that would happen because those few times Luigi beat you, he crushed you by over 20-30%.

You were not doing as well as you wanted to in the class.

You check the time, letting the 9:30pm flash into your eyes before the screen quietly goes black.

Maybe an hour wouldn't hurt.

But whatever you did, you were going to walk out finishing this project yourself and not asking Luigi.

"You came?" Kate is yelling over the music, dragging you by the arm as you stumbled through the people dancing over the music.

"The fuck? I didn't know Psi Kappa was this disgusting!" You nearly scream, letting Kate guide you through the place. You scan the crowd, trying to find familiar faces and friends so you can gain some footing in the place. The music is too loud, making your head pound.

The smell of alcohol, something you refused to drink, kicked around the nausea and for a second, you regret even stepping foot into this place.

Of course, that all melts away when your eyes land on Luigi Mangione.

He's wearing a white polo shirt, unbuttoned 3/4 of the way down as his pecs and defined abs scream for everyone's attention, detailed in their allure. His arms are deliciously toned and even, despite the flashy lights and revolving colors of the place. His head is craned to the side as you watch him talking up another girl, letting her feel him up.

You don't realize you're staring until his eyes suddenly swerve, directly piercing into yours. You physically feel yourself stutter, freezing as you let him hold the eye-contact. An ever-so teasing smile grace his lips before he's bending down and whispering something into the girl's ear.

You watch her pout, a face she quickly replaces with a flirty smile before letting her sight linger on Luigi and choosing to walk away. He chugs the rest of his drink down before, to your horror, he's walking in your direction.

Funny enough, the crows shifts to the start of a new song and the new gap in front of your confirms he's walking only towards you.

You instinctively take a step back against the soft strain of your own bodycon dress, feeling your legs shake as you hit the bar counter and reluctantly, you face a now towering Luigi smirking down at you.

"What happened to that attitude?" His question should sound a lot meaner, but instead, it comes out soft with a warning and hint of shame intertwined. Your head pounds as you force yourself to come up with some jumble of words to respond.

"It's there." You breath the statement out, but it's not too convincing. Luigi uses that to take a step closer and now, you're forced to stare up and into his eyes.

"Doesn't seem like it. How's that project comin' along?" He cages you in again, both arm circling around your already very limited space and you turn your head to the side, steeling yourself against his presence.

Something about the effect he has on you is so humiliating. This wasn't matching your brand - bitchy, arrogant, and perfect. Rather, this was a complete juxtaposition. You always keep control of the situation with your machinations or outright insults but now, that was not happening.

"Fine." You answers through your teeth, facing away from him still and suddenly you feel his mouth too close to your ear.

"Liar." He whispers it and you nearly moan, gulping down the sounds. He watches you shiver lightly, soaking in the helplessness that is starting to take over your figure.

"You need help baby?" He pushes the boundary, enjoying how you squirm more with every second he forces himself into your space. You're at a loss for words now, unable to distinguish between arousal, frustration, and utter confusion at your behavior right now.

So, you simply shake your head no.

It's an insufficient answers because Luigi's fingers are suddenly gripping either side of your face, making you gasp, before he forces you to look at him.

"Tell me the truth baby." Fuck, that name was really getting to you and his fuckable lips and hands were not helping right now.

Relinquishing the control you never had didn't seem like too bad of an option right now.

"I don't answer to you." You steel yourself, contorting your face and looking up at him with siren eyes which doesn't stand for long before his other hand is making it's way up your thigh and between your legs.

"I don't have a problem," He talks low and seductively in your ear, making your listen to the gravel in his voice, teasing his fingers upwards and watching you heave you chest up and down with increasing nervousness. You let your guard down, whimpering for a second before he retracts both hands.

"I'll get it out of you baby. We all need help sometimes and you..." he trails off, staring at your face that is lolling, lips parted and undoubtedly watery.

"You deserve to get the attitude fucked out of you." And with that, he pushes himself back and through the crowd, not even caring to give a glance back before leaving you alone and shaking, ready to cry.

You were such a weak, pathetic little girl and now, Luigi knew it.

if you would like to be a part of my taglist, please comment on my pinned blog post, not here!

taglist: @madkohi @iinfinitelimits-blog-blog @poohkie90 @chariytz @alotofsomething @nosebeers

#angelluigiposts #luigi mangione #luigi mangione fic #luigi mangione fanficition #luigi mangione x reader #luigi mangione smut #luigi mangione x yn #luigi mangione imagine

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godmadeaterribleerror · 3 months ago

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Chapter 7 - Something I Can See

Series Masterlist - Main Masterlist

Author's Note: Big chapter for fans of yapping and Dean overthinking things.

Chapter title from Something to Believe by Weyes Blood

Word Count: 16.8k

Chapter Summary/Warnings: Sam and Dean drive you home. Usual warnings.

Tags: Dean Winchester/Female Reader, enemies to friends to lovers, canon divergence, slow burn, big angst, fluff, monster of the week.

Chapter 6 - Chapter 8

Read on A03!

She was going to be okay. They’d managed to get the knife out of her gut, and Sammy had stitched Her up, so She’d be fine.

She was still knocked out, but Her breathing was even. The blade had been so hot Dean had needed to use a towel to hold it, but it was out of Her body. Her wound kept bubbling and blistering, but it wasn’t an infection.

She’d be fine. Dean was going to kill Her, but she’d be fine.

He looked down at Her, spread out across Baby’s backseat and curled into her body. She’d barely made a sound since She’d passed out. Only soft moans and whimpers as they worked on the injury, and a few grunts as they’d moved Her into the car, adjusted Her body in the seat, and set off on the road.

They’d done everything. All Her shit was in the trunk, Sam was sitting with her to make sure she didn’t fall over or get worse, and Dean was breaking every traffic law he could think of to get there faster.

To South Dakota.

To Bobby’s.

It had taken Dean too long, in the parking lot, to actually call Bobby. He’d waited until She was settled, until they’d loaded almost everything into the car, and until Sammy was dealing with the front desk so Dean was alone.

He hadn’t been alone. He’d been sitting in the back of the Impala, Her head on his knee and his hand unable to stop tracing over her face.

It was wrong. Looking at Her like this. Features sunken and hollow, lips drained of blood, breathing shallow in a way Dean could feel. It made his own breath labored, his whole body tensed as She relaxed against him, and he didn’t deserve it. He didn’t deserve the trust of Her vulnerability, the way Her beautiful face was half buried in his thigh, the way She’d let out a weak, sad sound whenever he tried to pull away.

He’d hurt Her. He’d spent the entire night after their fight ripping apart the club grounds and roaring Her name, giving Sam daring looks to say a single thing. He’d beaten himself into the mud in fear that he’d lose Her twice. Once with spat words and a cold look of hatred, then again with a shredded body and dulled eyes.

He’d wanted to strangle Her. He’d wanted to apologize, and shout that he had nothing to apologize for. She’d lied.

Not about what Dean thought She’d been lying about, but She’d still lied.

Although, admittedly, the truth was far more confusing.

Because Dean had stared at the small, robot-print letters on Her phone screen—pixilated and fuzzy and flipping his world upside—and not known how to process them.

Bobby Singer.

There could be other Bobby Singers that weren’t Dean’s Bobby Singer. That weren’t the guy who was practically his uncle, who he’d played catch with, who’d made him food and given Sammy run-down toys to play with.

It didn’t make sense for this to be Dean’s Bobby. Dean had half grown up in that house. He’d stayed there for weeks on end when Dad had been on a really bad hunt—hunts where he’d come back with hooded eyes and fisted hands, snapping short orders because they didn’t have time to waste on sentimentality—and Bobby had never once had a daughter. Especially not a hot, annoying, impossible one.

Dean would’ve remembered meeting Her before. There’s no shot he would’ve ever forgotten Her. He couldn’t. He’d tried. Dean was pretty sure that, even if he’d only laid eyes on Her once in passing, he would’ve been drawn down into Her and never climbed back out.

That was simply what She did. Who She was. A walking, breathing song that Dean couldn’t figure out how to touch but still wanted to try to learn. She got stuck in his head and played there on loop, and if he’d ever seen Her before that moroi hunt, he was damn sure he would’ve remembered.

And Bobby would’ve told him. If Bobby had a kid that was around Sam and Dean’s age, they would’ve known. Dad would’ve known.

Dad should’ve known. And he obviously hadn’t. Whenever Dean had brought Her up, Dad had called Her that little girl.

Hell, Dad had told Bobby about Her. Dad had said Her name and Bobby hadn’t gone Fuckin’ Jesus, John, that’s my daughter. The hell is She doin’ huntin’ a poltergeist.

Bobby had reacted strangely, though. Dean remember him hanging up right after Dad mentioned Her.

And She had mentioned her dad was a gruff, smart hunter. Which described Bobby, and explained why She knew so much random shit about hunting, and that was Bobby’s number in Her phone, and-

She’d lied. She’d said She didn’t know a Bobby. She’d asked Dean what he thought of Bobby.

Like She was curious what he’d think.

Son of a bitch.

Because when Dean squinted, he could see Bobby on Her face. Not physically, but in small divets and shadows on Her face and body and voice.

They rolled their eyes the same way. Like they were done with everyone’s shit, and knew that they were the most competent and reliable person in the room.

She had the same laugh Bobby had. Dean had only heard Bobby laugh—really, fully laugh with his whole chest—three or four times, but it was the exact same laugh. Loud and powerful and almost cartoonish.

They didn’t walk the same way, but they fought in similar movements. Brutal and effective, with no more or less than necessary.

And if Dean really thought about it, there were smaller things he could draw together. How She turned a page, how She held a pencil, how She drank her coffee.

Small mannerisms She would’ve picked up from being raised by someone, the same way Dean would spin his keys and Sammy always flipped his wallet in his hands before opening it.

Like Dad did.

Part of Dean hadn’t wanted to call the number. His thumb hovered far too long as he’d debated if he even wanted to know. If this was really what it seemed to be, and he’d have to piece together a puzzle he hadn’t known existed a fucking hour ago.

She could never know that he’d looked down at Her, and that had been what finally got him. That Her scrunched face had made his heart feel like it was being wrenched and pounded, that he’d run his thumb over Her nose, she’d relaxed, and let out a song-like sigh that had been it.

He’d pressed call, held the phone to his ear, and still not fully believed it until the line picked up after two rings.

“Hey, kiddo, I wasn’t expectin’ you to call until you had that Kelpie down. You alright?”

Dean had frozen, his voice caught in his throat, staring at Her face as static sounded in his ear.

That was Bobby. Bobby clearing his throat, Bobby grunting Her name-

“Is everythin’-“

“Bobby?” Dean’s voice had been hushed, and he’d watched Her carefully to make sure she wasn’t disturbed.

There had been a long moment of silence, this time from Bobby’s end, and then-

“Dean?”

“Yeah, it’s-“

“Where the hell did you find this phone, boy?”

Dean had said Her name, his hand tracing over Her brow, still checking she was real. “She gave it to me.”

“She fuckin’- where is she?”

“She’s right here-“

“Put her on, I need to talk to her.”

“Yeah, uh,” Dean had swallowed, and She’d shifted slightly, pressing further into his lap. “I can’t.”

“Dean Winchester, I ain’t lookin’ to kill you, but if you don’t-“

“No, I- I literally fucking can’t, Bobby.”

“Why in hells balls can’t ya’ pass a phone-“

Dean said Her name again, something like lead coating his throat. “Uh, she’s- She’s knocked out.”

There was a brief second of silence, and Dean had winced when Bobby spoke again.

“What the hell typa’ shit have you two gotten into that she’s knocked out?!”

“A demon attacked her, and we- Bobby, we tried to fight it off but it got a knife into her gut, and Sammy patched her up but-“

“Sam’s there?”

Dean had frowned. “Yeah, uh, who else-“

“Never mind, I thought-“ Bobby had sighed through the phone, something tense growing in his voice. “She stable?”

“Yeah, but she told us to call you.”

“Alright, bring her up here and I’ll be ready. And Dean?”

Dean had nodded, staring at Her gorgeous, almost peaceful face, and there had been a long stretch of silence before he remembered Bobby couldn’t see him.

“Dean-“

“Shit, sorry, what’s-“

“I don’t want you lettin’ a single fuckin’ thing near her but you and Sam, got it?”

“Yes, sir-“

“Don’t yes, sir me, boy. Promise me you’ll keep her in your sight.”

“I will. Promise.”

It had been an easy thing to say. The thought of leaving Her alone had—even as his head spun, and his chest started to mold with the question of why the hell she’d lied—made Dean feel taut and sick.

And Bobby had hung up the phone, and Dean had kept his promise. He’d never left Her alone, not for a second. Sam had sat with Her because Dean didn’t trust himself to care for her properly—didn’t deserve to have Her half slump over his body and sigh against his skin—and Dean’d had to force his eyes to stay on the road, and not drift to check on Her

It was bad enough that his mind had been wandering. Coming up with more and more reasons this didn’t make any fucking sense, and far too many reasons why it did.

She’d called going to Bobby’s home, and Dean felt something like bile in his throat at the thought that whenever She’d said home before, she’d been talking about Bobby. And lying. And letting Dean think She was living in a fancy gated palace, when she’d just been at Bobby’s. But now, when Dean pictured Bobby’s table, he could see Her at it. She slotted into the scene perfectly, just as She fit so well in every other part of Dean’s life.

And he still couldn’t hate Her. He had far too many questions—where the hell She’d been whenever they’d stayed with Bobby, why had She never corrected Dean, why had Bobby lied about knowing Her—and he didn’t know what the hell was happening, but he just couldn’t fucking hate Her.

“Hey, Dean?” Sam had asked a few hours ago, watching Dean carefully from the backseat. “What happened, last night? You just, you called me and said she’d stormed off, but-“

“Don’t.” Dean had muttered, his grip tightening on the wheel, and Sam had sighed.

“Look, you don’t have to tell me everything, I just want to know why she’d just fucked off, it doesn’t seem like her-“

“You don’t know her, Sam-“

“But you do-“

“Do I?” Dean had snapped, his eyes flicking back to Her in the rearview mirrors. Always close, and untouchable, and a mystery Dean could never seem to get close to solving. “I’m not sure anyone knows her, and I certainly fucking don’t.”

“Yeah, you do, Dean.” Sam had leaned forward, his tone far too careful and gentle. “Whatever fight you guys had, however pissed she got, I can’t be that bad-“

“Yeah, it can be.” Dean had scowled at the road, his voice lowering to a grunt. “Drop it, Sam. I fucking serious.”

Sam had sighed, and nodded. “Alright, what about the demon? Do you think we need to be keeping an eye out?”

“Eye out-“

“For another one.” Sam had glanced down to Her, she’d made a small noise of distress, and the sound had ached in Dean’s chest. “Dude, it- It knew who you were. And it seemed to know her-“

“There’s- How the hell would a demon know her-“

“I don’t know, that’s what I’m asking.” Sam had swallowed, and Dean could see the nerves written over his face in the mirror. “You think Bobby will have an idea?”

Dean didn’t know. He’d snapped at Sam that when they got to Bobby’s they’d have plenty of time to figure out what the fuck was happening, but the question was still echoing around his head.

Why would a demon have gone after Her. She was just a year older than Sammy, so she couldn’t have made that many enemies. She wasn’t some kind of target. There was nothing about her that could-

There was everything about Her. If Dean thought about it for too long—which is all he had time to do—She wasn’t just an enigma to Dean. Her family was still her family, no matter how she knew Bobby. Dad had said She’d stolen something, all those years ago. Maybe the demons would want it.

Maybe others felt that pull. Maybe there was something deeper Dean didn’t know how to see.

Maybe there was nothing at all, and the demon had been hunting Her because of her proximity to Dean.

That thought made him feel sore and ill. Dad said that it was a demon who had gotten Mom. A demon who had gotten Jess.

And She wasn’t Dean’s. She’d made that perfectly fucking clear.

But he couldn’t stop looking at Her. Couldn’t stop how the air didn’t feel clean in his lungs because Her breathing was shallow, how his hands kept itching on the wheel to brush over Her cheek and soothe the small wrinkle in Her brow. He could tell himself he just wanted to check for a fever, but he also wanted to move the hair from Her face. Sam was just letting is lie there, and Dean knew she hated people touching it, but she always let Dean touch her. She never slapped his hand away when he touched Her. She leaned into him, and sometimes She smile, and sometimes Dean could pretend she was his-

She wasn’t. She wouldn’t be. Dad had known Mom. Sam had known Jess.

Dean didn’t know anything. He didn’t know why the demon had been after Her, or what She been thinking just stomping off, or why Bobby was her home.

All he really knew was that this still looked wrong. That the sight of Her in pain was making his heart shred itself in his chest, and that he wanted to reach around the seats and touch Her. Pull Her into him until nothing else could hurt Her, until he could get her somewhere safer than him.

She’d be safer anywhere but with Dean. Bobby had said to keep an eye on Her, but Dean didn’t trust his eyes. All week they’d kept seeing things that didn’t really make sense. Every moment they just made Her more beautiful, even as Dean silently cursed himself for still looking.

He couldn’t stop looking. He fucking hated Her for lying, but every single sharp and blunted piece of wrath in Dean’s chest felt more searing when it carved on his own ribs. She was a liar, but Dean was a piece of shit. He’d bitten Her too hard. He didn’t have a damn clue about Her life, but he’d still aimed to kill and then been a whiny son of a bitch when his shot had landed.

She may bring out the most of him, but it was still Dean who was made of all those foul, uncontrolled pieces.

Dad knew how to control himself. Dad wasn’t perfect, but at least he kept himself in line, and he’d tried to teach Dean how to do the same but Dean was just weaker. Pathetic and useless.

He didn’t deserve to be around Her. No matter how much it pissed Dean off that She was better than he was, it didn’t change the fact. Dean wasn’t worthy of being around Her.

And he still couldn’t stop looking. She was dangerous, and awesome, and looked so perfect in Dean’s car—fit so well with everything that was Dean, everything that belonged to him—but she also was impossible. And insufferable. And seemed to be trying to break Dean into pieces, because Her eyes fluttered, her breath hitched, and She arched her back.

All while mumbling Dean.

Her eyes drifted open, a small frown on Her face, and the first thing she said was Dean.

She was trying to kill him.

“Dean.“ Her voice was soft, and weak, and rooted right into the cavity of Dean’s chest. Washing it in silver light with only Her voice, saying his name as Her fingers flexed and she reached mindlessly out into the air.

There’s a brief second where Dean wondered if She was looking for him. Reaching out to see if he’d take Her hand, if he’d reassure her with just his touch.

He needed to get it together.

He didn’t know how.

“I- Dean, what’s- I don’t-“ Her voice was growing distressed, Her slightly gazed as they dragged open. Her fingers seemed to be digging into Her skin as she shrank into the bench, Her breathing speeding up and becoming short and shit-

It looked wrong. It felt wrong. Dean had no right to touch Her, no reason to tense and balk at the sight of Her in pain—small and panicked and almost feral in his backseat, ducking Her head and hugging her body as if she could shield herself—but he couldn’t stop himself from wanting hold Her until she was calm, to wrap himself around her like a barrier from everything else that could hurt Her in the world.

It was selfish as hell. Dean could hurt Her. Dean had hurt Her. He was the asshole who got them here in the first place, all by not knowing how to just control himself.

He didn’t want to control himself right now. Not as Her face twisted in pain.

Not as She kept saying his name.

“Where are we- I- Dean-“

“I’m here,” He muttered Her name, gripping the back of his seat to stop himself from reaching for her. “We’re in the car.”

She went silent, Her body stilling completely, and cold seized over Dean’s body. Why was She just lying there. Why wasn’t She speaking, or shouting, or sneering. Asking questions or spitting venom about their fight, trying to get up or curl further into Herself, why was she so fucking still-

Dean was about to damn it, reach further back, and touch Her—just to feel the warmth of Her body, just to get something of a reaction—when She finally spoke.

“Dean?”

“Yeah?”

“I’m sorry.” She whispered, and Dean would’ve never bet on that being what She’d say. On Her seeming to mean it, her face twisted slightly, Her head bowed, and her voice soft. “I- I didn’t mean to.”

He frowned. “Mean to what.”

“Anything.”

Her eyes drifted open. Bright and seeming to glow on Dean’s, looking at him like She always had. If Dean didn’t know better, he would’ve thought their fight had never happened. There was no possible way it could’ve when She was still looking at him. Right into him, into the deep pit in his body that felt smaller under Her attention. Felt lined or coated in warmth and light, because that was what She did to him.

And She still looked vulnerable. Just watching him, something more nervous on her face than Dean usually saw, something almost afraid.

He hated it. She shouldn’t fear Dean, She should trust him. She didn’t, but he needed Her to. At least enough to know that, even if Dean—for some sick, fucked reason—tried to, he couldn’t lay a hand on Her. He could hiss and mock and poison Her with his mouth or presence, but he was pretty damn certain that his body would turn itself to ash before it hurt Her.

Which didn’t make sense. It wasn’t rational, or reasonable, or understandable. But Dean’s hand flexed on the seat, and She practically fucking flinched, and Dean had never felt lower in his life. Any ideas he’d been holding about demanding answers and shouting about everything—their fight, Her lies, his brimming and spilling desire and how She needed to stop doing this to him so he could control himself—began to vanish into thin air. It was impossible to be really, truly angry at Her when she looked like that. Beautiful and fragile and critical to the blood in Dean’s body.

He’d find that anger later, and they’d fight later. For now he just let out a long breath, and shrugged.

“’S fine.” It wasn’t. But it was the only good thing to say here, because Dean might rather stab himself than tell Her about how fucking furious he was, and make Her fold further down. He’d wounded Her enough for a while. “You feeling alright?”

“Yeah, I’m-“ She paused, hands padding over Her stomach. “Did you-“

“Sammy gave you some stitches.” Dean said, watching her carefully. “He’s not great that them, though, so don’t move.”

Her mouth twitched slightly. Dean wished he could touch it. “Where is Sam?”

“Getting gas. We got a few hours left until we hit Sioux Falls.”

“Oh.”

Dean didn’t miss the flash of something over Her face. He didn’t know what. He just knew it was wired, and taut, and brittle. That he wanted to ease it, but didn’t know how. Wasn’t really worthy of trying to learn.

But Sam was taking a while.

And Dean couldn’t fucking stand how fearful She looked.

“If you press on the stitches, does it hurt?”

She raised her brows. “I’m pretty sure I’m not supposed to press on them, Winchester.”

“Nah, I know, I’m just trying to figure out how shit a job Sammy did.”

She didn’t look like She believed him, and Dean really wished he’d come up with a better excuse to talk to Her, because now she was lifting up her shirt.

Her skin looked a little raw and torn around the wound, but everywhere else was soft. Smooth. He’d noticed it while patching Her up, that she barely had any pale, raised patches of skin where other hunters did.

No scars was so fucking rare.

But so was She.

And Dean needed to pull it together.

“It’ll hold,” She looked back to Dean, and he had to blink at her. Pretend he hadn’t just been gaping at Her bare skin. “Thank you.”

“Don’t mention it.” He muttered, scanning over Her features. She was awake, but there still wasn’t enough color in Her face. Too little fury behind Her eyes, nothing dancing and shining like it usually did. She looked exhausted. Weakened. The little furrow of Her brow tighter than usual.

They had hours to go, and Dean knew how to fix that. He knew how to poke at Her until she snapped and everything bent with Her—all Her force making the world clearer, Dean’s body stronger—and how to walk right up to the invisible line, touch Her just as much as he was allowed, and make Her relax. Sam didn’t. But Dean did.

“I’m coming back there.” He grunted, starting to shift in his seat, and She frowned.

“What?”

“Sammy’s gonna drive the rest of the way, I’ll sit with you-“

“No, you don’t-“

He shook his head. He didn’t want to hear Her say he didn’t have to, because it just reminded him that she didn’t feel this. That there was nothing that called Her to Dean’s side, because if there was she’d be fucking begging him to sit with Her.

