#golden and silver my new colors

[jacevelaryonswife]

Golden and Silver, my new colors | Final

He doesn't know where the impulse of his next actions came from, but he felt he needed it. Maybe was the moment, maybe was the time, or maybe he wanted do that. He needed to break down the last and definitive barrier to be entirely yours.

∴pairing: Aemond Targaryen x Wife!reader

∴warnings and a note: fluffy and comfort, english is not my first language. See the note in the end.💙

Golden and Silver Masterlist

"How are you?" He asked quietly.

“I'm scared,” your confession was even lower. "Very aware of what is going to happen, or what can happen." You took a break before continuing. "This should be the most important moment of my life, from which I hear that it’s the destiny of all women, but I feel minimally prepared for it. What if I'm not a good mother? What if I can't love the baby? What if I die? What if I fail? Because everything will refer to my failure with duty," your voice trembled, "and I don't want that, I don't want to fail and I don't want to be unhappy either."

Over the months was it difficult not to deal with the subject in question. Your body was more different than ever, your back and feet hurt and your belly weighed like the seven hells. Although the development of the affective bond with Aemond has undermined part of the insecurity of pregnancy, the other part remained solid and constantly active. It was a real torture, mainly because you didn’t want to reveal to anyone what you were feeling, nor your mother, or the Queen (whose relationship with both of them had gotten back on track, but not as before) or your friends. But with him it was different, you learned that, you felt it. He needed to know and you wanted to say.

"Because I know what people will tell me to do, but that's not what I want to hear. I don't want to hear that childbirth is a woman's battlefield or that I must resign myself by fulfilling the only duty that was imposed on me. I don't want to hear this because I grew up knowing this, I grew up knowing that there was nothing else to expect, that this is all a woman can have, that my mission is to give birth to a son and it corrodes me all the time," you kept looking at the ceiling as you let the words escape. "And I transfer it to him, or her, to what's in my belly. I transfer such dissatisfaction to him, as if he were to blame, but I know he is not. I transferred my anger about you when we were fighting, and I transfer my frustration and fear about the future at this very moment. It's wrong, I know, but I'm terrified and angry and it seems impossible to individualize these feelings and forget them. Sometimes I didn't want to be pregnant."

“Sometimes I also wish you weren't pregnant,” he confessed. "Because I know what I should do, but I don't know how. I don't know what it's like to be a father, I don't know how to do it, and I don't like to fail, I don't want to fail with you, but I have no idea how to do this and I'm too proud to seek instructions, besides, who would I turn to? My father? No, he was Rhaenyra's father, not mine, never mine. What should I do?"

“I'm sorry about that, for everything you've been through,” you said as you held his hand on the bed, looking at him for the first time since the subject started.

"I'm also sorry for you, for everything you feel, for all righteousness, silence and lack of freedom," he didn't look at you when he confessed: "I'm scared too."

"I know." You purposely smoothed the injured part of his face, very close to the scar, leaving him tense and gaining a surprised and fearful look. “I know. Thank you for listening to me."

“Don't thank me for that,” he stared at you.

According to the Maesters, there were only a few weeks left for the baby in your belly to come into the world, maybe days, maybe weeks, and as it couldn’t be different, your lord father, the King and Hand were already talking excitedly to each other about the son that was to come. Fuck them all, you thought, and during the dinner with the family earlier you were very happy to oppose:

“A girl would make me happier,” you said calmly while drinking the sweet wine. It wasn’t a lie, although your greatest desire at that moment was to contradict them.

“It’s always expected that the first fruit of a young couple will be a healthy son, my lady,” Otto Hightower said in his stoic and falsely sympathetic feature.

"I know, but I mean my desire," you countered, not being intimidated by the negative look of most of the people who were at the table.

“My darling, don't say those things,” your mother tried to alleviate the situation with a nervous smile. "What will your husband find?"

Fortunately, Aemond and you were better than ever.

