#free reader insert | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

godmadeaterribleerror · 27 days ago

Text

I Could Have You

Main Masterlist

Read on A03!

Tags: Dean Winchester/Female Reader, Love Confessions, Smut (p in v, oral both receiving), light angst, soulmates, sex pollen, no use of y/n

Summary/Warnings: Dean is hit with a lust spell, and it doesn't seem to only be effecting him. No one's really sure why, and Dean refuses to give in to the curse, so you'll just ride this out.

You'll defiantly be able to just ride this out.

Author's Note: I had a lot of fun with this one, I hope you enjoy it!

Title from Normal Fucking Rockwell by Lana Del Ray

Word Count: 6k

You’re losing your mind.

Your skin is on fire, your back is flat on the cold bathroom floor, and you’re moaning and whining and bucking into the air but nothing is fixing this. Nothing is relieving you, not your fingers or the pillows or the toy a very red-faced Sam had bought you. Nothing is going to save you, because only one, stupid, handsome, selfless idiot can, and he’s suddenly too good to just fuck you.

Hell, that idiot is the only reason this is happening. According to Sam and Bobby, Dean got hit with a sex spell in Colorado, you started whimpering for him in South Dakota, and you’re not allowed to have sex with him for… reasons.

Reasons no one seems willing to fully share with you, but reasons.

You know Dean wants you. You’ve known he wants you. Neither of you have ever been able to do something about that—never going beyond flirting and lingering touches and stares—but you’re certain he feels the same way. Maybe not the exact same way, because you want whatever Dean offers you, his body or mind or heart or very soul, but you know he’s attracted to you. And if the countless little pieces of evidence you’ve hoarded in your brain—winks and smirks and long, apperceive scans of your body—weren’t enough for you to know, this was. You’d heard Dean roar your name from outside Bobby’s cabin as the Impala door slammed. You’d seen the feral, lust-blown expression on his face as he’d charged at you. Sam had tackled him to the ground as you’d grown a little dizzy with need, and Bobby grabbed your wrist, dragging you upstairs. Away from Dean, from the cure, from his big hands and soft mouth and huge-

“You’re gonna need to stay in here.” Bobby had muttered, refusing to meet your eyes as he shuffled out of the room. “Least until we get Dean’s head right, or figure out what the hell is going on.”

It’s been almost a day, and they’ve made almost no progress. From Sam’s last update, all they’re certain of is: Sex spell, you and Dean, no other options except you and Dean.

“What do you mean no other options,” you’d said, leaning up to frown at Sam. “Did Dean-“

“No.” Sam shakes his head, giving you a sheepish expression. “I mean, Bobby and I suggested it, but he said no.”

“Oh,” you’d mumbled, falling back down on the mattress. “Why?”

Sam had shrugged, leaning into your line of vision. “Do you want to have sex with me?”

“No, Sam, what the fuck-“

“That’s why.”

He’d stood up and left, and you hadn’t had a clue what the hell he was talking about. Sure, you didn’t want to have sex with him, but he was like a brother to you. Dean, somehow, wasn’t. Dean was Dean. And it wasn’t like you’d say no to a random, no-strings attached hookup right now-

Something had tugged in your gut, and you’d realized—staggering to the toilet and vomiting up your lunch—that you could not do a random hookup. You wanted Dean. You needed him. You might die if you didn’t get him, and it had to be him, and he must feel it too, but when you’d asked Sam he said no.

“No?!” You’d rolled over on the floor to glare up at him, wishing you could find the strength to surge up and punch him in his stupid, apologetic face. “What do you mean No?!”

“Dean, um,” Sam had sighed again, and if he kept doing that you were going to kick him in the balls. “He made us lock him in the safe room. He won’t come out until we cure him.”

“Why did he-“ You’d cut yourself off as it hit you, another, softer wave of sickness rolling over your body. The sickness lived in your heart. This sickness was made of the tragic reality that Dean might want you, but he didn’t want you. Maybe that was why he’d never made a move. Maybe he was attracted to you physically, but couldn’t see you like that, and didn’t really want to try to.

Maybe Dean was disgusted by the idea. Maybe he hated that his body found you hot, because he thinks of you like you think of Sam.

“Oh,” you’d rolled back onto your stomach, and prayed Sam would leave soon so you could go back to humping the floor. “Okay.”

Sam had said your name, waiting until you hummed an acknowledgment to continue. “We’re going to fix this-“

“I know.” You’d let out a long, slow breath, curling into your own body. “We always do.”

They would fix this. And then you’d have to look Dean in the eyes, and find a way to be okay with his rejection. Teach yourself how to not turn into a pining dumbass, chasing after someone who obviously didn’t want you. You wouldn’t lose him, he was your best friend, but you’d also have to learn to pretend it didn’t feel like your heart hadn’t just been ripped out of your chest and stomped on.

And now you’re here. Hoping Sam and Bobby will fix this soon, crawling into the empty bathtub to try and sleep. The bed is too warm, too intimate, to inviting of fantasies that will never be reality. Daydreams of Dean’s hands on you, trailing over your skin and setting of little sparks as he maps your body. Those same hands pushing open your thighs, two of his fingers teasing over your pussy, his mouth wrapping around your nipple as he started pumping and scissoring and crooking inside you-

There’s a knock on the bathroom door, and you yank your own fingers out of your cunt, wiping them on the towel as you speak, your voice far too hoarse. “Yeah, Sam?”

“Not Sam.” Bobby grumbles, his voice slightly muffled through the door. “You decent?”

You toss a towel over your body, having long abandoned clothing. “Yep, is everything-“

You cut yourself off as Bobby pushes the door open, his face angled up to avoid you.

“I said I’m decent, Bobby, you can look.”

He grunts, and you sit up a little straighter, making your voice a little firmer.

“It’s weirder if you don’t, you know.”

Bobby nods, his gaze slowly dropping to yours as he sits on the toilet, bracing his arms on his knees. “Sorry.” He mutters. “Ain’t tryin’ to make it uncomfortable. Just not lookin’ to see one of my, uh-“

“I know,” you sigh, leaning your head back on the tile. “I get it. Must be weird seeing Dean as well.”

“Eh.” Bobby shrugs. “I’ve walked in on him with lady company before, this ain’t new-“

“But it’s new with me?” You ask, raising your brows, and Bobby glares at you.

“I didn’t help raise you girl. And you’re just as important to me as those boys, but you’re also a girl. I mean, not a girl, but I don’t got those parts-“

“Jesus, Bobby.” You mumble, bringing your knees up to your chest. “I’m teasing. I know what you mean, I promise, just,” you swallow, shaking your head slightly. “Sorry. I’m tired.”

Bobby rolls his eyes, but his voice becomes a little softer, and far less panicked. “That ain’t nice, kid, you’re gonna give an old man a heart attack.”

“You’d be fine. I know CPR.”

He gives you a flat look. “We both know you ain’t in any condition to give me CPR.”

You wave him off. “I’d call Sam.”

“He wouldn’t hear you, he’s down in the panic room with-“

Bobby cuts himself off, and you roll your head to the side, giving him a bored glare.

“You can say his name, Bobby.”

“Fine.” He grunts. “Sam’s down checkin’ on Dean. He,” Bobby frowns at the air. “He still ain’t listenin’ to reason.”

You hum, hoping Bobby doesn’t notice how you’ve moved the towel between your thighs, just for something. “Reason?”

“We don’t have anythin’ to cure this except, uh, that way.” Bobby mutters. “And he’s still insistin’ we keep him chained up.”

“Ah.” You swallow. “Awesome.”

Bobby says your name, and it’s gentle. Like he’s consulting a child who’s had a nightmare, instead of a grown woman who was just finger-fucking herself in a tub. “You don’t gotta pretend this ain’t hurtin’ you.”

“I mean, it doesn’t feel good-“

“Not the spell.” Bobby says, and you frown at him.

“What-“

“Dean. He’s bein’ a fuckin’ dumbass, and you don’t need to act like he’s not.”

Your voice drops to a whisper. “He’s not what?”

“Killin’ you.” Bobby grunts, scanning over your face. “Rippin’ your heart out and take a big fat shit on it.”

You grimace. “That’s gross, Bobby-“

“Truth ain’t always sunshine and glitter-“

“It’s not the truth!” You snap, your voice suddenly harsh as something wilts and twists in his your chest. “I’m fine! I get it! Dean doesn’t want to do that, and that’s not his fault.”

Bobby leans back on the toilet, holding your glare with his own. “Why do you think you and Dean are the only idjits gettin’ hit by this? Why isn’t Sam humpin’ pillows and leavin’ stains on my walls?”

You feel a rush of heat from that thought—the image of Dean fucking into his hand flashing through your mind and leaving a mark between your thighs—and your voice is almost a squeak. “Because Dean’s the one that got hit?”

“Sam says he was in the line of that bitch’s fire too. But only Dean got,” Bobby makes a vague gesture over you. “This.”

“I don’t-“

“And Sam ain’t in love with his fuckin’ brother, so he was safe.”

You flush, gaping at Bobby for a long, wired silence, and when you speak your voice is a squeak.

“I- I’m, I’m not in love with Dean. I mean, maybe I have a crush, or something, but that’s, that’s not love-“

Bobby gives you a flat, disbelieving look. “You feel safer ‘round him?”

“Yeah, but I-“

“You laugh at all his jokes?”

“Maybe, but he can be funny-“

Bobby mutters your name, shaking his head. “I love that boy like a son, and he ain’t half as funny as he thinks he is.”

You frown. “He’s funny-“

“He can be,” Bobby shrugs. “But his jokes ain’t all winners. And you laugh at every single oneof ‘em. And,” he sighs, rubbing his beard. “He laughs at all’a your jokes.”

“Hey.” You scowl. “I’m a riot-“

“Didn’t say you weren’t. But even you can miss, girl. And he never seems to care.”

“So?” You shuffle on the floor, desperate not to starting grinding on the air in front of Bobby, but getting more and more wet from just the mention of Dean. “We’re friends, friends laugh at each other’s jokes-“

“Do friends get connected by sex spells ‘cross state lines?”

“I dunno,” you mumble. “Never been hit by a sex spell before.”

“You weren’t hit by one,” Bobby snaps your name, starting to sound exasperated. “Dean was. And that’s my damn point. Sam and I, we,” he sighs, giving you a long, confusing look. “We got it. We know what’s goin’ on.”

“Fuck,” you sit up, glowering at him. “Why didn’t you lead with that-“

“Cause you ain’t gonna like it.” Bobby grunts. “It’s an old location spell. Back in the day rich assholes would cast it on their highest eldest sons, so he could find his,” Bobby cringes, his last word pushed through his teeth. “Mate.”

“Mate?” You repeat, letting out a dry, huffing laugh. “What are we, fucking dogs-“

“Soulmate.” Bobby mutters, giving you a look that might have been sympathetic, or kind, or pitiful, but you’re suddenly a little dizzy and can’t really think or see.

“That’s not,” you shake your head. “No, Bobby, soulmates aren’t real-“

Bobby says your name, his voice stern. “You should know better than to say somethin’ like that in our line of work. Sam called Cas, and he said they’re real, but population increases or somethin’ made them ‘logistically impossible’, so they aren’t on the shop line no more.”

“But- But wouldn’t we have like, I don’t know, noticed? If that was true?”

“You shoulda.” Bobby shrugs. “Cas seemed pretty shocked you hadn’t. Said he had assumed you knew, because the pull is like a magnet or some shit. Spell’s only an enhancer, to move the train along.”

“So why-“

“You hopped in right after Dean got back from hell.” Bobby mutters. “Dean’s soul mighta been fucked enough not to recognize you. Spell mighta jumpstarted it.”

“Oh.”

“Yep.”

It’s a few minutes before you speak again, and Bobby waits patiently as you spiral. Down, down, down in your head, trying to rationalize how this could possibly be true. It couldn’t be true. There was no way it was true. Sure, you’ve liked Dean since you first met him, from the moment he introduced himself with a cocky grin, smirk, and fake name. You liked him even more when you called him out on his fake name, and he’d just chuckled, figured out you were a hunter, and offered to buy you a drink. You’d liked him when that drink had turned into a long, sleepless night of only conversation, and when you’d joined him and Sam on the road. And you’d kept thinking of him like that, and you thought of him all the time, but that didn’t mean anything. You didn’t love him. It’s not like you feel better when you wake up in a motel bed and he’s next to you, or a smile always tugs at your lips whenever he so much as looks at you, or the thought of him being in alone or pain makes you physically ill. It’s not like, if he grabbed your hand and told you he was done with hunting—the only life you’d ever both known—then asked you to join him in a boring, easy apple pie life you’d immediately say yes and kiss him, because you’ll go wherever he goes and he’s the only person you’ve ever really-

Oh.

You might be in love with Dean.

You might be soulmates with Dean.

“What, um,” you swallow, watching Bobby carefully. “What did Dean think? Of this?”

“We have told him yet.” Bobby’s jaw ticks, holding your gaze. “We ain’t sure he’ll-“

“Yeah.” You whisper, turning your attention back to the ceiling. There’s a little crack on it. Jagged and split through the white paint, easy to stare at and get lost in. Helpful in pretending this doesn’t hurt like a bitch. “Okay.”

Bobby mutters a promise of at least trying to talk some sense into Dean, but you both know his words are empty. Because Dean won’t believe this. It won’t be a matter of you and Dean, it will just be Dean, believing something like a soulmate could never happen to someone like him. He’ll insist they’re lying, or Cas is wrong, or all of this fucking bullshit.

“You ever wondered about aliens?” He’d asked you once, leaning against the Impala as you lay on the hood, watching him from an upside-down angle.

“Just like, in general?”

“Yeah.”

“I guess,” you’d tilted your head at him. “Why?”

“I dunno, just curious.” There had been another moment of silence, then, “You think they’re real?”

“They have to be right?” You’d reached over your head, grabbing his chin and tilting it up, until he was staring at the night sky. “I mean, look at that, De. It’s huge.”

He’d chuckled, swatting your hand away. “Where have I heard that before-“

“Eat me, Winchester.” You’d rolled your eyes, and his shit-eating grin had grown. “No. Shut it.”

He’d raised his hands in surrender. “Didn’t say a thing.”

“Uh huh.” You’d let your own attention trail up, over the vast darkness above you, splattered in infinite stars that you think—if you really tried—you’d be able to grab and hold in your hands. Maybe offer one to Dean. He’d deserve it.

You were silent for a while longer, you watching the sky, Dean waiting for you to come back to earth, and when he’d spoken again his voice was soft.

“You think you’d want to go? If they were?”

You’d looked back to him with a frown, and found him already looking at you. “What, aliens?”

He’d nodded, and you’d furrowed your brow in thought.

“Maybe. I’ve never thought about it before. I kind of like Earth.” You’d rolled onto your stomach, swinging your legs around to rest in Baby’s open window as you looked down at Dean. “What about you?”

“Nah,” he’d held your gaze, pulling himself up to sit at your side. “Not now.”

“Not now?”

“I would’ve when I was younger, if I coulda taken Sammy with me.” Dean had let out a dry chuckle. “But I’m not that lucky.”

He wasn’t that lucky. Dean didn’t get to be abducted by aliens, because he wasn’t lucky. Because saviors and little lights to guide you forward don’t just drop out of the sky.

But you didn’t drop out of the sky. You’d been on the ground, and tangible, and very, very real.

You feel real, to yourself. You didn’t feel like a possibility, or a myth, or a lie.

And you might love Dean.

And you know that, the longer you don’t get to at least see him, touch him, breathe him, the more you go mad. The harder it becomes to speak to Sam and Bobby when they check on you, the less you allow them to even say the word Dean, because it makes you writhe and moan and everyone just gets very uncomfortable.

So if Dean’s too much of a righteous, noble, self-loathing buttface to do something about this, you will.

You wait until the house is dark and quiet. Until you hear Bobby mutter a goodnight through the door—about an hour ago you’d started whining every other breath and fucking the edge of the bathtub, so Bobby wasn’t coming into the room anymore—and Sam walks in backwards to make sure you’re not dead and have enough food and water. Like you’re a caged animal.

You do feel a little like one. You feel like someone’s sucked everything rational and careful out of your brain and replaced it with Dean. Dean, Dean, Dean, you need him or you’ll die. He needs to need you, or something worse than death will happen.

And you’re willing to risk that, that small possibility of Dean looking at you—bare and wet and pleading for him—and still turning you away, because at least you’ll see him.

You need to at least see him.

It’s shocking easy to sneak around the house. For two seasoned, well-respected hunters, neither Sam nor Bobby seem to wake up as you crawl down to Dean, despite the floorboard creaking under you movements and the downright pathetic whimpers that keep escaping your mouth. It takes all your focus to grab the key to Bobby’s panic room, unlock the door, and push it open.

It’s dark. Pitch black. But you know Dean’s in here, because every nerve is trying to fly off your body and into the shadows. To Dean.

“What the hell are you doing,” Dean groans your name from the back of the room, and you feel molten. “You can’t be here-“

“It’s not your panic room, Dean.” You mumble, pushing yourself up on the wall and fiddling around for the light switch. “I can be wherever I want-“

“Not here.” Dean snaps. “Go.”

You shake your head, and the lights blind you as you flip them on. It takes a moment to adjust—blinking and hugging your body in a desperate play to not leap across the room to Dean the moment you see him—and when you do a high whine escapes your mouth.

Dean looks as feral as you feel. He’s just as naked as you are, just as drenched in sweat and flushed, and—if the proud, massive cock between his legs, standing at full attention and twitching as he scans over you, is any sign—just as aroused.

“Dean.” You whisper. “Please.”

“You need to leave.” He grunts, his fists clenched at his sides. “Now.”

“I don’t want to go-“

“Yes, you do.”

You frown. “You don’t get to tell me what I want, Dean. I want to stay-“

“No,” he hisses, and you might come just from him looking at you like that. Primal and wanting, with a gleam in his eyes that feels like a promise. “You don’t know what you want-“

That gets you to scoff. “Fuck off, asshole-“

“See!” He makes a dramatic gesture, then flinches back from himself. “I, I can’t let you do this. You don’t want me,” Dean mutters your name, running a hand over his face. “The spell wants me. Doesn’t count.”

“Yeah, the spell does want you, you idiot!” You take an unsteady step forward, and he steps back. “Because I want you!”

“No, you don’t-“

“Yes, I do! I need you, Dean, and I think you need me-“

“Doesn’t matter what I need.” He grunts, bracing his body and you take another step. “Go back upstairs.”

“Did Bobby talk to you?”

He scowls. “Bobby’s wrong. That’s- No.”

“Because it’s me?”

“Of course not,” he snaps, and it’s too quick. “Because that, that’s not a thing. People would be runnin’ around, selling soulmates in little bottles if they were real. And we’d have known by now-“

“We do know now.” You whisper, swaying slightly in the middle of the room. “And Cas says-“

“Cas is wrong.” Dean mutters. “I don’t, there’s no way that’s true. Not for me.”

His beautiful, deep eyes look so sad. Glossed over and weighted down of years of that being the truth. That things like that, like this, don’t happen for Dean.

You’d really love to be the first exception.

“What about for me?”

“What are you-“

“What about for me, Dean.” You watch his jaw clench, his nostrils flaring. “Does it get to be true for me?”

He doesn’t answer, and you push on.

“If it’s true for me, it’s you.” You talk another step forward, and this time he doesn’t flinch. “Just you.”

“It’s just the spell.” He mutters, and you don’t think he’s convincing himself. Not when his throat bobs and his eyes darken. “You don’t want me, baby, not really.”