He knew that, because he was seconds away from dropping to a new low and begging Her.

“We had Sammy back there all day,” he held Her gaze, trying to make his voice stern. “Only fair you get saddled with me too.”

“I’m not-“ She cut herself off with a shake of Her head. “I don’t need Sam to sit with me either, De. I’m fine.”

De. She said De, and it was maybe the only thing more powerful than Her calling him Dean. Even if She didn’t mean it, the word felt like a command over his body, and that was only another thing Dean didn’t understand.

“You’re- you look like shit, Princess.“ He couldn’t stop the nickname from slipping out of his mouth. No matter how screwed things were, the way Her body loosened slightly at the sound of it was always a small high, and Dean couldn’t figure out how to stop chasing it.

She scowled. “Hey-“

“You just got stabbed, and you haven’t woken up in six hours-“

“I’m awake now-“

“And I’d like to keep it like that.” Dean snapped. “I- you just gotta-“ He ran a hand over his face, because She didn’t want him there, but every time Her eyes drooped or Her body twitched with pain it made Dean’s gut contract. “At least keep Sammy. So you’re not alone.”

She rolled Her eyes. It really did fucking look like Bobby. “I’m not alone, dummy, you’re like two feet away.”

“What if you pass out again? Am I just supposed to pull over?”

“Yeah? I mean, I’m not gonna pass out-“

“You can’t know that, sweetheart-“

“I can guess.” She glowered at him, raising Her chin slightly, and even lying down She looked like royalty. “It’s my body, Winchester, and I feel fine.”

“For now.” Dean muttered, and She wrinkled her nose at him.

“Shut up-“ She cut herself off with a yawn, and Dean’s jaw clenched.

She couldn’t see Her. Every single second that passed no light returned to Her eyes, and everything just grew duller. She’d just yawned. But Dean was pretty certain that—if She hissed at Sam to get in the front seat and not bother worrying about her—the giant baby would listen.

Dean needed to work around this. She needed to be okay.

“You’ll need to keep talking.” He grunted, holding her gaze. “I hear one second of silence, and we’re pulling over so I can move back there. Understood?”

She gave him a flat look. “Are you serious-“

“Deadly, Princess. Understood?”

Dean might be imagining it, but a little color returned to Her face. The flush. And the breath. And the-

“Understood.” She muttered. “You’re such a fucking dick.”

“You’ve told me.” Dean turned back to face ahead, and she let out a long breath behind him.

This silence was short, but maybe the heaviest Dean had ever experienced. It weighed on the top of his chest, and he didn’t know how to push it off, and he wanted to look at Her again, but he couldn’t bear it if She didn’t look at him-

“Dean,” She whispered, and his whole body went alert at the sound of her voice. Softer than usual, but still calling him down. “I’m-“

Whatever She was, Dean didn’t get to know. Sam knocked on his window, waving to Her in the backseat, and Dean had to turn and roll down the window so they could hear each other.

“Dude, why are you hunching down like that, just get in the freaking car-“

Sam rolled his eyes, not moving to from the window. “I still need to get coffee, Dean. And,” He said Her name with a grin, completely ignoring Dean’s glower. “You’re up!”

“Yep.” She returned Sam’s smile, and Dean scowled. She hadn’t smiled at him. “Thanks for the stitches.”

Sam shrugged, leaning a little further through the window. “No problem. They feel okay? Because I was rushing a little to get you on the road, and-“

“They feel fine, Sam. I feel fine.”

Those last words were shot at Dean, and he rolled his eyes. “You won the argument, Princess, don’t get all bitchy with me.”

“I am not being bitchy-“

“You’re being dramatic-“

“I just got fucking stabbed, Winchester, I can be as dramatic as I want.”

Dean scoffed, twisting in his seat. “I’m the one who had to watch you get stabbed-“

“How fucking harrowing for you-“

“What the hell does harrowing mean-“

“Hey!” Sam slapped Dean’s arm, shooting both of them a stern look. “You guys can fight all you want when we’re on the road, but we actually need to get on the road. Tell me what you want from the gas station, and kill each other after.”

She let out a long breath. “Sorry, Sam.”

“Thank you,” Sam said Her name, gave Dean a pointed glare, and Dean scowled.

“I didn’t fucking do anything-“

She scoffed, the sound a rough cough that almost made Dean leap over the bench to pick Her up and hold her to his chest. “Oh, fuck off, Winchester-“

“Wouldn’t you love that, Princess-“

“Dean!” Sam snapped. “Don’t- Just tell me what you want, please.”

Dean opened his mouth, and She cut him off with sharp, short words.

“Don’t say pie. You’re driving.”

Dean was either going to smother Her with his hands around her neck, or with his mouth slammed to Her’s. She was so fucking hot, and annoying, and Dean wouldn’t strangle her because he knew his dumb body wouldn’t allow him, but Jesus, She needed to shut the hell up before Dean made her and then lost her forever-

“Dean?” Sam was raising his brows. Waiting for a response.

“Gimme some coffee.” He muttered, gripping the wheel like it could save him from Her glare, and how it made his skin feel sore. “And jerky.”

Sam nodded, glancing over to Her, and when she spoke her voice was too quiet. He watched to jump over the bench again.

“Coffee and candy?”

“Sure, you want anything specific-“

“Whatever’s cheap.” She said, and Dean was going to break the wheel.

His head was churning and spiraling again. She said that like Bobby said it. The same dismissive cheaper is easier, boy, and I ain’t an idiot to fall for fancy fuckin’ packagin’ tone.

“Snickers?” Sam offered, and She must have nodded because a second later, he was gone.

It was silent. So silent that Dean had a brief, stabbing moment of worry that She was passed out again. His eyes flicked up to the mirror again, and Her eyes were open—pretty and glaring at Dean like She wanted to stab him—but they looked lidded. And the little furrow was becoming more prominent, and Her breathing was a little too shallow, and-

“You’re supposed to be talking.” Dean snapped, and She rolled Her eyes. And it was still exactly like Bobby did, but, son of a bitch it was so much hotter-

He needed to get a grip. He needed to figure out how—when they eventually did get to Sioux Falls—he was ever going to be able to look at Her and not wonder how he hadn’t seen it before. He was a little fucking worried he’d look at Bobby and start to feel that gravitational pull. That Dean would start to orbit around Bobby, and smell him all the time, and hear his voice in dreams-

If that happened, Dean would need to give himself a concussion and pray it erased his memory. He already didn’t love how he wanted nothing more than to crawl over Her and make her smile, and if he started to crave Bobby’s attention too, he’d lose his mind. Crashing into Her was usually good, when she wasn’t trying to give him a heart attack or being the most impossible person Dean had ever met. Crashing into Bobby would be gross. If Dean had to start fantasizing about Bobby under him when he fucked someone, he might just have to kill himself-

“Dean!” She was shouting, Her voice slightly strained, and he turned to frown at Her.

“What’s-“

“What am I supposed to be talking about?”

He frowned. “I don’t fucking care-“

“Alright, then I won’t-“

“No.” Dean pointed a stern finger at Her, narrowing his eyes. “You gotta talk. That was the deal.”

“I didn’t make a deal, you just ordered me to talk-“

“I did not order you, Princess, I’m trying to goddamn keep you alive after you went and got stabbed-“

“Oh, suck my fucking dick-“

The car door opened, and they both turned to see Sam leaning into the car, coffees in hand and snacks under his arms.

“Oh, good, you didn’t murder each other.” Sam passed out their coffees and snacks, his voice a dry mutter that was gonna get him punched. “Actually,” he frowned between them. “If you’re going to fight for the rest of the ride, can Dean sit in the back so I can tune it out-“

“Neither of you are sitting in the back.” She pushed Herself upright with a small, weak sound, and Her hands were shaking. Dean was going to tackle Her.

“Maybe, uh,” Sam glanced at Dean as he said Her name, like he could see the rough tension over his heart at Her insistence to be as difficult as possible. “I mean, I really don’t mind if I do have to sit with you-“

“I’ll be alright without a babysitter-“

“Because you’re going to keep talking.” Dean muttered, drumming his hands on the wheel. “Sammy, apparently her majesty can’t come up with a topic, so that’s on you, but I don’t want a single second of silence, sweetheart, or-“

“You’ll pull over and be a massive fucking baby.” She snapped, and Dean wished She wasn’t so hot when she was pissed. “He threatened me, Sam.”

Dean scowled. “I did not threaten you-“

“Fine. It was blackmail.��

“It was- I-“ Dean whipped around to glower at her. “You’re such a fucking-“

“Bitch?” She sneered, holding his gaze. “Am I a bitch? Am I a spoiled little bitch?”

“That’s- You know I wasn’t-“

“Trying to hurt my little bratty girl feelings-“

“I never fucking said-“

She scoffed, and Dean could swear something hot and wired was fueling all his anger. Maybe it was how the air in the car seemed to be waving, or how every word was venomous and cold and making something inside of him wither, or how breathing was so fucking painful when She was furious and sneering-

“That I’m a bitch? That I’m a controlling fucking bitch-“

“Shut up! What the fuck is wrong with you?!” Dean slammed his hand on the bench, and She flinched. Visibly flinched. Recoiled.

“I- I didn’t-“ She swallowed, staring at Her cup in her hands. “Sorry.”

Dean was a piece of fucking shit. He’d done it again. He’d pushed it too far because he was an asshole.

He muttered Her name, his voice low. “I didn’t- I’m-“

“Don’t.” She mumbled, and She wouldn’t look at him. “I’ll keep talking.”

Dean’s jaw clenched, and all he could do was nod. She looked sick. He fucking felt sick. He kept slamming his fist between them, making everything worse, hurting Her in a way he’d never seemed to be able to hurt anyone before-

Sam cleared his throat. Dean had forgotten he was there.

“So, uh, we’re talking.”

Dean opened his mouth to say no, they needed to fucking patch whatever the hell was wrong with him with glue, so he could shove himself into her hands as a pathetic, useless apology, but She was faster. Better. Still a liar, still in pain, but also still beautiful. Still so far away from Dean.

“Yeah. Get in the car.”

Sam nodded, shooting Dean one last look, and leaned out of the car. Dean started the engine—biting his tongue not to vomit a million apologies he knew wouldn’t come out right—and they were back on the road.

Four hours until they hit Bobby’s.

Four hours of beating himself bloody in silence, and listening to Her speak.

Normally Dean would’ve thought there was no better way to spend his time than being drowned in Her voice, and hearing her say anything at all. But normally She wasn’t in this pain, where She’d gesture too broadly and hiss, or Baby would hit a bump and She’d whine. Normally he didn’t have to force himself not to look at Her—and whenever he lost control and his eyes slipped to Her in the mirror, she didn’t look so colorless and drained—and normally Dean allowed himself to speak to Her in more than grunts.

She was acting like everything was fine. Sometimes he’d look back and She’d be smiling, and it didn’t reach Her eyes, and Dean had done that. That wasn’t the injury.

That was just Dean. Ruining everything because She’d fallen from the sky into his hands and he’d bashed Her into the mud.

“There’s…” Sam was said Her name, his voice filled with disbelief. “You don’t actually think that, right?”

“I wouldn’t have said it if I didn’t think it-“

“But it’s Star Wars! I mean, it’s not perfect, but you can’t seriously believe it’s bad.”

“It is bad, Sam. It’s objectively poorly written, but it has iconic imagery, music, and actors-“

“Because it’s not bad!”

It had been thirty minutes of this. Sam hadn’t needed to look that hard to find a topic, and the moment he’d said the words Uh, you like movies? Dean had known it was over. He’d had this exact conversation with Her before, and it had involved a lot more yelling and shoving than Sam was getting.

It had also involved Her giggling and smiling and leaning so close that Dean could see even the smallest features on her face—tiny bumps and scars, little divets that somehow made Her more beautiful—and smell that strange fruit until it intoxicated him, and he’d thrown his hands up in surrender.

Her eyes had sparkled then. She still wouldn’t look at him now. Even when Sam would echo a point Dean had made before, She shot it down with ease—and a careful, detailed argument that made Dean think She’s been freaking practicing—and Sam would let out a sigh that sounded a little like a whine.

“I don’t think it’s useless, you know. I’m saying it’s not-“

“You just called it the most overhyped movie ever made!”

“And it is, but that’s why it’s not useless. It was the primary cause of science fiction being popularized-“

“Because people liked it!” Sam looked to Dean with wide eyes—as if Dean could fucking do something about this—and then back to Her with a shaking head. “I- They’re maybe the most popular movies of all time-“

“Popularity doesn’t equate quality, Sam.” She said, and Dean hoped She couldn’t see him mouthing along with her every word, knowing exactly what she’d say. “It can, but it doesn’t have to. Star Wars being popular is its greatest strength, because that mean it was able to serve as inspiration for many, better things.”

Sam scoffed. “Like what?”

That was a mistake. If Dean was allowing himself to participate in the conversation, he would’ve been able to tell Sammy that saying that—especially in a doubtful tone—was never a good idea. She’d have examples, and if She didn’t, she’d come up with some right here in the car.

Dean had fallen for that trap before. And he was too fucking tired and bitter to save Sam from it.

“I’m so glad you asked, Samuel.” Dean glanced in the mirror, and that was a wide, blinding, almost manic grin that appeared when She was about to hand Dean’s ass to him on a platter.

He almost felt bad for Sam.

“I- Samuel?”

She hummed, completely ignoring Sam’s indigence. “Almost all science-fiction movies are somewhat inspired by Star Wars, or owe Star Wars the popularity of the genre. And, Star Wars significantly popularized the use of Monomyth in film-“

Dean didn’t remember what Monomyth was. Sam didn’t seem to either, because She cut herself off with a sigh.

“The Hero’s Journey. In movies.”

“Oh.” Sam frowned. “Dean said you didn’t go to college.”

Dean cringed slightly, feeling Her glare through the mirror.

“Did he.”

“Yeah, it’s just surprising, you’re smart-“

“I don’t have to go to college to be smart.”

“No, that’s not what I’m saying, you just- You don’t sound like you didn’t-“

“I’ve read a lot.” She said, and a vision of Bobby’s library flashed through Dean’s head.

There were a shit ton of books in there. Even Sam hadn’t read them all, and Dean was pretty sure Bobby hadn’t either, but he also remembered Bobby saying that they’d all been read.

By Her.

“And,” She was still talking. Of course She was. “I’ve watched a lot of TV, which is how I know I’m right. Star Wars is terrible-“

In the corner of his eye, Dean watched Sam open his mouth, and then make his first good choice of the day and close it.

“But it’s also the only reason we have Indiana Jones-“

“You like Indiana Jones?”

Dean rolled his eyes. Another mistake from Kid Genius in shotgun-

“Shut up, Winchester.”

Dean blinked, scowling at the road. “I didn’t say anything-“

“You were going to.” She snapped, and when Dean glanced back, she was glaring at him. “So shut up.”

Sam frowned between them. “Why would Dean-“

“Her majesty loves Indiana Jones.” Dean grunted. “Good luck, Sammy.”

“Don’t wish him luck, I’m not going to try to kill him-“

“Sure, Princess.”

She kicked the back of Dean’s seat, and he didn’t even grunt. The hit was weaker than usual, and it wasn’t because She wasn’t trying.

She was just weaker. She was still coughing and taking breaths that were far too long. Her eyes were still a little hollowed, and lips in too tight a line, and brow drawn in pain. Dean couldn’t fucking stand it. He wanted to pull over, grab Her and demand that they forgive each other now—or at least try to pretend nothing had happened in the first place—because she was hurt and needed Dean’s help-

“I’m not going to kill you, Sam.” She said, and Sam didn’t look all that reassured. “And I do love Indiana Jones. I think it’s fun.”

Sam frowned. “Star Wars is fun.”

“Star Wars parodies are fun. There’s an episode of the Muppet Show with the Star Wars cast, and it’s better than all the actual Star Wars movies combined.”

She and Sam kept talking—Sam refused to believe one single episode of television could be greater than a film trilogy, and Dean didn’t think She was capable of just surrendering any sort of argument—and Dean’s head started to wander again. Back to Bobby’s house, and every single sign of Her he’d never noticed. Never had reason to notice, or dwell on, or observe, but now he couldn’t stop remembering all the grenadine in Bobby’s fridge that the man himself never seemed to touch, but always seemed to be in use. All the normal books that weren’t for hunting, and didn’t seem like things Bobby would read.

If Dean squinted in his head, he could see the VHS tapes stacked near the TV. There had been a lot of movies he’d stayed up late to watch—action movies and westerns and some fancy art films he hadn’t action movies and TV shows-really understood—but also some he’d never touched. Comedy films and chick flicks and-

“Bobby had that show.” Dean muttered, and She and Sam fell silent. “The Muppet Show. He had a freakin’ VHS tape.”

They hadn’t mentioned it since She woke up. The looming axe over all their heads, that they were heading to Bobby’s, and She’d fucking lied about knowing him.

But Dean hadn’t been able to stop himself. He was never able to stop himself with Her. It was fucking amazing, how he kept managing to make this whole thing worse.

“Yeah.” She muttered. She’d tucked Her knees to her chest. “He does.”

Sam cleared his throat, his voice gentle. “I, uh, you don’t have to answer, but can I ask how you know Bobby? Dean said he raised you-“

“He did.”

“Oh.” Sam looked between Her and Dean with a frown. “Really?”

“Yeah, really.” Her voice becoming taut, and it squeezed around Dean’s throat. “I’ve told you my dad is a hunter-“

“So Bobby’s your dad?”

“No, it’s-“ She sighed. “I- It’s easier to say father than man who raised me. We’re not related.”

Sam nodded slowly, and Dean stayed perfectly fucking still in his seat. If he moved or breathed wrong, She might remember he was here and stop sharing things.

“If you- How have we never met before?” Sam’s voice was cautious. Dean understood that. “It’s just, Dean and I have known Bobby our whole lives, we’ve spent weeks at his house-“

“I was…” She swallowed, Dean didn’t have to look back to know Her head would be bowed, and she’d be picking Her skin bloody. “Really sick. I had to be kept separated from other people.”

It wasn’t a lie. Dean could fucking hear it, could feel the sinking ache into his bones at Her tired, heavy voice. And it didn’t matter how vague and useless an answer that was—how it just left him with more questions about how sick She’d been, what type of sickness, if She was alright now when she didn’t really seem to be—because it was the truth.

And She looked sad. She wouldn’t look up, and She was tucked into Herself, and there was hair blocking all Her features from view, and Dean wanted to move it and touch Her, trace his hands over Her face until she smiled and her body went loose-

She wouldn’t let him touch Her. If he tried, he’d probably get punched in the gut, and it would leave a gash in his intestine he didn’t know how to prevent or heal.

He was still pathetic though. Still feeling an itch on his skin the longer She looked like she was trying to hide from something invisible, the longer Her brow pressed to Her knees and the acidic silence stretched on.

He couldn’t just stop.

“Keep talking, Princess.” He grunted, and he could feel Her glare sear through his head. It was better than nothing.

“Dean,” Sam’s voice was too gentle. He didn’t get it. How She was too quiet and too bendable and it was making Dean feel sunken and empty. “Maybe we can just listen to music or something-“

“No. Talk.”

Sam’s eyes widened, and if he kept gaping like that, Dean was going to kick and punch him.

“Well, Deano,” She was still glaring at him from the backseat. “What the fuck should I be talking about?“

“Anything, just-“

“Anything isn’t helpful-“

“Tell Sammy what food he is.” Dean snapped, and Sam blinked.

“Tell me what?”

“I’m pie,” Dean muttered, his grip on the wheel white knuckled. “Because the smartass back there is a little genius.”

“I am a genius.” Her voice was harsher than before. Stronger. “And I didn’t just say you were a pie, I said you were pecan pie, you asshole-“

“Same thing-“

“It’s not. The specification is important-“

“It’s damn pie, sweetheart. Pie is pie-“

“Why pecan?” Sam asked. “I mean, why not apple, or cherry-“

“Because I don’t pander.” She said, and Dean had to bite down a snort. “And he’s not nearly sweet enough to be cherry-“

Dean frowned. “Hey-“

“And,” She pushed on, ignoring Dean entirely. “The chewiness of pecan is very Dean.”

He didn’t know how to protest that. He didn’t know what to say to that. Not when he glanced back in the mirror and Her face was so unreadable.

She didn’t sound as pissed anymore. Dean didn’t know what to do with that.

“Okay.” Sam was nodding, looking between Her and Dean with another unreadable expression. Everyone needed to start saying what they were thinking soon, or Dean was gonna lose it. “I- Yeah. I can see that. What food am I, then?”

“Bubblegum.”

Her answer was quick, and if Dean didn't have to drive and brood, he would've laughed at the look on Sammy's face.

"I- Why?"

“You’re sweet. And flexible but still kinda stiff.”

Dean frowned, lowering his voice to speak under his breath. “I’m sweet.”

She hummed. “Yeah, but you’re an acquired taste, Deano. Like pecan.”

She kept talking, but the word bounced and echoed around Dean’s head. Deano. She only called him Deano when he’d said or done something stupid, but She wasn’t really that pissed about it. Deano had an underlying tone of affection to it. A higher sound on the De and a long moment on the O.

She might not hate him.

“Okay.” Sam was nodding slowly, still twisted in his seat. “I can be bubblegum. Is- Do you do that a lot?”

“Do what?”

“Uh, sort people, I guess? Like, what type of drink would you say I am?”

“She doesn’t drink, Sammy.” Dean muttered, and his seat got kicked again.

“I still know what drinks are-““Could you tell us what each one is like?” =

There was a brief pause—Dean could imagine the small, pouting frown on Her face—and then- “No.”

Dean shot Her a wink in the mirror before he could think better, and it was a mistake. She was glowering at him. She was really hot when She glowered at him—Dean could easily imagine smoke rising off Her body and small, silver spark flying over his skin when he touched Her—but her easy, high beauty wasn’t nearly enough to distract Dean from how shitty she looked. There was more gray in Her face than before, She was curled more into her own body, and, son of a bitch, Her eyes were fluttering slightly-

“What about music genres?” Dean said, just to keep Her talking, and She blinked at him. “What?”

“Music genres, Princess. You know hip-hop, pop, the blues-“

“I know what music genres are, asshole, why are you-“

“Which are we.” Dean gave a vague, one-handed wave between himself and Sammy. “Do your thing.”

“I don’t have a thing-“

“Yeah, you do. Give it a shot, sweetheart. Music genres.”

Sam gave Dean an unwelcome, amused look. “You know, it kind of feels like one of us-“

“Shut up, Sammy.” Dean looked back in the mirror, raising his brows at Her. “And you’re supposed to be talking.”

She wrinkled Her nose him, but she also started talking, so Dean didn’t really care all that much. He was rock—but She was annoying, said Latin pop first, and giggled for five straight minutes after—and Sammy was jazz. Fancy bar Jazz.

Dean didn’t know what that meant.

But he really liked the sound of Her voice, and the way She said most everything. She could’ve probably called Sam country music and he’d agree, just because of how She’d say. With a smooth, passive authority that told something in Dean’s brain She’s right. All the freaking time, even when She’s obviously wrong, she’s still right.

Sam was starbursts, and Dean was a KitKat. Dean was dusk, and Sam was noon. Sam was a Lily of the Valley, and Dean was a rose.

Dean had no interest in being a flower. He did like Her telling him what he was. He liked the idea that She’d been looking at him. That She’d thought about him enough to think he’d be a car if he was on object—which was a cheap shot, but still made Dean feel fuzzy—or a tree if he was a plant, or a seal if he lived in the ocean.

He frowned, waiting for Her to elaborate—he still wasn’t allowing himself to speak all that much, because this felt delicate and still slightly fractured—and decided he wouldn’t kick Sam’s ass for being a butthead the whole car ride when the kid took the bullet for him.