"It's my wife's wish, the fact doesn't bother me," was what he said before the matter was finalized.

Secretly, Queen Alicent and your lady mother whispered that at least you were in sync. And yes, you were very well.

That night, just like the others, you were lying side by side. It was difficult to find a position in which he could hug you, especially when he wanted so much to feel your body close, your sweet smell and the softness of your skin. He was living in your orbit in recent months, and he has never looked so good before. It was a little scary for Aemond to allow himself to love, to be loved, to be seen, to be touched and to be understood. He was used to the harshness of a job to be done, but emotional recognition made him restless and fragile.

"I hate having a weak point, a disadvantage or sensitivity that can be used against me. That's why it was difficult to lower the guard for you, I thought that if I bordered your image as inferior, as someone normal and not special it would be easier to keep me away, it was stupid, but effective, because it is almost agonizing to give in to the temptation to be loved. I know I've said this before, but I'm sorry for everything that happened before. I want to be a good father and a good husband to you."

“I know. I know,” you held his hand over yours and pulled her for a kiss on her palm. "Be by my side when the time comes."

"I didn't intend to be far away," he put his other hand on your belly and turned to face you. His beautiful wife. So beautiful, serene and scared. He hated not being able to heal your fear, but he wouldn't leave you again. "I promise."

“...Let me see you,” your voice was uncertain and anxious. What were you- "if it's not a problem."

Oh no.

The air was momentarily missed by Aemond and made you apprehensive, although still determined. You didn't want to see that, no, you didn't want to, how could you?

"You don't want to see that."

"I want to."

"No, you don’t."

"I want to, but only if you want to show it."

“You don't,” he said even more incisively.

“I want to, but only if you want to show it,” you said even softer.

"It's ugly," he breathed, "deformed," a frown formed quickly when he looked away.

"I don't care."

"You'll call when you see it, and I don't need it. I don't need you to feel disgusted or sorry for me."

You sighed and remained silent as you moved to be more seated than lying down, it was annoying that any movement was so tiring, even as simple as possible. But that was not enough to undermine your determination and when you held his chin, forcing him in the kindest way to look at you.

"I know you won't believe it, but I don't care, you're a very handsome man, Aemond, very charming and dashing, nothing in your appearance displeases me," you said, "in fact, I care that you can't see this, it bothers me actually, but I understand. What I ask is that you don’t transfer your insecurity to me, don’t think in advance that I will be afraid or disgusted by you."

“Everyone does. Even without having seen it and especially because they have seen it, everyone feels the same," was all he said.

Did you think he was handsome and dashing? It was a lie, wasn't it? It had to be. Almost no lady spent her time sighing for him, and yet... "do you really see beauty in me?"

"Of course I see it, and not just because you're my husband. Don't be suspicious of me."

"I just... I don't want to see the look on your face when you see myself completely," his voice was low and weak, contrasting with the previous determination in his tone.

You sighed again. "I'm sorry, we won't talk about it anymore."

“Thank you.”

“No need to thank you,” you held his hand again. "I love you, Aemond... you know that."

He sat on the bed and cradled your face with his other hand. “I know. I love you too."

It was the first time you said to each other, but not the last.

═════════════════════

When the call of the Grand Maester Orwyle reached the ears of the one-eyed Prince, a silvery shadow moved faster than ever through the corridors of the Palace. He was nervous like the seven hells and a burning tormented his skin from the inside out. It was an attitude that contradicted the advice of his grandfather and some sighted men of the King's court, but incredibly served to make his mother and father agree with the option he took to be by his side at the moment.

"Are you sure, my prince?" Orwyle inquired again when they both approached the room where it was about to happen. “You don't ne-“

"I do."

And then, he opened the door to meet you in the center of the bed with the hand-keepers around taking care of you. A greeting was briefly made to him as you stretched out your hand seeking support from your husband.

"How are you?" He asked.