You almost fall over from that. From Dean calling you baby, and saying it the exact same way he says your name. Low and rolling and lined with something soft.

“I do.” You hold your ground, raising your chin. “I want you, Dean Winchester. Fix this.”

He shakes his head, barely a jerked movement, and you start to feel a little faint.

“Dean. I need you to look me in the eyes,” your voice starts to rise, growing pleading and frantic. “And tell me you don’t want me. Say that you wanting me is just the spell, and I’ll go. I promise. I just need to you to fucking say it, Dean, just fucking say you don’t want me or need me or love me-“

He moves before you even realize what’s happening. Almost leaping onto you as his mouth crashed into yours, his hands cupping your face as he walks you back, back, back into the wall and growls down your throat. And you’d been wrong. His hand on you don’t feel like small bursts of electricity. They’re like lighting. Dragging something you hadn’t known existed to the surface, and setting off a storm of need in your body.

“Course I want you,” one arm snakes around your waist, pressing your right into his erection. “Always fucking wanted you. You’re smoking hot,” he starts to kiss over your face, his words slightly muffled against your skin as you cling to his body. “Funnier than I am, and smart as hell. You feel like home and smell so good and, fuck, I’ve lost sleep thinkin’ about how it’d feel to get lost in you. I’d have to be fucking blind and dumb not to want you,” Dean grunts your name, returning your mouth to yours with a painfully soft, gentle, featherlight kiss. “But I’m not-“

“If you say good for me,” you mutter, leaning back to glare at him. “I’ll punch you.” He chuckles, and it’s dry and low, rumbling from his chest into yours. “I’m not-“

“You are.” You whisper, offering him a small, slightly broken smile. You need him to get this. You might start crying if he doesn’t. “You’re good for me. And I want you. I love you.” Something flashes in his eyes, and you don’t care if he believes you. He doesn’t have to believe you. He just needs to get it. “No spell, Dean. I’m here, and I’m yours. Take me.”

Your nails dig into his skin—attempting to leave a mark of him if he turns you away—and his breathing is ragged. Heavy and hot, fanning across your face as he stares at you, just stares at you, why is he just staring at you-

“Dean-“

This kiss is brutal It’s teeth and tongue and bruising lips, like he’s trying to move into your body. His hands are everywhere on you, squeezing your ass and palming your tits, rolling your nipple between two fingers before groaning down your throat when you moan.

“Fuck,” Dean mutters your name, his hand on your ass glides onto your pussy, playing with your folds and flicking at your clit once, twice, three times and you feel fucking high- “So wet for me-“

“For you,” you whimper, nodding stupidly as Dean presses him thumb down on that bundle of nerves, rubbing slowly. “Fuck, Dean, all for you-“

“Need to taste you,” he growls, pulling his mouth fully back, watching you grind onto his hand with a dark gaze. “You gonna let me taste you, baby? Let me eat that pretty pussy-“

You’ve barely nodded before he’s on his knees, one arm still around your waist to support you both as he dives into your cunt.

Oh.

He’s good at this. Really, really fucking good at this. You can’t really think anything that’s not Dean, or make any noise that’s not a moan kind of good at this. He’s ravenous and starved, his nose bumping and pressing into your clit in an impossibly mind-numbing rhythm, his tongue plunging in and out of your cunt until your squirming above him, desperate for more.

“Dean,” your hand tug at his hair, and you don’t know if you’re trying to push him deeper or pull him away. “Shit, Dean, I’m gonna cum-“

He groans against you, his eyes opening to watch you come apart above him, and you think he might be getting off on this.

“Please,” you whimper. “God, please, I need to cum-“

Dean bites your clit, and your orgasm crashes through you like a tidal wave. It’s all bliss and relief and a high, bright haze of Dean, and then you’re falling down.

Dean’s pulling you down. Onto his lap as he leans back, moving you to straddle over him as his cock throbs between his legs.

You want to touch him.

You push back on him, just enough for his grip to loosen, and take him in your hand. He’s huge. And pretty. Dicks aren’t supposed to be pretty, but Dean’s is, and it might be because every part of Dean is pretty. Every part of him is impossible pretty, from his cock twitching in your hand as you run your thumb over the slit, to his lidded eyes and parted mouth as he watches you with wonder.

“Shit,” he moans your name, and fuck, even that was pretty. “What are you doing to me-“

“Handjob,” you whisper, placing your free hand lightly on his chest in a silent request for him to lay back. “I think.”

Dean huffs a laugh, leaning back with a smirk. “Ya think? You sure you know what you’re doing with that- Fuck-“

You hum around Dean’s cock, your lips wrapped around the base as your tongue swirls around his shaft, and his groans are sinful. The fire in your corse hadn’t lessened by any means from your orgasm, but it grows unbearable as you move Dean’s hand to your hair and let him guide you up and down. Let him set the pace, moaning when his hips jerk and he hits the back of your throat, and squeezing his thighs in silent reassurance that you’re good. You’re really, really good. You’re grinding onto Dean’s knee as he fucks your face, playing with his balls with your free hand and devouring every bit of slightly slurred praise that falls from his mouth.

“Fucking hell, baby, you always been this good at sucking cock? You’re, shit, you look like a wet dream, look like an angel, fuck.” He hisses at your teeth graze over him. “You look so good like this. Mouth stuffed full of cock, desperate and wet for me-“ You roll your hips against him, and Dean tugs you fully up, smirking at your swollen lips and glossy eyes. “Careful,” he warns, sitting up as his thumb swipes a little bit of drool from your cheek. “When I’m cumming tonight, I’m cumming in you, baby, got that?”

“Yes, please,” you whimper. You’re on the pill anyway. “Dean-“

“C’mere.” He tugs you into his lap with careful hands, scanning over you with a small shake of his head. “Son of bitch, you’re gorgeous. You’re sure you-“

“I’m sure.” You grind against his cock, never looking away from him as the head of him bumps your clit. It goes on for too long, Dean just watching you fuck yourself on his lap with his hands bruising your hips, and you start to whine. “Shit, Dean, need you-“

Dean surges forward, kissing you long and deep and slow, and keeps his brow pressed to yours as he looks down to where you’re moving on him.

“Hold on,” he mutters, and you follow the order without a second thought.

Your arms wrap around Dean’s neck just as he lines himself up, and you almost scream when he pushes into you.

“Shit,” he looks back at you, eyes wide. “Are you-“

“Don’t stop,” you moan, burying your face in the crook of his neck. “Fuck, it feels so good, Dean, don’t stop.”

He nods, kissing the side of your head, and slowly moves into your aching pussy until he bottoms out with a long exhale.

“Gonna, fuck-“ He groans as you squeeze around him. “Can’t do that, baby, I won’t last a minute-

“Sorry,” you mumble against him, playing with the short, soft hair at the nape of his neck. “Didn’t meant to-“

“It’s fine.” He grunts, still not moving. “Just, fuck, you feel so good. So warm,” he groans, pressing his face onto the top of your head. “So tight and warm, feel so good-“

“Dean, please-“

You gasp as he gives one, short thrust upward.

“So good,” Dean growls in your ear, making another small, dizzying movement that presses him right up against that spongey spot deep inside of you. “Ready?”

“Ye-“

You squeal as Dean rises to his knees, keeping himself sheathed inside you as he falls forward, his hand splayed on your back and holding you carefully against him. His face is resting between your breasts, his cock angled so deep inside you it might drive you insane if he doesn’t start to fucking move, and his eyes stay yours as you only watch each other for a long moment.

He’s asking permission. Dean’s not pulling away, but he’s also not moving, because he’s offering you one last chance to turn him down.

You move one hand to hold his face, wrapping your legs around his waist and squirming around him in silent encouragement.

It snaps something in him. Dean grabs your hand, moves it onto the back of his neck, and lowers you fully onto the ground so you’re caged between him and floor. He scans over you for only a second, a small, cocky smirk crawling onto his face, leans down to give you one last, almost sweet kiss.

A soft moan leaves you as Dean traces his tongue over your lips, and his low growl is the only warning you get before he starts to fuck into you like an animal.

It’s sloppy and wet and loud, skin slapping against skin as Dean abuses your cunt, and fuck you’ve never felt better. You feel full, split open on his cock and right where you belong, alive in a way that seeps right into your soul and ignites your blood into a holy fire of Dean. Groaning your name on your skin and touching you with calloused, big, expert hands. Watching you as you unravel beneath him, scraping your nails over his back and making needy sounds that only spur him on.

You’re going to fly out of your body. Dean’s muscles are ripping above and around you as he fucks you into the floor, and his mouth is mold perfectly onto yours. Neither of you seem to care to breathe, or speak, or do anything but nips and suck and lick at each other. Trying to get impossibly closer, to drag the other over the edge so you can fall with them. You grind up into Dean, and Dean bites your lip. Dean rolls his hips as he bottoms out, making your mouth fall open for his tongue to plunge down your throat, and you scrape and claw as his chest until he groans, and you manage to slip one hand down to play with his balls.

He wins he swats your hand away and starts to rub small, firm circles on your clit. He’s unrelenting, and watching you with an affection that feels a little misplaced for the carnal hunger on his handsome features.

“Always want you,” he mutters your name, pressing his thumb flat against you. “Cum for me, baby.”

Your vision blurs as you find release, and it feels like heaven. Like stars and fire and water and light under your skin, in your blood, like a halo around your head that’s all just the pleasure Dean’s is still wringing from your body. Your pussy is fluttering and gushing around his cock, and it sends him over the edge with a roar, his hips slamming home as he paints the walls of your cunt white.

And when you’re both spent and Dean rolls you over—carefully adjusting you to be right on top of him, his body a barrier between you and the now-cold floor—you feel good. Really, really good. Fucked out and high, nothing trying to burst out of your skin or eat at your stomach. You feel better than you might have ever felt in your whole life. The only warmth in your body is heat you’re trading with Dean, and you feel good.

“We, um.” You trace over his tattoo, looking up at him under your eyelashes. “We should probably talk, or something-“

“Or something.” He agrees, grinning down at you. “Don’t feel like it’s a rush though. Sammy and Bobby will find us in the morning. Right now,” Dean kisses your brow, squeezing his arms around your body. “You’re all mine.”

You can be all his. It’ll be really, really easy to be all Dean, because he hasn’t said he loves you, but he does. You know he does. It lives in how he’s still touching and holding you, still talking to you like you’re his best friend and not a mistake, and running his hands through your hair mindlessly.

And you’ll have a lot to talk about later. A lot to fight about, and fuck about, and laugh and cry and scream about.

But right now you just have to be Dean’s.

And that will be really easy.

End Note: Bobby Singer you are fifty times the father John Winchester could ever HOPE to be.

If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3

Taglist

@artemys-ackles @ambiguous-avery

1K notes · View notes

ms-demeanor · 6 months ago

Text

I don't care about data scraping from ao3 (or tbh from anywhere) because it's fair use to take preexisting works and transform them (including by using them to train an LLM), which is the entire legal basis of how the OTW functions.

#really tired of seeing posts warning people to archive lock their works to protect against scraping #information wants to be free and that includes your second person reader insert #you are of course welcome to archive lock the works #that's a function of ao3 for a reason #but the anti-scraping attitude is exhausting because it tells me #that the broad understanding of 'fair use' is dismal #which is depressing coming from the userbase of a site that is totally reliant on fair use

3K notes · View notes

hannibals-favourite-meal · 3 months ago

Text

.⋆｡When They Realised That They Loved You｡⋆.

Team free will x plus size reader (separately)

Warnings: smut, lil bit of angst, fluff, (somehow Dean’s isn’t the angsty one), undefined relationship (Dean), mention of scars, sam detoxing off demon blood, childhood friends to strangers to ?, heartbreak, pain, mention of torture and pain and Dean’s death, sam being sad, gentleness, Ruby can catch these hands, seemingly unrequited love on both sides, a kid being lost, castiel being stupidly in love and not knowing what to do with himself, humanity being good WC: 3.8k

Minors DNI

A/N: One assignment left baby!!

Library- @hannibals-favourite-meal-library

Dean- When you were the only person he could let his walls down with

You weren’t exactly a hunter but you also weren’t exactly a civilian. You were… something else. You could shoot, recite an exorcism backwards and outdrink the most seasoned hunter but you also were stationary, paid your taxes, even had a retirement fund and to Dean, you were safe. And a damn good lay at that.

“That’s it baby. Move those hips for me.” Your nails bit into the muscles of his chest as you lifted yourself up on shaky legs, then slammed back down onto his cock. Dean hissed and bit down on his lip, desperately trying to keep his eyes open to watch you fall apart just one more time before he succumbs to the blinding pleasure he could only find with you.

“It’s too much, Dean.” You wailed but continued to roll your hips downwards like you didn’t even think of stopping. His hands clamped down on the meat of your plush thighs as you tightened impossibly around his thick cock.

“Fuck, baby. I know you’re close; just come for me. Cum, and I’ll give you what you want.” He planted his feet onto your bed and thrust upwards, hitting that one spot inside you he knew made your brain turn into TV static. “Thaaaaat’s it. That’s my girl.” He cooed as you slumped forwards, your mindless babbling only serving to spur him on even more.

You tucked your face into his neck, kissing and licking at his skin like you wanted to swallow him whole. Dean squeezed his eyes shut and pounded into you even deeper. Your soft body trembled against him as you tumbled into your final orgasm of the night, your cunt fluttering around him like it was made for him.

“Dean. Cum inside me.” You managed to gasp out as you rode the last waves of your high. Dean snarled and pushed himself in as deep as he could go as the dam finally broke and he succumbed to his own end. You moaned softly at the feeling of his cum filling you up.

Dean relaxed back down into the mattress, your body a comfortable weight on top of his, easing away the pain inside him. He ran his hand down the length of your back, coming to rest on the gentle swell of your ass. “You good sweetheart?”

A quiet giggle vibrated through your chest. “I think I saw god, I am more than good Deanie.”

He rolled his eyes as he guided you to lay down next to him, his softening cock slipping from your warm walls. “How many times have I told you not to call me that?”

“How many times have I told you not to wear your boots in the house?” You retorted with a jab to his ribs, quickly followed by a loving kiss against his lips. His heart skipped a beat as he wrapped a strong arm around your thick waist, pressing deeper into the kiss. You let out a pleased sound that made his spent cock twitch in interest.

But all too soon, you pulled away and laid your head down on his shoulder.

It felt so domestic, so real. If he just shut his eyes he could almost imagine that this was your shared home; a place for him to just be without the worry of saving the world or protecting Sammy, that maybe he could have a lawn to mow and tedious chores that he would be happy to do for you. He wished he could wake up in this bed every day instead of once or twice in a blue moon when hunting had dried up or he needed more supplies from your shop for hunters.

“Do you remember the day we met?” His voice echoed through the small bedroom, soaking into the old wallpaper that you refused to let him replace, claiming that it was just fine the way it was.

You hummed and glanced up at him, your eyes still hazy from an entire afternoon of ��I missed you but I’m not going to say it out loud’ sex. Dean cupped your full cheek.

“‘Course I do. You broke into my shop at 4 in the morning and I almost shot you.”

“We still need to work on that aim of yours sweetheart.” You scoffed but snuggled closer to him, the sweet smell of your skin almost getting overwhelming. Your fingers traced over the scars along his torso, never flinching away or touching them like you wished they weren’t there in the first place. You were mapping out the story of him without question or hesitation.

“Yeah well why would I need to do that if I have you here to protect me?” You said it like it was a fact, that you never doubted he would come to your rescue at a moment's notice. “I’ve got Dean Winchester in my bed, I’m the safest girl in the world.”

His breath caught but before you could notice, he gave you that smirk that got him there in the first place and drawled out a low: “Yeah you do sweetheart.” You visibly flustered, burying your face into his arm to escape the heat of his gaze.

“You’re always so mean to me.” His laugh bounced your head up and down. You began to giggle, unable to help yourself, and slid your arm beneath his back so you could wrap your body around him. Electricity followed your touch, his nerves sparking to life like the feeling of stepping out from the darkness into the sun.

God I love her.

The thought slammed into his chest, briefly knocking the air from his lungs. He expected a sense of panic, maybe dread, but all he felt was a sense of calm that settled against his soul. Dean just pulled you tighter against him and pressed a lingering kiss to the crown of your head. You returned it with a soft peck right above his heart.

He didn’t want to run from this, not this time. You were everything to him and he wanted to stay right here, even if he knew he didn’t deserve it. Your breathing evened out as you succumbed to some much-needed sleep.

Maybe staying another few days wouldn’t be so bad, Sammy kept telling him he needed a vacation.

Sam- When you were kind to him even after he broke your heart

Sam’s voice had gone hoarse over an hour ago but they still hadn’t let him out. He knew that they wouldn’t but still he had begged and pleaded, even succumbed to tears yet there was no answer from outside the heavy iron door.

He slumped back against the cot in the centre of the room, the sharp metal scraped against his back but it was nothing compared to the pain he felt in every waking moment. The cold concrete beneath him did nothing to soothe the burning inside of him.

“Please.” The word was barely even audible, escaping his lungs with little more than a whimper. Sam let his head fall back onto the thin mattress.

As soon as the door was slammed shut, all he felt was blinding rage. Didn’t they understand why he was doing this? The blood gave him the power they needed to help people! But when hours had passed without so much as a hint that they even heard him, the anger melted away into a sort of numbness. Dean and Bobby had tricked him into this, you had tricked him.

It was your face that he saw last as the door was shut. Your lips were pulled downwards, your eyes rimmed with red, your shoulders slumped. You had looked like you were in mourning. Guilt curled in his stomach, just like every other time he looked at you since the day he left for Stanford. But this time, the sour taste of betrayal filled his mouth like bile.

You were turning your back on him, siding with his brother when all he wanted to do was to make the world safer, for you.

Sam forced himself to take a deep breath, even as his body screamed with the ache of movement. The air was stale and settled heavily onto his chest but he was grateful to feel it, he was grateful to feel anything besides the searing pain of his nerves. This was the first break from the hallucinations he’d had in days, or weeks, time, just like everything else, had no meaning within the iron walls that enclosed him.

The cotton of his shirt felt like it was rubbing his sensitive skin raw but to take it off meant moving and he was far too tired to withstand the pain anymore. His head turned, letting the right half of his face press into the cot. The single flat sheet on the bed smelt of the flowery laundry detergent that you always used, it made something inside of him twist sickeningly.

A single tear slipped down his cheek.

“Sam?” His eyes squeezed shut.

“Please not again. Please don’t hurt me again.” He begged with broken words. He cringed at the sound of metal scraping against concrete. He couldn’t do it again, he wouldn’t fight it. Sam was going to let the pain take him.

Soft footsteps drew closer. He braced himself for the first strike. Would it be the sharp pinch of a scalpel or the burn of a propane torch? Or would it be the voices of people he loved reminding him of just how tainted he was? How evil?

He whimpered as they stopped right beside him. There was a beat, then two, then the gentle whoosh of air as someone kneeled down beside him.

“Sam.” Your voice washed over him like a gentle breeze, easing the stiffness in his bones. “Sam? Can you look at me?” He wanted to say no, to yell at you to get out and leave him alone like you did when you first locked him in here but the exhaustion in your tone made him crack open one of his eyes.

You sat on your knees mere inches from him, letting him see you in stark detail. One of his flannels hung from your shoulders partially concealing the form-fitting tank top you wore beneath it. Normally, his heart would have skipped a beat seeing you wear his clothes, but now it only reminded him of why you stopped. Bruise-like dark bags marred your full cheeks, your eyes blood-shot.