“Why am I an octopus?”

She yawned. It made Dean’s stomach clench. “You’re productive and floppy.”

Dean snorted, and Sam shot him a glare.

“Well then, why’s Dean a seal-“

“Cause he’s all big and toothy.”

Dean scowled. He wasn’t nearly as big and toothy as Sammy was, but fighting with Her on reasoning almost always ended up being a dead end. Just as how asking Her what she was only ever resulted in a hum and shrug. Dean’s goal was to keep Her talking, so he had to move on.

“Whatever, Princess. What about out of the ocean animals?”

She shifted a little in Her seat—letting out a small noise that hurt Dean’s whole body—but kept talking. Sam was this, and Dean was that. Dean was that, and Sam was this.

And every time she spoke, Dean could imagine the tilt of Her head, the way she was probably rubbing Her skin at she examined them and thought of an answer with far too much sincerity. He wanted to rub Her skin. To trace his hands up Her legs, watch Her look at him with nothing but softness in her eyes, feel nothing but molten light fill him up from the inside-

He needed to figure out how the hell She always did that. How all of Dean’s fury was now smothered and coated Her, how all the way in his soft tissue he just really wanted to touch Her. To stop giving Her reasons to sneer at him, to stop pushing Her until she fell away forever, for everything to just be alright.

For this conversation to be not edged with the knowledge that She probably didn’t want him around now. Even if She didn’t hate him, he must have snapped everything too much to fix it.

But Dean was pathetic, so he still wanted to care for and protect and follow Her.

He wanted to fix this. To salvage it.

He didn’t know how. He didn’t know why he couldn’t just drop this, just sit with the fact that everything was ruined and over. Why something to the right of his heart seemed to pound and roar at the idea of never touching Her again. Not ever a hand on Her back or brief high-five.

Worse was imagining never hearing Her voice again. Only hearing it call him on the wind.

He couldn’t really hear Her voice now.

She’d slumped forward, Her brow resting near Dean’s shoulder and her eyes turned towards the floor.

“Dean.” She mumbled, and his whole body tensed. “Can we be done with the talking game?”

“No,” Dean grunted Her name. “It’s not a game, you gotta keep talking-“

“I’m good.” She let out a long breath. It was too ragged. “I- I think I’m just a little tired.”

“Well, I need you to keep fucking talking-“

She shook Her head, her temple pressing right into Dean’s arm. “I don’t- it hurts, Dean.” She made a high, weak noise, and Dean was going to break the wheel with only his hands. “Can I have five minutes, please?”

Fuck. She was saying please.

“Princess, just- shit- for an hour, keep talking for an hour- Sammy-“

“Got it. Hey,” Sam said Her name, and his voice was too gentle. She needed it to be shouted, She needed to hear that she had to stay awake, that it wasn’t a damn option for Her to sleep. “Can you tell me more about, uh, movies? What’s your favorite movie?”

She didn’t have a favorite movie. She had about fifty, and they were all dumb, and She was always adorable when She told Dean about them, and why wasn’t She talking-

“Sammy.” She mumbled, grabbing Sam’s arm and turning Her head to him. Away from Dean. “Why does Dean call you that?”

“It was, uh, it was my nickname growing up.” Sam swallowed, giving Dean a desperate look as he continued. “Did you have a nickname, when you were a kid?”

“No.” She mumbled. “People don’t give smart little whores nicknames. But,” Her voice got softer, dropping like She was telling a secret. “Dean calls me Princess sometimes.”

“Yeah, uh, I’ve heard it. He said it like five seconds ago-“

“I like it.” She said, and Dean was going to grind his teeth to dust. “I like him. He’s an asshole, Sammy, but I like him.”

Sam had no right to look like he’d been punched. Dean was the one who had to keep driving and acting like he couldn’t hear.

Sam said Her name, his tone slow and careful. “I think-“

“There’s something wrong with me.” She said, and there was nothing angry in Her voice. She really just sounded sad. Sad and tired. “It really hurts.”

“I know, but Dean’s right, you need to stay awake until we get to Bobby’s-“

She groaned, and leaned further into Dean’s arm. “He’s gonna kill me-“

Sam shook his head. “I don’t think he’ll kill you-“

“He will. He’s gonna tell me I’ve been dumb and reckless, that I was supposed to-“ She paused, then sighed. “I’m not supposed to tell you.”

Sam frowned, looking back to Dean. He needed to stop doing that. Dean didn��t have a clue what was going on. “Why?”

“You’ll tell Dean. Then Dean will kill me. I like him, I don’t want him to kill me.”

“I’m pretty sure Dean’s not gonna kill you-“

“He is.” She let out another sad, little sigh. “He already hates me, Sam-“

“He doesn’t-“

“I don’t…” She yawned, shifting Her head just enough for Dean to see her eyes were closed. “I don’t hate him. I think he’s…”

She yawned again. And She didn’t finish her sentence, and Dean could swear their bodies were going to be glued together. She didn’t seem to remember he was there, but She was still moving closer into him, and he was going to go fucking insane.

Because She was asleep, and they still had an hour to go.

Dean swerved over from the far-hand lane, stopped Baby on the side of the highway, and got out of the car. Sam was smart and understood what was happening—scooting into the driver’s seat without a word—and She just kept fucking sleeping.

She barely stirred when Dean pulled Her backwards, letting Her head rest on his chest and her body slump in his arms. He wasn’t supposed to allow himself to touch Her like this. She might stab Dean if she found out he was hugging Her, holding Her like she was fragile and vital to everything around him. She would stab him again when he’d tell Her that’s because she was.

Everything was easier when he stroked his thumb down Her nose, and She let out a soft, breathy sound before curling fully into his body. The same way She’d tuck into herself, or sink into the mattress or couch after an episode. Like She was trying to shield herself from something.

But now, Dean was Her shield.

And he was so goddamn confused.

They had an hour until Bobby’s—more like fifty minutes now—and Dean still couldn’t wrap his head around what was becoming more and more obviously the truth.

If it was, She wouldn’t be spoiled. And that would make sense—She’d never really seemed spoiled, mostly just smart and confident—if that didn’t really mean that She’d been raised by Bobby. That the girl who’d painted Her nails on Dean’s motel table, who always smelled like sugar and fruit and kind of looked like She was forged deep in a star, had been raised by freaking Bobby. Beer and books and cars and no need to give me extra attention Bobby. The Bobby who was practical, and sharp, and didn’t take any shit-

Son of a bitch.

It still didn’t make sense. There was no reason for Her to lie about knowing Bobby. Dean had even told Her he liked Bobby. That Bobby was the best hunter he knew, after Dad.

He’d probably yell at Her about it, if he could. Shout and sneer and bite—he didn’t know how to just be moderate with Her, how to hold himself the hell together—until She gave him answers. And that never seemed to work.

But Dean also never seemed to learn. Not when it came to Her.

Because even as the confusion and anger bubbled in his chest, it wasn’t nearly as powerful as how goddamn sick he felt. Yelling at Her had gotten them here, and Dean never learned. If he hadn’t pushed and snapped Her, she never would’ve gone off alone, and the demon never would’ve seen her. It had probably realized that She was a hunter and stuck to her trail.

She wouldn’t be in all this mumbled, whined pain if it wasn’t for Dean. She wouldn’t be in danger. She’d probably just be sitting with him and Sam at a diner, laughing and talking until they parted, then found their way back to each other’s paths a few weeks later.

This time, Dean didn’t think She’d come back. One way or another, She’d be gone. There was the way that made the pit in his chest turn into a chasm—the way he outright refused to entertain—but there was also the second, slower way. Where She didn’t hate him, and She wasn’t gone, but Dean still lost Her. She left, and he was alone.

Dean wouldn’t allow the first way to happen. Every time Her breathing was too shallow, he’d snap at Sam to hurry up and try to soothe Her until it was even again. He could give CPR, if he had to. He didn’t know how to do CPR—he should probably learn—but he’d seen Sammy do it, and it didn’t look that hard. Dean could sing Stayin’ Alive. He could press his lips to Her’s and give her his fucking lungs out of his chest to fix this. He could peel off his skin and patch it over Her wound if he needed to.

Stab wounds aren’t supposed to be this bad. And Dean had never been stabbed by a demon, but he was pretty sure it wouldn’t be any different. The knife that the son of a bitch had lodged in Her gut hadn’t even been all that special. Just a smooth, iron blade that was knocking Her—Her—down for the count.

She had to hang on. Dean would want it to be for him, but he knew better, so he’d settle for it being for Bobby.

Because Sam finally parked the car in Bobby’s yard, and Bobby was already outside. Hunched on the step, shooting to his feet before the engine was even off.

Dean suddenly felt like he really shouldn’t be touching Her, or holding her tight against his chest, or trying to smell Her like a creep every few minutes. She smelled good. Like wet dirt—but in a sharp, earthy way that mostly made Dean feel comfortable—chlorine, something vanilla that was cheap and strong, and there was the fucking fruit-

Bobby probably wouldn’t care that She smelled like an odd, unplaceable fruit. He also didn’t have to know why She smelled like chlorine. Dean wasn’t looking to get shot and—based on the way Bobby was glowering at him through the window—explaining what they’d been doing last night didn’t feel like it would be welcome information.

Because Bobby had never looked at him like that. Really fucking angry, with a drawn brow and deep scowl. Dean couldn’t tell if the glare was at him, or for Her, but he knew Bobby was pissed. If his expression wasn’t a give away, the gruff, low tone of his voice was.

Dean was barely out of the car—Her body cradled carefully in his arms, an apologetic grimace already on his face—when Bobby started snapping.

“Fuckin’- balls- Bring ‘er inside Dean, and Sam, grab the stitch kit. My stitch kit, I don’t wanna be usin’ that fuckin’ weak one in the trunk of your car.”

Sam nodded, walking into the house with a tight, nervous expression at Dean over his shoulder. Dean would’ve shrugged in return, but he didn’t want to shake Her in his arms, or make Bobby think he wasn’t taking this seriously. He was. He couldn’t not, because it was Her. And Her breathing was weak, and Her features were so washed over and Her lips were pale and she kept clinging to Dean’s arm-

“Dean.” Bobby grunted, jerking his head to the door. “Inside, now.”

“Yes, si-“ Dean cut himself off, changing himself to only a nod as he moved her into the house.

It was exactly as he remembered it. Nothing ever really changed at Bobby’s house, and every piece of furniture and color was exactly in place with how it had been in Dean’s head, but there more now.

Things Dean had seen but never really given deeper thought, like a mug that was a soft pastel color in the side-table—slightly stained with coffee, and looking long-empty but never moved—and chapstick near the TV, and-

“That’s her jacket.” Dean said, a little stupidly, and Bobby shot him an odd look.

“What’re you talkin’ about-“

Dean said Her name, nodding to the leather jacket that was hooked over a chair. It was a woman’s jacket, not really Bobby’s style, and Her’s. Dean knew it was Her’s. She about ten different jackets—all in different styles and cuts and materials—but Dean also knew all of them. That was the one She’d been wearing on the onryu hunt, that had ended stained in her own blood and the spirit’s ash. She’d shoved it into her trunk before She left the next day, and told Dean she’d clean it later when he’d offered, because he was pathetic and hadn’t known how to not offer.

He’d asked if She even knew how to clean it. She’d flipped him off, told him She did, and said that she’d do it when She got home.

A small part of Dean had gotten toxic at the idea of Her being home. That maybe She’d just pass the jacket off to a servant she didn’t know the name of—She’d probably have known the name, but it served Dean’s anger better to imagine she was worse than she was—and let them touch a piece of Her instead of Dean.

But She’d been here. Cleaned the jacket here, at Her home.

And there really wasn’t any evidence to prove that She didn’t belong here. So Dean was fucked.

“That’s… It’s her jacket.”

Bobby sighed, rolling his eyes. “Believe it or not, Dean, I’m aware. Put ‘er down on the table.”

Dean nodded, tearing his gaze away from Her jacket and setting her flat on the dining room table. She tried to hold onto him. Dean pulled back, and She tried to hold onto him, and he was going to go insane.

Bobby didn’t wait for Dean to fully step away before he was moving. Adjusting Her on the table so She wasn’t trying to sink into the wood, scanning over her with a tight, unreadable expression.

“Knife got in her gut?”

“Yeah,” Dean muttered, his hands fisting at his side. “Sammy did stitches, but they were quick, and-“

“I’ll fix ‘em.” Bobby grunted, hiking Her shirt up her stomach and-

Fuck.

The wound was worse. The stitches looked frayed in Her body, and her skin was definitely blistering, and there was something yellow and sticky that smelled horrible-

“Dean,” Bobby’s voice was tight, his eyes never leaving the wound. “This ain’t lookin’ like a stab wound-“

“It was, Bobby, I saw it-“

“You still got the weapon?”

Dean nodded, and Bobby let out a long breath.

“Alright, go get it while I deal with ‘er.”

Dean didn’t want to go get the weapon. He didn’t want to leave Her side. She was in pain, and She’d tried to hang onto Dean and he didn’t want to leave Her-

“What’re you just standin’ here for-“

“You can-“ Dean swallowed, his attention trapped on Her dulled, beautiful face. “Bobby, you can fix this, right? She’ll- She’s gonna be okay?”

“She’ll be alright. Gonna have some explain’ to do when she gets up, but she’ll live.”

“Explaining-“

“How the hell she ended up with you boys and a knife in her damn gut. Matter of fact, you and your brother better start gettin’ your story straight, cause I ain’t just gonna let you drop my kid off bleedin’ on my doorstep then drive away.”

Dean tensed, and finally managed to really look at Bobby. His expression was still flat, still neutral, but there was something in his eyes Dean hadn’t seen before. Not glazed, but not sharp, just… heavy. Bobby looked heavy. He was staring at Her body with a painfully neutral face that had slightly lines of tension on the edges. He was standing taller than usual, his whole body rigid and wound up, and Dean could really, truly see it.

It had been the truth. If the way Bobby stood and spoke—in tight, clipped words like he didn’t have room to be anything but short—wasn’t a giveaway, it was those last words.

My kid.

Bobby’s kid.

She was Bobby’s fucking kid.

Dean forced himself to move away, his head ducked down and his steps quick as he passed Sam with only a grunt of acknowledgment and returned to the Impala trunk. Sam hadn’t been careful about how he’d grabbed Her things. They were smushed and scattered, pressed against each other and all looking like Her things. Those were things she owned, that they’d grabbed from Her car and motel room. Clothing that wasn’t covered in blood and dirt, a lot of notebooks Dean really had to fight himself not to read, and fewer personal possessions than he would’ve thought.

There was that small, colorful bag that had all Her girl stuff in it, and Her knife, and a backpack that—when Dean zipped it open—was filled with more notebooks, and… plants and rocks. A lot of plants and rocks.

He didn’t have time to try and work out why the hell She was keeping plants and rocks in her bag. He didn’t have time to overstep and push it like he always did, and let himself comb through those notebooks. One did fall open, but nothing Dean saw in it made sense—he didn’t speak that language, he didn’t even recognize it, and there was a weird drawing that he didn’t even know how to start interpreting—so he had to move on. To grab the demon’s knife from when he’d tucked it in the back and close the trunk, because all of this could wait until She was better.

She’d have to get better.

Sam and Bobby were working in silence when Dean returned. Sam holding Her arms to the side as Bobby cleaned the wound and re-did the stitches, a bottle of water at his side that he kept pouring over her skin.

Dean set the knife on the kitchen counter, walking over to stand by Her head. That little wrinkle was back, and Her lips were pressed together, and She was in pain-

He had to restrain his hands to stop them from moving to touch Her. To sooth the wrinkle and brush sweat and hair from Her face. Sammy wasn’t holding Her right. His grip was too tight, and Her arm didn’t look like it was at a good angle, and Dean could hold Her better-

She took a slow, ragged breath, eyes fluttering, and Bobby glanced up to where Dean was standing over Her.

“You get the knife?”

“On the counter,” Dean muttered. “She’s…”

He trailed off, and Bobby let out a long breath. “She’s alright. Almost done with these, and I’m gonna have to fight with her about restin’ when she gets up, but you get ‘er here quick enough. Nothin’ that can’t be patched up.”

Dean glanced down to the wound, and that seemed true. Bobby’s stitches were cleaner than Sam’s, and the pus was half-gone. He didn’t really know how that was possible. Infections didn’t usually just… vanish. But Bobby splashed more of the water over Her stomach, made another stitch, and Her breathing grew steadier.

There were too many questions. What was with the water. Why had one stab wound managed to infect and maul Her skin like that. How the actual fuck was She Bobby’s kid, and why had Bobby never mentioned Her, and why had She lied about something so dumb, and did Bobby know about Her family? About the shit Dad had found, about Her past, about all those weird episodes and how She always hunted alone, except when She was hinting with Dean-

Dean didn’t think Bobby had known they were hunting together. Which offered another question about why. Why hadn’t She told him. Why did She think Bobby would kill her for this, when it wasn’t Her fault, it was Dean’s.

Bobby might kill him. Dean had never seen Bobby so pissed with him. Every time he grunted for Dean to pass him something, his eyes were harsh and focused. It wasn’t hateful, but it was angry.

But Dean had gotten Her hurt. He deserved it.

If She stopped talking to him after, he’d deserve that too. If Dad snapped at him for being an idiot when Bobby told him they’d been hunting together, Dean would deserve it-

“You say a demon attacked her?” Bobby’s question was quiet, and Dean almost didn’t hear it.

He nodded, and Bobby’s jaw clenched.

“You see the assholes eyes?”

“His eyes?” Sam frowned. “You mean the demon-blink thing? Where their eyes go all black?”

Bobby looked up, frown deepening. “They were black?”

“I- I think so?” Sam looked for Dean for help, and Dean just shrugged. He hadn’t really been looking into the demon’s eyes, more focused on beating the shit out of it, and helping Her.

“I dunno, Sammy-“

“Did you see them?” Bobby interrupted, glaring between Sam and Dean as he cut another stitch. “See the bastard go all black?”

Sam shook his head. “I didn’t, but demons have black eyes-“

“Not all demons.” Bobby muttered, glancing up to Her still pained face. “I’ve seen black eyes, orange eyes, and red eyes. If you boys saw anythin’-“

“We didn’t.” Dean looked over Her, then back to the wound. “It attacked, stabbed her, and Sammy exorcized it. Son of a bitch got away-“

“It give you a name?”

Dean frowned. “We didn’t exactly have time to introduce ourselves and shake hands, Bobby-“

“No, ya’ idjit, if we have a name we can know what we’re lookin’ for.”

“Looking for?” Sam leaned forward, looking between Her and Bobby with a frown. “Has- Have you needed to look for a demon before? Like dad?”

“No, Sam, I ain’t-“ Bobby cut himself off, his head shooting up to glare between Sam and Dean. “Did John know you boys have been huntin’ with her?”

“That’s uh…” Sam cleared his throat. “That’s a question for Dean, I think.”

Bobby raised his brows, and Dean scowled. Sam was back on the getting punched list.

“Never got a chance to mention it.” He muttered. “Haven’t seen Dad in months.”

Sam rolled his eyes—punched and kicked—and Bobby’s shoulders visibly relaxed. Dean wanted to ask what the hell that was about—Dad was a good man, even if Dean never really wanted Her around him—but Bobby was already moving on.

“How long you been huntin’ together?”

“A few years.” Sam said, and Dean shot him a glare.

“How’d- You weren’t even fucking there, Sammy-“

“She told me on the onryu hunt.” Sam shrugged, looking back to Bobby. “They’ve been hunting together for years.”

Bobby’s jaw tightened. “That true, Dean?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Dean, you call me sir again and I’m makin’ you wait outside-“

“Sorry, I-“ Dean let out a long breath, his gaze trapping back on Her. In so much fucking pain. “It’s true. And she, uh, she never mentioned she knew you, Bobby.”

Bobby huffed something that might have been a laugh. “Wish I could say I was surprised by that.”

“You aren’t?” Sam blinked. “I mean, I- I’m still not understanding-

“Questions later, Sam.” Bobby grunted, cutting the last stitch. “Right now I need your hands brinin’ her shit inside.”

Sam frowned. “Can’t Dean-“

“Dean’s stayin’ here.” Bobby shot him a glare, and Dean swallowed. “No fuckin’ funny business while I’m gone, boy-“

“She’s passed out, Bobby-“

“And if she wakes up, you’re askin’ her how she feels, callin’ me, and droppin’ it there.” Bobby’s eyes narrowed. “No fuckin’ interrogations. You can ask me questions when we get ‘er settled. Understood?”

Dean scowled, but nodded, and Bobby let out a long breath.

“Good. Sam-“

“Coming.” Sam threw Dean a what the fuck is happening look over his shoulder, followed Bobby out of the kitchen, and Dean was left alone with Her.

She didn’t wake up. In the long moments where it was only Her and Dean in the whole world once more, She didn’t stir for even a second. Her breathing grew more and more even with every passing moment, but She didn’t open those brilliant eyes and look at Dean.

Dean didn’t know if She would ever really look at him again.

She didn’t hate him.

She’d been keeping secrets—so many fucking secrets—but She didn’t hate Dean, and when he allowed his hand to trace over Her cheekbone, she leaned into the touch.

Maybe She would leaned into anyone’s touch, but she wasn’t. Right now, She was leaning into Dean’s.

He let his hand linger there as long as he could. She was warm, too warm, almost burning, but it was better than Her being cold. Color was returning to Her face, and there was a heavy flush over her pretty cheeks, but it was better than nothing. No color. No slightly uneven breaths or dried sweat on her brow.

Dean finally got to brush the hair away, and he wasn’t sure how She only got prettier. She was pretty in a way Dean never really cared for before her. She looked like a bird. Untouchable and free and delicate. Breakable, but not because She was weak. Because She wasn’t supposed to be on the earth like this, just how Dean wouldn’t be free or light enough to go where she went.

Because even if this was Her life—even if she wasn’t spoiled and born from comfort Dean would never know—he still couldn’t have Her. If anything this just made that more certain. That She was so good and unnaturally better, that She’d been living down in the mud with Dean this whole time and he’d still been blinded. If She ever managed to crawl out of here, She might become ethereal. Glorious. Brighter than the sun and more heavenly than a paradise Dean didn’t believe in.

And if Bobby really raised Her, everything Dean tried to loathe about Her would probably vanish into the air. Bobby was smart. And good. And didn’t like pointless shit, so there was no way he’d let Her become spoiled or entitled. She wasn’t spoiled or entitled.

She was just awesome.

And Dean didn’t know how the hell he was supposed to live with that now. That he’d bitten Her, and the mark was festering in him.

She let out a soft breath when Dean thumb stroked down Her nose, the movement subconscious, almost automatic.

He had to yank his hand away the floor creaked, and Bobby turned the corner only a second later.

They didn’t speak at Bobby hauled Her up and carried Her away. Dean wanted to go with Her. He needed to go with Her. He needed to have Her look at him one last time, and he needed to work out how to apologize in a way that didn’t make him sound like a little bitch, and-

“Dean.” Sam leaned into the kitchen, tilting his head back to the living room. “C’mon, dude, Bobby said we could get three questions.”

“Three?” Dean frowned, glancing past Sam to where they’d vanished up the stairs. “We only get three-“

“Between us.” Sam sighed. “And he, uh, I think he might be pissed at us.”

A door slammed upstairs, and Dean raised his brows. “You think?”

“You two.” Bobby appeared behind Sam—for a fairly big dude, he could move faster than thought he had any real right to—and pointed between them with a glower. “Sit. Now.”

Sam shot Dean a worried look and shuffled to the table, tugging Dean into a seat as Bobby stood before them, arms cross and eyes narrowed.

“What the hell did you idjit’s say to her?”