“The worst hasn't started yet, but I'm nervous,” was quite evident in your voice.

“Everything will be fine, I'm here by your side."

"I know, but I'm scared."

“You don't have to be afraid, my lady, everything will be fine and a healthy baby will be born,” one of the servants said to reassure.

But it didn't work much, since an unmizable pain dominated your body in the next few moments. It was terribly painful and you cursed Aemond internally for condemning you to such a fate. You wouldn't do that again! Not "that", but this here! Fuck anyone who says the opposite. When the pain intensified, all you wanted was to scream for the seven hells and all the existing profanity but you were afraid of attracting a bad fate into your life.

"Strength, my lady, it's almost there, I need you to push more!"

Screw the superstitions.

“FUCKIN' HELLS!” You crushed his hand in a brutal squeeze, making him squeeze his jaw.

The feeling of being torn was agonizing, terrifying and unbearable, almost too much to deal with, until a sudden relief along with fatigue took over your body and a loud cry echoed through the room. Finally.

"It's a girl, my prince," Orwyle said, taking her to her father.

You took a deep breath and felt a sudden desire to have her in your arms. They could reject her for being a girl, but you would never do that. She was exactly what you wanted. “I want to hold her,” you said, hating having done the horrible job of giving birth so that Aemond would be the first to see your baby's face. The baby of you two, actually, but you still wanted to have her.

Your call was heard clearly, but the feeling of holding his daughter for the first time was indiscriminate to the one-eyed prince, keeping him motionless for long seconds. The small and scandalous thing fit perfectly into the clumsy lap shape that Aemond molded in his two arms, admiring her fixedly. What would he do now? How should I act? Will he be a decent father? He doesn't want to fail with you.

“Aemond,” you called him. You just wanted to see her.

Your little girl, your daughter. Heavens, that was terrifying and so pleasant at the same time, especially when you took her on your arms. You would raise her differently from the other girls, yes, you would do that, she would not wear a veil of righteousness and walls that force her to be unhappy. She can fly wherever she wants, after all her little girl has dragon blood.

"Have you ever thought of a name?"

Time seemed to stop when you had her in your arms, your little Naerys. "Yes, we already have a name."

You and your daughter were bathed and fed by the maids, then you were transported to your chambers to rest and be pampered by a proud and enchanted Aemond. He just wanted to have the little thing in his arms again, even if clumsy and afraid to hurt her. Your diet began to be accompanied by the Maesters since certain foods could affect the baby, you obviously consented and spent most of the day lying down while the Queen, the King and their parents pampered your little granddaughter. Honestly, you just wanted to sleep and have her by your side and Aemond's, and that's what you did throughout the day, but with a small part of your mind lit on an important point.

"Does it bother you that I gave you a daughter instead of a son?" It was disturbing to keep such a question to yourself and it was necessary to release it quickly.

Maybe Aemond didn't wait for the question or just didn't know what to answer, since his face closed a little and a stillness remained until he found words he deemed appropriate. "A child is a blessing, regardless of which genital he has."

It wasn't enough. "That's not what I asked."

"Why would it bother me?" He knew exactly why, but at that moment all he would like to get into was a fight, which was contradictory since a clear answer could solve your doubts.

"Because it disappoints all men and most women not having a sob in their first pregnancy, and I know you know that. So I'll ask once again, does that bother you, Aemond?" You didn't look at him as you asked, restricting yourself to paying attention to the soft sheet that covered your body.

"No, it doesn't bother. What about you?"

“Not at all. I wanted, in fact, a little girl. I hope we can create her well, teach her the things I have not been taught, instruct her in the right way, choose beautiful dresses together...”

"I had plans if I was a boy. I would instruct him to study, to train with me and I would not neglect him. A girl doesn't limit me to two of these things and doesn't make me less happy," he said.

“Queen Visenya was an excellent warrior, I wouldn't mind Naerys choosing this path if she wanted and had the opportunity,” you countered.