“Oh Sammy. I-“ Your voice cracked. You reached for him but quickly thought better of it, your hand dropped back down to your side where there was a bucket of water now on the ground. “You know you can’t come out yet but I thought you might like to clean up a bit, maybe eat something that isn’t dried or jerkied.”

Sam opened his other eye but made no other efforts to move. You sighed, your shoulders dropping as you sat back on your heels. “Will you let me wash your hair and change your clothes at least? I bought the softest ones I could find and even washed them in the fabric softener Dean keeps secretly buying.” Your lips quirked up, attempting some sort of reaction from him.

You looked so worn out, Sam wondered if you had sat right outside the door waiting for him to stop screaming. His head bobbed and the hardness in your gaze eased. “Thank you. I’ll be as gentle as I can, squeeze my leg if you want me to stop.”

He bit back a whimper as you guided him to the floor. His broad shoulders rested across your plump thighs, letting his head hang above the floor. You kept one hand beneath his neck, taking far more of his weight than he would be willing to admit, and reached for the small plastic cup floating at the top of the bucket.

His fingers curled around your knee, his short nails digging into the denim as you poured a cup full of hot water over the crown of his head. You paused for a moment but continued when Sam loosened his grip.

As you placed the cup to the side and retrieved a small bottle of fragrance-free shampoo, he let his eyes shut once more, this time, his mind wandering to the last time the two of you had spoken.

It had been in the days after Dean died. You refused to break down in the face of losing your best friend, the man that taught you to drive, to throw a proper punch. You wanted to stay strong for Sam and for Bobby but Sam knew it wouldn’t last long.

You had been slowly, methodically cleaning Baby, just like Dean taught you to when the younger Winchester approached you with a bowed head and a duffle bag on his shoulder. Just like the day he left for college.

You didn’t wait for his excuses.

“You’re leaving?” You said but it didn’t sound like you, not really. Sam didn’t answer and you scoffed, throwing the sponge you’d been using onto the dusty driveway. “Just like that, running off days after-“ Your breath caught but you swallowed down your tears, “What are you planning, Sam? You know selling your soul won’t work, we’ve already tried that.”

Sam huffed and pulled the strap of the bag higher on his shoulder. “I’ve got a friend who might know a way to get him back.”

He should’ve seen the way your back straightened as your body went stiff. “A ‘friend’?”

“She knows a lot about hell and right now I’ll try anything to bring him back.” And then he did something truly stupid. “Unlike you.”

Silence crashed down around you like a falling building, immediately filling the air with a tension so thick Sam could almost choke on it. He watched your shoulders draw up, your hackles raised before your chest expanded fully and you exhaled through your nose.

“Then I won’t stop you. I trust you Sam but I don’t trust Ruby and I won’t be around forever to fix up your messes, not anymore. I’m worth a hell of a lot more than just being the girl you always leave behind but keep running back to.” You fished Baby’s keys from your front pocket, tossing them at Sam as you passed.

“Ruby’s dead.”

“Is she?” You shot him a look before opening Bobby’s front door. “Don’t get yourself killed. Lose my number.” The door slammed behind you and suddenly Sam felt like he was making the wrong decision, again.

You ran a hand through his hair, letting the shampoo run through your fingers as you carefully washed it away with the lukewarm water and with it, you washed away his pain. He turned his head into your hand, soaking up every ounce of touch you were willing to give him. It’d been so long since he had felt anything other than lust or hurt pressed to his body.

You refused to meet his gaze, not that he could blame you after everything he had done, but he wanted so badly to look into those perfect e/c’s even just one more time. To feel that peace and acceptance that had always swirled within the deep colour of your irises.

Suddenly, all Sam wanted to do was curl up in your lap and cry. He’d spent so many years taking your warmth for granted and now, after months of being denied even a sliver of your presence, he couldn’t imagine ever being away from you again. He wanted to prove to you that you were worth staying for, you were worth everything to him, but all he could do was let you care for him with hesitant hands.

He loved you, he always had, even when he was trying to run away from his life, even as he fell in love with someone else. It was you that kept him from falling into that well of darkness that would be so easy to slip into. You with your sass and your gentleness, your softness and your bite, your laughter and your grief. He loved you.

But how could you ever love him back?

Castiel- When you made him remember why he loved humanity in the first place

It was the sound of crying that drew Castiel to the playground across the street from the motel you had been camped out at. It wasn’t an unfamiliar sound to the angel given his age and how many prayers he’d heard throughout his existence, but the pitch was so high, so truly filled with fear that he didn’t hesitate to follow it.

“Angel? Where are you going?” He glanced back at you as you were pulling on your boots.

“There’s crying.” He said simply before descending the concrete steps to the ground floor. You let out a noise like a scoff and scrambled after him, barely grabbing the room key and your hunting knife before the heavy door slammed shut.

“Cas!” His pace didn’t falter as the crying picked up in intensity but he was confident you were following close behind him. His blue eyes flicked over the colourful plastic structures, expecting some siren or ghost to pop out at him. The weight of the angle blade against his forearm and your steady footsteps behind him reminded Castiel that he would not fight this battle alone.

He slowly rounded the bright yellow twisty slide just as you skidded to a halt a step behind him. Thankfully, you remained silent, a palm pressed to his back to remind him that you had him covered. The crying was louder now, though it did not sound like it was from any creature he had encountered before.

There was a shadow at the edge of the monkey bars. Castiel’s blade dropped silently from his sleeve, sliding perfectly into his grip. He took a single stride forwards, ready to attack before it could when your fingers suddenly snagged the back of his trenchcoat.

“It’s a kid.” You breathed, he imagined it was out of relief but your human emotions always confused him. You slid the knife into the sheath you kept at the small of your back, tugging down your shirt so it was completely hidden as you cautiously approached the small figure curled up in the wood chips.

“Hi sweetie, are you ok?” Your voice dripped with sweetness, like he remembered syrup to taste like. You leaned forwards, your shoulders dropped as low as they could go.

The crying stopped but small hiccups still echoed through the maze of playground structures. The sun had been steadily setting and now sat just above the horizon, the darkness creeping in.

Castiel watched closely as you squatted a foot away from the child, a soft smile on your face. “Are you lost?” The child finally looked up, their eyes wide and sparkling with tears in the low light of the evening. They nodded.

“Can we help you find your parents?” Their nodding got quicker and they reached out their arms to you. Your smile grew wider as you stood up, easily pulling them up and resting them on your wide hip. You turned back to face Castiel, a hand rubbing up and down the child’s back.

They must’ve been only 4 or 5 and wearing an outfit that was far from appropriate for the dropping temperature. “We’re going to go to the police station, I bet your parents are waiting there for you.” They looked up at you, still silent, but now clinging to your t-shirt in a way that made Castiel’s heart inexplicably skip a beat.

“This is my friend Cas,” You leaned closer to their little ear and loudly whispered the next part, “He’s an angel.” The child’s eyes widened and their head snapped around to look at him. Cas stepped closer, the child didn’t flinch.

“I am and so is she, that’s how she was able to find you.” He could almost feel the heat from your cheeks even feet away but still the child seemed convinced.

“Really?” You hiked them up higher on your hip, your arm wrapping tighter around their little body to keep them warm.

“Really really. Now why don’t we get you back home?” They rested their head beneath your jaw and nodded, snuggling closer to your soft body.

Cas dutifully followed you as you walked out of the park, watching the child bounce with each of your steps. You chattered away about things you were seeing around the street, your voice filling the silence like a white noise machine. Cas could feel the calmness radiating from the child and it warmed something long forgotten inside of him.

You had no duty to this child, nor any other person that you saved and he knew that you would receive no thanks for your actions but yet you still did them. You threw yourself into harm’s way to protect complete strangers from things they could not possibly understand. You had once confided in the angel that you had been pressured into hunting but you had stopped trying to run away from it long ago.

He’d felt anger for you, just the same as he felt for the Winchesters and all the other unfortunate children who never had a choice. He felt angry for himself, at humanity.

But seeing you now, caring for this child like they were your own, Castiel understood why you stayed. You didn’t do it for the glory of saying you saved the world, nor for some duty bestowed to you by your parents, it was because you cared and because you knew what evil was.

The near empty streets soon gave way to rows of shops and townhouses, leading directly to the lit up police station only a few blocks away. The child started to fidget against you as they began to recognise their surroundings, making you laugh quietly. “I know sweetie! We’re almost there. You’re so close.”

You came to a stop right at the entrance. “You can go right in and tell them your name and that you were lost.” They nodded dutifully while you carefully lowered them to their feet. “Ok sweetie, you were so brave today but make sure you stay with your parents next time.” You ran a hand over their head and stod to your full height.

They looked at you and Castiel before gracing you with a toothy grin. “Thank you nice angels!” Then they threw open the glass door and rushed inside just as two grown ups turned the corner behind the reception desk. They fell to their knees, catching the little one in their arms.

Something warm brushed the side of his hand, making Castiel tear his eyes away from the scene in front of him. You took his hand into your own, your eyes shimmering with tears. You didn’t say anything and he found that no words were needed.

Tomorrow, he would tell you how incredible you were, that you were what angels should be and that he was feeling something for you that he never thought he could ever experience. But for right now, he wanted to watch this child reunite with the people that loved them most while the chill of the night and the monsters in it were kept at bay by the brilliance of your soul.

Supernatural Masterlist | Main Masterlist

Join my taglist!

All works

@im-a-slut-for-fluff @alexxavicry @ravenwings73 @avada-kedavra-bitch-187 @silverfire475 @psychadelichues @mvyalx @faefanatic @evansqueen54 @anamiad00msday @th3sloth @princess76179 @Lanielagenev @luvvvjada @Lucypaulette @mooniequeen @slutfor-fictionalmen @km-ffluv @black-rose-29 @minedofmoria @relatednative @starboygf

Supernatural

@jason-todds-bitch @getoutofthere @xoxokiaraaxoxo @honkytonkbabe @hc-geralt-23 @mandythemint @jenniferpendragon @certifiedhunter @lover-of-books-and-tea @eternallyvenus @person-005 @luvleykiki @saltywatergrr @looking1016 @tripletstephaniescp @daytej

645 notes · View notes

azne09 · 1 year ago

Text

Currently writing a short story and my friend asked for illustration.

This man is my new winter hyperfixation 😔🤲✨

#tcm 2006 #texas chainsaw the beginning #thomas hewitt fanart #thomas hewitt #thomas hewitt x reader #thomas hewitt x y/n #thomas hewitt x oc #self ship #self insert #im cringe but im free #slasher movies #slasher fucker #tcm fanart #slasher oc

1K notes · View notes

lorelune · 7 months ago

Text

regency au jing yuan how you are haunting me.

(continued here!)

a retired general who at the ripe age of thirty five has never taken a wife. never showed any interest in procuring a spouse nor does he entertain any attempts by the mamas of the ton to throw their eligible children at him. he is a polite scoundrel, kind-hearted in a way that makes those with half a mind question how someone with his demeanor could ever be the famed general who's strategies downed Shuhu during the Abundance Upheaval. he doesn't seem to care for his legacy, as much as he has cultivated one. he doesn't mind gossip, but doesn't entertain it much either.

you only meet him due to fortunate circumstances.

lord Luocha, a successful travelling merchant, pledged patronage to you sometime ago. he keeps you in a little cottage on the grounds of his manor where you're allowed to mostly do as you please as long as there's a new painting hung on the lord's wall every few months or so. the lord likes when you play too. he brings back new instruments for you to try, though he never expects mastery. he has an air of mystery to him that, despite all of the time you spend near him, keeps you from understanding him fully. you aren't one to pry about it either.

lord luocha invites jing yuan over to partake in fancy spirits from a country and city you can't ever hope to visit, let alone find on a map. you bring lord luocha your newest work-- (a meticulously completed oil painting. something more abstract, suited to the odd lonely and isolation you feel in your little, cozy cottage, despite all of the comforts you are afforded)-- and happen upon the pair.

lord luocha examines your newest work with pride, and shortly after introduces you. 'his patron' he calls you, but offers jing yuan no title. you--

(do not have one. it was stripped from you a long time ago. you think being an artist suits you better, anyways.)

jing yuan offers you his name, though you already know it. you recognize him based on the prattling of the girls and boys at the market. they swoon over his stature, fawn over his good deeds, and make note of his identifiable red hair ribbon. he has the same soft, sun-colored eyes that you had heard the eligible young of the ton giggle about.

you bow to him politely.

you have no reason to linger, but luocha calls you to anyways. perhaps he is lonely. perhaps you want him to be lonely, so it gives you a reason to stick closer to his side in the rare moments he is home for more than a day or two. the proximity is shared with jing yuan, who regards you with keen eyes and a lazy smile. the attention upon you feels weighted, important, like you're something special.

you savor it, however fleeting.

perhaps, however, you misunderstood jing yuan. or lord luocha's intentions.

because as jing yuan rises to take his leave and you bow once more, he catches your hand, brings it to his lips, and presses a kiss into the soft skin. you're sure you smell of linseed and yarrow oil. he lingers there for a moment before meeting your gaze. there's a light of mischief in them that sends your heart fluttering. your breath catches.

when jing yuan is out of the manor, lord luocha pats your shoulder gently, "quite the man, isn't he?"

"i suppose... he is."

"you may speak freely."

"i am," you mince, and shake your head. you must be careful, entertaining such fanciful thoughts. "he is... kind."

"and handsome."

"lord luocha," you barely keep yourself from whining. "please, do not tease me. or the poor man. from what i hear, he has enough to deal with."

"the mamas do chase after him like foxes to a hen," lord luocha chuckles and studies your painting once more with a curious tilt of his head. "he'll ask to see you again, i'm certain."

"and why do you say that?"

"general jing yuan has never taken the hand of a potential suitor."

your heart feels heavy and warm in your chest, burning. "my lord, you cannot possibly think that this single action indicates that the general will... call upon me? that is highly unorthodox and i don't believe that's... quite allowed."

"jing yuan has never cared for the dances of decorum." lord luocha guides you into your gardens. the peonies are in bloom, full and lush in the humidity of late spring. "and, for the record, i don't believe he'll simply call upon you. court, properly, certainly."

"you're bluffing."

"what reason do i have to lie?"

"to tease me, as you so enjoy doing," you huff.

lord luocha simply hums and pauses near a bush of lilacs. they're fragrant, at the peak of their season. the scent rolls over you.

"if i truly intended to tease you, i simply would abstain from telling you of jing yuan's interest and allow you to be terribly surprised when he arrives and formally asks for you and your time. consider this a warning. i'll walk you to the modiste tomorrow, hm?"

you want to squawk at him. your linen dresses and tunics are fine (albeit smeared and stained with paints and oils over the years. you rarely bother replacing them.)

you want to protest and pry more, but lord luocha strikes you silent when he breaks off a cluster of lilac and tucks it behind your ear. he leaves you with your thoughts, however tortuous. and, perhaps horribly, you find yourself believing him. perhaps the warm-eyed general really was charmed. perhaps, your dresses needed replacing and you should contact your perfumer friend for a fresh vial or two.

perhaps perhaps perhaps, you can still feel where his lips lingered on your skin, like a brand. you never thought you could ache for burning, but in the gardens, you find yourself clutching your hand to your chest, craving the lick of the his sun's heat once more.

#lore writes #jing yuan x reader #jing yuan x you #jing yuan reader insert #hsr x reader #drabbles #jy regency au #this is has been haunting me PLAGUEING ME #'spinster' jy who wears the title with pride #reader who is sort of a pet sort of a prodigy and absolutely a baddie #meddling luocha #truly has been living in my mind rent free after talking w bee i stg #ANYWAYS #logging out again for sanity

643 notes · View notes

anonimusunnoaniswriting · 8 months ago

Text

Sukuna "asshole to the world, sweetheart to his girl" Ryomen

🎀minors and ageless blogs will be blocked 🎀

Pairing: Yakuza!Sukuna Ryomen x Reader

Genre: Smut, dark hero.

Word Count: 1450

Warnings: first off, fucking sukuna himself is a warning on his own so let's just start there. Possessive Sukuna, dark sukuna, yakuza sukuna, shitty boss, mean fucking asshole boss, violence, against boss, dacryphillia, p in v sex, rough sex, semi-public sex, read at your own discretion.

Summary: Sukunas heard you cry because of your boss one too many times. He takes matters into his own hands

A/N: This absolutely SPECTACULAR ART is by @innaillus and you can find the original here.

I want to thank her, not only for allowing me to use this as a banner but also for making such amazing art and sharing it with us. ♥️

This is a purely self indulgent fic. If you don't like it, please don't read it. I had a shitty week and needed a place to cool off.

Sukuna Ryomen glared down at your boss. He’d come in to pick you up and heard the creature screaming at you for something he already knew wasn’t your fault. You’d told him about the trouble you were having with your co-workers who slacked off and your shitty fucker of a boss who for some reason didn’t tell them off, but instead unloaded his anger on you. This would be the last time this pathetic vermin made you cry, he vowed.

He pushed open the door to your small office and stalked in. You stood in the corner trying to make yourself as small as possible, silent tears streaming down your face as your boss kept berating you – not even noticing his presence. One of the other workers tried to step in his way but he shoved them aside like they were nothing more than window curtains. He placed himself in between you and the balding middle aged man who dared to call himself your boss. “Hey nimrod, she doesn’t work for you anymore. Don’t fucking yell at her.”

The man cowered. Sukuna was taller than him and his crossed arms made his thick muscles ripple under his skin.

“Ryo…” you whispered

“Wh-who let th-this man in here? Sir, th-this is an office space. You n-need to leave.” your boss sneered at your saviour.

Sukuna merely smirked at you and pulled you into his side placing his lips on the top of your head in a chaste kiss. “Yeah, don't worry, I’ll be going pretty soon. Breathing the same air as you is making me feel nauseated. Can't believe the patience my baby girl had with your shit-ass, fucker” his first met the man's stomach with a sickening squelching crunch, and your now ex-boss, crumpled onto the floor in a heap.

“I'm gon-gonna call the cops on you asshole’ he croaked out.

Sukuna just laughed. “Have at it, ya great ballsack.”

♥️♥️♥️♥️♥️♥️♥️♥️♥️♥️♥️♥️♥️♥️♥️♥️♥️♥️♥️♥️♥️♥️

When Sukuna came to pick you up from work that day he had planned the night down to a T. He’d wanted to take you to a new movie that you'd been itching to see but hadn't had the time. He would follow that with a fancy sushi dinner at the city's best restaurant and then take you to the outskirts where there was a nice little viewpoint he had discovered where he planned on showing you the stars – in more than one way…

But when you didn't come out at your specified time, nor answer the cute message he’d sent you – Where you at, kitty-kat? – Sukuna decided to investigate and came across your asshole of a boss yelling at you. He’d had enough. You’d been coming home and complaining about him and even once returned in tears. It took everything he had to not rip the bastard’s throat out. But he was done with you being abused. You deserved better. Which is exactly what he told you now as you lay with him on the hood of his car.

The plans had been altered slightly, you would be watching the movie with him the next day. He’d skipped the fancy sushi and instead opted for your favourite comfort food – Chinese cuisine. Slurping down saucy noodles, and munching on crispy gyoza always made you feel better he knew and he found himself smiling at your joy. He’d then driven you to his secret viewpoint. You sat there on the hood of his car with him beside you. In the distance, the pretty lights of Tokyo lit up the horizon and reflected off your lover's red eyes. Above you, the stars twinkled in their own magic…

Something about you had him wrapped around your finger. One of the most feared yakuza, putty in your hands. Of course, no one knew the connection. It was all kept hushed for your convenience.