Sam blinked. “We didn’t- I mean, I didn’t say anything-“

“Hey!” Dean shot him a glare. “Dude, what the hell-“

“I can’t speak for you, Dean! I mean, you guys are a lot closer-“

Bobby’s glare turned to Dean—the feeling of it searing through his skin—and Sam was now getting punched, kicked, and body slammed.

“Sammy.” He hissed, bracing a fist on the table. “Shut your fuckin’ face-“

“How close would you say you two are, Dean?”

Bobby’s question didn’t need to have that silent, underlying threat for Dean to flinch. It was already a question he didn’t know the answer to. She lied and he sucked ass, but She also liked him—enough that he’d been allowed to hunt with Her at all, enough for her to slur it to Sammy in the car—and he couldn’t stop thinking about Her if he tired.

And he had tried.

And he’d never really seen Her interact with people except for Sam and Dad. And She and Dad clashed, but She and Sam got along, and Bobby obviously cared for her so maybe her liking Dean wasn’t all that special-

“Dean.” Bobby snapped. “Answer my question.”

“I, uh, I don’t-“

“Sam?”

“They’re just friends.” Sam shrugged, saying Her name in a voice that wasn’t nearly reverent enough. “From the hunting.”

Sam was back down to being kicked and punched, because the little shit could’ve easily laughed and said that Dean had a crush on Her—he didn’t, She was just his best friend and the only person he liked to hang out with—but that would’ve probably made everything worse. Especially given Bobby didn’t seem all that happy with the just friends answer either.

“How many years you two been huntin’, exactly

“Uh, I’m pretty sure it’s been like two- But that,” Dean pointed up the stairs. “Hasn’t happened before, Bobby, I swear-“

“I don’t give a shit about that.” Bobby snapped, jerking his head back. “You boys did the smart thing, for once in your damn lives, and listened to her. Brought her here.”

“If you don’t-“ Sam frowned, his face returned to pure confusion. “If you don’t care that she got stabbed-“

“No, Sam, I care that she got stabbed.” Bobby let out a long, breath, shaking his head. “I don’t give a shit that it happened with you two. If she’s gotta get stabbed, I’m happy she ain’t alone to try and stitch herself up, cause that girl ain’t good at takin’ care of herself in way that matters.”

It was Dean turn to frown, sitting a little straighter in his chair. “What do you mean, she can take care of herself-“

Bobby scoffed. “She can do her hair, Dean. She ain’t gonna do stitches.”

Sam’s eyes widened. “Has she never done stitches on herself?”

“Not good ones-“ Bobby cut himself off with a glare between them. “This ain’t the point. What’d you do, Dean.”

Bobby and Sam were both looking at Dean, and he groaned.

“I didn’t do anything, Bobby, and if you’re not pissed about her getting hurt-“

“Some injuries ain’t on the surface, boy. I could give a flyin’ fuck about what danger she puts herself in, I know she can handle it better than you two dumbasses, but if you hurt that girl, I ain’t gonna stop her hurtin’ you.” Bobby sighed, running a hand over his face, and Sam cleared his throat.

“Bobby, how, um-“ He glanced to Dean, expression nervous. “You said she’s- I still don’t understand-“

“Sam, if you got somethin’ to say-“

“How do you know her?” Sam’s words were quick and frantic. “That’s- you said we get three questions, and that’s our first.”

They hadn’t actually discussed the questions, but Dean could live with that one. Shit, he’d spent the whole day trying to work that one out himself, and Bobby seemed to know it had been coming, because he dropped in a seat across the table with a long sigh.

“It ain’t my place to tell you everythin’,” he muttered. “All I can tell you two is that I met her when she was a kid-“

Sam opened his mouth, and promptly shut it as Bobby shot him a glare.

“You ask that question, Sam, I’m countin’ it. She was eight, I found her wanderin’, I took her in. Kept her from killing herself, raised her like the daughter I didn’t get before. Which,” Bobby turned to Dean, and it wasn’t fair that he was being singled out. Sammy was here too, hell, he’d asked the question- “She may not be my blood, but she’s the closest thing I got. Understood?”

Sam mumbled an agreement, but those words weren’t for Sam.

So Dean nodded, and hoped Bobby could see all over his face that he really just wanted to go upstairs and check on her. He’d do that after, if he could get away with it. And She was probably fine—Bobby wouldn’t have left her if she wasn’t—but Dean needed to see it. With his own freakin’ eyes, making sure she was comfortable, and relaxed, and peacefully asleep-

“What’s up with those, uh- the-“ Sam swallowed. “Those weird episodes?”

Bobby’s eyes narrowed. “Episodes?”

“When she likes, freaks out and shit. I mean, is it like a really bad panic attack?”

Sam was back to getting punched, kicked, and body slammed. That wasn’t their thing to tell Bobby about. Bobby might know more about Her past, but he obviously hadn’t known that they’d been hunting together, which meant there might be other shit She didn’t want to tell him. Other shit She’d trusted them—trusted Dean—to see, that Sam had just fucking told Bobby-

“Those aren’t panic attacks.”

Sam frowned. “Then what-“

“Not my place.” Bobby said, his tone making it clear that was final. “I know what they are, so does she, and if- It’s up to her what you know. She’ll tell you if she wants, but she’s had a rough time, Sam. So don’t go pushin’ her about it.”

Sam nodded, even as the nervous expression remained on his face, and Dean cleared his throat. He had to ask. Even if all he got from Bobby was a not my place, Dean just needed to spit it out and ask.

“Why’d you… I mean, how did we never know, Bobby?” Dean held Bobby’s gaze, every word slow and careful. “You said she was eight, Sammy would’ve been seven, so we knew you by then. Shit, we were here all the time but never even heard her name. I don’t- Why?”

Bobby let out a long breath, shaking his head slowly. “It’s complicated.”

Dean scowled. He was really starting to fucking hate that word.

“But,” Bobby pushed on, giving Dean a firm, solemn look. “I wasn’t ‘cause of you boys. I said it already, I ain’t gonna tell you what’s not mine to tell, but I never liked keepin’ you apart.”

“But you did.” Dean grunted, and Bobby sighed.

“Yeah, I did. And I’m not gonna tell you I had reasons, cause that’s fuckin’ bullshit help and we know it, but I will say it was all I could do. Not for the best, but the only damn option.”

Dean was pretty sure he was telling the truth. It wasn’t the same alarm he’d learned to set off with her, but it was close. That seemed to be the truth.

Dean wished it wasn’t.

“She said she was sick.” Sam muttered. “When she was a kid. And that’s why we couldn’t know each other.”

Bobby let out a dry, humorless chuckle. “Course she did. Sick is one way of puttin’ it. I-“ Bobby looked between Sam and Dean, something weighted behind his eyes. “There were times when she could’ve used you two. Glad she seems to have you now. And I don’t know where your Daddy is, but-“

“He’s hunting a demon.” Sam said, and Dean was out of ways to kick his ass for saying stuff. “The one that killed our mom.”

Bobby’s eyes widened, and the conversation moved on. Bobby asked if She and Dad had crossed paths, Dean told him not for years, and Bobby and Sam started to talk demon. Bobby had books Sam could read. Sam had questions about what Bobby had run into, with his own wife.

She’d told Dean Her dad’s wife died.

Fucking hell.

Eventually, Bobby went out. They’d stayed at the table as Sam and Bobby descended into nerd talk—mostly just Sammy being a little dweeb, Bobby was just smart—and Dean had spent the hours stealing glances up the stairs and wondering how he could get up there. How he could see Her, check on her, without Bobby getting on his ass and shouting about Dean being careful with Her, because he always was-

Except when he wasn’t. Expect when he poison and ruined and wrecked Her in a way he’d never wanted to. When he made Her sad or hollow, put Her in danger, showed her exactly why Dad had been right, that they shouldn’t be close to each other.

Dad had just gotten the wrong reason. Dean shouldn’t be near Her. She was annoying, and stubborn, and reckless, and a know-it-all, and kinda mean, but in a hot way. She was bossy, but it was adorable. She’d snap and taunt Dean, but she never did it in a way that left a mark. Dean always left a mark. And invisible bruise or scar that Bobby must have seen somehow. It must have been why he was so automatically pissed, why he’d accused Dean of hurting Her.

And he had.

So he didn’t deserve to go up those stairs and see Her.

But he was still selfish. And he still didn’t know when to stop.

Bobby muttered that he was going off to get food. The he hadn’t been expecting Her back for a while, let alone Sam and Dean with her, so all he had was canned food that tasted like pig-shit and a half-eaten chocolate cake in the fridge.

Sam grabbed the tiniest, most bitch-baby piece of chocolate cake with a mutter of long week, and moved to settle in library.

Dean started to snoop.

It was so plainly obvious She belonged here. Just like with Her mannerisms—seeing Bobby all over them once Dean squinted—all it took was one quick scan of the kitchen to see more places She’d probably been before. Not just grenadine, but a box of cheesy kids snacks in the back of the pantry. Dean had always assumed Bobby had gotten them for him and Sammy, then never thrown them out. But he’d seen Her buy those exact snacks countless times, and a few of the boxes looked practically unopened.

In the living room there were all those books and movies, and a blanket that was far too fuzzy for Bobby to like. A pair of women’s sneakers and boots near the door. A glittery toothbrush on the bathroom sink, some of that sugar-smelling shit Dean knew she used under the skin, and fancy shampoo in the cabinets.

Dean had seen some of this stuff before, but he’d always assumed Bobby just had a lady-friend. A weird, sparkly lady friend who wrote notes on the margins of some of the lore books in that same language from before. From Her notebook. In Her handwriting.

Lady friends didn’t use a towel—carefully tucked and folded in a closet—that had a little princess stitched onto the corner. Lady friends didn’t watching animated children’s movies so much that, when Dean open the case, the tape looked well-worn and used.

And lady friends didn’t draw with crayon.

But in Dean’s defense, he’d never seen the drawings before. That was part of the snooping. Shifting casually through Bobby’s desk for more evidence, and coming out clutching old, well-worn drawings of colors. A lot of colors. Most of the drawings seemed to be odd shapes and patterns, all in bright colors.

There were a few more, where the drawings were red and black and yellow, with sharp lines and jagged symbols that resembled Her strange writing. Those symbols were repetitive.

Briefly, Dean had an image in his head of a smaller Her, holding a crayon and sitting on the floor of Bobby’s living room, scrawling those symbols over and over until Bobby took the paper from Her. She had braids in that vision. Oddly complex braids that Her small, swollen fingers couldn’t have done.

But Bobby could’ve. And now Dean could see that same small version of Her on the couch, humming to herself as she read a book that looked far too big in tiny hands, while Bobby braided her hair with a scowl.

Dean blinked, and returned the papers back to the drawer. He was about to close it when something shifted in the very back, and a last drawing caught his eye.

It had been separated from the others, and drawn on black construction paper. Tucked into a book and folded carefully. And it was the only one where Dean could tell what the hell it was.

A stick drawing—round body and tiny arms and legs—of a man with a thick blue line on his head and scratches of brown on his face, holding the hand of a girl. Same eyes and hair as Her.

She’d drawn this one too. Of Her and Bobby.

She’d used a light green for Bobby’s skin, though. And a metallic silver for Her own. And the grass was golden and the clouds were red and the sun was white. It was really fucking weird.

Dean chalked it up to the creative liberties of an eight-year-old, and carefully returned the drawing to its place before sneaking up the stairs.

He needed to see Her.

It took him a minute to find Her room, because up until yesterday, he’d thought he knew all the rooms in Bobby’s house. Kitchen, library, living room, bathrooms, and guest rooms. The only room he’d never been in was on the third floor, because Bobby said that room was off limits, and-

Son of a bitch.

He’d always assumed that was Bobby’s room. That Bobby just didn’t want to little boys snooping around and finding his private shit. Dean had imagined that the room would have a wooden-poster bed, dresser, chairs, and simple decorations. Not all that lived in, because Bobby was practical, and knew that in this life getting attached to a lot of personal possessions was pointless.

This room was lived in.

By Her.

Those were books Dean had seen Her grab from public libraries, or exact copies that She’d pulled from her bag. CDs of albums he’d known She liked, plus a few he hadn’t. A few Dean liked, scattered on the dresser next to a book he’d seen Her read, sunglasses he’d seen Her use, and a shirt that he’d never seen Her wear.

It was monotone black, and not Her style or size, and looked like a men’s shirt.

The was a bitter, hot pang in Dean’s intestine and along his heart chamber, because why would She have a men’s shirt. If the overflowing dresser was any indication, She certainly didn’t need more shirts, and it certainly wasn’t Bobby’s, so it all together meant that was the shirt of someone who had given it to her. And she’d kept it, because it looked clean, and Bobby had said he hadn’t expected her back, so it had been there for a while, and who the fuck was giving Her a shirt-

She shifted on the bed, and Dean’s head turned without his permission to look at Her. He’d been trying not to. Gun pressed to his temple, he’d swear he’d tried so fucking hard not to watch Her sleep like a pervert creep. But Her siren-like voice made a small sound, and this room was drowning in that fruit smell, and Dean couldn’t fucking help himself.

It took him a second to find Her. She’d burrowed herself under the covers, the only parts of Her that were visible being a single hand falling over the mattress and Her gorgeous face smushed against the pillows.

Her bed was shockingly normal. This whole bedroom was shockingly normal. She had curtains and a nice carpet, a desk and chair, a large amount of blankets and a hamper and a cork board on the wall. Pinned with notes that were in English—Dean could read those, and they mostly seemed to list new monsters and reminders for hunts—and a few more in that odd language. The walls were painted a dark color, and it made the room feel smaller. Safer. Like this was the only place in the world.

It might as well be.

Dean dragged a chair to sit at the side of the bed, because that felt less creepy than standing over Her as she slept. For a long while he only watched Her sleep peacefully. Softly.

Then Her brow wrinkled, and Dean’s hand moved without thought. Petting over Her nose until she relaxed, and made a soft noise that kicked him right in the heart and reverberated over his ribs.

He let out a long breath, and started speaking in his lowest, quietest voice. Before he could think better.

“You… you got a lot of explaining to do, Princess.” He muttered. “Bobby handled some of it, but he also won’t tell Sammy and I jackshit that matters until you give the go ahead. So you gotta wake up and do that. Plus, I want to call you a fucking idiot for hiding something so freakin’ dumb from me, and I can’t do that while you’re knocked out. So… Wake up. Soon. Get better and wake up soon and I’ll be waiting, because I- I’m just gonna stay a while. ‘Least until you give me some god damn answers. And,” he let out a long breath. She couldn’t hear him. He was allowed to say it, when no one at all could hear him. “I don’t want to leave. I like you, Princess, and if you really don’t hate me, I’ll stick around.”

He had more to say.

But She hummed like she could hear him, rolled a little closer to the edge of the bed, and none of it really seemed that important anymore.

Her fingers flexed. She didn’t hate him.

Dean took Her hand, and he fell asleep at Her side because he never learned, and really didn’t want to.

And when Sammy woke him up, saying Dad needed them for something back in Colorado. That he’d called Dean but he hadn’t picked up—his phone was in his jacket downstairs—so he’d called Sam instead.

Sam had said they were on their way, and told Bobby they were heading out. That they’d let Bobby know how it went, and hopefully be back with good news about the son of a bitch who killed Mom rotting in whatever was lower than hell. Sam hadn’t mentioned Her.

And Dean had to go, but She was still asleep. He needed to go, because Dad wanted him there, but he didn’t want to. He wanted to stay here, in Her small room that was he could sink down into if he tried.

But he had to go.

He wanted to leave Her something. To promise in silent words that could be right to not hate him. That he’d really like Her to keep not hating him. But he didn’t have much. He had his car, and his jacket, and ring-

He set his ring on Her dresser. He’d come back. He didn’t know how not to come back, and hopefully when he did, She’d still like him. At the very least, She wouldn’t have started to hate him.

Because Dean knew at this point that there was no way in hell She felt the pull. He also knew that he’d still follow Her all the way down, and up, and just here.

Dean might just like being with Her anywhere.

And She didn’t hate him.

So he’d press a soft, dangerous kiss to Her brow because he couldn’t help himself, and look back because he had to, and come back because he wanted to.

He’d come back.

End Note: One of the glorious things about nearing the end of the season 1 arc is all of us knowing what happens at the end of the season 1 arc.

Also, as we hit 100k words, I'm unspeakably grateful for the support of the story!!! I can't say it enough, thank you so so much for reading!! I hope y'all continue to enjoy the story!

Thank you so so so much for reading!! If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3

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supernaturalfreakout · 2 months ago

Text

— Fester (possessed!Sam x fem!reader)

Summary: No matter how hard he tries, Sam can't keep you off his mind, and a particular demon has noticed. After a stressful hunt leads to a fight with Dean, Sam finds himself trying to dissociate, leaving him open for the taking. Meg seizes her opportunity, then proceeds to make sure Sam will never forget you.

CWs: Okay, this one's pretty dark. Triggers for non-con, non-negotiated/risky/dangerous kink, degradation, repressed desires, and lots and lots of guilt. If you are not comfortable reading any of these things, please DNI. 18+ MDNI. 🔞 There's some mutual longing here too underneath all the despair, but don't expect a happy ending or any fluff here. This is basically Meg screwing with Sam and having her version of a good time. If you like disturbing shit you might like this.

Thanks to @foxwinchester83 for the request. This never would have existed without you.

If Sam hadn’t let his guard down, then maybe this wouldn’t have happened.

If he hadn’t fallen out with Dean, slammed the motel door so violently it fell off its hinges, and ran until his breath was coming in shallow, wispy huffs—the stars above him no longer only in the sky, but sparkling bright and dizzying behind his eyes—then maybe he wouldn’t have ended up alone, pissed off, and incapacitated in the middle of this shit hole of a town.

If he hadn’t lost his charm.

If he hadn’t stepped into that bar.

If he hadn’t drowned his sorrows in cheap whisky that turned his deoxygenated blood into honey, and his appendages into sluggish excuses for limbs.

If you hadn’t infected his memory like a stubborn contagion he couldn’t budge no matter how hard he tried. And if she hadn’t appeared: the haunting shadow that stalked his every move.

If Sam hadn’t let the bitch inside, the dumb fuck that he was.

It was nice at first, being out of control. It had felt nice for around five minutes, letting someone take over his body and just having things happen to him. He supposed that was why he’d started drinking. To dissociate. But he’d let thoughts of you fester. He’d let you affect him, and Meg had cottoned on.

After hijacking his body, Meg had also done the same to a car, and driven with haste towards the nearest highway.

What Sam was originally mad about no longer mattered. It was nothing compared to the horror he’d felt when he realized he was swerving off the road and barrelling towards your sleepy town.

Now, he was angry, drunk, incapacitated in a very different way, and most definitely not alone.

He hated himself for this. How could he ever forget you now?

Meg had seen her chance and grasped it with her filthy claws at the first opportunity, and now he was balls-deep inside the woman he’d been crushing on for the past six months, watching your pretty face contort with every deprived word that left his sinful mouth.

It may have been his voice, but it definitely wasn’t him. And he was horrified to find that you seemed to be enjoying it. That he was.

Though he may not be in control of his hulking, sweaty body, he could still sense. He was still aware. Meg had made sure of that, slipping into his skin just loosely enough so he could still see everything. Hear everything. Smell everything. Feel and taste everything.

And you felt and tasted exquisite. Even better than he’d imagined a thousand times over. Spiced wine. Sweet, with just the right amount of tang to leave him buzzed and slightly on edge. But Sam had already drunk enough. He didn’t need another weakness.

But the sounds leaving your mouth–the moans that made his internal breath shudder–made him question his sensibilities and scold himself in the process.

He thought about the way your nipples pierced the air, and the way you’d arched your back for him—for Meg—when she’d slid his tongue down your stomach and attached his mouth over the whole of your dripping cunt.

The way your clit had tasted when Meg had plunged—without any warmup—two of his large, strong fingers into you, straight to the knuckle.

The way you’d screamed.

The way you’d writhed as your body struggled to accommodate him, and–despite the stretch–the way you’d begged for more.

Begged him to fuck you.

To tie you up.

To strike you.

To mark and bite you.

The way your mouth had felt around his cock. The way your drool trickled down his length—warm, wet, and slick. The noises you’d made when you’d gagged on him.

The way—despite his conflictions—every perverted act made his cock pulse violently.

You didn’t seem to be the kind of girl that would be into this kinda shit, but they never were, were they?

It was all too much. Sam couldn’t take it.

It wasn’t the sex that bothered him. The fact that you were enjoying his body delighted him immensely. It was the circumstances. Not what you were enjoying, but how you were enjoying it. The fact that it wasn’t him. Not really.

Is this what you’d expect from him if he continued seeing you after this? No. How could he even contemplate that? How could he go on after this? How could he ever look at you again without thinking of this moment? About how much you’d enjoyed him. Enjoyed her. He’d forever feel an imposter.

“Sam—” you gasped, and Sam pulled himself out of his reverie just in time to watch his hand slash across your ass in several merciless spanks. Squealing from the impact, you balled your already clenched toes and fists, muttering a string of curses Sam figured might as well have been Enochian.

Meg had flipped you over and was now taking you from behind in a rather undignified fashion. Your hands were still bound to the headboard with his belt, and he could see the leather chafing your wrists, making them red and sore. You didn’t seem to notice, or care.

Sam’s stomach dropped.

He wasn’t opposed to kink, as long as it was consensual. But he had not consented to this. Neither had you.

Meg hadn’t done it the way Sam would have; she hadn’t awkwardly asked you out, made you laugh, bought you flowers, or taken you on a nice date first. She had simply turned up at your door unannounced and proceeded to fuck your brains out.

But to Sam’s horror and delight, you seemed to be into it. Into him. And had invited him in willingly …

Sam felt your eyes wander over his body as he stood on your doorstep in the dead light of night. Your hair was mussed from sleep, and you were in your pajamas. Pink flowery ones. He’d woken you up.

“Sam?” You squinted up at him. “What… what are you doing here? It’s two a.m.”

Sam’s body shrugged and he heard his voice come out, rough from the alcohol. “Couldn’t sleep,” he said. Like that was an adequate explanation for his spontaneous appearance in the middle of the night.

You eyed him curiously for a moment, then seemed to accept it and welcomed him in. As Meg made his body step inside, Sam cursed your naïveté at letting a man inside your house at such an ungodly hour. You were too trusting. You should know better than this. As a daughter of a hunter, you were well versed in the creatures of the night, but had seemingly forgotten all your training when met with a familiar face. He’d need to have words with you after this.

After this? After what? What was happening here exactly?

Panic set in as Sam trailed you through your hallway to the lounge, through piles of open texts and manuscripts. Though you were in ‘the life,’ you’d managed to live adjacent to it, dedicating your time to research rather than being physically involved in hunts. It suited you better. You’d always been more a thinker than a fighter; you’d even gone to college to study occultism to help with the cause.

Sam was attracted to you from the beginning. You were incredibly studious, and your discoveries had saved Sam and Dean from several sticky situations over the past few months. He owed you a lot. More than whatever was going to happen here tonight.

“Bad hunt?” you asked, and continued to ogle Sam as he studied your lounge like it was the first time he’d seen it.

Something like that, Sam thought, but Meg didn’t answer. He could feel her impatience rattle inside him. She wasn’t a fan of small talk.

“Do you… do you want to talk about it?” And when Sam still didn’t reply, you rubbed your arms awkwardly, like you were warming yourself from the cold.

Sam wanted to offer you his jacket. Apologise profusely for barging in like this. Instead, he felt his lips curl involuntarily.

“Truth is,” he said, and he turned to face you, your figure tempting in the lamplight. Nipples peaking through the satin of your pajama top. Fuel to the fire of his already vivid imagination. He stepped closer, and your breath caught as he backed you slowly against the wall. “I couldn’t sleep because I was thinking about you. In fact, baby, I can’t get you out of my fucking head.”