“A point outside the curve within our story,” he stressed as he flipped through another page of the book.

"It's still possible. If my memory does not fail me, Princess Alyssa, your grandmother, was also comfortable with the chain mail and swords, even much better than Prince Vaegon."

"Where do you want to go?"

"I want our daughter to be what she wants without the pressure of tradition undermining her life."

“It's not easy to fight against tradition,” he looked at you.

"Especially when one of the parties does not want to give in," your gaze also found his, more serious than before, "It is easy for you to be like this, you have always had the option to do everything you wanted just like Aegon, without the worry of having your name disgraced or put to a buzz. It's your privilege, one I've never had. You can go wherever you want and whenever you want, we don't, we don't have this option of choice besides being a bargaining chip and a belly to bear a child."

"Is that how you feel about me? An exchange currency?"

"I love you, Aemond, I love what we have, but I hate the lack of freedom I've had my whole life, I've always hated it. I don't want her to feel that."

"What if she wants to get married and have children? Won't it be her choice, but of tradition?" He questioned him.

"Then it will be her choice, not an imposition, she will have the power to decide that. I don't expect you to understand this, but it's my wish, I hope it's not ignored."

Who was he to escape the tradition? His life was based on it, his family (a part of it) was based on it. Why should he follow another path? You were right, it wasn’t easy to understand that being in his position, but the prince was not blind to what was expected of women in relation to duty. Still, what if your little Naerys didn't want to get married or have children? What if she wanted a life away from duty? He wouldn't force her, would he?

You definitely wouldn't go. No, not at all. That night, when she stopped crying, you took her in your lap and fed her with your milk hidden from the others. "You will be able to be everything you want, without restrictions, and I hope you are and enjoy your life. Fly as much as you want and be happy, use the opportunity that many of us don't have. I love your father, I truly love him and I just want to be by his side, but I wish I had seen more things and could come and go. Don't tell anyone that I was the one who gave these advices, please," you kissed her little head.

The next few days were strange to both of you, not because of the conversation you had earlier about Naerys, but because of the way she completely changed your routine. Aemond and you thought about her all day, every day, and they always wanted to have her around. Yes, the crying was annoying, mainly because you didn’t know what afflicted your baby so much, but everyone with more experience and knowledge about motherhood ensured that it was normal, "newborn children are like that, they’re still getting used to our world," said Lady Fell.

While the prince still remained staring at her for long minutes, standing in front of the crib with his single focused eye and with several layers of his sketched feelings. Fear and adoration were visible at times, but then a change in your husband's posture made you swear that that was the reason your daughter was crying, because he was so tense and intense.

“What are you thinking?" You asked low, in your usual position in bed.

“In her. She's perfect," Aemond replied without looking at you. "Just like you."

You looked at him fond of him. "Just like us." And then he looked at you in an enigmatic way, but with a vulnerability shown a few times. Something as simple as a compliment shouldn’t cause so many reactions on him, it was annoying to have a weakness in something that happened so many years ago but still torments him deeply. He hates feeling insecure about his appearance, although nothing has been said directly to him about it in all these years.

But the looks don’t lie, they never lied, aversion and fear were things he was forced to live with and even helped him build his defense walls. But these same walls prevented him from seeing the phenomenal, intelligent, shrewd and incredibly beautiful woman with whom he had become just a body and soul before the Septon. You would never accept him, Aemond believed that, even though he was the brother who studied history and philosophy and tamed the largest dragon in the world, you would never see beyond the damaged shell he had. How wrong he was. How wrong he was with you.

Moving away from Naerys' cradle, the prince walked to his privacy to put on his bedding and join you. He was ethereal with his loose and white top that left the beginning of his chest exposed. He crawled like a cat to your side and was almost nested to you.

"Do you really think I'm handsome?" He asked low, almost ashamed of his vulnerability.