“Kitty-kat?” Sukuna called to you and you looked up at your man. “You know— you know I’m rich enough to support both of us easily right?”

You hummed. “Yes, but I don’t wanna be some dainty housewife, sitting and waiting for my husband to come home and serve him dinner Ryo! I have a whole ass degree that a lot of money was spent on, I’d like to use it babe!”

“Husband?”

“What?”

“You said, husband. Not boyfriend. Or SO. Or partner. You said husband.”

“Yeah… I said husband…”

“You wanna marry me?”

“I mean, yeah, eventually right?”

Sukuna crashed his lips into yours in a heated kiss; all teeth and tongue. He pulled your body close, pressing against you. “I want you so bad right now, future wife. I want you so fucking badly.” He half growled in your ear.

“You have me Ryo. I’m right here.” you replied. You tugged at Sukunas pants and he unbuckled his belt. Sukuna grinded against your thigh while kissing you. His hands tugged at the buttons on your blouse, undoing them as he went. You could feel the bulge growing in his jeans. He kissed down from your lips, to your jaw, to your neck down to the valley of your breasts.

“I wanna fuck you.” He looked at you with a lidded gaze “May I? I won’t be able to stop if we go further than this kitty-kat.”

You lifted your leg to rub against his clothed cock. “I’d leave you right now if you didn’t, Sukuna Ryomen. So fuck me already.” Sukuna flashed you a fanged smile and dipped his head pulling down your bra and freeing your breasts. He bit and licked and sucked, actions that were sure to leave marks on you. Further south his fingers pushed aside your panties and found entrance. He slowly worked his way into you, rubbing gentle circles in your skin. You allowed yourself to let go and dirty moans slipped out from your lips. Your fingers tangled in his pink hair – so soft, so smooth.

Once he had you dripping, he lay back down and ordered, “Sit on my face, and suck my cock while you’re at it.”

You followed, undoing his zipper and pulling his boxers and jeans off his semi-hard cock. You tentatively licked his head as you positioned your pussy right about his face. Sukuna pushed your skirt up and ripped your panties with a practised ease, pulling your hips down to his face. He loved having you like that. Every time he flicked his tongue against your clit your pussy would visibly tighten. You’d drool down the length of his cock hypnotised. Tongue flat against it as you struggled to maintain composure. It wouldn’t take long for him to make you cum all over his face for the first time. Legs quivering and hips shaking he brought you down again, laying you on the hood for him.

He lined up his cock – now rock hard from your mouth – with your entrance and sank into you. Slowly pushing his bulbous head, followed by his girthy length. You wrapped your arms around his neck and pulled him in for a kiss.

Sukuna thrust up into you. Your lips were hot and burning. You felt a wave of emotion come through and tears welled up in your eyes.

“Fuck Ryo— feels s’good!”

Sukuna snarled and increased his pace. His eyes glinted dangerously. “Feels good, huh kitty-kat! Gonna make you mine. No man’s gonna dare fuck with you again.” His movements were rough and jagged but drew out the pleasure in your core. The tightly wound knot in your abdomen built up with each movement, each drawn out pull, each hard thrust. You arched your back desperate to have him more, more, more!

Your second climax hit just as Sukuna grabbed a fistful of your hair. Your cunt spasmed, clasping around him and you cried out his name in a debauched prayer.

Sukuna looked more composed than he felt. His cock throbbed inside you, attuned to the flutters of your pussy. Just because you’d come didn’t mean he would stop. He chased his own release inside of you pulling your hair back, devouring your lips. His cock bullied you to the point of overstimulation. Tears ran down your cheeks again but this time they were those of pleasure.

He came, towering over you, eyes squeezed shut, head buried in the crook of your neck. His giant frame collapsed onto you and he carefully rolled off to the side so he wouldn't crush you.

“So, about that husband thing…”

You turned to look at him, blushing. “Ryo…”

He held up a ring; the ring his father left him. Gold work, carved into a dragon that held a shiny black pearl in its claws.

“I’ll get you a prettier one later, I promise but for now…” he took a deep breath. “Marry me, kitty-kat?”

A/N: please note this was a very hurried creation and edit, if you do find any errors or typos feel free to point them out KINDLY. Thank you for reading.

As always likes and reblogs are much appreciated and comments will earn you kissies!

673 notes · View notes

stuck-writing-sickos · 7 months ago

Text

In Poor Taste [P2]

[Series Link]

(Yandere x Reader)

[Warning: misogyny, xenophobia, hint to racism, explicit language, asshole male lead]

You were never crazy about spoiled rich men. They were nothing but troubles.

He knew your type. Quiet, agreeable, and a little bit of a pushover.

He didn't say it, but he had noticed your lack of reaction when Tahara revoked your right to the summer break. Truth was, he never paid attention to women like you when he was in college. The quiet ones who took things seriously as if they had something to lose, those were hard to get. He never bothered with those who were hard to get when there were plenty of other options. He liked the sunkissed blondes who knew to dress up in white sundresses and spaghetti straps, those who knew to party on Saturday and yoga class on Sunday. They never put up a hard fight, just the right amount, and when he got bored so did they. In and out of his bedroom they whirled, whimsical and effortless. He never bothered to find out if they were smart or complicated, and if they tried to show him, he'd move on to the next. A part of him felt bad, but the encouraging jokes and nudges of his frat brothers overrode that twinge in his chest when he saw sad eyes following him down the campus walkway. It didn't matter, not if he got the liquor and summer yatch trips.

He also liked other types. Soft-spoken brunettes who listened to sad songs and doodled hearts onto his notes. Fierce raven-haired girls who knew to throw back shots and moved their bodies to the music. The rich exchange girls who, despite their attitudes, knew their ways around his body and submitted to his rhythm. He liked them all because he could consume them, so he said he support women. Those he didn't like, well, they were on their own.

So he didn't mind that you were older and reserved. True, he never bothered with women like you because he thought he could do without them, but now that he was in Tokyo all alone, he could see your values. So, he thought to look.

You were the serious type. Soft-spoken, patient, and reserved. You looked after yourself rather dilligently - your clothes fit well, and you smelled of subtle floral perfume. Your movement when you walked around the school were gentle but decisive - you knew what to do, and you did it quick, as if you always had something better to do. A part of him didn't like that. For why, he didn't interrogate. "Why" was never a questioned he bothered with, since he could do well for the first 22 years of his life without it. When someone always get what they want, they hardly ever want to know "why".

He knew he was brash and bold to ask you out for dinner, but he assumed you knew the implication. He was interested enough. You had a fine body, and you knew how to look good. "Late bloomer" was what he liked to call women like you, the type who took themselves too seriously in school, but then learnt how to be pretty in their latter years. They would know how to relax, to not be so uptight.

So there he sat in a booth at a restaurant downtown, waiting, a little impatient to see that you were late. Perhaps he was to blame to tell you to take your time and freshen up at home. He wondered if you would doll up. Where would you show your skin? Where would you shave? He liked it shaved. His fingers toyed with the small tea cup, tapping its side and running down the curve of its rim.

"Hi! Sorry for the wait... I was caught up with a phone call."

He looked up. There you were, smiling down at him. He shamelessly looked at your body, studying the way the nice dress pants accentuate your hip and ass. Then, as you sat down, he took notes of your off-shoulder top, then the blink of your earrings. You may tried to make it seem innocuous, but he could tell. You dressed up for him.

"Not at all! I just got here."

You kept your smile on. He didn't notice that it was manufactured. He was caught up watching you leaning forward, your fingers flipping over the menu. The way your cleavage was catching shadow captured his attention.

"So, how is Tokyo treating you?"

He didn't think you would speak first. You barely humored any small talks during the day, only giving him just enough.

"It's good, it's good", he mused, "I'm enjoying the new culture and people. It's all very new to me, so I'm excited."

You looked up at him now, your eyes narrowing as your smile widened.

"It's a great city. There's always something to look at. Do you ever miss your friends and family, though?"

He leaned in as well, closing the gap. He could see you flinch just barely as his fluffy black curls almost tickle your forehead.

"Well, of course. I miss my family a lot, especially my sister. She's applying for college soon, and I wish I could be there to support her, you know?"

"You have a sister?"

He was pleased to see you following the script so far. Girls were often intrigued by the fact that he had a sister - it means he grew up knowing how to be sensitive and protective. It was a reliable card to play.

"Yeah, we grew up quite close, you know. I still remember her crying like a baby when I left for college", he chuckled, "now it's her turn."

You laughed softly at that.

"Yeah... she must be so sad to see you go to Japan, right?"

He nods, his eyes flickering between your face and your neck, eager to peer right down your top. You must be wearing those stick-on nipple covers to rock a top like that.

"Oh, she was, but she's more excited to be independent in college. Too excited, to be honest. I had to warn her not to get in troubles."

"What kind of trouble?"

He found himself looking at your lips now. Your gentle voice and soft gaze managed to distract him. For a second, he found himself pausing to stare.

"Oh... alcohol, drugs, bad friends. You know the deal."

"Did you get into troubles in college, too?"

The simple question now seemed so implicative. He swallowed, his adam's apple bobbing, and he saw that you looked. Your lashes flutterred for a second before your eyes met his.

Empty.

You were harder to read than he thought. Perhaps it was the age difference, he wondered, or the fact that your naturally composed attitude had sealed your attraction toward him. He never hit on an older woman before, so he supposed it was only natural that he couldn't catch your energy right away. Or were you secretly experienced? Three years seemed little to him at first, but he suddenly felt self-conscious at your still demeanor. You were still smiling and expectant, but in a different way than he imagined. You were yet to be doe-eyed, yet to melt when she heard about his bond with his sister. How many men had had their ways with you? Did you please them well? Did you moved and squirm under their touch? He felt himself heating up.

"Good afternoon, dear customers. May I take your order?"

He almost jumped. You didn't. Awkwardly pointing to the menu, he glanced at you who quickly said your orders. You seemed comfortable.

Did he lose his edge?

The waiter swiftly left. Lukas felt that the chemistry was disrupted. His keen eyes watched your form pulling back away from him, and he caught the faint perfume wafting his way. He decided to keep his posture forward, staying on the offensive side.

"I guess I did get into some troubles", he admitted, his hand instinctively rubbing the nape of his neck, as if to conceal what his clothes couldn't. His skin was warm to the touch.

"Well, what kind?"

He couldn't tell if you were interested. You were asking him lots of questions, even from the start. Did you want to know more about him?

"Oh, we were crazy. One time, a pledge covered himself in lighter fluid and lit himself on fire before jumping into the pool."

"Ah... so the typical frat bros stuff. I guess I've seen something like that at X. Uni", you nodded, your smile turning a bit cheeky.

He shifted even closer.

"Yeah, we were bad boys. Were you in a sorrority? Greek life is big at X."

You shook yout head slowly.

"No... It seemed very fun, but I guess I was too focused on other stuff."

"What stuff?"

"I was trying to keep my scholarship, so that took most of my time, I guess. I wasn't too involved with student life aside trom the school's art magazine."

"So you are a smartie?"

You hung your head humbly.

"I guess you could say that."

"So what did you do to blow off steam, then? Or were you at the library all day?"

He felt just a bit desperate trying to know you. He knew his bombarding questions were coming off a little strong, but he didn't want to feel exposed and insecure anymore. He had opened up, he thought it would be fair if you let him in a little. Wind down, be less uptight.

"I went to Ellum sometimes."

Ellum, the bar street. So you knew how to party after all. Maybe you did have experiences with men.

"Oh, me and my boys liked it there."

"For troubles?"

He laughed.

"For troubles, yeah. It'd be crazy if we met and never knew it."

"Well, it was all dark and loud in there. Maybe we did."

"Then it's fate."

He felt corny saying it, but the words slipped out anyway. His heart twisted when you laughed at that, your chest vibrating. You lifted your hand to cover your smile, and he saw a glimpse of ink as your top pulled against your shoulder. Tattoos, huh? He didn't peg you as the type to get them.

Seeing that it was his chance, he reached over to adjust the fabric, his fingertips lingering just a moment too long. He felt it, the electric as he felt your cool skin against his own. You were soft and smooth, like a nice spread of butter against crispy toast.

"Oh, my bad, I just saw your shirt falling off a little there."

Your laugh dwindled. You touched where he touched, your chest rising and lowering at a slower beat.

Lukas found himself feeling expectant.

"Ah, well, thank you", you said, your voice more relaxed now. That was a good sign.

The waiters came back with the orders and left just as hurriedly.

"I have a question", Lukas mused, somehow anxious to lose your attention when you reached for your utensils.

"Pray tell."

"What's the best food place that you've ever been in Tokyo?"

He winced internally. Corny and immature, that was what he was being. What a 17-year-old first date question that was.

"I'd say the unlabelled streetfood carts at the open-air markets", you said, your finger resting on your chin for a moment, "I like to go there if I ever have to stay late at work."

"You gotta show me sometimes, then. I love streetfood!"

He felt stupid clawing at any ways he could to compel your interest. You were right there, laughing at his jokes, asking about his family, paying attention to him. Yet somehow he still felt like you were distant, somewhere in an invisible fish bowl, and what he had said to you were muffled through the water and glass.

"Of course, I'd be happy to. But let me know if you are allergic to anything, or if you are scared of seafood."

"Not at all", he confidently shook his head, "I went to Italy last summer, and the seafood was amazing!"

"Trip across Europe?"

"Trip across Europe", he nodded, "I'd say, Italy for best seafood, France for best wine, Germany for best beer, and Netherlands for the best, well, you know..."

You playfully rolled your eyes.

"I see you like to travel."

"Oh, it changes my whole perspective. I really found myself, you know. It's like... I come back a whole different person. I think everyone should travel."

You gave him a strange look. Not a scowl nor a frown. A gentle squint of the eyes. It could be anything. He couldn't decide if he was being too boastful, or if he had said something wrong. Did you not like that? Maybe you hadn't been as well-travelled as he was, and what he said had come across as unrelatable.

"But of course, you know, if your money allows it. It doesn't cost as much as you think if you know how to budget."

The playful twinkle in your eyes told him that you were responding to him, and likely not negatively. Still, he felt more stupid adding on to what he said. He didn't know why, but he felt as though you were looking down on him.

Why would you look down on him?

Lukas may not realize it, but this was one of the rare occasions when he let the "why" bother him.

"Of course, travelling can be great. I haven't travelled much, but I imagine that when I have enough money, I would travel. I have a few places in mind."

"Where to?"

"For starter, Norway."

Weird answer.

"What's in Norway?"

"The aurora borealis."

He furrowed his brows.

"You want to see the northern light?"

"More than anything."

"It doesn't cost that much though."

"Yeah, but solo travelling costs more, I imagine."

"I can go with you."

He felt decidedly stupid and overconfident.

"Wouldn't that be something...", you commented, your eyes casting aside, "well, that's my top destination for sure."

You were growing cold again. Lukas couldn't for the life of him figure out where he was going wrong. Maybe you just weren't attracted to him, but that was unlikely. He knew how good he looked. He may have heard "sorry I have a boyfriend" and "I'm looking for something serious", but he couldn't think of a time when someone had admitted to him not being their type. Not even behind his back.

"Also, you seem to like to drink. Two out of the four places you mentioned was about alcohol."

He didn't expect you to pick up on the conversation. Maybe he simply had gotten into his head.

"Oh, I guess. I did drink a lot in college, but that's just what it was all about, you know?"

"About troubles, I know."

He felt his face growing hot.

"Right... well, I'd love to know what other Japanese drinks are like, too. I've tasted sake, but it was mild. I'm more of a beer and shots guy."

"Wine, too, right? In France."

You had not once lost your composure. He felt like he was squirming in his seat. He wanted to sleep with you, that was clear. He needed to know what it was like to get with someone older than him, even if it was a mere three years. What would you be like in bed? What did you learn from all the men from your past? The unphased facade, the tattoo, the way you maintained your calm upon his touch and his banter... you knew something he didn't. You had experienced things he hadn't.

"Right, that. Do you drink at all? Here, in Japan, I mean."

"Sometimes."

"Hey, it's a Friday night. Do you maybe want to grab a drink at a pub somewhere after this?"

You raised an eyebrow at him, incredulous. He knew he was being brash and bold, but he couldn't help it. You were something he wanted to add to his collection.

Letting you mull over it, he watched your calm face.

"Sure...", you softly agreed, "but only for a little while."

"Something coming up tomorrow?"

Someone to see tomorrow?

Your blank eyes glimmered under the flourescent light for a second. He almost wanted to hold his breath.

"Just some personal affair in the afternoon."

There you go being elusive again. He thought he would have had you in his palm by now, but not yet. Maybe he didn't know your type.

411 notes · View notes

lancestrollsgf · 16 days ago

Text

# L’IMMACOLATA / CHRISTMAS DECORATING ! LUIGI MANGIONE X READER, WRITTEN

introduction master list request list series masterlist

# WARNINGS: english isn’t my first language (spelling/grammar errors), ooc! luigi (probably?), second person pov, lowercase intended. this is purely a work of fiction and that i do not encourage any criminal acts or acts of violence. (innocent until proven guilty)

# SUMMARY: the first part of decorating for the long-awaited holiday, is finding the green tree to have in the corner of your home. luigi and you have just gotten into a comfortable new york apartment, which now you have to decorate. both of you are now heading to find the perfect tree and decorations to add to your home.

# AUTHORS NOTE: first part of my new series. first time in a while writing an actual story and not an smau so please have mercy on me. this does not follow the current events, his backstory is not really mentioned throughout the story. luigi back issues do not exist in this story or series. definition: L’immacolata is the day that many italians put up Christmas trees and other holiday decorations. i tried to include some italian traditions i found online but had adding them into where i had already written was difficult. (word count: 2083)

the holiday spirit was already settling in, its warmth contrasting with the chilly new york december air. the long-awaited holiday had arrived, and with thanksgiving’s packed away and autumn’s remnants tucked into storage, it was time to transition into the most festive time of the year.

in your cozy new york apartment, you and luigi were ready to start decorating. following italian tradition on december eighth, the first step is to find the perfect christmas tree, to occupy that empty corner in your living room. it was the beginning of a tradition that you both hoped would carry on for years to come.

slipping on your shoes by the door, you glanced up as luigi adjusted his hair in the bathroom mirror. “are you almost ready, amore?” he called, his voice warm as it carried through the apartment.

you tugged your sneaker snugly onto your foot and answered, “yes! i just need to find and pack my bag.”

luigi chuckled softly. “is it not on the bookshelf near the door?”

that would’ve been convenient, but considering your clumsiness, it wasn’t there. frowning, you began scanning the kitchen, retracing your steps from earlier. perhaps you’d set it down while unpacking groceries. luigi soon joined the search, moving past the couch to help. just as you were about to give up and head back to the living room, luigi’s voice rang out victoriously. “i found it!” he held the black handbag up with a smile, crossing the room to hand it to you. “ah, thank you, lu,” you said, relieved. “i just need to check if I’m missing anything.”

while you rummaged through the bag, mentally running through your checklist, luigi sat by the door and laced up his boots. he glanced at you fondly, patiently waiting as you zipped the bag shut and slung it over your shoulder.