Meg wasn’t lying. He hadn’t been able to stop thinking about you. That was the whole reason he’d been so distracted and screwed up on the hunt. The reason Dean had gotten so mad at him for his negligence. It wasn't like Sam to fuck up like that. Not like him at all.

Sam watched you closely. Watched you squint at him like he was a puzzle to solve. One of your cryptic passages.

Solve me, Sam thought, his mind pleading. Realize this isn’t me.

He hadn’t missed how your eyes had snapped up to his when he’d called you baby. He’d never called you that before, and he started to sweat. He would never be this forward.

He half expected you to laugh it off, to take it as a joke, or tell him he was an idiot and try to send him away. What he didn’t expect was for you to move closer. Much closer. So close he could see down your top. To your cleavage. To the perfect curve of your breasts and the way your nipples stood, now undoubtedly erect beneath that flowery satin. He didn’t have to imagine anymore. It felt like a personal attack.

If he was more himself, Sam would clear his throat and force himself to look away. Store the image for a lonely day and let it wreck him in a stolen moment of satisfaction that would promise relief, but ultimately leave him with a deep-seated shame.

But he wasn’t. And he didn’t. His body refused to obey him.

He could sense Meg’s tendrils in his motor cortex, prodding around and manipulating his voluntary muscles. His eyes. His voice. His limbs… She’d pretty much left his sensory and autonomic tracts unmanned. How generous.

A low, insidious hunger stirred below his gut, something darker than just want. Something he should fight. And he found himself staring like a dog in heat. A predator that had finally trapped its prey.

Low and behold the thing he’d feared appeared. Nature took its course, and it was fucking obvious. He couldn’t even move his arms to tuck it beneath his waistband.

A knowing smile formed on your face as you looked him up and down. You’d caught him out. Sam’s heart stuttered, and for a second he thought you weren’t just letting him look. You were daring him to.

You drew in a breath. “Fucking finally,” you said. “I was wondering how long you’d make me wait.”

And before Sam could register what he was hearing, you did something he had been imagining for months: you rose to your tip-toes and kissed him. And as your soft, warm lips collided with his stern, cold ones, Sam felt his internal knees weaken.

He wanted to tell you how much he’d longed for this. Longed for you. Wanted to soften the kiss and tell you how beautiful you were. How intelligent. How every time he was around you, he’d forced himself to look away, because he’d never be good enough for you. How you deserved better than him. Better than a college drop-out and a pathetic excuse for a hunter.

Instead, he was insulting you. Degrading you. Using you. Worse, he was letting Meg use you in whatever fucked-up game she was playing. He’d been negligent–again. This was all his fault. He should’ve listened to Dean and gotten that damn fugly tattoo.

The kiss was heady and demanding. All sharp lines and rough edges. A clash of tongue and teeth. With every movement your breaths were coming heavier, hotter, and you were pulling him closer, clawing at him.

Sam found his hands grappling for your clothes. Your flowery pajama pants. Hiking them down. And then his hand was between your legs, just a thin strip of cotton between his fingers and your liquid heat.

“Sam—” you gasped, as Sam cupped your mound possessively. His touch wasn’t shy, wasn’t gentle, and Sam shuddered at the thought that this was how he’d touch you for the first time. So selfish. The guilt that was his constant companion wound around his throat, constricting his internal voice, choking him harder with every effort he made to break free.

Sam wanted to take his time with you, to map your body with his mind and to notice every detail; how you liked to be touched and where, to gauge your reactions with every pass of his fingertips. But he wasn’t given that choice. This was an excavation, not an exploration.

“Come upstairs,” you pleaded against his cheek, and bit your lip to stifle a moan as Sam started prodding you through your panties. “Please, Sammy ... want you in my bed.”

Sam heard Meg laugh, then speak to him for the first time.

She’s a brash little thing, isn’t she? I can see why you like her. A natural submissive, with a hint of defiance. This will be fun. Oh, how I love to watch them break. Better appease her first, though …

“Sure, baby,” Sam heard himself say, then let himself be pulled up the stairs.

This wasn’t fair. You deserved more than this. A conversation, at least. A safe word.

But Meg wasn’t big on safe words; she was only big on pain.

But this was never about harming you, Sam realized. It was about torturing him. It was always about torturing him ...

So, you’ve cottoned on, puppet?

Meg’s voice in Sam’s head rang clear as the highway had been when they’d driven here. Her voice was gloating.

You’ve always been my favorite toy, Sam. You’re so fun to play with. Big... Commanding... Full of self-loathing... You make it so easy.

Sam felt the threads around his internal voice loosen. She was allowing him to speak.

Get out of me, he growled. Leave her alone. Fuck off back to Hell.

Lighten up, Bullwinkle. She’s game. She wants this, clearly. She’s not as innocent as you think. Or are you really that dumb? Look at her.

And Sam did; he had no choice.

Meg flipped you over again so he was forced to look at your face, and he watched as your eyes rolled back in your head with every punishing thrust of his hips.

You looked like a broken doll.

Incapacitated, vulnerable, and…

Hot.

Incredibly fucking hot with your eyes glazed, tits bouncing, hair mussed, wrists bound, and legs spread wide for him.

Fuck. The fact that he was even deriving a single ounce of pleasure from this was unspeakable. Abhorrent. This wasn’t him. He wasn’t thinking straight.

Maybe it was the alcohol. Yeah, must be the alcohol …

With Sam’s lips, Meg smiled a sadistic grin and re-tightened her threads. Sam felt his larynx constrict, choking him quiet as Meg grasped you by the heels and sucked several of your pretty little toes into the pink flesh of his mouth.

Even they tasted sweet.

What the hell was wrong with him?

“God—” you choked out, squirming. In delight or disgust, Sam couldn’t tell any more. Maybe it was both.

Not everyone plays by the rules, puppet, Meg continued. You should know that more than anyone ... I wonder how many other men she’s fucked like this. Must be quite a few. She clearly knows what she wants.

Sam felt a rage that incapacitated him further. But he was completely at her mercy, unable to do anything to prevent this.

He pulled your foot from his mouth, your toes now shiny with his spit, and grazed his teeth along the inside of your calf, leaving several bruising bites.

A dog gnawing on a bone.

A rabid animal.

And stop lying to yourself. Your mind may be capable of deceit, but your meat-suit isn’t. The body doesn’t lie. That was all you…

That was, also, frustratingly true. Despite his intoxication, Sam hadn’t had any trouble getting it up. Of course he hadn’t—it was you. He’d imagined this moment too many times: you, naked, below him, screaming his name. He’d pleasured himself to that thought no less than ten times in the past week alone. It had gotten a little out of hand.

You want this too, puppet. Repression’s an insidious thing. Has no one ever told you that? I’ve seen how you’ve thought about her. The things you’ve imagined... You’re as sick as I am. I’m not doing anything you haven’t already thought about. I’m doing you a favour. Give her what she wants. Give in to the darkness that’s already inside you.

No, Sam thought defiantly, his vision swimming, stars falling like specks of dust. Not like this…

She wants this, puppet. If you won’t give her what she wants, then I will. You have no choice. She’s a pretty little thing. Even when she screams. I wonder what she looks like when the light’s leaving her eyes.

NO, Sam thought, but his hands were already grappling for your neck, his long, skilful fingers hovering over your carotid arteries.

“You want this, baby?” Sam heard himself ask. “You want me to fuck you up?” His voice was still thick from the whisky, and he was horrified to see you nod, dazed though you were.

Sam could hear Meg laughing in his head. This wasn’t funny. It was exactly the opposite. She was screwing with him well, making out that any aspect of this was consensual. She’d learnt that the hard way with Jo. If she was too obvious, you’d know this wasn’t him, surely? Surely you would?

“Just to be clear, you want this, right? ‘Cause I wouldn’t want to hurt you, baby.” Then Meg ran a hand down the rippling muscles in his arm and flexed, making him look like a total jackass. “I’m a big guy, if you hadn’t noticed.” Again, total jackass move.

“Yes, Sammy,” you rasped, watching him beneath heavy lids, mouth parted in awe. “Of course I’ve noticed ... I’ve been waiting so long for this ... For you.”

Sam felt his stomach drop again and fall through the earth. How could you believe this was really him?

You see, Meg taunted. She’s game, baby.

The admission did nothing to reassure Sam. In fact it only made the guilt worse. Hearing that you’d wanted him too, for some time, and were willing to overlook this problematic behavior, hit him like a punch to the gut. It shouldn’t have gone like this. You deserved more. So much more. You deserved to be made to feel loved, not lusted over and debased like a cheap whore.

Meg placed his hand around your neck and squeezed, and the moan you gave in response sent shivers up his spine. With every following word that left his mouth, he felt his grip tighten, your blood pulsing beneath his fingers. “You’re a depraved little slut, huh? Who’d have thought? It’s always the quiet ones. Lose all sense of dignity when they’re being fucked.”

At that, Sam’s hands withdrew and you gasped, your breath shallow and whiny, and your eyes reflected something other than pleasure for the first time tonight. They flashed black, and Sam could see himself in them. It looked a little like fear.

Meg laughed. At you. At Sam’s clear perturbance. And then with a force he never would dare use, drew back his hand and slapped you across the face. You were so small compared to him, so delicate, it wouldn’t take much to break you.

Don’t worry, Meg said. You’re not going to kill her. I can’t deal with reapers right now. They ruin all the fun.

Sam watched your supple skin bloom from the impact of his hand, and your head loll to the side. A single tear rolled down your cheek and pooled in the crevice between your collarbones. You looked undoubtedly out of it, whimpering incomprehensibly, but apparently that wasn’t good enough for Meg. If she couldn’t have you dead, she’d have the next best thing.

Please, Sam begged, as his hand returned to collar your throat. No more. Do what you want with me, but leave her out of this…

As his fingers constricted even further around your neck, Sam couldn’t deny how pretty it looked–his hand around your throat like a gorget. It fit perfectly, like it was meant to be there.

Trouble was, a gorget was meant to protect you, and he was doing the exact opposite…

Maybe you’re not a lost cause after all, Meg chuckled. Damn this is fun.

Fuck, Sam thought, as he struggled in vain to put an end to this violent act, his vile thoughts. But it was too late; the light was already leaving your eyes, your face was turning redder by the second, and...

And…

Your pussy was clenching around him.

This was getting you off.

Told you, Meg said. She’s a freak. We’re not that different.

And as the rest of your climax seized you, Sam felt his own take hold.

He pulled out and began pumping his throbbing cock with the hand he’d just used to strangle you.

A dizzying pleasure overcame him.

Whisky in his veins.

Stars again behind his eyes.

And it didn’t take long before he was groaning in ecstasy, shooting his silky seed across your chest and face.

Through Sam’s now hazel eyes, Meg forced him to look down at you. At what he’d done. At your unconscious shell of a body he’d defiled with his pathetic lack of self-control.

A pornographic painting.

A disturbing display of his descent into depravity.

And then Meg did the cruellest thing she could have possibly done in that moment.

She left.

Left him all alone to deal with the aftermath of this mess. The emotional and physical.

Guilt swallowed Sam whole. Not only for what he’d done, but for how good it had felt to lose control, to sate the desires that that taken root deep inside his rotten, corrupted soul.

The last thing Sam heard before she abandoned his aching body–as he closed his internal eyes and admitted defeat–was Meg’s voice, crisp, clear and gloating.

I’ve ruined her for you now, haven’t I, puppet?

And as much as Sam didn’t want to admit it, maybe she had. Because he now couldn’t imagine having you any other way.

#meg!sam #demon!sam #meg!sam x reader #sam winchester x reader #fanfic #sam winchester smut #sam x reader #x reader #smut #18+ mdni #x female reader #demon!sam x reader #demon sam winchester #possessed sam winchester

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amara-scott · 2 months ago

Text

Never been loved.

Pairing: Mattheo Riddle x Slytherin!female Reader Tags: Angst, Angst, Angst

Prompt: "You've never been loved, I can tell."

It would have been a beautiful spring day in the courtyard of hogwarts. But standing before Mattheo—you knew this was possibly a turning point about to happen. Your best friend. Having built that trusting relationship with him was hard. On both sides. But you stuck together and knew each other well.

But now the tension between you and Mattheo is thick, like a storm ready to break. You can feel it in the air, the unspoken words that hang between you both, electrifying the space. And yet, the weight of it all crashes down with the finality of your words, words that you didn't even realize held so much truth. "You've never been loved, I can tell." You don’t know why you said it, why the words slipped from your lips like a confession, an accusation. But the moment they leave your mouth, they settle over him like a shadow, dark and unavoidable.

You watch him, frozen, as his gaze falters, as if a part of him dies with your words. His shoulders drop, and for the briefest moment, he looks almost… human. Vulnerable. The walls he so carefully constructed around himself seem to crack, and for the first time, you see the weight he’s been carrying—the one he’s never let anyone see.

But Mattheo doesn’t speak. Not right away. His lips tremble, just slightly, as if the words he wants to say are too much to bear. His breathing is shallow, uneven. It’s a quiet sort of pain, the kind that threatens to swallow him whole, but he refuses to let it. “You don’t know what you’re talking about,” he mutters, the harshness in his voice an attempt to mask the tremor you caught. His jaw clenches, his eyes narrow, but they can’t hide the flicker of something deep within them.

You wish you could take back the words, erase the hurt you’ve caused him, but you can't. The damage has been done, and now all you can do is watch him retreat behind that mask again.

“You don’t know me,” he snaps, cutting your thoughts off. The rawness in his tone pulls at your chest, makes your heart ache for him in a way you hadn’t expected. He’s breaking, but he won’t let you see it. His walls go back up, taller and colder than before, as he presses his lips together, trying to maintain control.

“You don’t know my name,” he continues, but it’s not the name he’s referring to. It’s something deeper, something that has been built over years of pressure, expectations, and burdens no one should ever bear.

You reach for him, words forming on your tongue, but they choke you as he takes a step back. The tears that threaten to spill seem to freeze in your throat. You want to apologize, to explain yourself, but the words are too heavy, the apology too fragile.

He shakes his head then, and you feel the weight of his emotions like a physical blow. “No,” he says, voice cracking. “You don’t have the right to talk about me. Talk about love. You don’t know anything about me.” His voice raises, and you flinch, a tiny part of you bracing for the anger that you know is coming. But then—then his eyes soften, and a single tear escapes, rolling down his cheek, tracing the path of all the years of grief he’s kept locked away.

The world tilts as you see that tear. It shatters everything you thought you knew about him. The bravado, the indifference—it all crumbles. He’s not invincible. He’s not the cold, untouchable boy he’s shown everyone.

You want to reach out, to take his face in your hands and promise him that it doesn’t have to be like this, but the fear that grips you—fear of what he’ll do, of what this moment will mean—paralyzes you.

When he speaks again, his voice is low, but it cuts through you like a knife. “I think it’s best if we part ways from now on.” The words hang in the air, and for a moment, everything goes still. The wind dies, the distant sounds of the castle fade. His voice is the only thing that matters now.

Before you can process what’s happening, he’s turning away from you, walking toward the castle with a speed that leaves you breathless, leaves you empty. You stand there, a hollow ache settling in your chest.

Your feet move before your mind catches up, and you grab his arm, forcing him to stop. “Mattheo, no—don’t say that.” But he doesn’t even look at you. His body stiffens, his hand brushes yours off as if it’s a weight he can’t bear.

“I’m only saying what you would expect of me. Your image of me is quite apparent. Since you know me so well.” His words are cruel, but they are truth. And it cuts deeper than anything he’s said before. You step back, your heart sinking with the realization that he’s right.

With one last glance over his shoulder, he’s gone, leaving you standing in the shadows of the evening, alone.

Days pass. You bury yourself in your studies, pretending like it doesn’t matter. You let the ache settle in your bones, telling yourself that you’re stronger than this, that you’re better off without him. But every time you close your eyes, you see him—his face, the way his eyes softened for the briefest moment before he pulled away from you, the tear that marked the end of everything.

Pansy finds you in the library, but even she can see the storm brewing inside you. She drags you out, forces you to confront what you’ve done, and somehow, you find yourself standing at the threshold of the common room, looking at Mattheo across the room.

You stand frozen at the entrance to the common room, your breath shallow, heart pounding. The noise around you seems to fade into a dull hum as you lock eyes with Mattheo. He’s sitting there, looking as casual as ever, but there’s something in his gaze that stops you cold—something colder than you’ve ever seen before. It’s like he’s trying to shut himself off from you, a wall rising in the space between you that feels miles wide.

Pansy’s grip on your sleeve is the only thing keeping you tethered to the present, but even her silent pressure on your arm doesn’t make your feet move. She knows what’s going on in your head, even if you’re too caught up in the chaos to say it.

Mattheo’s face remains unreadable as his eyes flicker between the fireplace and the others in the room, but the tension in the air is thick. You can’t tell if he’s angry, hurt, or simply indifferent—but the chill in his expression tells you enough. It’s the same kind of look he’s given you every time you’ve pulled away, each time you’ve said something wrong, like you’ve been a weight dragging him down.

“I think I should go,” you mutter to Pansy, your voice barely louder than a whisper. You can feel your hands trembling, the nervousness creeping up your spine.

Pansy doesn’t let go of your sleeve. Instead, she gently pulls you forward, her usual playful tone gone, replaced with a sharp, no-nonsense edge. “No. You’re not running away this time. Not from this.”

Your throat tightens, and for a moment, you feel like you might suffocate under the weight of it all—the fight, the guilt, the fear that he’ll never forgive you. But Pansy is already moving, leading you towards the fire where the others are seated. The firelight flickers in your eyes as you step forward, your body feeling heavy, like you’re walking through quicksand.

Mattheo doesn’t look up right away, but when he does, you feel the full force of his gaze. He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t ask you how you’re doing or what you’ve been up to. It’s like the space between you has grown into something vast and impenetrable, and no words can bridge that gap. You wonder if that’s what you deserve after what you said, after what you did.

“You don’t have to do this,” Pansy says softly, but there’s a firmness beneath her words. “But if you don’t, you’ll never know if things could be fixed.”

You can’t breathe for a moment. Everything in you screams to just leave, to hide away again, but you know she’s right. You’ve never been good at facing what you’ve done. But if you leave now, you might lose him forever. And you can’t do that.

You stop in front of Mattheo, the words stuck in your throat. For a long moment, you don’t know where to start. It feels like you’ve already said everything you could say, yet nothing at all. But it’s different now. You’re standing here, staring at him, and for the first time in a long time, you’re not running.

"Can we- talk?" You don't hear your own words as you speak and hold your breath while you wait, still contemplating if you could make a run for it—but Pansy is right. Mattheo doesn't spare you a glance as he simply stands up and walks past you, toward a secluded corner in the common room, two armchairs next to each other, a dim lit candle and tall bookshelves rising to the ceiling. You join him as he sits, fiddling with your robe until you take a deep breath, finally looking up at him.

“I—I’m sorry.” The words feel like they’ve been stuck in your chest for so long. You swallow hard, voice cracking slightly. “I never meant to hurt you.”

He stares at you in silence, his jaw tightening, but there’s something there now—a flicker of recognition in his eyes, something that tells you he’s listening. Not because he has to, but because he wants to. You don’t know if that’s a good thing, but it’s a start.

“I know I fucked up. I don’t know what I was thinking, but I—” You pause, unsure of what to say next, your chest tightening with the weight of all the things you should have said before. “I care about you, Mattheo. More than I’ve ever cared about anyone.”

He doesn’t speak for a long while, and for a moment, it feels like the world has frozen around you both. But then, slowly, his lips part. His voice is low, almost like it’s coming from somewhere deep inside him, a place he’s been hiding for too long.

“You don’t have to keep apologizing.” His gaze is soft, almost vulnerable, and it shakes you to your core. “You don’t have to say anything you think I want to hear.”

“Then what do you want to hear?” you ask, almost desperately. “Because I don’t know how to fix this.”

“You don’t have to fix it. Just… be here. With me. No more walls.”

Your heart beats faster at his words. It’s not perfect, it’s not the answer you hoped for, but it’s something. Something you can work with.

And when he stands, taking a small step toward you, you feel the knot in your chest loosen just a little bit, so you stand as well. His arms, warm and familiar, slide around your shoulders, and for the first time in what feels like forever, you don’t feel so alone.

“Let’s not do this again,” he murmurs against your hair, pulling you close as you clutch his dress shirt, shutting your eyes tightly.

And you nod, knowing that no matter how long it takes, you’ll keep trying. You’ll keep showing up, even when the storm inside you feels too strong to bear.

For him. For you.

For what you both deserve.

#imagine #harry potter #slytherin boys #imagines #fanfiction #mattheoxreader #mattheo riddle #mattheo x y/n #mattheo riddle imagine #mattheo riddle x reader

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sallieraptor · 5 months ago

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[huge post about Mastermind]

I'm thinking a lot about everyone's faces when they saw Blitz on the guillotine.

so here's a yapping post. a big one! you can say it's an analysis? a shallow one, with my interpretation of what was going on in their heads and some hcs. just for me, so I can get these worms out of my mind! that's why it's not well developed and has typos ^^

starting with Moxxie,

who politely protested throughout the whole trial, was in denial the entire time, spoke his mind several times, and tried at all costs to defend Blitz. when Blitz's sentence sank in his mind, he could only cry, close his eyes and bury his face against Millie's body to seek comfort from her.

being the first to be recruited, taken out of prison and taken away from the dark mafia life by Blitz, Moxxie did what he does best, spoke up, and continued to try to save Blitz, just as Blitz first saved him.

how could he bear the loss of the person who saved him from the clutches of his abusive father? how could he watch the death of the first person who made him smile after going through hell? the person who gave him hope after he was abandoned and thrown behind bars?

of course he sought comfort on Millie and couldn't bear the thought of watching Blitz die. Blitz was like a re-start in Moxxie's life, he was the one who gave him a second chance. who pulled him out of the hole he was sinking into.

and Moxxie tried to speak, he really tried to stop it. he questioned Satan, more than once. when Andrealphus said that Blitz was forcing himself on Stolas, and they muzzled Blitz, Moxxie was the one who protested. he was the one who said that that wasn't what really happened.

the whole time Moxxie was in denial, until the last second. he couldn't accept that he was going to lose Blitz there. so he cried, and the only thing he could do was cover his eyes.

Millie,

who didn't say a single word during the entire trial, but kept an eye on Blitz the entire time. so much so that, when Blitz looks at Loona, Millie looks at her too, worrying not only about him, but about Loona's future as well. worrying about how she's feeling right now.

when the chains pull Blitz to his knees, the ax rises and he looks at them one last time, Millie is the only one who doesn't look away at any point and continues to make eye contact with Blitz until the end, while continuing to comfort Moxxie.

being the last to be recruited, and apparently being the person Blitz trusts the most to take care of things, knowing how much Blitz believes in her potential, I believe that in that moment, by the way she acted, Millie was clearly understanding that she would be the new person responsible for taking care of everything for Blitz. responsible for taking care of Loona, of Moxxie, of everything that's left. take care of Blitz's family. and she would do it willingly.

the only moments Millie closed her eyes were to process the things that were being said. other than that, she continued looking at Blitz, Loona and Moxxie. silently observing the situation, checking each one of them.

I don't know why she didn't speak. maybe she felt like she shouldn't, that she couldn't. because after all, fuck, look where they are! it's Satan in front of them! even if she spoke, would anything change? she probably thought it would make things worse. after all, she is the muscle of the team.

and as much as she knows how to deal with this currently, I believe that in this moment of tension, there is no way to prevent these sabotaging thoughts from surfacing. it's a delicate situation.

but anyway, there she was, watching Blitz until the last second, holding Moxxie, and I'm sure she was internally promising herself to take care of Loona. exactly the way Blitz, - her best friend, the person who opened new doors in her life - would like.