"Of course I think. You’re so handsome Aemond, my handsome husband, my beautiful man, all mine," you caressed him on the face and hair, leaning to kiss him on the forehead. "I love you." He nested even more to you, hugging your body carefully, leaning his head on your neck to breathe your smell and feel your comfort. "You have many admirable qualities, in addition to your sincerity, loyalty and intelligence, your appearance is one of my favorite things. I love your sharp nose and perfect drawn lips, your beautiful blue eye and silver hair, everything about you is beautiful. Your body too. Especially the present between his legs." Yes, he was amazing down there.

He laughed against your neck and hugged you even more. He really needed that. "Thank you, my love, I truly appreciate it." He kissed your jaw and smelled your hair. "How are you?"

“Tired, but fine. I can't stop thinking about her."

“Me too. It's strange."

"A lot, but a good stranger."

“Indeed,” he said. “I’ve been thinking what you said, and I want her to be happy the way she chooses. I want share the world for you two, all the things you deserve to see. I love you and I love what we have.”

Your heart warmed up and you kiss his forehead with affection. “Thank you for that my love, I love you so deeply, I love we have too.”

He doesn't know where the impulse of his next actions came from, but he felt he needed it. Maybe was the moment, maybe was the time, or maybe he wanted do that. He needed to break down the last and definitive barrier to be entirely yours.

"I want to show you... my eye, the sapphire and the scar, but only if you want to see it."

Oh, how you waited for that…

“Yes. I want to see you.”

═════════════════════

End.

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Yes, I’d like to say a few words. When I started writing this story I thought it would be a one shot, since it has been many many since I concluded a fanfic with many chapters (so far). But I saw the potential of this idea and decided to embark, even with my terrifying laziness, procrastination and quick ease of getting sick of things. Much is due to the positive feedback I received from you in every kind comment and reblog, so thank you very very much to everyone who came here with me, much of this story is due to you and I am very grateful for that! To everyone who arrived here, see you soon and again, thank you very much for giving this idea a chance. 🤍💛🤍💛🤍💛🤍

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Taglist: @immyowndefender @arcielee @malfoytargaryen @drinking-tea-and-be-obsessed @fan-goddess @dark-night-sky-99 @siriusdumblittlepuppy @let-love-bleeds-red @sassysaxsolo @cicaspair418 @yentroucnagol @mefools @risefallrise @auratiqs @glitterandgoldfinds @bellaisasleep @plzletmedaydream @padfooteyes @bellameshipper @zillahvathek @schniiipsel @little-duck @dc-marvel-girl96 @nina2697 @kaemond-zafiro @the-hufflebird-girl @panagiasikelia @whatsonthemirror @namgification @minttea07 @crazymusicgirl104 @sahvlren @aemonds-fire @partypoison00 @glame @rominaarcadiaa @theekinslayer @hb8301 @jennifer0305 @batmans-love

[tayloralison]

Swiftie struggles is us trying to figure out if it��s new or not and majorly struggling it’s been a whole night and we’re all still wondering if our eyes are deceiving us

right and obviously they can edit the photos so it'll be more vibrant so who really knows

[thesvnandthemooon]

𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭’𝐬 𝐰𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐢 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞

18+ MINORS DNI

a/n: i said i wouldn’t do requests atm but this was requested by a very dear reader on wattpad and i just couldn’t say no 🙂‍↕️

summary: based on the song by bruno mars; masc rich lawyer!reader, bartender!natasha. nat has blonde hair here (no idea how important that detail really is tbh)

warnings: smut…(a bunch of it, actually — strap usage, fingering, oral (n receiving)), alcohol/being drunk; i think that’s it?

word count: 8.2k

part 1, part 2

✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷

— LOS ANGELES, USA —

Exiting your car that night, you don't expect that, not too long later, you'll have her in your passenger seat. Like your own personal Cinderella, she'll be with you once the clock strikes midnight.