“ready?” he asked, standing up and opening the door for you. you nodded, stepping out onto the apartment’s stairwell, and luigi followed close behind. the cold december air greeted you like an icy embrace, and you instinctively wrapped your arms around yourself, pulling your sweater tighter. sensing your shiver, luigi slipped his arm around your shoulders, drawing you close to his side as you both walked onto the busy street below.

the city was alive with holiday cheer—twinkling lights strung between streetlamps, wreaths hung in shop windows, and the distant hum of carolers blending with the sound of traffic. your destination, a nearby tree farm, had been picked out this morning after scouring reviews and recommendations online. It wasn’t far, just a short walk, and as you approached, the scent of fresh pine reached your noses, filling the air with an unmistakable festive aroma.

“smells like christmas already,” luigi said with a grin, glancing at you as he rubbed his hands together for warmth. you laughed softly, looking around the rows of trees, each one towering and verdant in its unique way. “let’s find the perfect one, lu something that says us.” luigi’s brown eyes sparkled with excitement, and he nodded eagerly. “yes, amore. let’s make it special.”

the scent of pine grew stronger as you and luigi stepped into the tree farm. rows upon rows of evergreen trees stretched out before you, each dusted with a fine layer of frost that glistened in the dim december sunlight. the crisp air nipped at your cheeks, turning them a rosy pink. luigi’s hand found yours, his fingers gently squeezing as he smiled down at you.

“so, amore,” he began, his breath forming little clouds in the cold air, “do we want something big and grand, or small and cozy?”

you chuckled, glancing at the towering trees to your left and the smaller, more modest ones to your right. “hmm… i think something in the middle. big enough to feel festive but not so big that it takes up half the apartment.”

luigi laughed, his warm voice echoing softly in the open space. “good idea. we don’t want to be tripping over branches every time we go to the kitchen.”

the two of you walked through the rows, pausing once in a while to inspect a tree here or there. luigi would point out one with perfectly shaped branches, while you admired another for its rich, deep green color. neither of you could agree right away, but that was part of the fun.

“how about this one?” luigi asked, standing next to a tree that was taller than he was. he reached up and touched one of the branches, which sprang back gently under his gloved fingers. “it’s sturdy, and the branches are full.”

you tilted your head, considering it. “it’s nice, but…” you trailed off, stepping closer to examine the tree. “it might be a bit too tall. remember, we still have to fit the star on top.”

“ah, true,” luigi nodded, scratching the back of his neck. “okay, let’s keep looking.” as the two of you continued searching, you couldn’t help but admire how seriously luigi was taking this. his red christmas hat was slightly askew from all his craning to look at the tops of trees, and his nose was pink from the cold, but his enthusiasm never wavered. he kept turning to you, his excitement infectious as he offered suggestions and shared little jokes to keep you warm.

eventually, you both came across a tree that seemed just right. it was neither too tall nor too small, its branches were lush and even, and it gave off the strongest pine scent of any tree you’d seen so far. you stepped closer, brushing your hand over the needles, which were soft to the touch.

“what do you think, lu?” you asked, turning to him. he knelt slightly to examine the base of the tree, checking the trunk and giving it a gentle shake to see how stable it was. standing back up, he grinned and nodded. “i think we’ve found the one, amore. it’s perfect.”

relief and excitement washed over you. “really? you like it?”

“of course! it’s exactly what we were looking for.” he reached out to take your hand again, giving it a reassuring squeeze. “and if it makes you happy, then i love it even more.” your heart swelled at his words, and you couldn’t help but smile. “okay then, let’s get it!”

a friendly worker helped wrap the tree for you, and soon enough, you and luigi were carrying it back toward your apartment. the journey wasn’t without its challenges—maneuvering the tree through crowded sidewalks and up the narrow stairwell to your floor had both of you laughing and out of breath by the time you reached the door.

but as you set the tree down in the corner of the living room and stepped back to admire it, you knew it was worth every bit of effort.

luigi wrapped an arm around your shoulders, pulling you close. “there we go, amore. step one of decorating done.” you leaned into him, smiling as the scent of fresh pine filled the apartment. “it’s already starting to feel like christmas.”

you and luigi stood in the living room, admiring the tree now firmly in place. the scent of pine filled the apartment, the tree’s presence filling the space with warmth despite the cold december chill still lingering outside.

“well, amore,” luigi began, grinning as he stepped back to survey the tree, “step one is done. now, we make it shine.”

you nodded, your excitement growing. “yes! let’s go get some decorations.”

after a quick glance around the apartment to make sure everything was in order, the two of you bundled up again and made your way out into the crisp air, walking to the nearest shop that was known for having a lovely selection of holiday decorations.

the store was small but filled with the kind of charm that made it feel like it belonged in a cozy winter wonderland. sparkling garlands and glittering ornaments lined the shelves, while warm lights twinkled from every corner. you both instantly felt the festive magic in the air as you wandered inside.

“okay, what do we need first?” luigi asked, rubbing his hands together to keep warm as he looked around at the colorful decorations. his red hat seemed to glow in the warmth of the shop’s lights, and his excitement was contagious.

you thought for a moment, eyes scanning the shelves. “we need a star for the top, and definitely some lights. the tree needs to sparkle.”

luigi grinned, his eyes lighting up with mischief. “oh, definitely some lights. and I think we could use some ornaments that represent... us.”

you smiled, already imagining how to make the tree feel personal, something that would reflect both of your tastes and personalities. you were already picturing small touches—maybe a little Italian flag ornament, or something playful to remind you of your time together.

the two of you moved down the aisles, carefully picking out a few strands of twinkling lights—warm white to match the cozy atmosphere—and then you began your hunt for ornaments.

“how about these?” luigi asked, holding up a set of small gold bells. “they remind me of home.”

you nodded, picking them up from his hands. “they’re perfect. let’s get them.”

as you walked through the aisles, you both added ornaments to the basket—a tiny wooden reindeer, a few delicate snowflakes, and some simple glass baubles in shades of red, green, and gold. each item felt like it would add another layer of warmth and personality to your tree.

finally, you reached the section for tree toppers, and your eyes immediately landed on a beautiful silver star that glittered in the light.

“this is it, lu,” you said, reaching for the star. “this is exactly what we need.”

“perfect,” luigi agreed, nodding with a smile. “it’s going to look amazing.”

after picking up a few more decorative touches, including a set of gold ribbons to add to the tree and a couple of festive-scented candles, you and luigi made your way to the checkout. you couldn’t help but smile as he carefully packed the decorations into the bag, his usual careful attention to detail making the whole experience even more special.

once back at the apartment, the two of you worked together to decorate the tree, the entire process feeling like a warm, joyful collaboration.

first, you wrapped the tree with lights, careful not to leave any gaps or let them tangle. luigi passed you ornaments as you decorated, his gloved hands gently handing you each one as if it was a treasure. “this one goes here,” he said, carefully placing a small red ornament on a branch near the top. “what do you think, amore?”

“i love it,” you said, stepping back to admire the progress. “everything looks so perfect.”

next, you added the ribbons, winding them gently around the branches. with each layer of decoration, the tree began to take on a life of its own, growing more beautiful with every passing moment.

finally, it was time for the star. you stood on a chair to reach the top, carefully placing it atop the tree. luigi’s face lit up as you stepped back, both of you admiring the finished product.

“it’s perfect,” you said, your voice filled with awe. “just like we imagined.”

“i couldn’t agree more,” luigi said, his arm wrapping around you. “it’s beautiful.”

you stood there for a few moments, just taking in the sight of your tree glowing softly in the corner of the room. the lights sparkled, the ornaments glimmered, and the tree felt like a little piece of holiday magic that you had created together.

“so,” luigi said after a long pause, “what’s next? do we start baking cookies, or maybe light some candles?”

“cookies,” you replied immediately, grinning. “cookies are essential. but maybe first, let’s make some hot chocolate to keep us warm.”

“hot chocolate it is,” he agreed, laughing as he headed to the kitchen to get started. “this holiday is going to be amazing.”

you watched him walk away, heart full of love as you took in the glow of the tree. it wasn’t just the lights that made the apartment feel special—it was the way you and luigi worked together, making this place feel like home, like it was already filled with all the joy and warmth of the holiday season.

this was only the beginning, and you couldn’t wait to see what the rest of the season had in store.

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧

part two of the series coming out soon. happy holidays :) comment on the series master list to be tagged! (commenting here is okay as well)

181 notes · View notes

seleneprince · 1 month ago

Text

Part 2 of my MC's file from the yandere!batfam au

HER ARSENAL:

-Lucia's skills as a hacker are inspired by the Watch Dogs universe.

-She can remotely hack phones to access data, disable alarms, or track locations. Tamper with security cameras for intel or to map out routes. Overloard junction boxes to create distractions or disable power.

-Even manipulate traffic lights to cause accidents or create a escape route.

-She can also override vehicle systems, remotely controlling cars or locking people inside.

-She's also an inventor. Her fascination with tech doesn't end only in programming. She loves creating and developing tech stuff. Robots and drones are her favourites, designed for surveillance, as weapons, or other related tasks, such as planting bugs and retreiving items.

-With time, she learns to build specialized tools like signal jammers, EMPs, or hacking tools disguised as everyday items. Nothing escapes her.

-She has many hiding spots in Gotham, after years of finding routes by jumping through rooftops and sneaking around, but she mostly frecuents her main safehouse, that's located within an abandoned warehouse in The Narrows, and extends below utilizing portions of the closed underground station.

-She knows no one would think of looking down there, unless they know what they're looking for.

-It serves her as a workshop, but also as an operations center and her own personal heaven, where she can rest and enjoy herself in peace. She feels more at home there than in the Wayne manor.

-She puts her gymnastic skills to good use, sneaking through rooftops, alleyways, and urban infrastructure to her advantage. Sometimes she'll rely on drones for mobility instead, controlling them to scale virtually any wall and obstacle that she can't by bypass with parkour.

-She's not a fighter, but years of judo classes have allowed to defend herself when the situation calls for it. She's usually armed with compact, high-voltage stun weapons that incapacitate people without killing them. All of which designed and developed by her.

-She operates with an alter ego, Ghost, and later Zero, with which she manages her "errands" and communicates with people who hire her services. At first, the alter ego only exists online, but with time, she begins to intervene more in her missions, and it's not unusual for her to sneak into places to do her work, so she uses a disguise.

-When she's acting as her alter ego, she wears form-fitting athletic wear for unrestricted movement, with a jacket over it with deep pockets and hidden compartments, that helps conceal her shape. A sleek, high-design mask that covers from her nose to her forehead, equipped with augmented reality features for hacking on the go and a voice modifier, which creates a robotic tone that makes impossible to discern her age or gender. She also uses gloves, to keep her fingerprints away from any surface.

-She started doing some hacking here and there for hiring, but eventually, she associates with villains and works with them. She does some morally and legally questionable stuff (downright crimes) for money and also for the thrill of power, for the self-validation.

-Regardless, she doesn't really follow anyone. She works on her own terms and mostly does her own things. She's friends with some other hackers too and they work together from time to time, but otherwise, she acts alone.

-The classes and extracurricular activities she took in an effort to impress her family (judo, gimnastics, programming, drawing) have proven to be very useful with her new job, giving her a set of skills that she's honed for her not-so-legal endevours.

-She has her own motorbike, her favourite gift from Alfred that she treasures. She calls it "my baby", and has given it a few not very legal modifications to improve the design to her taste.

Personal info:

-She doesn't call Bruce "dad" or "father". It's always Bruce, or Mr Wayne if she feels particulally petty.

-She was banned from judo competitions after accidentally breaking her oponent's leg. In her defense, she had an awful day and the poor bastard decided it was a good idea to taunt her into hitting him. She claims she's gotten over it already (lies, she still gets pissy over it).

-She's been practically raised by Alfred, and they have the sweetest bond. He's the only person in the manor she respects, and wants to make him proud. That's why she does her best to hide her double life from him, knowing he would dissaprove.

-Funny enough, because Alfred is the same one who taught her how to shoot a gun and where to stab someone to render them helpless. The man is no fool, he knows he can't stop a teenager from doing dumb shit, but he can at least make sure she's prepared for the worst outcomes.

-She has the habit of moving around the manor like a monkey, climbing and jumping around like the proud gymnast she is. The manor is like a obstacle park for her. Why take the stairs when she can just jump off the rail and land gracefully on the ground? It's much faster.

-Alfred had to patch her up more than once from stunts gone wrong, but always encouraged her that "there's no victory without failure".

-She's grown up helping Alfred around the manor, slowly but surely taking his tasks from him and doing them herself so he can rest. She's worried about his high activity at his old age, fearing he might drop dead one day out of exhaustion.

-They share the house chores, and he calls her "his little helper", even though she's taller than him now. Lucia's heart melts when he calls her that, but pretends to complain with "she's not a kid anymore"

-She's fixated with the color red ever since her mom's death, specially with the kind of red that resembles blood stains. At the same time, she has severe claustrophobia.

-She hates the color green ever since Damian tried to kill her. It reminds her of his eyes.

-Speaking of it, she's either indifferent or polite with the others, but she hates Damian with passion. He gave her trauma, nightmares and a permanent scar on her neck that would never dissapear, among being an absolute bully whenever their paths cross. She avoids him entirely.

-Even thought she's stranged, she's still known as Bruce Wayne's daughter. She got kidnapped not much later after moving in to Wayne Manor by Penguin, whom she won over by being overly nice and polite with despite her circumnstances. Her mother taught her that bowing her head and be pleasant could save her life in the worst situations (pity it didn't save her)

-She was rescued quickly enough by Bruce, but he handled the ordeal as if it was an inconvenience rather than his daughter having been in a life-threatening situation.

-She's been kidnapped and attempted to more times over the years, each one cementing her belief that she had to save herself because no one else would.

-Her little brother, Marco, is a year younger than Damian, and has dyslexia, which is one of the reasons Lucia works so hard to provide him the best from a distance. She knows the educational system doesn't fit kids with special needs like him, specially if they're orphans.

-She's taken upon herself to be a mother for Marco, unconsciously seeking to cope with their mom's death by taking her place in his life. She visits him frecuently at the orphanage and pulls strings so he doesn't get adopted. It's selfish, she knows, but she can't stand the idea of another family getting him and losing contact with him.

-Being possessive with family runs in her blood.

-She adores him, but her relationship with the boy is also built on her feelings of neglect and the trauma of losing their mother. She holds unto him not only out of love, but because she feels he's the only true family she has. The only brother who loves her unconditionally and doesn't make her feel like shit.

-She's a parentified oldest daughter at its finest, used to act like an adult even at a young age. The only times she allows herself to be a girl her age is when she's alone with Alfred or with her best friends.

-She smokes and has some self-destructive tendencies, but crosses the line at getting drunk.

-She has discounts at the Iceberg Lounge whenever she goes. Gets along surprisingly well with Oswald Cobblepot, with him being somewhat fond of her since the kidnapping.

-Because of this, she has met a couple of villains already and even talked to them. Ivy and Harley are secretly scouting her for Siren potential, trying to see if she's worth it.

-All of them at some point have met her alter ego online. She has contacts everywhere.

-Marco's biological father is a pillar in both their lives since they were kids, and Lucia has a complex dynamic with the man. His identity is relevant to the plot.

-Out of all her "siblings", she likes Duke the most. He's the only one who's been friendly with her since the beginning and hasn't gotten bored of her, unlike Stephanie. They were close before, but after Lucia found out their secret identities, she kept her distance from him, much to his sadness.

-She doesn't mind Barbara and Cassandra. She's polite when she sees them and has no particular problem with their presence.

-She strongly dislikes Dick, Jason and Stephanie, and she doesn't have an opinion on Tim, beyond that he has assholes vibes.

-My Dick Grayson, Jason Todd and Damian Wayne from this au are inspired by the ones from @solelifauna. If you want to get an idea, go check her works and you'll understand.

-Lucia knows all of their vigilante lives, but pretends she doesn't so to not give them a reason to bother her. Alfred is aware that she knows, since he was there when she found out, in an accidental way.

-Long story short, she snuck in the Batcave and saw all the stuff, including the uniforms. She had a mental breakdown right there and rushed to pack her stuff, determined to run away. She's a criminal, she doesn't want to share space with the people who hunt down those who break the law. Alfred caught her and managed to convince her to stay, agreeing that she would keep the secret and the family wouldn't have to know about this incident.

-Alfred thinks he reacted like that because she's afraid of being targeted by the Batfamily's enemies.

-In reality, she's afraid of being targeted by the Batfamily themselves.

@bunbunboysworld

184 notes · View notes

godmadeaterribleerror · 14 days ago

Text

Hold You Tight In My Mind

Main Masterlist

Read on A03!

Tags: Dean Winchester/Female Reader, Love Confessions, Smut (p in v, blowjobs, kinda fingering), soft angst, injury, hurt/comfort, demon possession, friends-with-benefits to lovers.

Summary/Warnings: You and Dean have an agreement. Best friends who have sex, no strings attached. But when a case goes south, you learn a few things about Dean, specifically his thoughts on the arrangement.

Maybe you won't have to love him in silence after all.

Author's Note: Kinda request from @brtodd!! Nothing I love more than a good old love confession, enjoy!

Title from Terrance Loves You by Lana Del Ray

Word Count: 8.5k

That’s a lot of blood. You’ve spent nights in motels stitching wounds and lost yourself on the side of the highway shouting for help, your guts half spilled on the pavement, but you’ve never seen that much blood.

“Son of a bitch, that’s a lot of blood.”

Dean, apparently, hasn’t seen this much blood either.

“Should we, um,” you scan over the tile floor, your nose slightly scrunched. “Should we take a picture for Sam?”

“Yeah, he should see this shit too-“

“No, Dean,” you give him a flat look. “For the case. To help him figure out what the hell this thing is.”

Dean gives you a bright, boyish grin and nod of approval. “Good thinkin’, in case he gets mad at us-“

“Gets mad at you,” you correct, moving to stand at Dean’s shoulder as he takes the photo. “I’m not a part of this. I just wanna go home.”

Dean shrugs. “We all wanna go home, Sweetheart. Hell, I’ve got a wife and kids- Shit-“

He doubles over slightly from your elbow in his ribs, and you roll your eyes.

“You have a fake wife and kids. And your fake wife,” you jab your thumb at your own chest. “Doesn’t want her fake brother-in-law to kill her.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah, Dean’s never allowed to have fun.” He mutters, rubbing his side. “And Sammy wouldn’t kill ya’-“

“He’d kill my fake husband.” You pout at Dean, placing a hand over your heart. “And that would kill me.”

Dean chuckles, rising back to his full height. “I love it when you pretend that you care about me. Makes me warm and fuzzy.”

You roll your eyes, hoping he can’t see the low flush on your face. “You’re an asshole.”

“I know.” He shrugs. “You’re into it, though. C’mon, we gotta see if there’s actually a body in here, or Sam’ll kill both of us.”

Dean trudges off through the lake of blood, and you have to shake your head slightly to clear it. This case is going to kill you. This is so fucking gross, and the longer you’re here—in this room, in this town, on this case—the sicker you feel.

And it’s not just the blood. It’s all of this. It’s the haughty country club patrons who are downright impossible to properly interrogate, it’s the extra fancy clothing you have to wear for the investigations, and the shitty little tea cakes that the club serves. Tea cakes that you can feel your stomach growling for, because you haven’t had a chance to eat all day, and that only makes you feel worse. As every hour passes, you only feel more and more sick. You only spiral into starving mess that needs either food or Dean.

And that just makes you ill. Every time you look at Dean and hear him say wife, you want to strangle him then kiss him and it’s exhausting. Because you’d walked into this stupid fucking country club with a plan that would’ve worked fine—Sam’s your driver because he drew the short stick, Dean’s your bodyguard, you’re some fancy heiress looking to spend some money—and everything went sideways the moment the front desk asked how many household members, and Dean said four. Dean said that he was your husband, and you have kids, and that he knows he’s punchin’ above his weight class, but damn him, he can’t feel bad about it.