Loona,

who was deprived of protesting throughout the trial, the only one to have been immediately muzzled and collared, treated harshly like an animal, just as she was treated during the years she spent in the orphanage.

she tried all the time to convey her feelings to Blitz through her eyes.

[hc moment lol] their relationship is certainly one of my favorites, and I can only think that at that moment, Loona was probably feeling a lot of guilt. even though she loves Blitz with all her being, and is forever grateful for him (which is no secret), I keep thinking that she must be replaying in her head all the times she treated Blitz rudely, every time she yelled at him, fought with him, every time she hesitated to call him "dad". imagine thinking about all this and not even being able to defend him. not being able to even say "dad" one last time.

anyway, ignoring the hc, I think it certainly hurt her deeply to see him there without being able to say or do anything. of course she couldn't bear to watch his death, the person who saved her, gave her home, food, and love. the person who, despite always getting on her nerves, it's her dad. a extremely loving dad. of course she turned her face away and closed her eyes. watching him die would be too much to bear.

Fizzarolli,

Fizz knew that Ozzie was on a trial, but on Blitz's trial?! can you imagine the feeling of despair when he saw Blitz's face on tv?

the urgency he felt when he saw the face of the boy he grew up with on tv, the face of his childhood best friend! more than that! we all know that it's undeniable that there were at least a situationship going on between them. it's obvious the affection and love they had and still have for each other.

the despair that Fizz must have felt, at the thought that he was going to lose a person that he had just gotten back, just re-established a relationship with, a healthy relationship! after all the shit they went through together.

and damn, he must have thought he could do something. so much so that he desperately asked Ozzie to do something! Ozzie was there! shit, do something!

and when the blade was about to cut Blitz's neck, the only thing Fizz could do at that moment was hold his phone tightly and watch. watch someone he loves leave. once again.

Verosika,

oooof as a Verosika apologist this scene made me completely sick BUT I'll try to say what I thought in a not so crazy way.

from what I read in her eyes, she seems to be feeling a lot of anguish. this is obvious, you don't need to be a genius to understand.

the point is, I constantly see people hating on Verosika for nothing, especially after Apology tour. and I'm not really going to go much into this subject now, but it's OBVIOUS that Verosika still cares about Blitz.

I don't think she still feels anything ROMANTIC for him, but it's undeniable that she cares. if she didn't care, she wouldn't have sat next to him and talked to him in Apology tour, wouldn't have listened to his point of view, wouldn't have let him talk about his feelings.

I see a lot of people seeing Verosika as a villainous and evil person towards Blitz, and honestly, if you think like this, you are simply blinded by your love for him. really.

she is a hurt woman, who had found a cool and fun boyfriend, who made her laugh and feel happy. she loved him, and was abandoned and stolen by the same person. of course she was mad at him for so long. and we don't know what their relationship really was like, who knows what their real dynamic was? we can only imagine based on angry and spiteful comments made by both of them.

either way, Verosika's heart was deeply broken, she was overcome with confusion and frustration at not being chosen, at not being loved back. but that doesn't change the fact that she loved him, that she cared about him.

it's obvious that her heart sank as she watched his execution. how could it not? a person she once loved, who made her feel so many things, was being sentenced to death right before her eyes. and all she could do was move closer to the tv and watch.

Stolas,

oh, about Stolas .... who was probably slumped on the couch for days, trying to cope with his favorite novela, just like Blitz in Ghostfuckers.

damn, the number of beats this man's heart must have skipped. seeing the face of the man he loves, on tv, about to be executed. all because of him.

his feelings are self-explanatory. he got up from the couch, went to the trial and stepped in front of Blitz. he risked his life to save him. how could he not?

I see a lot of people interpreting Stolitz as if Blitz forced Stolas to do something, or vice versa, but??? please, no!

Blitz never forced Stolas into anything. Stolas genuinely loves him. and he would easily risk his life for him over and over again.

it's not the first time Stolas has saved Blitz. the difference is that this time, Stolas risked absolutely everything he had, even though he was still pissed and extremely hurt by Blitz. he risked everything to save him again. after all, Blitz was the one who saved him first.

and he is extremely grateful for that. no matter how upset he is. Stolas loves Blitz deeply, and would never be able to bear the thought of losing him forever like this.

in conclusion, this all makes me think of Barbie. did she saw? if so, what did she feel? seeing her twin brother who she holds such a grudge against because of their past. I'm looking forward to seeing more of them!!!

#don't talk to me ever again #my brain is scrambled #helluva boss #helluva boss blitzo #helluva boss moxxie #helluva boss millie #helluva boss loona #helluva boss fizzarolli #helluva boss verosika #helluva boss stolas #helluva boss mastermind #helluva boss brain rotting #animation brain rotting

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himbodruid · 9 days ago

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My Supernova

Sylus x Reader, delves into Sylus PoV

CW: death, injury, blood, gore, making Sylus cry, Zayne is bestie again

A mission gone wrong results in your death…or does it? And what happens when memories of a lifetime gone past resurface during a critical moment..

🔞RATED NSFW FOR THE ABOVE CW🔞

✮ ⋆ ˚｡𓅨⋆｡°⭑ ✮ ⋆ ˚｡𓅨⋆｡°✩⭑

You knew the dangers.

You knew, and yet you still insisted on investigating a part of a No Hunt zone close to the N109.

And you’d thought having two of the strongest evol bearers with you would guarantee a success.

What you hadn’t counted on was a wanderer feigning death to strike you with its last reserves of strength. You never should have let your guard down, but when you had your back turned to check the progress of Zayne and Sylus, it struck.

With its last rattling breaths, it thrust its sword-like appendage straight into your back. The impact sucked the breath from your lungs and sent searing pain through your whole body. And when you looked down, you could see the tip of it protruding from your chest.

That can’t be good, was your only fleeting thought. The beast disintegrated into ash, fluttering away on the wind. Your hand came up as if to catch it, but you grasped empty air. Then your vision began to blur, your steps faltered.

Sylus…

You turned to him just in time to watch him fell his opponent. He peeked over his shoulder at you with a cheeky grin on his face. But the grin fell when he saw your blood-covered hand holding your abdomen. There wasn’t really anything to hold in place, as the wound in your abdomen wasn’t quite large enough for anything to fall out. Hold it you did, though, in some futile effort to keep the blood from waterfalling from you.

His shout was far away, muffled by either distance or the adrenaline pulsing in your ears. You couldn’t tell, but your body was growing numb with each passing moment. Your knees hit the ground in a jarring impact that rattled your teeth.

A flurry of crimson-streaked shadows engulfed you one moment, and then the next you were being pulled into Sylus’s strong arms. Your vision danced with darkness, but the terror you saw on his face was one you never wanted to see again. He was stricken, cupping your face and begging you to stay with him. You desperately clung to consciousness, if only to tell him you would be okay.

Shakily you raised your hand to cup his cheek, smearing something red there. You peeled your hand away from his cheek to stare at it for a moment, trying to process what you were seeing. Oh. It was blood. Your blood.

Sylus cradled you in his lap, shouting over his shoulder to... You distantly heard him shout Zayne’s name, but it was like you were under water. Sounds and sensations were muffled, black spots dancing at the edge of your vision.

You stared into Sylus’s eyes, raising your hand again to cup his cheek. You ignored the blood this time, instead stroking his cheek with your thumb.

“Beautiful.” The single word fell from your lips as a hoarse whisper, and then the darkness took over.

⋆✴︎˚｡⋆𓄿✩°｡ ⋆

“No, no, no, no,” Sylus chanted to himself. When he turned and saw her drenched in her own blood, stumbling, something in his heart constricted painfully. This was supposed to be nothing more than a simple intel mission, the wanderers weren't even a high level. How could this happen, especially when it felt like he’d just found her again.

Phasing into his crimson shadows was as natural as walking, allowing him to traverse greater distances with ease. And still it was too slow, he needed to be by her side now.

Finally, he gathered her in his arms, pulling her to him and cradling her limp body against his. Her breathing was a shallow wheeze as her diaphragm struggled to fully inflate due to damage. And, fuck, there was so much damage.

“Zayne!” He yelled, his panicked voice echoing across the clearing to the doctor. Zayne still fought against his wanderer, but the moment it fell he sprinted across the clearing.

“Stay with me, sweetheart,” he murmured to her over and over, stroking the side of her face in an effort to keep her awake.

For the first time in his life, he didn’t know what to do. Her eyes were glazed, her focus wavering, and Sylus never felt a stab to his heart quite like this. Not even when she was the one driving the sword through it. And seeing this beautiful creature, whose soul was the scent of flowers in bloom, broken and dying in his arms…it was like she was plunging that sword into his chest all over again.

And that single, devastating word she uttered before going fully limp in his arms…

“What happened?” Zayne’s calm and commanding voice broke through the ringing in his ears.

“She was struck,” Sylus choked out. He felt a distinct sting in his eyes, his throat constricting, but he pushed the sensation back.

“Let me see.” Zayne’s voice dropped into a grave tone, and it sent a spike of fear coursing through Sylus’s blood. Despite some instinct wanting to keep her close, to keep her out of reach of the other man, he let him in.

Zayne did a thorough examination, and upon finding no pulse, he immediately began resuscitation attempts. But the damage was too great, she’d lost too much blood too quickly. Zayne sat back on his heels and gave a single shake of his head.

She was gone.

The one creature that could bring him to his knees, lively one moment and gone the next. Sylus gathered her back into his arms, cradling her limp form against him without a care for how her blood drenched him. A millennia traversing planes of existence, and he still forgot about the fragility of humans. He should have stayed by her side, he should never have turned his back, he should-

“Enough,” came Zayne’s calm voice again, breaking through Sylus’s tumbling despair. “We can’t think about the what-ifs at a time like this.”

Sylus knew that, of course. But it didn’t stop the torrent of self-loathing that coursed through him. He looked down at her, took in her beautiful face, her eyes that no longer shone. He brushed hair from her cheek, leaned down to kiss her forehead. That contact was what broke the dam on his grief.

She’s gone.

The sting in his eyes he felt earlier rose again so rapidly that he didn’t even have a moment to restrain it. And when a tear fell against her cheek, he realized what the sensation was. He’d never cried before, and here she was, drawing out another first from him in her death. He let it wash over him, clenching his eyes closed as he cradled her head against his chest and rocked back and forth with her.

Zayne sat in silence, trying to maintain his own composure at the sight of his best friend laying limply in the arms of someone he was growing to respect. He knew what her death meant, and he was trying to figure out how to explain it to the grief-stricken man in front of him. Zayne knew the Onychinus leader had been fond of her, but he hadn’t realized that they’d shared such a deep bond until now.

“Sylus,” he said softly. He got no response. He reached out a hand to grasp Sylus’s shoulder, but the man jerked back with a feral snarl and a flash of crimson shadows swirling around them. Zayne held up his hands in a placating manner, backing off only slightly when Sylus’s eyes narrowed on him. Something primal was at the surface, and only worked to confirm that he wasn’t human, as Zayne suspected.

“Sylus,” he said again, firm but calm. “There’s something that you need to know about her and what death means for her, but I will start with…this isn’t the end of the line for her.”

Sylus stared at him, the glare smoothing from his brow as he worked to rein in his emotions. The words sank in slowly, and Zayne could see the gears moving in his head as he processed what he said.

“Explain,” was all he said, gruffly.

“Several years ago, when I first became her attending physician, I gave her a file. In this file were logged entries that Josephine…ah, her ‘grandmother’…had made during their time with Ever. I don’t know how much she’s revealed to you, but she was once a subject of Ever.”

Zayne talked slowly, allowing time for Sylus to absorb his words, to bring that feral side of him under further control. The shadows dissipated, and Sylus straightened from his hunched posture, but he still held her to him.

“In these entries, Josephine outlined several instances where the aether core brought her back from death. Mind you, this is when she had only a partial core. There’s no saying how the aether core will react in its complete state.”

“Go on,” Sylus said. His voice was more present, with a hint of suspicion. Even just uttering the name Ever, Zayne saw his grip on her body tighten. He knew that Sylus had his own run-ins with the notorious company.

“In theory, roughly 24 hours from now, she will undergo this sort of…reset. The entries described it as a sort of explosion, and the second time they medically induced a death, she caused damage to the lab.”

“So what you’re saying…”

“That there is a very good chance that cycle will happen again, yes. But I have to warn you that…during each of those ‘resurrection’ cycles, her memories were seemingly erased. She still recognized patterns and could relearn things at an advanced rate but…now she’s an adult, and now she has a full aether core. So there’s no telling if she will be amnesiac again or not.”

Silence stretched between them. Sylus turned his attention back to her, cupping her cheek and wiping his tears off her face with the pad of his thumb. Zayne’s words gave him a dangerous sense of hope, one he tried desperately to quash. Because even if she had a history of going supernova and reviving, Zayne had said it happened when she was younger.

There were no guarantees it would happen now. Not to mention the whole memory loss thing.

And yet, he couldn’t help but hold onto that tiny glimmer of hope. He spent what felt like a lifetime looking for her, following the flowery scent of her soul until he finally found her in Linkon. The short months that she’d been terrified of him were some of the most frustrating moments of his life, but recent days had filled him with a bliss and contentment that he could never compare to any other lifetime.

But all of that was ripped from him in a moment of negligence. Even if she somehow came back from this, he didn’t know if he would ever be able to forgive himself.

“Come back to me, Kitten,” he murmured, throat constricting. With her eyes closed, resting in his arms, it was almost easy to disillusion himself that she was simply asleep. “I need you with me.”

He rested his forehead against hers, choking out one last begging word. “Please.”

Sylus sat with her for what felt like hours, cradling her against him, while Zayne secured the area. There wasn’t much more to clear after their initial brush with the wanderer group. When he returned, the two men set about creating a makeshift camp.

It hadn’t been part of any of their plans, but ever the strategist, Zayne came somewhat prepared with a tarp and a handful of blankets. Once a lean-to was set up, Sylus situated her so that she laid sandwiched between thick wool blankets.

The men sat some distance away, Zayne writing in his notebook and Sylus just…staring. He’d shown his weakness, his vulnerability to Zayne, but he couldn’t feel the least bit embarrassed about it. He knew Zayne could be trusted, that the good doctor wouldn’t exploit him.

A full day passed, then night. Sylus refused to sleep, instead keeping watch over Zayne while he dozed. Keeping watch over his beloved. The more that time went on, the more Sylus despaired. He should be ready to accept that she wouldn’t be waking back up, and yet…

It was late into the evening of the second day before anything happened. Zayne dozed off next to him, leaning against the same wide tree trunk as Sylus. There was an energy shift, something subtle in the air that Sylus could feel. The energy continued to gather until he could all but taste it, but when he looked at her, there was no visible difference. Spitting a curse, Sylus nudged Zayne awake and prepared for the possible emergence of more wanderers.

The blast happened so quick that Sylus barely had time to throw up an energy shield in front of himself and Zayne, which was followed closely by a wall of thick ice. Blinding golden light filled the valley and felt scorching hot licking against his skin. He pushed himself to his feet, using his shadows to shield himself from her radiance as he made cautious steps forward. The force of the blast nearly knocked him back several times, making him dig his boots into the soil beneath his feet.

He fell to his knees beside her just as the light seemed to absorb back into her body. Her back had been arched off the ground, but she now settled back against the soil and the blankets were nowhere to be seen. Upon closer inspection, the lean-to was also gone, and every tree within a wide radius had been ripped from their roots and felled. The only tree that remained standing close to the blast zone was the one he and Zayne had taken refuge against, but only because the combined power of Sylus and Zayne kept it standing.

The life-ending wound in her abdomen continued to glow as it stitched itself back together. Sylus was afraid to touch her, as if this phenomena could possibly be interrupted by touch. Sylus had never seen such a thing before, even during his time trawling through space and stealing from wealthy pieces of shit. He’d passed close to several supernovae, but none of them held the same kind of radiant brilliance as her golden-white light.

The wound disappeared right before his eyes, leaving only just a hole in her leathers where the puncture occurred. Not even a scar remained, only the smooth expanse of her creamy skin. But she did not stir, not even when he gathered her in his arms. She was almost too hot to touch, her skin boiling with the remnants of that strange power that erupted from her.

“Lay her back down, please, I need to examine her,” Zayne said, clamping a hand on Sylus’s shoulder. Reluctantly, Sylus complied and shuffled back so Zayne could examine and take his notes.

“Why isn’t she waking up,” he said with a hard voice, giving Zayne pause from his pen scratching.

“I can’t be certain, but one of the experiments resulted in a 24 hour period before her heart restarted. We may see the same resu-“

A large gasping intake of breath interrupted Zayne, her breath coming back to her in a sudden gust. She spluttered and coughed, clenching her eyes closed. Sylus moved to get closer, to pull her back into his arms, but Zayne held up a hand.

“Hello, Unicorn,” Zayne said in a clinical tone that made Sylus uncomfortable. Sylus tilted his head at the name, but he was waved off with promise of a later explanation.

“Wh-whe,” her mouth struggled to form words and her brow knit in frustration. After several more tries, and a bottle of water offered by Zayne, she was finally able to form coherent words. “Where am I?”

“You are in a No Hunt zone just north of Linkon city. What do you remember?”

Zayne went about taking her vitals while she tried her best to think. Sylus sat back in a daze, amazed at what he was seeing. She was alive. She was alive. Sylus didn’t even care about how it was possible, all that matter was that she’d returned to him.

He let his eyes drift over her face as she took in her surroundings. She hadn’t yet seen him, but there would be plenty of time for that later. He was lost to his thoughts when he heard her sudden keening wail. He refocused his gaze on her, moving forward despite Zayne’s instruction for space.

And when he heard the words tumbling from her lips, his heart stuttered painfully in his chest.

“My dragon…my dragon is gone. My dragon is gone!”

He reached out to her to calm her hysterics, turning her so she faced him. He cupped her face in his hands and leveled his gaze with hers. “I’m right here, sweetheart.”

Her eyes widened at his choked words, tears still streaming steadily from them. She tentatively reached out, brushing fingertips against his cheek, almost like she couldn’t believe he was real.

Then she threw her arms around his neck, her sobbing renewed. She cried into his shoulder, muttering “my dragon, I’m sorry” over and over. He clung to her just as desperately as she clung to him, burying his face in her hair. He felt the now-familiar sting in his eyes again, this time letting it wash over him.

She cried until exhaustion took her over. Fear gripped him until he realized he could still feel her pulse under his touch. He kept her close, up until he settled her in his bed.

After long discussions with Zayne, the two men agreed that they would omit the truth of what happened. Zayne explained that if her resurrection reached Ever, her safety would be further compromised and they would renew efforts to collect her. He also went on to explain the origin of the name Unicorn, while Sylus provided an explanation for why she called him a dragon.

When she woke again, she had no recollection of what transpired in that field. Sylus thought he would be disappointed again, but he was actually grateful that she was able to escape the pain of it. It didn’t matter to him anymore that she no longer remembered him from their previous existence.

Instead, he would do anything and everything in his power to ensure this existence was filled with his love and admiration.

⋆✴︎˚｡⋆𓄿✩°｡ ⋆

The weeks following your ‘resurrection’ were a flurry of activity. The memory of what happened was fuzzy at best; you remember waking confused, and then everything was blank after that. You assumed you’d passed out, as the next thing you remember was waking up in Sylus’s bed. You were glad the amnesia was only temporary, because navigating through things and not being able to remember was frustrating at best. There were still some pieces missing, but you had hopes that those would come back to you in time.

Nobody talked about what happened in that field. There was something in the way that Sylus tenderly cupped your face, the way his eyes searched yours for something. You didn’t know what he was looking for, but you knew it had to do with what happened that day. Whispers of a dragon could be heard whenever you eavesdropped on his conversations with Zayne, but you didn’t know how it was connected.

The Association put you on administrative leave to give you time to recover, and during that period, Sylus doted on you relentlessly. He made sure you never wanted for anything, hovering and catering to your every need. It would be suffocating if you didn’t find it adorable that the big bad leader of Onychinus was in tatters over a girl.

Zayne also stopped by frequently to assess your progress, and you couldn’t remember how or why Zayne became familiar with Onychinus and Sylus. You got the impression that it was from a different injury, something involving bullets, but that was a stubborn memory that wouldn’t come out of hiding.

No matter, you felt safe and loved with the care and attention the two men gave you. And while your recovery included a myriad of missing memories, you were able to return to normal regardless.

#lads sylus #love and deepspace sylus #lads fic #love and deepspace #lnds sylus #sylus #l&ds sylus #sylus qin #sylus angst #sylus x you #zayne is bestie #doctor zayne #lnds zayne #lads angst #l&ds fic

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nuggetpool-hi · 2 months ago

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Tehee found another one. The reason why I never did this one it's because its really l o n g and since its a more "serious" comic it would have my slightly more detailed style so yep, Im lazy what can I say

I edited it a bit to make it more readable, my comic notes are a hot mess only describing important stuff and getting dialogue shoved in there without clear indication of whos saying what so... its still very bad but SO MUCH better than how it was trust ☝️

Smell

Logan smells Wade as he walks near him "that smell again" he thinks "feels internal... sick? diabetes maybe? High pressure? Or.." his face goes blank, then his brows furrow with concern.

He goes to a hospital and sniffs people around like a creep and hes like "Oh" a nurse asks him to leave and hes like alright.

He goes home, hes like idk how to tell him this. Wade is happily watching TV and Logan sits with him

"Wade" he says serious.

Wade looks at him tilting his head curious

"yes honeybuns?"

Logan sighs "Ive been smelling something in you.."

"kinky"

"Wade." Logan stares at him angrily, barring his fangs slightly, then softens his face. "Didn't know what it was 'til today..." his throat is closing up, he tries to look at him directly.. he cant hide the fear in his eyes "Wade you... got cancer"

Wade stares and then starts laughing uncontrobably "Duh, Im literally covered in tumors, smartass" he points at his whole face

Logan is confused, trying to decipher if Wade's joking or not... "what.. I.." hes looking at Wade's face like it owes him money "though they were burn scars"

"Everyone thinks that" Wade shakes his head like saying duh idiots peoples. "Carcer's the whole reason I accepted being turned into some weird experiment to mutate me" bit more serious now.

Logan shallows hard and stares at the floor, then at Wade again, expression sour "I still dont get it, shouldn't your healing factor fix it?"

Wade slaps his knee "HA! no, in fact its more of a dying factor, dead cells replaced with dead cells constantly, I'm always dying but also not?, its weird really" He ponders for a bit

Logan sill staring like wtf is this dude talking about

"Mutation was also like- getting super cancer, outside and inside, I'm infested its insane. A sick joke haha" Wade laughs but his eyes are a bit sad

Logan tilts his head, trying to collect his thoughts "Isnt... cancer.... painful?" He speaks softly, trying so heard to look stiff and angry but hes concerned

Wade just smiles sadly at him, sighs "I mean- yeah I-Im..." he looks at Logan, wondering, then looks away "Im always in pain, sometimes better, sometimes worse but its always there"

Logan nods, still trying to process the situation "Is there-"

"Nothing you can do" Wade interrupts not even looking at him

"....right" Logan looks around "Well uh- you still won't.... um"

"I'm not going to die" Wade says, still not looking at him. Expression serious shoulders tense

Logan looks at him, nods gently "...good"

Ok no Im reading it again and its absolutely awful but Im still sharing it I dont care

Also the date this thing was OLD like genuinely one of the first few comics I wanted to do sad

#deadpool and wolverine #deadpool #wade wilson #logan howlett #poolverine #deadpool 3 #deadclaws #deadpool fanart #deadpool x wolverine #fanart

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eccentricallygothic · 7 months ago

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Depraved Night's Watch Lord Commander!Jon Snow and Arrogant Noble Woman!You…

Warning(s): Noncon/Dubcon, dark!Jon Snow, kidnapping, kissing, groping, forced stripping, manipulation, breeding kink, bastard shaming, humiliation. MDNI.