However, your evening doesn't start as fairytale-like as it'll end.

It's been a shitty day. A brutal case you'd been working on for months. As almost always, it entailed dealing with insufferable clients and their enormous egos, biased judges and ruthless opponents, 80-hour weeks and tons of stress — only to lose the case.

It was humiliating, leaving the court room. You'd trailed to your car like a wet dog and sat there, forehead on your steering wheel, for a solid five minutes. Only when you realized that the press was starting to surround your car, you'd pressed the start button and torn down the street.

Let's pretend you didn't hit a trash can on your way out. Maybe that'll make your day look less like a shitshow.

Being the child of two of Hollywood's most successful lawyers, everyone's eyes are on you. News articles, social media backlash, professional rivals that revel in your failure. You can't afford even a single misstep. Yes, in your case, even a lost case is a misstep. It's just more proof, they'll say. That you're only here because mommy and daddy funneled millions into your trust fund before you even turned 18.

You rarely frequent bars, since there never seems to be enough time for that. It's why you usually keep a bottle of whiskey in your office (telling yourself that's completely normal) — but tonight, you don't want to get drunk sitting in silence. Too many thoughts, too many worries. Instead, you pull up in front of LA's most famous bar.

Hollywood elites, business moguls, and the ultra-wealthy. Expensive champagne flows like water, its coloration matching the golden hues of the bars interior. You step inside and, for once, only feel mildly out of place.

You walk across marble floors and approach the bar. Sitting down, you undo the top button of your shirt and watch the woman in front of you turn around.

A bartender, but possibly the most gorgeous one you've ever seen. Blonde hair and a red dress, makeup so flawless you'd never be able to tell she's been working for over six hours now. If you weren't still pissed off about that stupid case, you'd be able to appreciate the sight a lot more, though.

You lean in and almost order a whiskey. But you have that in your office, so you change your mind.

"Just a martini", you mumble, already reaching for your purse. "Stirred."

She studies you with interest, not saying a word. The memory flits through her head — you, in this bar, two years ago. Middle length hair, slicked back, and a suit. Passed out in the corner. You have no idea this happened, as you were completely out of it, but she remembers.

"No 'hello'? 'Good evening'? What's the magic word again?"

You look up and stare at her, your Black Card between your fingers. "Sorry?"

She shrugs and reaches for the mixing glass. Ice clinks, the gin swirling like liquid silver under the bar's lights as she stirs.

"Maybe my expectations are too high", she says and pours the vermouth. "I should be used to people like you."

You raise your eyebrows, your jaw slackening slightly. "People like me?"

"Exactly. Let me tell you something, hotshot", she says, leaning over the bar. "Have you seen who enters this place? Rich people. Snobby people. The upper one percent. You sat your cute little ass down and muttered your order like you're being forced to sit here."

"Well", you say, struggling to find an excuse for your lack of manners, "I had a shitty day, okay? All I want is a few drinks."

"Not too many", she says, finally straining the liquid into the glass. She plucks an olive from its jar and rolls it between her fingers, her eyes on yours, before dropping it into the drink. "You don't hold your liquors too well, do you?"

"What?"

"Not important."

You accept the martini and take a tentative sip. You study her like she studied you, but with an air of irritation. Your day's been miserable enough already. No need for her to pile on.

"Listen", you say, "I'm not really in the mood to talk. I know you bartenders like to play shrink-"

"I prefer the word therapist, but go on."

"But", you say sharply, shooting her a halfhearted glare, "I had a bad day. A really, really bad day. You probably can't even imagine. So just let it go, alright?"

"Understood", she says. Her green eyes, however, twinkle with the kind of mirth that tells you she definitely will not let it go.

Can someone drive you up the wall but also be annoyingly attractive? Apparently. You're experiencing it in that very moment.