You want to hate him for that. You want to throttle him for how he’s treating this like it’s casual and easy, like every time he says wife it’s not so quietly cruel to your heart. How it flutters and glows before withering, because you’ll never have that. Dean always says wife with a teasing voice and nudge of your shoulder, and you can only grin at him like it’s not killing you, reminding you of what you can’t have.

But you can’t hate Dean. You don’t really know how to hate Dean. And he doesn’t know that this is like torture, because he really thinks you’re happy with this. Not just the fake wife thing—because you are playing into it, trading the same taunts and jokes and grins—but the very real, no-strings-attached fuck-buddies arrangement you have. Have had for fucking years. The one where you’ll follow him to the ends of the earth and never, ever look back to see what you’d left behind, but all he’s asking is that you stay in his bed and let him fuck you when he asks.

It’s not a bad arrangement. He’s a sex god, he gives as good as he gets, and you’re technically exclusive, but it’s still not what you want. Crave. Desire more than you’ve ever desired anything.

Because you really just want all of Dean. Something he’s never offered anyone‚ will certainly never offer you, and you’re going to chase until it kills you. You’ll warm Dean’s bed and touch his body for as long as you’re allowed, and cling to these small deaths of maybe this could be real until they all finally catch up to your heart. You’ll gather small offerings he drops in your lap without knowing—you’re the only person he looks at, and his eyes don’t seem to stray, and he’s the one who decided you should be fake married—and build a shrine to him along your ribs he’ll never be allowed to see.

But his voice still haunts your dreams with words you feel over your skin where he’s touched you before. Words you’ve heard a million times—so pretty, sweetheart, good girl—and words you’ll never hear. Words that circle your brain and bang on your skull all the fucking time, even in this disgusting, haunting mess of blood. Words that make some small part of you spark whenever you hear Dean’s deep, strong voice say your name, because you’re a little pathetic and you can’t stop praying that he’ll say them. He won’t. He never does.

He calls your name, and that spark kicks up your spine, and he still doesn’t say them.

“I got it!” He sounds so proud, and you hate that it makes you smile. “We’re looking at a demon!”

You turn, pushing through the blood to join Dean at where he’s standing at a fireplace, running his finger over the mantle with a twisted expression of disgust.

“Sulfur?” You ask, stopping as close to his side as he can manage, and he shoots you a grin, holding up a bloodied—but blackened—finger.

“Bingo, Sweetheart.” He winks, obviously missing your open, wanting gape at him as he looks back to the mantle. “Nasty son of bitch, though, I’ve never seen one of those douchebags do this.”

Dean gestures around the room, and you hum an agreement.

“So we’re good?” You ask, standing slightly on your toes to survey the sulfur buildup. “That’s it?”

“That’s it.” Dean pulls his phone out of his pocket. “I’m gonna call my wife, tell her I’ll be home for dinner-“

You whack his arm, and he laughs like a handsome, cocky fucking asshole you still can’t figure out how to hate.

“Your wife is starving, and tired of standing in blood.” You kick your foot through the mess, wrinkling your nose. “Can we please go?”

“I dunno, I think this is kinda romantic.” Dean gives you a shit-eating grin, and you swallow. “I mean, this is freakin’ gross, but it’s just us and all these guts, I think we could waste some time-“

“Shut up.” You shove him, and he doesn’t stop grinning at you. “Haul ass, Winchester, or you’ll be in the fake doghouse.”

He chuckles, rebalancing in a second. “You’re being a little dramatic, kid-“

“Don’t kid me, Dean Winchester, I’m your fake wife. I gave birth to your fake kids-“

“You’ve got some good points,“ Dean drawls your name, pulling you right against his chest, and suddenly the smell of metallic blood is nothing compared to the leather and whiskey and gunpowder of Dean. The sticky heat of the room is overtaken by the heat in your core, the heat of Dean’s breath as he lowers down to kiss right behind your ear, his voice dropping to a deep, teasing growl. “And I’m gonna real fuck you when we get back to the motel. But I gotta call Sam and catch him up, can you-“

You nod, reaching into his pocket to grab the keys, and force yourself not to look back as you leave. You wince slightly as you lean into the Impala—starting the car before rising back up and leaning against the door—but it’s not like she’s never been covered in blood before. This just… a lot more blood than usual.

Dean takes a year to join you, and when he walks out of the building he’s smirking, spreading his arms in a wide aren’t you happy to see me? gesture.

“Sam’s workin’ it.” He stops right in front of you, too close and never close enough. “Can I buy a pretty lady a beer?”

“You can buy her some food.” You cross your arms, grinning up at him. “I saw a drive-thru down the road, we shouldn’t go inside looking like this.”

“Smart.” He places his hand on your lower back, guiding you around the car and into the passenger’s seat, and just being so fucking impossible as he opens the door and helps you inside. “Greasy fast-food for me and my girl, comin’ right up.”

You have to learn how to hate him. You have to learn how to flip Dean off and mean it, how to not flush and giggle like a schoolgirl with a crush under his attention. He doesn’t mean it, he doesn’t know how to mean it, but it still makes your lower gut warm and your face split into a wide, stupid grin when he calls you my girl, drawls your name in the car, and rests his hand on your knee as you pull through the ordering window. When he parks in the lot and you laugh together, his eyes rarely leaving yours and his smile never falling from his face.

Even when he gets out to use the bathroom—promising he’ll be fast and try, somehow, not to draw attention to how he’s soaked in blood—Dean still grins and winks at you, and you can’t figure out how to shove his chest and shout that this is mean. That he’s mocking you and stringing your heart up on wires to play with, and he can’t be expected to know that but this is so fucking mean. He needs to stop smiling at you, and stop saying wife all the time like it’s real when it’s not. It won’t be, it can’t be, and now that’s going to haunt you forever.

You sit there for long, lonely minutes while Dean’s gone, trying get as little blood as you can on the upholstery, because Dean had already started grumbling about how much work this is gonna be to clean up and you can’t bring yourself to make anything harder for him. You spiral through the sound of Dean calling you my girl and promising to fuck you, sit in the ghost of his big, warm hand on your body and his chest pressed right against your breasts. The gleam in his eyes that was full of promises, and the fantasy of all the plans he might have for that aforementioned fucking.

Then you hear his phone ring, and you frown. Dean almost never forgets his phone in the car, even if he’s just getting beer or paying for gas. It’s a hazard, to not have it. To not be able to reach you or Sam if he needs to, for you and Sam to not be able to reach him.

And he’s been gone a while. Long enough that your throat starts to form a small lump, and—when you pick up the call—your voice is a little unsteady, your attention on where Dean had disappeared into the building.

“Yeah?”

“Oh, hey.” Sam says your name through the speaker, his tone a little surprised. “Where’s Dean?”

“Bathroom.” You frown at the building, desperate for Dean to just appear, and soothe this horrible twisting in your gut. “What’s up?”

“I figured out what we’re looking at.” You can hear some papers shuffling on Sam’s end, his words slow and careful. “Special kind of demon that feeds off of lustful blood, which explains why he’s been going after all those rich people. Like, ten ladies and five dudes have tried to sleep with me this week, and I know you and Dean got that, uh, offer-“

“Sam.” You mutter, your eyes still on the building. “Can we exercise it?”

“Kind of. We can’t use the normal one, because it’s not a normal demon, but there is a way. And these guys seem to be capable of being injured, more dependent on their vessels or something. So-“

“If we find him we can knock him down,” you mutter. “Hold him until we figure out how to flush him out.”

“Exactly. And I’m trying to work on the flushing part,” Sam sighs, and you can picture his sheepish expression. “But I don’t have it yet. Are you-“

“We’re coming back soon. Do you want us gone a little while longer, so you can focus-“

“No, Dean told me about all the blood. Sounded gross.”

You nod, even though he can’t see you. “It was. But-“

“I’ll take the car, need to stop at the library anyway.” Sam says your name through the phone, and there’s a sound of pity in it that makes you curl slightly into yourself. “You and Dean can shower, relax, do, uh, whatever you do-“

You sigh. “Please don’t give me permission to fuck your brother, dude. It’s weird.”

“Yeah.” Sam chuckles through the static. “Sorry. I just know he’s been trying to get you alone-“

“He’s always trying to get me alone.” A dumb smile takes over your face as Dean reappears, and he’s fine. Still covered in blood, but grinning at you with a dizzying joy and gleam in his eyes. “I’ll tell him what we’ve got, and text us when you’ve got the exorcism.”

“Will do. Call me if you need anything, or if, uh, I should stay away longer-“

“Suck my dick.”

You end the call as Sam laughs, and look up to find Dean tapping on your window with a smirk. You blink at him, because he might be covered in more blood than before. There’s a bruise on his forehead that wasn’t there a second ago, his shirt is on backwards, and his jacket is drenched, but he’s look at you like he won the lottery, and you’re not sure what the hell is going on.

“Dean,” you frown at him as you roll the window down, your brow furrowed as he braces an arm on the roof of Baby. “Are you-“

He cuts off your words by ducking down, grabbing your chin, and pulling you into a long, mind-numbing, sloppy kiss that leaves you gaping and dumb. Your fingers curling in his shirt, his low chuckle rolling through your body as he pushes his tongue down your throat, the taste of Dean—lingering burger and sweet soda and salt for your food, plus something innately Dean that’s heady and always leaves a perfect aftertaste on your tongue whenever he kisses you—overtaking the taste of blood just enough override your sense of this is kinda gross, and make you pull him closer.

When Dean pulls back—leaving you starting at him, your breathing ragged and heart trying to escape your chest as he grins at you—he grins at you, his voice a gravely promise.

“You ready to head back, darlin’?”

You blink at him. He’s never called you darling. Darling doesn’t sound like a Dean word. “Uh, yeah, but are you feeling okay? You were in there a while-“

“Food didn’t sit right,” he shrugs, drawing back up with a last wink. “Trust me, Sweetheart, it ain’t gonna be an issue anymore. I’m all flushed out.”

He rounds the car, and you watch him move with a frown. That’s the Dean swagger-walk, but it’s longer, with almost no urgency. Dean always walks with a least a little urgency, and he calls you Sweetheart but not darlin’, and something is still squeezing around your throat and telling you something’s wrong, when Dean’s right here. He’s winking at you from the driver’s seat, driving with the same cool ease Dean always has behind the wheel, and talking to you like he always does. Like your every word is fascinating and amusing, and you could say the grossest thing in the world but he’d still call you adorable.

You hate that he does that. It’s perfect and painful, feeding that shrine over your ribs, and almost enough to distract you from how weird he’s being. How he doesn’t seem at all interested to hear about the blood demon, how his first clarification is so Sam’s gonna leave us in the motel, and how he’s growing bolder with his hand on your leg. Trailing fingers lazily up your thigh and grinning when he brushes over the apex of your thighs, chuckling at your small gasp.

“Think we’re ready for that fuckin’, Sweetheart?” He drawls, pulling into the motel lot. “You sure seem real needy-“

“We’re not having sex, Dean, there’s a demon on the loose-“

“A demon Sammy’s handlin’.” He shrugs. “And I’ve been tryin’ to get you alone all freakin’ week. C’mon, we deserve some time together.“ Dean leans forward, smirking at you. “And I know you want it, babygirl. I bet you’re real fuckin’ wet for me.” He reaches up to your face, running his thumb over your lower lip. “So pretty, darlin’-“

There it is again. Darling. Darling, and the excessive drawling, and the slow walk, and the glint in his eyes you’re only now noticing. It’s colder than how Dean ever looks at you. It’s shallow and crude, like he can’t see anything past a pretty face and body, when Dean is—above all else—your friend. When there’s always a shining light when he looks at you that—both amazingly and awfully—reminds you that you’re more than just a body, and he mostly sees you as the best friend he’s ever had. The one he can do this with, because you care about each other too much to complicate things, and who he’ll always respect.

And this doesn’t feel respectful. It doesn’t feel like Dean. His hands are touching you, but there’s something off about them. Dean would be tracing his fingers over your inner thigh, not moving any further until your either grabbed his hand and moved it for him, or downright pleaded for him to touch you. He’d be disgusted by keeping your bloodied clothing in Baby for even a second more, and choose to back you against the motel wall instead of whatever this is. He’d let you get a word in, for your mock sparring and teasing that he always seems to win.

He would’ve worked in a joke about wanting to fuck his wife, because she can be a real brat when he neglects her. And you’d have smacked his chest, and he’d have laughed, raising his brows and saying see? She gets all bitchy and dramatic when I don’t fuck her right.

But Dean’s not doing that right now. And when you reach over the seat, trailing your hand up his chest in a pretend gesture of need, you feel it.

Warm, sticky blood that’s fresh, and seeping through his shirt. Pouring from a wound you can feel the dip of, that somehow doesn’t make him flinch when you press slightly on it.

A wound right over his anti-possession tattoo.

You move before the demon—not Dean, this isn’t Dean, and you feel fucking ill—can register what’s happening. You pull one of the Impala’s random guns out from the glove compartment, thank a God who’s obviously not listening that it’s weighed and heavy, and ram the butt of it into Dean’s temple. Not hard enough to kill him—you do want your Dean back after this— but hard enough to knock him out. To buy you enough time to grab his by the neck of his jacket and drag him out of the impala. You kick open the motel room door, scream to Sam for help, and haul him into a chair. Sam ties him down, while you take long, deep breathes, and your words are soft and short when you finally manage to speak.

“He’s possessed.” You whisper, starting at the floor. “They carved through the tattoo.”

“Shit,” Sam starts to pace, and there’s a ringing in your ears that makes it hard to hear him. “It’s-“

You nod. “The blood demon.”

“Are you good to stay here?” Sam marches over to the table and shoving his laptop into his bag. “I’ll go to the library, find what we’re looking for, and call you when I’ve got it. Okay?”

You nod, trying not flinch at Sam’s sympathetic pat of your shoulder, and stare at Dean as Sam leaves. You feel vile. That’s not Dean, but it’s Dean’s body. Dean will still be injured when you get this piece of shit out of his body. He’ll still be covered in bloody, disgusting clothing, and he’ll remember you knocking him out. He’ll ask questions that you’ll have to answer, about how you knew. And you’ll have to tell him that you just did. You’ll leave out the part about how you have every piece of him memorized to worship, so that even if the demon had tried a little harder to pretend to be Dean, you probably still would have caught on. You’d recognizes Dean’s bones in the grave. You’d recognize his voice in space. You’d recognize him just fucking near you if you were being waterboarded and flayed alive. And you’ll have to look him in the eyes and say the painfully basic and obscuring answer of I just did, and that will hurt.

But you have time to practice. The demon’s still knocked out in Dean’s body, and Sam’s taking too long to figure this out, but you don’t have anywhere to be. You can tug Dean’s jacket off his body with a mumbled apology he can’t hear, and busy yourself trying to clean it. You can’t stop looking at him—battered, vulnerable, his face so painfully slack—and the warm, soap-covered cloth isn’t enough to keep you from spiraling. From flinching as the blood, Dean’s blood, becomes red bubbles, and trying to convince yourself that this isn’t going to be so impossibly horrible. That, maybe, the demon just won’t wake up, and you won’t have to do anything but clean Dean’s jacket until Sam gets back

But you’re not that lucky.

Pretty, green eyes that are but don’t look like Dean’s flutter open, the demon drops any pretense of playing pretend, and your skin begins to crawl as it speaks.

“Good mornin’,” it leers at you from the chair, pulling slightly on the bonds. “Aren’t you a pretty sight to see after some forced shut eye.”

You start to scrub on the leather to a degree that can’t be helpful, your knuckles white.

“Knockin’ us out wasn’t very nice to your friend in here, Sweetheart. He’s awfully torn up about it. Feelin’ like he failed you, beggin’ me not to hurt you, hates that I was able to get the up on him and touch you at all. But can I tell you a secret,” the demon says your name, and your blood curls in your body. “He really wants to touch you himself. You’ve got a real dirty minded fellow on your hands. Who woulda thought the great Dean Winchester’s weakness would be a smart-mouthed bitch-“

The demon seems to choke on that last word, and when your gaze shoots up Dean’s body looks like it’s in pain. He’s curving into himself—his eyes screwed shut and sweat forming on his brow—and you’re moving before you know what’s happening. Jumping out of your seat and grabbing his face between your hands, your voice high and frantic over the blood pounding in your ears.

“Dean?” You run your thumb over his cheek, and he twitches, like he can’t figure out if he wants to flinch away or lean into your touch. “Shit, Dean, I need you to talk to me-“

Dean’s eyes snap open—that foul glint still rooted deep into them—and he laughs as you jerk away like he’d burned you.

“I’ll give ‘im this.” The demon says, the words still slightly strained. “He ain’t an easy ride. Keeps tryin’ to break out and talk to you, tell you not to listen to me and go find Sammy.” The demon laughs again, and it might be the worst sound you’ve ever heard. It’s Dean’s laugh, but inverted. Cold and hateful and wrong. This is so fucking wrong.

“Shut up.” You mutter, taking an unsteady step back, and the demon raises Dean’s brows.

“Well, darlin’, you’re just breakin’ poor Dean’s heart. Hurtin’ him, tellin’ him to shut up, tyin’ him up-“ The demon cuts himself off, twisting Dean’s face into a smirk. “Well, that one’s a funny little case, ain’t it. He’s too much of a pathetic little bitch to admit it-“

You scowl, standing a little taller. “Dean’s notpathetic-“

The demon pushes on as if you’d said nothing at all. “But he’s kinda into this. Likes the idea of you havin’ some fun with him however you want, pleasin’ you however you like, or,” the Demon’s grin grows mocking and crude. “Switchin’ places. Keepin’ you down to find out if he can make you scream louder than when he does that thing with his tongue, see if he can get you beggin’ all pretty. Nothin’ gets him goin’ more than when you beg-“

“Shut up.“ You hiss, grabbing your phone off your bed. “I don’t know what your fucking angle is, but I’d recommend you get out of my-“ you catch yourself, taking a short breath before plowing on. “Out of Dean-“

The demon caught it, though, and his smirk grows. “Your what? He ain’t your boyfriend, darlin’. But Jesus, he hates that too. I don’t think you’d keep indulgin’ this asshole if you could spend a second in here with ‘im like I am. He’s fuckin’ obsessed with you, it’s goddamn pathetic-“

You clench your jaw so hard you might break teeth, your movements rough as you scroll for Sam’s contact. “I said shut up-“

“He thinks he’s fuckin’ poison.” The demon sneers, and you can’t look at Dean’s face—can’t see it cruel and filled with hate—or you might start crying. “And shit, darlin’, he’d like to poison you. He’d like to do everythin’ to you. Fuck ya’ and buy you flowers and marry ya’,” the demon cackles, and you feel a little dizzy. “’S why he’s been doin’ this stupid fuckin’ charade all week. He wants to bruise ya’ and bite ya’, then whine and bitch about how he’s so disgustingly in love with you-“ The demon hacks a slight cough, and shakes his head with a mocking grimace. “Makes me fuckin’ sick, how needy and weak this piece of shit is-“

“I said,” you cross back to the chair, fisting Dean’s blood-covered shirt in your hand and yanking him up with cold words and words you hate on your tongue. “Shut the fuck up. And get out of him, before I fucking kill you.”