Note: Can/Does this qualify for Kinktober/Halloween?

. . .

His bushy lips that are akin in their roughness to his fingers that ‘gently’ move your hair away from your back that he further exposes by pulling on the harness that had been holding your blouse together feel harsh against your soft skin. He pushes the mass of your soft strands over one of your shoulders from behind and a beastly arm is wrapped around your waist to pull your body closer to that of your captive so he can press his deranged and lewd kisses along the length of your spine, the sickening sensation causing for your body to curl in disgust.

Jon Snow is a bastard in every sense of the word.

Having meticulously crafted the persona of the gentle warrior full of valiance, endurance and better sense, you now understand with a frightening realization that he tirelessly worked for the construction of his present circumstances for years so he could perform a flawless execution of his plan that you are living now.

Although for reasons not particularly aimed at the shallowness in his facade that you can see through now, it is now that you know that you had always been right in your unyielding contempt of him. That your intuition that there festered something dark and twisted behind those ‘innocent’ eyes of his that were black as night and thus your accordingly treatment of him was justified.

Jon had taken your unrelenting shaming and insulting of his origin, your humiliating rejection of his proposal to you and your vehement refusals of any and all attempts at any kind of an alliance between the two of you with a smile for years so as to portray you an unruly beast-like daughter of an influential man only so he could do this.

Your chapped lips curl in fury and disdain that you feel for the thought as well as yourself. You had always considered your skills in self defense and swordsmanship to be on par with any other lad your age.

Only for your mind to not even process your abduction when it was underway let alone your combative learnings to come into play.

Your body stiffens when one of his hairy paws reach for your bare breasts and you almost smack it away but your stomach lets out a painful growl and the lining of your stomach painfully retracts into your organs at that very moment almost as a signal to make you stop and reconsider your urges. Your body freezes and you let your eyes wander to the object of your humiliation and assured desecration. The sight causes for your dry mouth to salivate in a way you had been a stranger to before this.

A steaming bowl of stew with a jug of water.

That is the deal. Jon says he will not force himself on you. No. Rather, you will willingly surrender yourself to his touch and mercy. You are to welcome his acquaintance with your intimates, thank him for it, moan for him, let yourself loose to his touch and enjoy everything he plans to do to you.

Water for every pinch and grope.

Fire and warmth for every move and sway of your body like the whores you've shamed your whole life.

Food for every adulterous act.

A treat for every ‘experimental’ position in the bed that is currently a heap of carelessly woven straws.

A possible improvement of living conditions for every bastard you bear him.

He can easily bring the appropriate means down in this dungeon that he has built specifically for you in the undergrounds of Castle Black to marry you and legalize as well as religiously sanction this depraved dynamic he has devised for the two of you.

But just why would he do that when he can easily get what he wants from you whilst torturing you to live through exactly what you have shamed him for all your lives?

. . .

MASTERLIST

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adr1enneee · 1 month ago

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From Sea to land

Captain Caviar cookie x mermaid reader

Reader is a girl btw

[♥︎•.pretty dividers made by anitalenia.•♥︎]

★

reader Is lowkey kinda weird but not rly, don't be weirded out by her actions pls

If a lot of readers words sound cave man ish it's on purpose dw >:]

it's like how the mermaids would call stuff different names than land cookies

land cookies: ship/boat

merfolk cookies: hollow whale

etc etc…

★

lowkey tired of fics portraying mermaids that despite either interacting with a person once or never they already know how everything works. So in this reader isn't gonna act all majestic and soft(yet) she's still a predator that hunts for her food for the witches sake.

In this fic, the reader is a gem mermaid with the ability to transform into creatures of various shapes and sizes in order to protect the ocean and her kingdom, sharks, eels, whales, etc!

Swimming about the murky waters only to discover endless wrecked ships, she finds a submarine stuck on debris, she watches for a while then she decides to help the sharp-toothed cookie and candy-eyed cookie. After the trio all manage to evade one very angry mermaid and properly introduce yourselves, you eventually get close to the two, especially the one known as Captain Caviar cookie.

you all know how the story ended so this will pick up right after they all escaped Black Pearl cookie and after Candy Diver cookie casually revealed they were a ghost.

btw if i added the whole part where they meet Black Pearl cookie and try to escape from her plus the stuff before that i would not get this fic as done as quick so we just skipping to where they are safe and out of the water. :’]

"Sooo this is where we part ways eh? I gotta say y/n cookie, we would've been soggy crumbs if you hadn't used that flashy power of yours!"

you chuckled, a little sad that you'd probably never see the two again but also a little happy about the praise. “Well I couldn't stand to see your lives cut so abruptly, I..have a soft spot for land cookies you see.." currently the pair was out of the submarine and now on the beach near the docks. You were at the very shallow part of the sea, practically a beached mermaid. you had to drag yourself this close to the dry sand and as you lay flat on your stomach you played with the warm grains a little, as did Candy Diver cookie, making random shapes out of the sand and a messy attempt at a sand castle, nevertheless they perked up at your words.

"■■●●○●???"

The sounds of sloshing and bubbling was basically incoherent but captain caviar seemed to grasp an understanding of what they were trying to say because they kept pointing at their legs and wiggling their feet before covering them in some sand.

The captain scratched his head and looked down at your tail "yeeahhh...speakin of standin', we've seen ya turn into all sorts of sea creatures so far but I don't think it'll do ya any good if you want to come on land with us."

"Unless ya wanna be in a fish tank the whole time..." he grumbled under his breath, no doubt already against that idea.

This dawned on you and made you feel that sadness again but only for a moment, you thought hard, then had a crazy idea.

"I can turn into any kind of creature I want, what if I can turn myself into a land cookie?"

Captain caviar cookies expression turned into one of skepticism and a little bit of hope, "Ya think that'll work? Ever done it before??" candy diver tilted their hand in confusion, although still continuing to bury the rest of their legs in sand.

you flipped yourself onto your back and sat up to look at your tail, "I'll admit that I never have but I'll never know unless I try!"

With that you concentrated on the power in your gem, imagining your body transform into what the two cookies had, your tail split and formed your new legs. You now had the leg part down, a rather painless process as you literally transformed into creatures far more complex and large. It did take a bit of energy out so you didn't really bother to will-away most of your scales. There were still big patches here and there that would easily tell other land cookies that you weren't one of them but all in all you did have legs that resembled the dough that land cookies had. You did your best for your first time and that's all that matters right now.

"Not bad for my first time, oh well, hard parts over" you spoke proudly, looking up at Captain Caviar cookie only to see his stunned expression, "Well I'll be! Looks like ya can do anythin!" you giggle at the praise, though as you attempt to mimic the way he's standing you realize that you have no idea how to work them. They weren't useless but all you could really do was wiggle your feet a little and twitch the muscles in your legs in an attempt to stretch them.

"Ah, right, you never walked before, here we'll help, right Candy Diver cookie- woah! Candy Diver cookie!"

You look over to see that Candy Diver cookie managed to bury themselves waist deep in sand and carefully used the sand to make it look like they had a mermaid tail, even using a small twig they found to carve scales in the sand covering them.

You both looked at them for a moment before bursting into laughter. Their shenanigans temporarily put a halt on your crisis.

Now in brighter spirits you reached out for Captain Caviar cookie and tugged on the end of his coat, he turned to you, "A little help?"

"But of course mate! Here let me-" for just a split second he looked down at your legs and while he admired how your patches of scales glistened in the sunlight his eyes traveled to an uncovered area, in your mermaid form there just would've been a slit but due to your change in anatomy and lack of clothing your vagina was more prominent and easily noticeable.

Captain Caviar cookie stumbled on his words and averted his eyes, “H-here! Us cookies like to cover ourselves”

The flustered Captain hastily took off his coat from around his shoulders and helped you slide your arms in the sleeves, it felt weird..not bad but still very weird.

“Is this your shell?” this almost snapped him from his flustered state, “Shell?” “y’know? Your protection from predators? many of my little friends have shells!” Captain Caviar let out a hearty laugh, “Ooh, no no, we wear fabric, er- clothes for many different reasons, ‘course there's loads of different names for all kinds of clothes, but that's what it's generally called.” he couldn't help but find your curiosity endearing. You rubbed the fabric and admired how it felt.

The Captain buttoned the coat and offered you a hand, you hesitantly took it and attempted to stand, it was difficult and damn near impossible but you were determined.

After a couple of failed tries Captain Caviar cookie decided to speed up the process and yank you to your feet, causing you to yelp and fall forward against his awfully warm chest and taking a moment to inhale his scent, your free hand clung to his shoulder, claws threatening to dig into his dough at any moment. “Woah there! See I've gotcha!”

You wobbled from side to side, frightened by this foreign sensation in your new legs, your squeezed his hand and slowly pushed away from him, a terrified look on your face but still, you've literally fought plenty sea beasts before, this shouldn't have you feeling like this and yet it does because you feel so vulnerable. Besides your razor claws and teeth you didn't have much of an advantage. Though a little less now because you were being helped by a cookie with some scars that shows he's been through some tough battles himself and survived.

Not to mention just how much muscle he had, or how attractive he actually looked up close-

“Ah ha! There ya go, not shakin’ so much anymore, now let's try walkin’“ Captain Caviar put your arm over his shoulder and neck then went to your side. Candy Diver watched curiously, sounds of water splashing around inside of their suit.

They watched as Captain Caviar cookie began showing you how to walk, first by simply demonstrating lifting his legs and moving his joints and then gradually helping you to move on your own. After your first small step you already felt like you accomplished something big, however you seemed to bite off more than you could chew, you tried to take a big step and it resulted in you nearly collapsing, luckily Captain Caviar caught you just in time. After that you tried again and little by little you were able to take bigger steps, now the hardest part was doing it on your own.

You almost wanted to add to Captain Caviar's scars as you felt him pull away from you, though with his encouraging words you decided to swallow your fear and try to take a step on your own.

On the side, Candy Diver cookie decided that they were done playing in the sand and wiggled themselves out. After dusting Themselves off they ran to you two, “■■●○!!” You thought you could feel them telling you words of encouragement because of their body language but for all you knew they could have been cussing you out-

Regardless you tread on, your body is stiff, having the fear of face planting into the sand...Your focus began to switch to not get a mouth full of sand and before you knew it you were actually walking!

Strength was taking root in each step you took and you only noticed after you stopped and took a look back to see that you were about 10 feet away from Candy Diver cookie and Captain Caviar cookie. Candy Diver cookie was waving their hands in the air as a way to express their excitement and Captain Caviar wore a big grin, proud of your progress.

“Good! Now…it won't be easy gettin’ ya inside, we've still gotta go through town, hope yer up for a challenge!”

You were confident enough to declare that you could handle anything and thus the three of you walked from the beach through the town and you were practically gonna explode from all the different things you were seeing. Land cookies with such colorful shells! erm, clothes..! and the things they've built were just astonishing, sure you've seen a couple of their buildings from a far but to see them up close was a whole different experience.

Your sight seeing had to come to an end eventually, you soon made it to Captain Caviar's cave as you called it, Candy Diver was busy in a different part of the building, (tbh they were probably watching tv or something) “This is a very interesting cave, you sleep here?” “ain't no cave, this here is called a bedroom” carefully he led you to what he called his bed, where he slept and ohh did It feel heavenly against your palm.

Captain Caviar turned to go put some souvenirs he had from the adventure on his desk, meanwhile you remembered watching him button up his coat for you so you picked and pulled at the buttons till they came undone and you felt the air hit your bare skin and scales, you slid the coat off of you and collapsed onto the bed, giggling at how soft it felt. You kicked your legs a little, mimicking the way your tail would sway in the water whenever you were happy about something.

The cookie turned and immediately returned to his flustered state, “So soft! I always struggled to sleep back in the water, always had to look out for predators, strong currents, not to mention everywhere I slept was rarely ever as cozy as this..”

You stretched your arms and legs out on the bed to fully get every fell of it, looking over to see that Captain Caviar cookie wide eyed and slack jawed, you sat up, “are you alright Captain Caviar cookie?” unbeknownst to you, for land cookies it was very indecent and illegal- to just go around with nothing covering your privates.

Captain Caviar cookie realized this and tried his best to compose himself, your lives were very different for sure, really only similar via the love for water that's for sure.

He also realized that his crew were awaiting his arrival and he needed to go catch them up on everything that happened, and for now at least explain the situation with Candy Diver cookie cause trying to explain that he nearly died from a mermaid, befriended a ghost and now had another mermaid in his bedroom would be too much for them to handle and he was too tired to have to deal with all the questions.

“Uhh…YEAH! yeah…I uh…will be back soon, I have to go do some stuff, for now try to get some sleep ey?” your happiness faded a little, “you'll be back soon right?” fear crept up on you as you realized you were in unfamiliar territory with no way to navigate around it.

Captain Caviar only reassured you, “Come on now, mate! We've faced the most dangerous sea beast there is! Ain't a cookie here that can come close to that kind of power”

With that he bid you a goodbye and closed the door behind him.

It was starting to get dark and you already found yourself getting a little bored, you already explored around his entire room, the small trinkets to the pictures on the walls of him and his crew to his clothes. Eventually you returned to his bed and stretched your limbs, it dawned on you, you examined the space around you but you didn't get a chance to examine your own.

It started with just feeling your legs, your thighs, calves, feet, you suspected there were more names than just legs for the various different parts of them but for now you didn't bother thinking too hard about it.

You shifted to your side and wondered what they called this part of your behind that felt incredibly squishy, you wondered if it was used to break your fall, or maybe the extra dough was there to protect against a vital organ? No matter, all you cared about was how nice it felt to rub that area.

You really had no shame, it wasn't in your nature to want to feel shy or insecure about something that you were gifted, you weren't exposed to the cruel world of land cookies. The most you covered up was your chest which was literally only covered because you saw a couple mermaids weaving themselves various different patterned coverings using underwater plants.

Feeling up yourself had begun to make you feel hot and flustered and you knew all too well how to satisfy yourself. You sat up and began to peel away the plants on your chest, it was mostly kelp but there were other smaller kinds of plants in there too.

You didn't really know where to place the plants so you just did what you did best back when you were in the water, you ate them! You were hungry after a long and eventful day!

After your quick intermission was over you quickly returned to what you were previously doing, you quickly spread your legs and instantly began carefully dragging a finger up and down your whole vagina, you had to be careful, your claws were not retractable so unless you were so insatiably horny to the point you would break your claws off just to finger yourself then you just couldn't. Instead you always opted to simply rubbing your clit for satisfaction. Which wasn't bad, you weren't really interested in any of your species enough to want to mate with them.

You knew that the cookies here had customs and mating rituals far different than your species, you'll admit that you did see it happen once or twice so you have an overall idea of how courting and the whole process works.

Also hearing stories from a couple of mermaids she had small talk with, she came to the conclusion that unlike her species, who only mated for reproductive reasons, many land cookies did it simply for satisfaction and this is why after a night of getting too close to shore and definitely not being creepy- you watched from afar as a drunken cookie pleasured themselves in a secluded area by the beach and you tried to do it yourself.

Ever since learning of how good it felt to mate with yourself you always wanted to learn more about the things land cookies could do that their kind couldn't.

This time felt strange though, of course with the legs but also because one, you were on land, and two, you couldn't help but pick up on Captain Caviar's scent on the bed. Your main concern was the second one, you wondered why you decided to trust a cookie you only knew for a few hours, maybe you were unknowingly searching for a potential mate despite how picky you were. If you weren't interested in the ones in the sea maybe you could have better hope in the ones on land? which led you here.

‘Great, I might have gotten myself in a lot of mess because I wasn't thinking with my head! Worst part is that I don't hate this..’ you chastised yourself for trusting such a brute.

A brute that had a lot of strength and the muscles to prove it

A brute with such beautiful scars and intricate patterns on his body

A brute that helped you accomplish the impossible, walking on land

Any other cookie would've took advantage of that and took your gem, or so you've been told would happen if you were to encounter land cookies.

you whined, fingers picking up speed as you remembered how his body felt when you fell onto his chest, when your hand was on his shoulder and when your arm was wrapped around his it, it didn’t help that the bed, matter of fact the whole room was filled with his overwhelming scent, at first you didn't seem to notice nor care but now that you started to yearn for him the smell became so powerful that it made your legs quiver.

You couldn't deny it no longer, regardless of how short you knew this cookie for, you wanted to mate with him.

Just the thought of it sends you into a frenzy, your soft cries and whimpers increased in volume and length as you accepted this truth. You didn't exactly understand how the act would play out, nor did you fully grasp the entirety of having a mate but you knew that you desperately needed him.

You've been told that with the right partner, it would feel much better than simply rubbing yourself and oh did that thought rile you up further. Thinking about how many good qualities the Captain had made you only want him more, you were sure that with his experience and physique he would make a perfect partner. After all most mermaids wanted mates that were strong enough to protect them and their future offspring from danger. They were all very strong of course but a little extra protection never hurt, better safe than sorry.

Furthermore, you edged closer to your climax and by this point you could only let out small pants and Captain Caviar cookies name, your increasing body heat and pleasure mixed with the thought of him only added fuel to the fire until it was too much.

Your fantasies about him, unrealistic and possibly too upfront about what you wanted him to do to you was just what you needed to finally cum.

Just as you came you couldn't even speak anymore. All you could do was gasp for air as your body convulsed and quivered.

Soon your body slowly calmed down, just in time to, because you suddenly heard the sound of the doorknob turning, immediately you snapped out of your state and tried to act normal like you didn't just leave a wet spot on Captain Caviar's bed, you laid on your side and pretended to be sleeping, even going as far as to hug a pillow that undoubtedly made you throb a little down from the smell, it had his scent, the smell of salt water and a hint of something sweet to it.

They needed to be washed but you didn't know that nor did you really see a reason too, sure you literally had your juices on his bed but that was all for more reason not too! It showed that you were eager to mate!

Anyways, the door creaks open, in stepped Captain Caviar cookie, he looked a bit irritated, seems he had to do a little more than simply explain things to the Salty Sharks.

“damn Custard cookie, someone outta throw him and his blabber mouth to the barracudas…”

He looked at you, slowly starting to get used to your nakedness but not quite. your eyes were shut so you luckily didn't see the dark blush that formed on Captain Caviar's cheeks, You sniffed the air and instantly sprung up, still clutching the pillow. “Fish!”

He chuckled, holding two bags up, “Yup, assumin’ you ain't eat all day, went ahead an stopped by the market an picked up a couple for ya”

mental note, he provides for you, the list of reasons you wanted him was getting longer by mile.

He knew that you weren't like him and didn't have to cook your food before eating so he handled one of the bags of fish to you.

He had different looking fish than you, you were too busy trying to get to your meal that it didn't matter to you in the moment, immediately throwing the pillow to the side you ripped up the bag, nearly eating the plastic but being stopped by him in the process. You eventually got to the fish and you immediately began to chow down, definitely better than the old kale.

Captain Caviar's blush remained strong at the discovery of your lack of top but decided not to question it for now. He sat down next to you and began to take out his cooked fish and ate with less aggression than you. The smell of fish was strong but his smelt different, a rather good smell. The difference was starting to dawn on you, it was the same kind of fish but his looked darker and it had specs of something black, red and some orange sprinkled on top.

“Why is yours different? Is it not the same fish as mine?” he then had to explain to you the whole process of cooking food and adding seasoning to enhance the flavor. you rotated between staring at him and the fish intently a few times, trying your best to understand the process. It's seemed a lot to do to just make your food taste better.

You stared at his fish, the more he explained the more you wanted to try it, as if he read your mind he offered you a piece.

Carefully you set your own fish down and put your hand out and accepted the small offering.

Pulling your hand back you looked at the small piece and sniffed it for a second before shoving it in your mouth.

Almost immediately your eyes lit up.

You begun singing out praises about the taste, amazed at how land cookies are geniuses for coming up with this.(girl wait till u try a seafood boil)

You then thanked him and continued to eat your own fish, the two of you continued to talk for a while, you asked him questions about himself and he did the same for you.

You found out things like Captain basically meaning leader, and that he competed against many strong cookies and won. He couldn't help but laugh at your shocked expression.

Then whatever he asked you, you answered truthfully

You told him tales of your battles against giant deep sea squids, the time you just barely dodged getting impaled by a swordfish and one about when you wrestled a shark for the remains of a fresh kill to which you flipped the shark after seeing a few divers do it in the past and took your meal to your cave to eat by yourself.

You didn't stop there tho, you also told him about what It's like to be a mermaid, most would usually live in groups, families, however for you it was rather lonely and cold, the mermaids you knew were basically just neighbors, their homes not too far from your cave and you made conversation whenever yall came across eachother every now and then, shared a meal before but that was it.

he listened intently, he half expected your story to be...happier, calmer. he told you he heard stories from rather terrified sailors that many mermaids would cackle beneath the waves and poke holes in boats, even dolphin-dive across small boats to scare cookies for no reason.

You couldn't help but burst out laughing, you admitted that you've jumped over a few boats in your time to ease the boredom.

You both resumed your back and forth of times of the past, at one point while Captain Caviar rummaged through his bag and pulled out a can of beer. The sound of the can opening made you perk up.

…and just like that you had more questions and wanted to try whatever he was drinking, this time he was hesitant, telling you not everyone is a fan of the taste but after remembering that you kill and eat almost every part of what you kill, eyes, insides, bones etc for a living, he offered it to you, it was cold to the touch. You sniffed the can, the smell rather strong. when you took a sip you immediately regretted it, you tried your best to swallow but it burned your throat going down and you made that very clear by shaking your head and making a grossed out face.

He laughed louder than before, “Good right?” to which you protested, “Absolutely not! I take it back, not everything land cookies make are good!” earning another laugh from Captain Caviar cookie.

The rest of the night went well, aside from the whole bed situation, you licked up what you could and then wiped the blood and juices from the fish off your hands and onto the bed, catching him by surprise.

Sure you didn't like the reprimand he gave you for getting the blanket dirty but he did inform you that it needed to be cleaned, he grabbed both of your bags and went to throw one away, he took some stuff out the other, set them on the desk and threw the other away. When he turned back around you were already peeling away the sheets and pillow cases like he instructed, careful to only have him see the current mess and not the one from before he walked in.

You both walked to a new room, he told you this is the laundry room, that it was smaller than he would have liked but it got the job done which is what matters. You nodded, not really understand what he meant.

Another moment of teaching you how a washer and dryer works later and here you are sitting in front of the washer, head tilted and watching the blanket spin with the water again and again. Captain Caviar was in a different room showering and by the time he was done He returned to see you attempting to work the dryer, you managed to put the wet covers inside though you didn't know how to start it, you huffed and was seconds away from mashing the buttons before Captain Caviar approached you and showed you how to do it.

The next thing Captain Caviar showed you was showering, you did come from the sea so you were bound to have a lot of bacteria and grime on you, he wasn't sure how your body would react to soap so he added very little to the water. being submerged in water again made you want to go fully under but Captain Caviar advised you not to as the soap would burn your eyes, you grumbled but listened.

Though you did temporarily change back into your mermaid form so that you could feel a bit normal, albeit half your tail was sticking out of the tub.

It was weird scrubbing your body with this rag but if land cookies did this then you guess it shouldn't hurt

Next your eyes were squeezed shut and the Captain was washing your hair with a bit more soap, the scratching of your scalp made you relax and want to drift off to sleep, this was cut short as he grabbed a cup, filled it with water and poured it over your head.

oh well that ain't to bad either, just gotta make sure soap doesn't get in your eyes and mouth.

Some time passed, you were back in your legs and given a towel to dry yourself with while he went to take the covers out of the dryer and make the bed.

While drying, you notice yourself in the mirror, you've seen your reflection before but never this clearly, by both land and sea cookies you would be considered attractive and you were proud of that.