The silence lasts exactly two minutes. It's enough time for the bartender to prepare a Bloody Mary and hand it to a different customer, then she turns toward you again. You groan and let your head fall onto the counter of the bar.

"Ouch", you mutter.

"You're like a child", she states. "A petulant little child who didn't get their way. What happened, hotshot?"

"Leave me alone", you mumble, your breath fogging up the smooth surface of the countertop.

"It can't be that bad." She leans in, arms crossed on the counter, and lowers her head so her face is right in front of yours. You dare look at her and immediately regret it. The green in her eyes is sage with specks of seafoam, mint and apple, unfairly captivating.

Then, her breath hits your lips. Sweet and warm, with an undercurrent of mint.

Before you can imagine her bent over the counter in a very different situation, you quickly close your eyes and press your face against the countertop.

"Let me guess", she says, seemingly oblivious to your internal struggle, "you lost a deal? No, not that. Maybe your shoes don't match your suit? No? Fine. Oh, I got it. Someone had the audacity to say no to you today."

"Truly, fuck you."

"That's a bold thing to say to the woman making your drinks, darling."

You groan and sit up, strands of messy hair blocking your vision. She smirks and brushes them aside.

"This", you say, narrowing your eyes, "is why I don't go to bars."

"Oh, please." She tilts her head. "Me? Harmless."

"Harmless, but annoying. Like a damn housefly."

"How sweet", she says drily. "You know your way around women, huh?"

You give her a deadpan look. She has no clue (or maybe she does — whatever), but you haven't been involved with anyone in over a year now. That is, if you don't count hookups and one night stands and such.

Flirting is also not your strongest suit, but it is hers. You just haven't realized it yet.

"I'm a busy woman", you say. "The only women I see are clients and coworkers."

"Clients, as in...?"

"No." You raise your eyebrows, unimpressed. "I'm a lawyer, not a hooker."

"A lawyer?" She smiles and tilts her head. "Wow. That's exciting."

Sarcasm, obviously. You roll your eyes and lean back a little. Good thing the barstool has a backrest, otherwise you'd be on the floor by now.

"Come on. All you do is pour booze into glasses and poke olives with toothpicks."

"Don't forget pouring water into ice cube trays."

She chuckles when you roll your eyes again. Leaning over the counter, she brushes her fingertips against the collar of your shirt.

Your cheeks heat up. She notices the rosy flush in your face and tilts her head, giving a soft hum.

"So, a lawyer", she says. "A lawyer who had a shitty day."

"Precisely."

"A lawyer who definitely isn't a hooker, either. So asking about the price per hour would be pointless."

You pause before exhaling sharply, dragging a hand down your face — exhausted, annoyed, still half-thinking about your case. But then her words settle, her meaning really sinking in, and despite everything, your lips twitch.

You open your mouth, then close it again. Finally, you lift your glass and down your martini. She laughs quietly.

"I'm Natasha", she says. "And it's a pleasure to meet you, hotshot."

"Y/N", you say, rubbing your eyes with your free hand. "Sorry. I'm tired and ready for bed."

"Me too", she says. She slides the empty glass from your fingers and puts it aside. "I assume you meant something else, though."

You let out a laugh and lean back, hands covering your face. You lower them and smile faintly, eyes running up and down her body. The bar covers everything up to her waist, but that doesn't matter. She's beautiful, and so is the dress she's wearing, and the irritation you felt earlier has shifted into something entirely different.

You're not sure whether there's some kind of rule about this — are bartenders allowed to flirt with customers? —, but, truthfully, you don't care. How long has it been since you felt this kind of attraction toward someone? How long has it been since someone flirted with you and you actually felt the urge to flirt back?

It hasn't been years, but it's been more than a while.

You sit there in silence, eyes still locked on Natasha. She leans over the counter and adjusts the collar of your shirt again. Skin peeks through the unbuttoned buttons at the top, her gaze lingering on it for a brief moment.

"Your shift", you say, watching her pull away. "When's it end?"