The demon just laughs at you, spit covering your face. “You ain’t gonna kill me, Sweetheart. Not while I’m in your precious Dean’s body. Not while you got me here, tellin’ you all the nasty things he’d like to do to ya’, how he worships the ground your fuckin’ walk on and dreams about you sayin’ you love a pile of trash like him-“

You tear off your own jacket, bundle up the sleeve, and stuff it the demons mouth. You don’t fucking care if it’s trapped in Dean’s body until Sam gets back, you can’t keep listening to it. Listening to it fucking lie and rip you apart with only words, watch it eyes gleam as it puppets Dean’s mouth to torture you. Why the fuck would it say things like that. It can’t be to hurt Dean, because all he’ll have to do is tell you when this is over that he’s sorry about what the demon said, and that it’s all just lies. And the demon doesn’t know—can’t know—that it just ripped your heart out of your chest and ran it through a meat-grinder. It doesn’t make any fucking sense, and you feel like your skin is trying to fly off your body, and Dean’s still covered in blood and it’s horrible-

Your phone buzzes on the floor—slightly cracked from being suddenly dropped—and it’s Sam. When you pick up he doesn’t wait to hear you before he launches into frantic words, practically shouting into the speaker.

“Found it!” He sounds a little out of breath, and you wouldn’t doubt that he’s been running back to the car. “Can you put me on-“

“Yep.” You press speaker, ripping your jacket out the demons mouth and turning the volume all the way up. “Go.”

Sam starts to recite a long, fancy string of Latin words, and you can’t bear to see Dean’s body thrash and roar and fold in pain, but you need to make sure the demon goes. That when Sam finishes and Dean’s eyes start to flutter, it’s safe to thank Sam, hang up the phone, and fall to your knees at Dean’s side.

“Dean,” you cup his jaw, angling his head slightly back. “Shit, Dean, please say something-“

He moans your name, and you almost start crying in relief, dropping your head carefully onto his leg.

“I, shit-“ Dean’s voice is hoarse as he pulls slightly at the bonds around him. “I’m happy to see you too, Sweetheart, but I kinda need you do untie me-“

“Fuck, sorry-“ You scramble with the ropes, scanning over his body as you do. “I’m gonna go get Sam’s medkit, can you take your shirt off-“

“Well, I’d usually make you but me some dinner- shit-“ He’d already started to pull his shirt off, his whole body shuddering as his arms tried to raise up.

“Dean-“

“Gimme three, I’ve got it-“

“No, you don’t. I’m cutting your shirt off, just-“ You move to your feet, pointing a stern finger at him. “Stay.”

He raises his hands, flinching slightly at the movement. “Yes, ma’am.”

Neither of you speak for a long while. You throw yourself entirely into his stitches, tossing the bloodied rags of his shirt into the trash and stealing small at Dean’s handsome, exhausted features. He’s watching you the whole time, his mouth opening and closing like he wants to say something but it’s sure where to start. When he finally clears his throat, you hum, keeping your hands steady on the stitches.

“This fucking sucks.” He grumbles, and you huff a dry laugh.

“Yeah. It really does.” You pull another stitch through the gash, and Dean winces. “Shit, I’m sorry-“

“Don’t apologize.” He mutters. “I should be apologizing to you.”

You frown up at him, your hands coming to a still. “Why?”

“I let that asshole get one up on me.” He grunts, refusing to meet your eyes. “Couldn’t get a hold over him, either. Let him say all that shit to you-“

Something cracks in your heart, but you just shrug. “That’s not on you, Dean. Demon’s lie, you don’t have to explain it-“

Now Dean’s frowning at you. “What?”

“The demon,” you mumble, your face flushing slightly. “What he said. I get it, it’s what they do, you don’t need to-“

“The demon didn’t,” Dean coughs, his face redder than you’ve ever seen it, his voice almost nervous. “It didn’t lie. He was a dick about how he said it, but he didn’t lie.”

“I, um, I don’t-“ You gape at him for a long second, trying to figure out if he’s joking. This isn’t something Dean would joke about, but that just means you must have heard him wrong. The demon said Dean loved you, and Dean didn’t love you—you haven’t even allowed yourself to entertain the thought outside of secret fantasies and feverish dreams—so the demon lied. The demon lied. The demon had to have lied, but why would Dean-

He says your name, tone cautious and features soft when you blink at him. “Lost you for a second, Sweetheart, are you-“

“I’m okay.” You mumble, refocusing on the stiches. “I’m probably just tired, I thought I heard you say-“

“That I love you?”

You swallow. There it is again. “I-“

He says your name again, careful fingers brushing hair from your face. “Look at me.”

You can’t. You don’t know what’s going on, and there’s still so much blood.

Dean hand moving under your chin and guides your gaze up, you lips parting slightly as your eyes meet his. He’s scanning over you, a slight furrow to his brow, and you can’t stop your hand from moving up and wiping a little blood off his cheek.

“Dean-“

“Never mind.” He mutters, shaking his head slightly. “Thought that we, uh, never mind.”

When you finish the stitches—your hands shaking slightly, your head spinning with confusion—you force him to shower first. It gives you time to spiral down, down, down, your brain turning desperately to figure out what that was. Why Dean would say that, why he’s acting so strange, why the demon would say that, why Sam’s being such a dick and insisting that he’s getting a second room, because Dean would—allegedly—rather have you here as the three of you had already been rotating through the floor, couch, and bed.

Which means you’re stuck with alone Dean for the night. And he’s not fully looking at you when he exits the shower, and you’re mostly just mumbling to each other, and he doesn’t love you but he looks like a kicked puppy. He picks up your own blood-covered jacket, helps you carefully out of your seat, takes the soapy rag from your hands, and flat out refuses to sit until you move to the shower.

And the water doesn’t help. You feel cleaner, but the steam makes your head spin all the more, and you can’t stop picturing Dean’s fallen, almost pained features, and playing the demons words over in your mind.

Dean’s disgustingly in love with you. He worships the ground you walk on and dreams about you saying you love him. And you do love him, but he doesn’t love you, and it’s dangerous to hope that he’d love you, and-

And he still looks so beaten down when you exit the shower. He barely looks at you as you cross the room, his attention wholly on your jacket, and when you drop on the bed and clear your throat, you could sworn he pales.

“Are you,” you swallow, forcing your voice to be stronger. “Are you feeling better?”

“Yep” He mutters, still not looking up. “Stitches are fine, Sweetheart. Good work.”

You flush slightly, but push on. “And your head?”

“Pounding like a bitch, but I’ve gotten through worse.” He shrugs, and words start to creep like vomit up your throat. “We’ll grab Sam in the morning and get goin’-“

“What did you mean?” You blurt, and Dean freezes. “When you said the demon wasn’t lying?”

Dean sighs, and drops the rag, running his hands over his face before turning to you, his voice low and elbows braced on his knees. “What I said.” He grunts, his eyes now refusing to leave yours. “He didn’t lie.”

“About-“

“All of it.”

Your breathing is shallow, your voice barely a whisper, but you have to ask. It will ruin everything, but you need to ask.

But you’re a coward, and you ask the wrong thing.

“Why did you tell the country club we were married?”

Dean lets out a low, humorless chuckle. “Because I thought it would be fun. I’d get to call you my wife and see you blush all freakin’ week, and this case was gonna be shit so I thought what the hell.”

“Oh.” You whisper, unsure what to make of that. “Okay.”

Dean still doesn’t look away. If anything his eyes sear into you as his voice drops lower, his expression darkness and unreadable. “How’d you figure out I was possessed?”

You’d practiced this. You just did. You just knew it wasn’t him. That’s all you have to say, and you can’t. Something grabs your tongue and all you can say is the truth.

“Because I know you.” You mumble, unable to break his gaze. “And that wasn’t my Dean.”

“Your Dean,” He chuckles, shaking his head like he doesn’t believe you. “Wasn’t sure I was your anything, kid-“

“Well, I didn’t think you loved me.”

You say the words before you can actually think them through, and time freezes. Dust seems to the hanging static in the air, red water still and motionless on the table, the hum of the bathroom fan stuck on one long note, and you and Dean both trapped in place. Neither of you strong enough to speak, but not weak enough to run, and why did you say that, Dean doesn’t love you-

“I didn’t think you’d want to hear it.” He’s searching over your face, words low and whole body tensed. “And I’d try to take it back for you, but-“

“Don’t take it back!” You almost yelp, and Dean’s eyes widen slightly. “I don’t want you to take it back, I just- I don’t-“

“You don’t believe me.”

You nod weakly, wishing he would look away. Wishing Dean would just let you curl into yourself and hide for a million years, until this ends. Until this sore heat of shame over your skin and blooming warmth of hope that Dean might, maybe, really, possibly love you both die a quiet, easy death.

But he doesn’t look away. Dean pushes himself out of the chair with a grunt, walks on unsteady legs to stand before you, and takes your face between his hand, his words deep and firm.

“I love you,” he says your name, lowering his face to yours. “And I know it’s not what you want, but I do. I won’t apologize for it, but if you’re done messing around with me because of that, I’m never gonna make you pretend you love me back-“

You’d been sent into a daze of Dean loves you, he’s saying it himself and it’s the truth and he loves you, and that snaps you out of it. You close the last breath of space between your lips without effort, and this is a long, lazy, peaceful kiss that people without blood and demons would have. It’s cementing, steeling it fully into you that Dean loves you. You’ll never have to try and force yourself to hate him, because it’s shit work to hate Dean Winchester and there’s no point it anymore. He loves you, and it’s impossible to doubt that he loves you when he’s kissing you like this—not invasive but deep, not demanding but still dragging small moans and happy sighs from your throat, holding your cheek with one hand and cupping the back of your head with the other—so it’s not a war with yourself push him back a little and finally say words that have been stuck in your throat for years.

“I love you too.” You smile at him, and his eyes flash. “I don’t have to pretend, and this is what I want, so please,” you take a shaking breath, moving your hand to hold his against you. “Please don’t apologize for this. And please,” you lean a little further forward, bumping your nose with his as he continues to stare. “Keep messing around with me, Dean. I love you, so I’d-“

You cut yourself off with a squeak as Dean pulls you back into a kiss, this one heavier and sloppier, leaving you with ragged breath and puffed lips. Your hands curl into his shirt as he drops onto the bed at your side, hauls you over him with only a low, slightly pained grunt, and looks up at you with a slight frown on his face.

“That son of a bitch kissed you.”

“I thought it was you,” you mumble, tracing a small patten on his chest with one finger. “Sorry-“

“I’m not mad at you,” Dean gives you an amused look, pressing another, smaller kiss to your lips. “I’m mad at that douchebag, for trying to get with my girl.”

His words are mumbled against your lips, settling deep and warm in your stomach, and you can barely manage a hum of, “Oh. Okay.”

He chuckles, his hand moving under your shirt to run up the skin of your waist, your body shivering with pleasure at the touch. “I’d like to fuck you,” he mutters your name, his eyes on yours so attentive and dark that you might agree to jump off a cliff if he asks. “But my doctor said I need to take it easy-“

“I’m your doctor,” you gasp, dropping your brow to Dean’s as he brushes the underside of your breast. “And I think that- shit, Dean-“ He’s adjusted you in his arms, settling your core right over the obvious, proud bulge in his jeans. “If we take it easy, and you promise to let me stay on top-“

Dean shakes his head, leaving open-mouthed kisses along your jaw. “That’s gonna be a real hard,” he ruts up into you, and you whimper. “Promise to keep, babygirl-“

“Well it’s that,” you lean back, giving him a stern glare. “Or nothing, Winchester. Your choice.”

He gives you a look of mock disbelief. “I can’t believe I fake married someone so freakin’ mean to me-“

“I can.” You press a kiss to the corner of his mouth, your own lips curling up slightly. “What’s it gonna be.”

Dean narrows his eyes at you, his hand trailing down your stomach to cup you right over your pussy as he drawls. “I think you should make that choice, Sweetheart. Tell me exactly how you want me to fuck you.”

“I-“ You lean forwards, burying your face in his neck to try and stifle your moans. “I already-“

“You said you stay on top, but that can mean a million things,” he mutters your name, kissing right under your ear. “I can fuck up into you, or you can ride me, or,” Dean starts to rub you through your pants, his thumb drawing rough, taunting circle over your clit. “I can finger fuck this pretty pussy until you cum all over my fuckin’ hand.”

“Dean,” you moan against his skin, your nails digging into his back. “Fuck, I-“

“This,” he moves his free hand up, playing with the waistband of your pants. “Seems to be getting in our way. Take it off for me.”

He doesn’t have to ask twice. You almost scramble to pull off your clothing—still manage to shoot Dean a glare for his low, teasing wolf-whistle when you’re fully bare before him—and almost throw yourself back onto him before you freeze. He’s still dressed—you can see the outline of where his pants must be becoming painful—and he’s still hurt. That’s why you had to stay on top in the first place. Dean won’t say it, but he’s in pain, and that’s more important than sex. You’re aching for him between your legs, you whole body whining to be pressed to his, but you can’t let him injure himself.

So you drop to your knees, help him out of his pants and boxers—feeling Dean track your every movement, remaining silent as you work—and swallow as his cock springs into view. You’ll never get tired of the sight of it. Big and meant to fit so well inside of you, pretty because it’s Dean’s, and he’s not really capable of being ugly.

Dean grunts your name as you take him in your hand, your fingers trailing over his strong thighs as you start to pump him slowly.

You smile up at him, raising your brows. “Do you like that?”

“Of course I fucking like that-“

“Do you love me?”

You say the words innocently, squeezing your hand lightly, and he blushes slightly, throwing his head back as he groans. “Shit, Sweetheart, you don’t know what you’re doin’ to me-“

“I do,” you whisper, pressing an open mouth kissed to the broad, red tip of his cock. “You do it to me too.”

“’S not-“ You take him into your mouth, hollowing your cheeks and letting him bump against your throat, and he cuts himself off with another groan. “Fuck, ’s not the same-“

You pop off of him with a frown. “It is. I love you too.”

“I know, pretty girl.” He mutters, moving hold your cheek, his cock twitching in your hands as you lean into the touch. “But you don’t gotta do this for me just cause you love me-“

“I like doing it.” You shrug, licking a long stripe up his shaft to prove your point, savoring the grunt it draws from his chest, the way his hand moves to fist in your hair. “I might love you, Dean Winchester,” you grin at him, replacing your mouth with your hand as you speak. “But I also really just like sucking your cock.”

“Son of a-“ Dean’s voice is a growl, his eyes darting over your face like he’s looking for something. “You’re- fuck it.”

You squeak as he pulls you up, back to his lap, and impales you on his cock in one smooth motion.

“Dean!” You try to gain a little power over your mouth, your fingers running over his fresh stitches. “Your doctor did not, fuck-“ He rolls his hips, and you bite your tongue to stop your moan. “Winchester, your doctor did not approve picking heavy things up-“

“You’re not that heavy.” He shrugs, kissing your shoulder as his arm braces you against this chest, his words teasing and low. “And lucky me, my fake doctor is also my fake wife, and they’re both,” he moves his mouth back over yours, muttering against your lips. “Begging me to fuck them all pretty.” His other arm wraps around you, starting to guide the rolls of your hips, his eyes on yours so soft for how he’s splitting you open and bumping against the deepest places inside of you. “And get them to cum all over my fuckin’ cock.”

You moan, throwing your head back as you start to grind down on him, and you’ve done this a million times before, but it feels different. You’ve fucked Dean enough that you must have covered every base—rough and fast and soft and slow and teasing and desperate and angry and blissful—and it’s the same to your body, but different to your mind. Dean’s hands still ignite fire on your skin as he holds you as close as he can manage, but you’re not worried about how they might drop away. He’s still kissing you everywhere he can reach, but there’s nothing turning in your head about how he might not like what he tastes. He’s doing it all right—he always does it right—but it’s so much more.

You squeeze around his cock and he moans your name, almost pinning you into his laps as he latches his mouth to your upper chest. Sucking and nipping you where people can see. He’s always kept his small habit of marking you to where it won’t be visible, where people won’t jokingly ask you who got messy. But people will see this, and he knows that, and it seems to spur him on. His mouth crashes back into yours, his hands keeping your rhythm on him steady as his mouth and cock unravel you above him.

“You gonna cum, Sweetheart?” Dean growls down your throat, and you just nod frantically, swiveling your hips around him.

“So close,” you whine, trying to find just a little more friction. “Please, Dean-“

He starts to slam up into you, holding you steady with one arm as he leans back, bracing himself on the bed. His stitches are somehow still closed, he’s looking at you like you’re all the world gathered for him to hold, and his mouth is lowering to pull your nipple between his teeth. Keeping you right on the edge as his thrusts grow uneven, his hands bruising on your skin in the best way.

“Fuck, you wanna cum with me, babygirl?” He groans, flicking your nipple with his tongue before pulling you down to him, dragging you into a kiss of spit and need and pure fucking desire. “Think you can ask me real pretty-“

“Please. Please, Dean, please.” You gasp, your clit starting to rub against his abdomen, your whole body so close to bursting into flames. “So fucking close, need it so bad-“

He bites on your lower lip, smirking at your high whine. “Good girl.” He jerks up into you one last time, the movement rough and uncontrolled, and groans into your ear. “Cum.”

You might have screamed, but everything goes blinding and loud and holy like a hymn you only know in the language of Dean, and you never want to stop singing for the rest of your life. You can hear him shouting your name as he spills up into you, but you’re so high on your pleasure— on the smell of Dean everywhere around you and his lingering taste on your tongue—that it’s distant and only a rush of good. Dean feels good, and he’s muttering in your ear that he loves you, so you think everything might be really good.

And it is. This isn’t blood or work. This is Dean’s cock still buried inside you, his hot, warm cum running down your thighs, and your hands tracing over his warm skin to check that his stitches are still together. This is your face pressed into the crook of Dean’s neck, his hands combing through your hair, and a priceless sense of peace. It’s always lingered before, but it would wash away as you both left the bed, and drift into nothing as you wandered back into the real world. It feels more certain now. It feels more set into your bones, and you know you’ll see more blood and stitch more wounds, but this is going to stay. Dean is going to stay, and you have all of him. And that’s welcoming this sense of peace that’s so finite and rare, you’d have to be insane to let it go.

So you won’t. And you won’t have to cling to him, because Dean isn’t foolish enough to let you go either. You’ll keep all of Dean, he’ll do the same for you, and he’ll keep igniting a spark in your gut by saying my girl that you won’t ever allow to go out.

End Note: Look! A Rare Dean Winchester dealing with his own emotions! Spotted in the wild! And I am physically incapable of writing a short one-shot, and I'm very sorry about that.

If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3

Taglist

@artemys-ackles @ambiguous-avery @nightxcreature

708 notes · View notes

waterlooletterwrb · 2 months ago

Text

WRITE WITH ME!

I will start, and you can use the reblog to continue this story however you desire! The idea is that post by post we do a longer story (but if you wanna post your version somewhere else feel free to do so, you just remember to credit me!).

The One rule: You can't gender the Elf!Reader character.

If you need, add more warnings to your post!

OTP: Mairon (Sauron) x Elf!Reader

Universe: Rings of Power / Tolkien

Warnings: main character death, angst, blood, "you can fix him" plot;

Summary: You're the one who stole the Dark Lord's heart, yet you're dying in his arms.

A Forbidden Promise

"Don't go. I — I cannot follow you there. You can't go. You can't go." His voice was frenetic, desperate in a way the dark lord never sounded. How could he not be? You're dying in his arms, the only sweet touch, warmth, love he's ever known. And he will never be able to follow you to Mandos. "Please, I will never be able to go with you there, please."