A small knock on the door made you jump, “ya good in there?”

His voice was a little muffled but still as naturally gruff "yes, you can come in”

He didn't even get to walk in all the way before you asked, “I can see myself, have you put magic upon this..this..?” You paused, not finding the right words to place upon this contraption.

“Nah, it's called a mirror, it shows you what you look like, another thing made by cookies but I myself have no idea how it's created so who knows, could have magic in it” he walked in and set a couple things on the counter, you looked at it, it looked like a very tiny brush, it would take forever to brush your hair with that.

Another learning lesson, you were eager but starting to become more and more tired by the minute.

Mint, he called it, the harsh stingy flavor in your mouth is called mint, you now assumed that these cookies must have crazy, using different scents to cover up your natural one was one thing but to brush your teeth was even more wild!

You didn't lIke the feeling of the brush and toothpaste on your mouth and was letting out small growls over it so he huffed and grabbed your jaw and gently squeezed to keep you in place, “Alright quit yer fussin, open up”

So here you were, getting your teeth brushed for the first time by a land cookie.

“Now spit it out in here n’ use some water to wipe ya mouth but don't rinse the inside, it can't do it's job if it doesn't sit for a while.” pretending you understood what he was yappin about you did as he instructed, spat it out in the sink, used to running water to wipe your mouth clean and even made sure your spit went down the drain.

All in all, it has been a very tiresome day for you both, moreover when he had you put on some shorts, via saying 'place it on the ground, step into the two holes and pull them up' as for a top he gave you one of his, he rarely wore them, only really covering himself in the colder months. Might as well get you used to clothes as soon as possible.

With all that out of the way you finally, finally got to go back to the bedroom.

and with that you ended the night off by sleeping under a fresh blanket next to Captain Caviar.

You tried to keep your distance but ended up clunging to him like a remora on a shark

★Timeskip★

It's been a few months now

During that time Candy Diver cookie and you met the Salty Sharks and became part of the crew. It was hard for many of them to wrap their dough around the fact that they had a ghost and a mermaid on board with them now but eventually they've grown to accept it and actually like you two.

You've learned the ropes around the land here and on the ship, an especially good help on repairing the bottoms of ships because you were immune to getting soggy.

It was a lot of work sometimes but of course through all this you stayed close to Captain Caviar cookie and Candy Diver cookie, after that near death experience the three of you went through it proved a great opportunity to share your sides of the story and further scare rookie cookie.

With the help of Captain Caviar cookie you were able to get yourself your own place to stay, you insisted on a small place because you would really only return there to change clothes and sleep. Over time you really began to find your style and fell in love with clothes, you'd spend the money you and your crew mates received after long voyages mostly on clothes, you were told by a few to start saving a little just in case so you did so without really seeing a need to.

You rarely turn the lights on in your home, always got food from returning to sea and hunting or bought from the market, never used the air conditioning or heating, heck the only thing you really used in your home was the water.

Though..as of recently you've grown a habit, one only growing worse the more you were around a certain Captain.

You wanted to deny it, suppress it however you could, you truly did, but your body knew what it desired. It was that time when the women of your species went into heat.

Each night you'd return to your home desperately trying to simmer down the wetness pooling between your legs, with how limited your situation was it would take a couple rounds of playing with your pussy to fully be satisfied for the time being before it would creep back up the next morning.

It was taking a toll on you and was starting to affect your day to day life. You went shopping less and only went to the market. You feared if you dared enter the waters during this time you'd have to fight off men left and right.

You were thankful you conveniently weren't supposed to go on another voyage for another few weeks but this didn't mean you were off the ship, when y'all were stationery you were tasked with various things, the more experienced cookies did internal repairs and check ups, while others cleaned and gathered supplies.

On the ship you could barely keep up with your tasks, you were either tired from the long and vigorous night before, or you were often In a daze, standing still and daydreaming of heated scenarios that would make you hot and bothered, hence why you always ended up being exhausted the next day.

You had to make up lies to not worry the others, many of them consisted of, “Nightmares” “My neighbor's were fighting again haha” and “I stayed up watching TV again”

Word that you refused to clean the bottom of the ships as usual multiple times eventually got to Captain Caviar cookie, you were a mermaid so this shouldn't be something you had a problem with. Seeing as he genuinely cared for the well being of his crew he wanted to confront you about this but there you were, already finished scrubbing the deck the best you could and off, in a rush to get home.

As you made long strides you heard one of them shout at you in the distance, “Hey scales! Ya best get back here! Ya still have lots to do y'know!”

Still, you walk a little faster even till you were nearly out of sight. The Captain decided to take matters into his own hands, he asked what happened and after being caught up he decided to go after you, putting one of the more experienced cookies in charge till he got back.

He knew where you were going, there's no way you'd abandon your duties to buy clothes, as for food, when you were hungry you used to jump right off the ship to catch your meals so food wasn't the problem here. By the direction he knew you were heading home, if you were tired you could've slept on the ship so that crosses that off the list of potential reasons in his mind.

Your house was so close now and you wasted no time in making the last few steps a little quicker, relief washed over you the moment you got that door open, that desire was taking over your senses more and more but you still remembered to close the door behind you.

You almost smiled now that you were alone, it had been rough all day trying not to touch yourself. The thin walls where everyone slept wasn't a good place to relieve yourself because you were quite loud, even if you were to cover your mouth or bite down on something you wouldn't have been able to hide your moans.

Basically in your eyes you did all of your crewmates a favor by not having them hear you every single night but this was far from the truth, whenever you'd randomly disappear it would just leave another poor cookie to finish your work for the day..

You got to your room and grabbed an old piece of clothing from the day before and fell to your bed, learning from your mistake of getting Captain Caviar cookies bed wet with your juices you made sure to put something under you for easier clean up.

You got your pants and drenched underwear off as quick as you could, your heat was getting harder to deal with, it would appear that it would only increase the longer you went without properly mating with someone, it would eventually go away after a few weeks but it hadn't even been a single week and you were already at your limit.

You didn't bother with much teasing and went straight to abusing your clit as always, sometimes your fingers went down to gather lubricant seeping out before returning to the place they gave the most attention.

To your surprise you came rather quick this time, however you knew this wasn't the end. As your body jolted and convulsed, after your insides tightened around nothing and your legs locked up..you were still extremely horny.

This was frustrating, you were actually considering gnawing off your claws in order to satiate that need to be filled..

[Knock knock knock!]

“Y/n cookie! I know yer in there! Heard ya been actin funny lately so I came to check up on ya!”

your half lidded eyes shot open, no, no no no!

He can't be here right now, you were busy, did he follow you to your house!?

You practically threw yourself off the bed and rushed to get your pants and underwear back on, chastising yourself when you almost left without swiping the old cloth off the bed.

“DON’T UH- don't come in! I'm fine Captain Caviar cookie! I just needed to do something! I'll be back on the ship in a bit!”

As you came closer to the door you heard him scoff, “I don't buy that one bit, word ‘round the ship is that you've done this many times before, just what has ya rushin home in the middle of work everyday?”

Your face dropped, you fell silent, you couldn't tell him that you were becoming a problem on ship simply because you wanted to masterbate.

Your silence was alarming and his voice sounded concerned, “Is there somethin serious goin on with you Y/n cookie…?”

You swallowed, you didn't want to do this but for the sake of not keeping him in the dark you figured it's best that you told him what was troubling you, he's heard all about the life of mermaids from you, why would he be freaked out by this..?

Slowly, you opened the door little by little, revealing your restless state, “Woah! What in the world happened to you!?”

It took you a moment to get your words together, you didn't look him in the eye when you spoke.

“If I tell you, you promise not to be..freaked out..?”

His concern only grew but he nodded and made the promise to you, with that confirmation you opened the door fully and invited him inside.

Your home was very small and you didn't bother with much furniture so you simply took him to your bedroom. You sat down, him following behind you and sitting next to you.

your body was tense, eyes shut and you concentrated on how to explain this to him, you eventually sighed.

“Okay, here we go..”

Swallowing your fear of his reaction you began.

“Captain Caviar cookie..I've told you all about my life as a mermaid, especially about how friendships and relationships work”

He raised a brow, did one of them sea-cookies catch your eye? Nah, that wouldn't really explain leaving the ship abruptly and coming all the way here.

He nodded and urged you to continue, eager to get to the bottom of this.

“Well..around this time it is what you would call our..”

Your eyes stared into the floor so intensely you could practically burn holes through the wood.

“..mating..season..”

The silence that fell was deafening, oh gosh, you knew you shouldn't have said anything.

Maybe you should've just plunged into the sea and picked some random mate after all, it would've saved you some trouble.

“Ah…so that's why ya been sneakin off the past few days ey?”

You didn't want to guess what his face looked like right now, his voice was quiet though you guessed he'd either be confused or disgusted.

“Yes, it's only getting stronger and I have yet to..properly mate” he hummed, the quietness returned.

With all that off your chest it was now Captain Caviar cookies turn to speak, “Well Y/n cookie I gotta say, that was…a lot, I'm glad ya had the courage to tell me this”

“For whatever It's worth, I'm with ya till the end of the line n’ I hate to see ya have to isolate yourself like this, so…” he trailed off. This time it was him who looked away and you who looked over at him.

“If ya need help to uh- get rid of this problem of yours I could help ya out..only-if-ya-want-of-course-!” With every word both of you blushed further.

All anxiety and fear you felt was thrown out the window at this, you placed your hand on his making him finally look at your face.

You gulped and spoke,

“Yes, please Captain Caviar cookie..I need you..”

Just as you said that he leaned in and placed a kiss on your lips, you could smell his sudden spike in arousal.

You gripped his shoulder as the kiss deepened.

His hands moving to pull you closer to him made your body rise in temperature.

His rough hands against your dough was driving you crazy, you two broke the kiss to catch your breath and you whimpered at the attention you were getting at last.

You gasped when he placed his hand over your clothed pussy, rubbing the area in a slow circular motion. The hand on his shoulder moved to his forearm, squeezing it so that he wouldn't pull away.

“If my observation is correct, ya haven't been able to properly touch yourself cause of them claws right?” he was closer to you now, you felt his own body heat at this point. You nodded, lidded eyes focused on his large hand against your growing heat.

“Poor thing, let's get these off ya” following suit you slid your pants and underwear off with his help, a thin strand of your slick sticking to your underwear didn't go unnoticed by the sharp eyes of Captain Caviar cookie.

He smiled and shed his coat, discarding it to the side of the bed.

You desperately wanted him to touch you all over, “Please touch me again..! Your hand feels so different compared to mine”

He nodded and got close enough to where he was now kissing and slightly nipping at your neck. All the while his hand returned to your heat. His fingers drew long strokes up and down, instantly earning a whine. “Ahh..I've missed seeing this…” he breathes against your neck, fingers now playing with your clit, now that you weren't doing the work it felt much better, also since you were lowkey crushing on him ever since you first came on land…

His finger slid down to your opening and your breath hitched, he slowly slid a finger into you, stiling for a moment. His finger was pretty thick so he did what he could to get you used to it, it was your first time having something inside you.

At first there was a small sting of pain that made you flinch, to help with it Captain Caviar cookie used his thumb to rub your clit a little to take your mind off of the pain. Eventually it did and you were back to panting and letting out soft noises.

You weren't sure what you wanted or how to say it so you pleaded for more of whatever he was doing.

He obliged and gradually pulled his finger half way out and then sunk it back into your wet hole.

You squirmed, legs spreading a bit, trying to get more of whatever this was, he saw your desperation and it was getting to him. As his finger got faster and your moans increased he felt himself get turned on further. A throbbing that was beginning to become painful by the second.

He did his best to keep his focus on you, you just looked so mesmerizing and the sounds you made went straight to his dick

Being bold he pulled all the way out, added a second finger and then slid them deep inside, “ha..ah..Captain Caviar cookie-!”

The sweet sensation of his fingers moving around inside you, a place that you desperately wanted to touch for a very long time, along with his thumb against your clit was sending you over the edge.

Your body was beginning to quiver, a hand returning to his forearm. “Faster please..”

Oh, you shouldn't have said that, cause that was this cookies que to start being a little rough with you. His fingers went as deep as they could and with more vigor, they curled around your tightening walls making you cry out.

The noises your mouth made were loud but not loud enough to cover the squelching sounds coming from your hole.

“Can't-! I..I can't-! Please Captain..I'm g-gonna..” Captain Caviar cookie couldn't contain himself, he let out a few small groans, wrapping an arm around you and bringing you as close to himself as possible. Your delicious sounds were getting him worked up even though he hadn't touched himself once. “I got ya, I got ya…” he cooed at you.

Despite how good everything felt, you subtly wanted to make him feel good too, with your free hand you placed it on his thigh, dragging it onto his crotch. In response he groaned a little louder, he felt hot and hard under your touch.

His scent was intoxicating more than ever before, it was already hard to deal with normally but with his added arousal you couldn't control yourself.

Your knees suddenly buckled, body stiffening and the middle of your back arching little by little, without thinking your hand squeezed around his crotch, making him shudder and grunt.

“There ya go, doing so good…” His words spurred you on further, familiar waves of your orgasm came but felt more intense seeing as you were giving your body what it wanted.

It took you a moment to get your breathing under control, getting fingered for the first time was…something.

Speaking of, he looked at his soaked fingers and without thinking, he lapped up your essence, causing you to question his sanity. Was this a normal practice mates do? On land and in the seas you've never seen such things before however that doesn't mean you didn't find it attractive.

Captain Caviar cookie made sure to lick up every trace of you off his hand, he's tasted countless amounts of things in his time, from the disgusting mudshakes and salt water juice that he was forced to get used to…to fancy foods he couldn't even pronounce the names of thanks to Oyster cookies extravagant parties and dinners she hosted often.

Regarding how good you tasted, he made a mental note to get another taste in the future, whether that be later tonight or at a later date.

“ya okay there mate?” His voice was hardly one of concern this time, it was low and more ragged.

Instead of responding verbally you let your actions speak for you, you leaned over and kissed him once more, this time adding tongue to it, his tongue, saliva, his scent, everything of him was addictive and you couldn't get enough, eventually the ache between your legs returned and you pulled away with a high pitched whine.

“I'm assumin ya ain't satisfied yet ay?” you nodded, ashamed that his efforts didn't fully satiate your hunger but this didn't disappoint him. Rather, he chuckled to your shock, “That's good to hear Y/n cookie, here let's get this off”

Looking down at your top you hastily remove it, leaving Captain Caviar cookie to see all of you again.

Now that he had your permission to actually look at your naked form he admired every part of you.

You ease yourself back against the mattress, sitting up on your forearms, you gazed up at him, awaiting his next move.

He came down to your level, one forearm supporting his weight and the other one already getting acquainted with your boobs and eventually your nipples.

You squirmed under his touch, you rubbed your thighs together in a pitiful attempt to relieve the buzzing feeling down there currently increasing once more. His tongue lapped at one of your nipples while a hand rubbed the other.

You laid there and softly moaned from the strange feeling, all the pampering you were receiving was nauseating, you couldn't think of being anywhere else or with anyone else.

By this point, with your feelings growing over the past few months you knew deep down that this wasn't just the work of your heat cycle causing your need for Captain Caviar cookie, it was simply making those feelings more Intense, going against your instincts of finding someone of the same species and getting it over with, you chose to suffer just to hope of some day claiming this cookie as your mate.

It seems that the divines were extra kind with you because you were able to make this happen after all.

You weren't the only one either, during voyages and whenever you and many of your crew hit the town for a night of fun you failed to notice Captain Caviar cookie being at your side more than he would be with other cookies. Sure he made sure nobody got hurt, that rookie cookie got juice instead of alcohol, and that Candy Diver got a change of the freshest water in their helmet-

He kept his eye on you more than any other cookie.

On the deck, when things were calm you all would chat, crack jokes and play games together you and Captain Caviar cookie found yourselves laughing extra hard at each other's jokes and teasing.

There was much more to it, there were times you found yourself at his door because you couldn't sleep, at that time you did your best not to make it seem like anything more than just asking for help and comfort.

All this time it felt one-sided..

..it most definitely was not one-sided, that's for sure.

Just your presence drove him mad, he was thankful that he knew how to keep a stern face for the sake of his title and reputation as the Captain of the Salty Sharks, while everyone slept peacefully in the ship he had a problem with getting a little behind on paperwork because he couldn't keep his mind off of you.

If only you knew how many times he was either on his bed or sitting at his desk and jacking off to the thought of you, watching you lean over the side of the ship to watch the waves or how you'd be on all fours scrubbing the little nooks and crannies of the ship you were stationed at…

Heck, maybe he could smell your arousal just as you could with him.

“Crumbs..you feel amazing” was all you could say through heavy pants and needy sobs, you couldn't stay still for a second.

every lick and suck, pull, and rub had you gripping onto the sheets beneath you.

He looked up at your flushed face, mouth gaped, and tears threatened to fall down your cheeks.

Seeing you like this was getting him more riled up than he expected. He groaned against your soft dough, the light vibrations making you moan once more.

Eventually, he decided to show you a little sympathy, Captain Caviar cookie pulled away from you, a thin string of saliva keeping him connected for a moment longer before he wiped his mouth with a toothy grin.

“haha, sorry mate…this ole’ sea dog couldn't get enough of ya” true to his word, he kissed your forehead and caressed your cheek.

Captain Caviar cookie carefully took your hand and placed it on his rather large bulge

You didn't need his help to begin trying to make him feel good.

He inhaled sharply, “Feel that? It's all for you…” You whined, him giving himself to you so easily was already too much.

After a minute of massaging his covered cock he fully pulled away and off the bed to your dismay.

You watched as he pulled off the pieces of clothing that hid his bulge.

Aside from the gold adorning his arms and dog tags, he was completely naked.

As you learned, he had a couple more tattoos previously hidden by his pants

You drank up his full appearance, “woah..you look lovely” you spoke gently to him

Happy with your comment he climbed back onto the bed, this time he wasn't at your side. Captain Caviar cookie had put himself between your legs.

You felt his cock lay against your folds, it was way bigger than his fingers.

Definitely longer too, you stared at what you were dealing with. A small twinge of fear and curiosity crept up on you, and it showed on your face clear as day.

Seeing your face, he reassured you, bringing up your many strengths and acts of courage he's both heard and seen from you.

They had no relation to the current situation, but they did highlight how you've looked danger and death in the eye many times and didn't back down, which was still a pretty cute gesture.

The small confidence boost helped ease you up. You gave him your consent to resume.

He did fear that he would hurt you. Two of his fingers weren't enough to properly prepare you for him

Bracing himself against your sopping wet pussy he tried not to just sink all the way down to the base in one go-

He slowly began to push himself inside, immediately you let out a whimper to voice your discomfort

Captain Caviar cookie rubbed your thigh, going a little slower to try and make it easier for you.

He did stop once he was about halfway in. Giving you small praises to comfort you the best he could, he further checked up on you, made sure you were still okay with this and when you let him know that the pain lessened he pushed in more, of course because of how much he was packing he couldn't get his full length inside.

Once he hit that spongy wall, he finally stilled.

The both of you were panting, in a daze from this strong feeling. Captain Caviar cookie bit his lip to keep some restraint and sanity for the sake of your wellbeing, but it was so hard. You felt incredibly tight and hot, it left him shaking ever so slightly.

You were no better, you felt so full, stretched beyond your limit, the tip of his cock kissed the entrance of your cervix and dared not to pull away.

It took a while, but eventually, after a few heated kisses and more reassuring words, you granted him permission to start moving.

He nodded, pulling halfway out and slowly sinking back in. You two barely even started, and yet the both of you felt like coming undone at any moment.

There was still a bit of pain, though, with every roll of his hips meeting yours that oh so familiar feeling was becoming stronger.

That feeling of immeasurable pleasure was taking root, and you didn't want it to end

You laid all the way down and wrapped your arms around Captain Caviar cookies neck, bringing him closer to you

“I need more..h-ah! please!” Your heat only worsened the more rough with you he got, but you really couldn't care.

Your mind was turning into putty with every thrust, holding back your words became impossible, you spewed out breathless babbles of how much you wanted him for so long, how you used to get off to the thought of him and it eventually slipped out that you wanted him to breed you..

All this time, he'd been careful not to hurt you in any way, but when you practically begged him to fill you up?

He just couldn't hold himself back anymore

You didn't think much of the weight of your words cause your mind was turning into mush by that point, but he did, within the span of a few seconds he slid his arms around your waist in a tight hold.

His body fell forward against yours, pinning you to the mattress, unable to move nor squirm much under his weight.

His shark-like teeth sunk into your neck, effectively marking you and further restricting your movements.

Now he truly began to fuck you properly, a new drive to truly mate with you gave him the energy to become a more ruthless version of himself.

Tears streamed down your cheeks. You sobbed and cried out, you could only lay there and take his cock deep in your weeping pussy, your back arched, chest squished against his.

Your legs trembled as you felt a sweet coiling from within, you were about to cum so soon, “C-Captain! Captain Caviar- I'm about to..to cum!”

Your cries were heard but disregarded, with no encouragement or reassurance this time.

The only response you got from Captain Caviar cookie was a guttural moan against your neck that was now starting to bleed strawberry jam.

He didn't stop or show any sign of stopping anytime soon, so you had no choice but to cum all over his dick.

Your pussy fluttered and tightened around him, it was too much for you, you found yourself becoming an overstimulated mess under him. You had no time to calm down and recover from it.

You clawed at his back, effectively leaving your own form of markings on his dough.

Your legs began to feel how they felt when you first transformed into a land cookie, like jelly.

After your first orgasm he proceeded to keep you in that position till you came once more, he then gave you a less than 30 second break because in reality what you thought was the end was simply a position change.

He had you on your stomach now so that he could reach a hand down and overstimulate your poor pussy more by rubbing circles around your clit while he pounded away at your insides. He was as cruel as ever, not moving his hand away for a while even when you came again.

Did I mention that he did in fact cum inside you twice during this? He definitely made a mess inside and outside, it was way too much to keep inside and so a lot of his cum got on your thighs and sheets.

He then had you lying flat on your back again, using his fingers to fuck his thick cum back inside you.

You asked him to breed you so he was going to make sure he did just that, all the while abusing your clit once more, sucking on it and swirling his tongue around it.

Your body was coated in sweat. You could barely keep your eyes open anymore. Nearing another orgasm you placed your hands on his head. Firmly keeping him in place while you focused on reaching yet another strong orgasm.

Sure that you were utterly and though roughly bred, he finally gave you your long-awaited break.

Captain Caviar cookie gave you whiplash with how quick his gentle demeanor returned like he didn't just give you life changing front and back shots-

He climbed up and laid next to you, doting on you, asking if you were alright and giving you light pecks and massaging your dough.

Even though you were pretty tired, you did your best to tend to him, giving him your own small kisses and praise.

You both cuddled each other, you nuzzled against him, exhausted after all of that.

Captain Caviar cookie made a small joke about how you won't cause trouble on board anymore.

You then proceeded to double down on it, mentioning that sure your fellow shipmates wouldn't have to force you to do your work, but now he would be the one dealing with you from then on.

…and soon another

……and possibly more

Captain Caviar cookie wondered, now that this was set in stone, what would your offspring look like...??

Would they have a tail? legs?

He decided not to think too much about it for now; Captain Caviar cookie preferred to only think of you right now.

You both really needed to do a lot, a bathroom break, shower, and a change of sheets.

Buuuttttt that can wait a few minutes, you two needed to rest up for a moment to even have enough energy to do all that after all...♥︎

there's plenty of fish in the sea, am I right(GET OUT-)

I didn't expect this bs to be this long if you made it this far I'm so sorry I have a fixation on mermaids and this stupid cookie💔

#cookie run smut #captain caviar cookie #Captain caviar cookie x reader #salty shark crew #candy diver cookie #crk smut #crk x reader

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