His plea sounds like he wants to go tho. A begging, maybe the first time in more than two ages that Mairon of the Maiar actually regrets his choices. In you he found his perfection. And now he would lose it. Was that the vengeance of the Valar?

You raise your weak hand, resting it on this face. With your thumb you wipe one of the tears from his cheek. Even now he is as beautiful as the first time you saw each other.

"I — I will come back. For you, I will come back." Your voice is not much more than an whisper. Yet, somehow you make a disbelieving smile appears on his lips.

"Who would give up paradise for me? For Sauron?" The name disgust you as much as it disgust him, and your face probably shows it because he sighs. "If you're leaving me, at least leave saying the truth. It's too... cruel to say it. For I never hoped before."

That makes you give him a pity sad smile. Ignoring the pain, you do everything you can to raise yourself. He holds you tighter, his warmth is what you need to concentrate even when your vision starts to fade.

"Mairon, endanya¹. Hear the last words of the one who stole your heart." This make you see for one last time the sweet smile that he only ever directed to you. "As I promised once, I will never lie to you."

He presses his forehead against yours. For the last time you breathe the same air. "So I dare to command you, Mairon or whatever name you desire to hear now: learn to hope." I little cry escapes your lips, and you feel his hands tremble where he holds you, for a moment you lose your mind and all you can hear is the blood dripping. It's a shame, his always beautiful tunics will forever be stained within your blood now.

Even so, he won't stop holding you. So you do everything you can to reassure him again. He needs to understand, he must believe.

"Learn to hope." You mumble. "For I shall return to you."

You no longer can see or feel, your hand falling from his face is the first sign you went to the undying lands. But you were right. And Mairon, Sauron, does not let you go. He holds you tightly, in a crying so long it's impossible to believe that that destroyed and devastated being was once Morgoth's heir.

The grief is too much and, when he finally let you, there's no one to hear but the wind while he whispers:

"I — I'm yours to command, endanya. I will hear whatever name you call me. I will do whatever you wish. I will hope — I will hope for you."

A promise and a threat. Because in his soul he knows; you were the only one that could stop what's coming for Middle Earth. You were the only one that could stop him.

So now even the wind hopes. You need to return.

••••••••••••••••

Endanya¹ = if i did the word correctly it should be quenya for "my love/my soul", but in a deeper way of calling the one you love "your everything". In my mind, when Sauron says it he is also telling that the reader is his light.

134 notes · View notes

imagineurwrld · 7 months ago

Text

home

in which you are reunited with your boyfriend after months of being parted

You hold your breath as your house grows visible past the hill you run up, and then you stop once you reach the top. The vision before you is enough to make you freeze completely, blood pumping viciously and breath catching in your throat. The wind stills before brushing through your hair and clothes again.

His figure sits on your doorstep, a heavy-looking bag tossed to the side and his arms draped over his bent knees. His head is turned to the side, deep in thought as he seemingly waits for your arrival. You can tell he is tired from his travels just by glancing at his posture, the way he is slumped over, but his mannerisms shift completely when his head turns and his eyes land on you.

The moment your eyes meet, you know. You know that this nightmare is over, that you no longer have to dream of a love that felt so out of reach, that you no longer have to cry, that you no longer have to clean to distract yourself from the emptiness of your house, that you no longer have to force yourself out of bed and despise the image that stares back at you in the bathroom mirror because it is void of the image of him, arms wrapped around your waist and lips pressed to your ear.

You no longer have to wait, to fear, to miss. It is over. His eyes are as bright as the sun upon seeing you, and they shatter the glass wall that you had forced up. Those eyes that sparkle like a thousand rays of light, the eyes that reawaken you after having died along with his absence, those eyes that are home.

Admiration, fondness, desperation, exhaustion, warmth, and home. Those are his eyes, your home’s eyes.

You can not move until suddenly, you are. You race across the path, stumbling over your rapidly moving feet as he lifts himself from the staircase to hold out his arms and brace himself for impact. Your body collides with his, chest shoving into chest, and everything snaps into place like a missing piece fitting perfectly into a puzzle.

You grip the rough fabric of his shirt, clinging onto any piece of his clothing you can touch, switching your arms from his upper back to his lower back to up again. One arm secures around your waist, while the other cradles your head to him.

For a moment, it does not feel real. You don't know how to begin to fathom the foreign yet achingly familiar feeling. His hands are calloused, hard, and coarse from work. His hold is strong and secure, and he feels slightly bulkier but he is the same. It is him, and you are crying before you can even comprehend it.

He lifts you up from the ground, screwing his eyes shut and tightening his lips to prevent the emotions that he had built up from spilling free, messily, simply from seeing your beautiful face after so, so long.

You are soft in his arms, pliant, gentle, just as you were when he left you six months ago. Your scent fills his nostrils, intoxicating him more than any perfume he’d bought for you in the past ever could. Your graceful arms clinging ungracefully to his back, sobs racking your chest as he holds you impossibly closer.

It is you. He is home.

He sets you back down on your feet, pulling away just enough to take in your features. He soaks in the vision of you: your glossy eyes and trembling lips; the curve of your clenching jaw and the complexion of your skin flushed; your nose flaring as tears stick to your lashes, trickling down your cheeks and dribbling past your chin.

You are a lovely sight, an angel. You are his home, and he loves you so. His brows curl as he gazes at you afraid to blink and watch his dream disappear.

Your head is swiftly pushed into his and lips smash together. You savor the taste that you have been deprived of for months. He is exhausted, he’d been traveling for hours, and he is dirty, but he doesn’t care. You don’t care. He is home, and home is the way your lips chase his each time they break apart to push back in.

He kisses you hard, he kisses you passionately, then slowly and tenderly. His brows knit together as your delicate hands ruffle through his hair. Tears mix into the taste of each other’s lips, but neither of you cares. How could you care? It doesn't matter. All that matters is this moment, this feeling, this cease of departure.

You pull away with a soft smack, pressing your foreheads together and staring into each other’s teary eyes. Your hands move to his face, tracing his skin and caressing the scars indented above his brow and on his chin.

He lets you, lashes fluttering against his cheek as he breathes you in and relishes this moment for all it is worth, his thumbs tracing the curve of your spine beneath the thin silk of your shirt.

A wobbly smile touches your lips as your eyes dart across his face, unsure of where to focus. A laugh, or a scoff maybe, falls past your lips, one of sheer passion and relief, before your teeth come down to bite the bottom one.

He smiles, tiredly. His heart pangs against his chest as your grin appears, the very grin he’d engraved into his brain to keep him going this past half a year.

“Welcome home.”

Your phrase is a whisper, gone with the breeze that blows past. His smile widens somehow, and his eyes brighten as the reality sinks in. He breathes air through his nose in amused shock, shaking his head in disbelief at the fact that his wait is finally over.

He is home, home with the heart he’d left behind, and he could have collapsed as reality sank in.

He kisses you again and again, and lifts you up and kisses you even more until he cannot breathe.

written by Jaylin Smith

271 notes · View notes

flowersforfics · 5 months ago

Note

https://www.tumblr.com/karamrafeek/754196219096694784/help-karam-al-nabih-and-his-family-rebuild-their?source=share

Hello, I hope you and your family are well. Can you please help me recycle the post on my account? 🌺 And help rescue my family from the war in Gaza? 🙏🙏

Hello everyone, I am Karam Al Nabih from Gaza. All my dreams have been shattered now in Gaza. I am a software engineer in my last semester, but now my home, my dreams, and my university have been destroyed.

All my dreams have been destroyed 😞 I hope you share , support and donate

Repoooost & donate please after read my story, that's urgent! 🇵🇸🍉

Please don't skip helping me and my sick mother to rebuild our lives. Any donation, even a small one, will make a difference 🙏🙏

Donate even if it is 10 euros or 15 euros or more، The smallest donation makes a difference in my life

I sincerely appreciate your help and look forward to your continued support🥺❤️

https://gofund.me/7c433301

Vatted by @nabulsi @90-ghost

Please donate or share help me reach my goal

I am unable to donate but I can share

SHARE, LIKE, REPSOT, AND DONATE IF YOU CAN GUYS

161 notes · View notes

theuncannyshii · 23 days ago

Note

Saiki meets a Reader who's pretty like Teruhashi Kokomi, but has the average mindset and personality like Satou Hiroshi?

If Saiki Kusuo met a Reader who had Teruhashi Kokomi's level of beauty but a personality as average as Satou Hiroshi's, he would likely be intrigued but also relieved, you know???

Saiki is probably thinking in his inner thoughts

'Another pretty girl? Great, here comes another headache. Wait… no inner monologue about how amazing she looks? No dramatic declarations? Weird. Is this… normal?'

• The Reader casually introduces themselves and doesn’t make a big deal about their looks. They act genuinely polite and blend in effortlessly with the group, much like Satou. They might even help Saiki avoid unnecessary drama by being level-headed and not seeking attention.

• Saiki would appreciate their normalcy. Despite their stunning appearance, they don't seek validation or create chaos, which aligns perfectly with Saiki's preference for a low-profile life.

• Reader keeps it real simple, stays in their lane, and don’t make a big deal outta themselves. They even keeps folks in check, like, “Y’all doing too much. Relax.”

• He might even find their presence oddly comforting, as they don’t cause his usual telepathic overload or require constant intervention.

• Other characters, like Nendou or Kaidou, might be smitten with the Reader due to their beauty, leading to chaotic antics. (They both fell into dog shit trying to chase after them)

• Meanwhile, Saiki tries to maintain his usual poker face while secretly being thankful for their Satou-like mindset. Ultimately, the Reader’s unassuming nature would likely leave Saiki thinking—

'If more people were like this, my life would be so much easier.'

'I wouldn’t have migraines every day.'

85 notes · View notes

threepandas · 6 months ago

Text

Bad End, Chosen: Part 5

Back <- |

The first time around, I gave EVERYTHING. I drove myself into the ground, to be my Master's perfect Learner. To prove it had all been WORTH taking me on as a student. So that he would be proud. So he would love me. So that, like a father, he could look upon the child he raised and think "I did a good job, didn't I?"

Even then, I felt his uncertainty.

His fickle heart.

He was a weak man. One that let a mere child bully him into glorified fatherhood and then could not even commit to the choice he had made. As substantive as a cloud, drifting aimlessly across the endless sky. He abandoned me then. He'll abandon me again. I am, at best, something he feels he is "supposed" to do.

He does not love me. He never loved me.

But I love him.

And some days... I hate that I do.

I hate that I spent night after night, pouring over excruciating texts in tiny font. Ancient, dusty, tomes that talked endlessly in circles. I hate that I practiced and practiced, until I could appear effortless before him. The star pupil. The gem of the tower. Dispised and envied by my peers. And... and so utterly, utterly ALONE.

I died.

I died, desperately holding up the tower itself. The only one even vaguely prepared. When The Dark came. I saw tears and terror on the faces of children. Saw the ceiling crashing towards us. And chose to protect THEM instead of myself. It was, perhaps, the first and last time they ever saw me as something human. Fallible.

I was afraid.

But I did not let that terror hold me back.

They tried. Gods, they tried so, so hard to save me. Wept and screamed as the world seemed to END around us. As day turned to night and monster straight from the worst nightmares of man, crawled from the screaming vents, the WOUNDS upon reality itself. The last thing I saw? Was not my Master's face. But the tear stained faces of children pouring everything they could, into taking the impossible burden that even in those moments? Was killing me.

I cracked apart. Overloaded by the core of the Tower, which I had been desperately channeling. It... it was like becoming light.

And then the world rewound.

I did not learn my lesson. I was still young. Did not yet fully understand. Like all Reincarnators I thought I was here for a REASON. It took time to fully grasp how things worked. But that second life? Even now... even now I miss it.

Because back then...

I made friends.

I was so GRATEFUL. Could not unsee, that when the horrors came? They did not abandon me. They didn't even LIKE me. But... but I wanted them to. So I tried. I talked with them. Ate with them. Told jokes and went on trips. Was young. I grew to care so, so much about them. My dear and beloved friends.

Then?

I got to watch them DIE.

Gruesomely. Slowly. And without hope.

Perhaps that was when my love and compassion for the Protagonist died. When my struggle with hatred began. Because while those I loved suffered in mud stained hells, trenches and bile stenched infirmary, she frolicked in rose gardens. Dreaming of girlish love.

What of Duty? Of the death and suffering she IGNORED? How DARE she selfishly concern herself only with her OWN feelings and desires, as the world that NEEDS her dies in fear and agony! What SAINT is she? What GODS allow this?!

Thus was born my Rage.

And so, I refuse my Fate.

But I've made a mistake. A... a terrible mistake. And even now, he circles me like a bird of prey, correcting my stance with hands that linger. A man that looms. Standing too close. Forever patting my head, fingers carding possessively through my hair. Gripping the strands to make me look at him. Always gentle... but with just enough strength to hint that he could NOT be, if he chose.

He manhandles me like a doll. Physically. With magic. It is all the same. Looking forever delighted at the ease at which he can simply drag me into the air with a hover spell. Like a child sized balloon. To be carted around at his mercy.

I barely SEE my actual Master.

Alaric enables it. I... I refuse to call him Grandmaster in my head. He's already gotten to me once. I can endure. I survived once. I can do it again.

"Is my lesson so boring? That you must retreat into your head, child?" More like horrifying. The scent of blood is overwhelming. I keep my eyes locked on the far wall. "Ignoring my lectures will not let you escape them. You are merely force yourself to repeat them, you know. I am perfectly willing to repeat your lessons as many times as it takes."

"Academically" studying The Dark my ASS. Alaric Blight had, HAS, a fucking torture chamber. These are the worst sort of magics. I REFUSE to learn them. Will NOT use them. FUCK YOU.

I give the poor corpse before me what little dignity I can. By not seeing what they have been reduced too. They deserved better then this.

Alaric huffs a laugh. Gently putting down his ceremonial knife on a nearby table. He wipes the viscera from his hands with a rag as he strolls, calm as you please, over to my helplessly floating form.

"Ah~ that stubborn little glare. So FUSSY, Grandlearner." He laughs, the picture of indulgence. "I suppose I HAVE kept you here a touch too long, haven't I? We've missed several meals AND your nap. You are a growing child. No matter how fascinating the material, I can hardly expect you to concentrate under these conditions, now can I?"

He reaks of copper and a rich cologne I have grown to HATE. If only because it is his favorite. I am gathered from the air and pressed against his front, held like a child. I... I still can not move my limbs. He is no fool. For all I am pressed, lovingly almost, against him? I would tear his throat out with my TEETH.

He will not be giving me that chance.

I dispise him.

I DISPISE "naps".

Bad enough to be dragged around in his company for lessons. At least then, I can remember his evil. The cruelty and crimes. But NAPS? Insidious. We're it not for the immobility, they would have done terrible things to my head, long LONG ago.

They are exactly what they sound like. I am dragged off, to be cuddled like some stuffed animal, in some beautiful and soothing environment. For a nap. Bonding. Just me, him, and my head pressed against his chest. Against the hypnotic sound of his beating heart. Fighting the exhaustion in my bones. The desire to just... just let GO and know a moment's peace.

We never make it to the garden.

An explosion ROCKS the Magic Tower. Over a decade too soon to be The Dark. Alaric stops misstep, his personal barriers keeping even dust from touching us, as in the distance, Mage's scream. The Tower's barrier...goes up.

It...it NEVER goes up.

That is the seige barrier. For... for ATTACKS. Who would!?

"Ah. I knew I was forgetting something." Alaric says, as calmly as though musing on the weather outside instead of an attack upon an ancient, foundational institution. "It seems the temple dogs have finally decided to act upon all their barking. I imagine their little whore will make a wonderful figurehead. They always WERE on the look out for more puppets."

I stare up in confusion as he looks out as the barrier. His gaze flat, empty, and cold. Voice is distant as his muses, as though he long ago stopped caring. He catches my gaze upon him and the warmth floods back in.

"You see, little one. I normally kill them. They tend to make a pest of themselves. I have a list of things I must get done each cycle." He smiles fondly, utterly ignoring the alarms that have begun to sound. The calls for all Master's to defensive positions. "It is something you will learn, with time. A lesson I, of course, will be teaching you~"

"Now, since THIS building will likely become useless to us shortly. Let us go pack, hmm? The story progress. It's time to go home." He turns, and we begin to walk away.

"W-Wait!" I manage to choke out.

He pauses, looks down at me, patient even as people die. What, after all, does HE care, if they do? I try desperately to gather my thought. It is like scrambling after dropped beads across a smooth floor. I think, I HOPE, I get enough...

"I... G-Grandmaster I li..LIKE learning here. With you. It feels more familiar and has better places to... to nap. Could you... WOULD you, PLEASE, go save everyone?" I manage to rip from my throat, each word like pulling a tooth. I hate it. I HATE IT! But for them? Anything.

"Oh? Grandlearner~! Was that a REQUEST?" Croons the madman who holds me, his grip getting tighter for just a moment before relaxing back into it's gentle hold. Lips, almost burning with power, brush softly against my temple in a kiss. He makes a horrifyingly satisfied noise. "Of course MY child. Anything for MY Grandlearner, after all. You are my world, little light."

The world twists.

And suddenly? I am floating safely in the shade of a tree, far across the valley from the Tower. I can... I can feel the struggling Master's. Fighting to hold off the Temple's holy warriors. It is a blood soaked standstill. Until Alaric Blight steps up to the field.

Then?

EVERYTHING IS FIRE.

He is The Arch-Mage of Red. Not just for his hair, but for his terrifying master of fire and battle magics. What once, moments before, was a sea of green? Becomes ash and flame in an instant. So hot the fire burns the very air itself. Bordering on plasma. The ground itself molten in his wake.

None survive. How could any even dream?

It is like a nuke made man.

I shake. Tears slipping down my cheeks as I watch old growth vanish in the distance. Centuries of life. Gone in a moment of ugly destruction. They will praise him for this. Call him a hero. But I know what he is. What hides beneath that ugly, shining, mask of a charm and civility. And... and I am scared.

A chirp of starlight and tinkling glass, high and questioning, hovers just to my right.

Fairy-dragons. A full swarm. Creatures the size of a cat with the power of a god. All but one, staring furiously down at the destruction in the valley below. They radiates furious grief at the loss of so much life and forest. But the one looking at me... feels? Questioning? Somehow?

Can they project?

I can only assume. I KNOW they can understand spoken languages. All dragons can. And as powerful as dragons ARE...

"Please... please! Help me!" I choke out, finally letting my tears spill. Because if I can not cry in front of dragons, then where? "I'm not strong enough. He's a MONSTER. I know you can feel it! Please! Just until I recover. Until I can fight. PLEASE!"

More of the tiny creatures look at me. Glance at each other. Then back towards where Alaric continues his destruction. Their destain for him is obvious. Their eyes as they look upon me, hold no special love. Just ambivalence. But... they are what they are. And they DO hate the sort of creature Alaric Blight has become.

With a tearing WRENCH the spell holding me is SHREDDED.

Painfully, in dragon claws.

In the distance, Alaric stops. No doubt feeling that. Knowing someone not only freed me, but ATTACKED HIM. The dragon that was worried for me touches my shoulder. And before my Grandmaster can ever discover WHO stole me away?

I am Gone.

I do not see the city of Towervalley, the magic tower itself, BURN.

#threepandas #yandere #yandere x reader #yandere otome #yandere otome isekai #yanblr #bad end chosen #bad end chosen au #platonic yandere #Alaric Blight #captured reader #reader insert #reader gets free #mage reader #tw gore #everybody give it up for the REAL mvps!#fairydragons!

166 notes · View notes