She glances at her watch. Midnight. "About two hours. Why? Planning to wait up for me?"

"Maybe" You hum, fingers drumming against the countertop. "You could leave early", you then suggest, tentatively, as if expecting her to say no.

But Natasha glances at the other bartender. Her hands move to untie the apron she's wearing, which she tucks under the bar, then she tells her coworker to cover for her. You can see her hesitate, scanning the space, before she walks around the counter to get to your side.

Before you realize what's happening, you're leading her out of the bar. The air is warm outside, but not suffocating anymore. You feel the light breeze — crisper, fresher, thanks to Beverly Hills being closer to the ocean — and breathe in. No overwhelming variety of perfumes and colognes. All you smell is the faint scent of whatever perfume Natasha is wearing.

You lead her to your car. She pauses when she sees the cracked headlight.

"Hit a trash can", you say before she can ask.

"I see." She glances at you, smiling. "I truly hope you won't get me into a car crash tonight, hotshot."

You crack a smile and sigh, running your fingers through your hair. She laughs and squeezes your arm, then moves to sit in the passenger seat.

You spend your first night together.

When you wake up to the sight of her, hair mussed and naked body wrapped up in thin bedsheets, you know there will be more moments like this.

. . .

— NEW YORK, USA —

Two months and a few meetups (dates? hookups?) later, you fly her out to Manhattan.

It was your idea. You'd gotten sick of having to travel to LA all the time, only to leave again days later. Your main residence is in New York, after all, not California. It's where your condo is, your law firm, where you spend a majority of your time.

Natasha agreed without having to reconsider. You didn't even have to mention it'd be one of your private jets, or that your chauffeur Richard would drive her to your place. She had no clue she'd be sipping champagne and testing caviar during the entire flight, and she said yes anyway.

She knows you have money. She knows you'll spoil her. She doesn't expect it, either. It does happen, though, and she does enjoy it a lot.

There's something special about being able to kick off her heels and stretch out on plush leather seats, letting the staff pamper her. With face masks from South Korea and fresh fruit straight from Thailand, the five hours she spends aloft suddenly seem almost too short.

Richard drives Natasha to the condominium you live in. Billionaires' Row is full of luxury buildings, but yours manages to stand out anyway. High ceilings, floor to ceiling windows, a grand porte-cochère. She spots Rolls Royces and Bentleys being parked by valets in pressed suits and subtly raises her eyebrows. It's starting to get out of hand.

In front of the elevator, she's handed a keycard. Richard instructs her how to use it, then she's on her own.

It takes her all the way upstairs into your penthouse, the elevator bypassing every other floor. Then it stops, the doors swish open, and she's in your condo. In your living room, to be more specific.

A fireplace, a stocked bar (top-shelf liquors, because why not), a glass coffee table. The sectional couch in front of her looks like it costs more than a standard car, too. She glances at the dark marble floor beneath her feet — probably from Italy — and takes a few steps into the condo. As soon as she's stepped out of the elevator, the door closes automatically.

Natasha knew you were rich, but goddamn, this is a lot to take in.

She takes another few steps into the living room and listens for any kind of noise. Unsurprisingly, she can't hear anything. The walls are most likely soundproof, so she won't be able to hear you unless she's in the same room.

Walking closer to the fireplace, she finds a note on it. A normal piece of paper, thankfully, not some expensive textured shit. She reads what you wrote and smiles faintly.

Natasha,

I'm in my office to work on a new case. Sorry I wasn't there to personally pick you up. Will make up for it later, I promise.

Lunch is in the fridge. Make yourself at home. I insist.

— Hotshot :)

Once she realizes she's smiling, she quickly shakes her head and puts the note aside.

Make herself at home? No need to tell her twice.

High heels in one hand, she pads through the long hallway and into the kitchen. Stainless steel appliances, a huge espresso machine she'll definitely play around with at some time, sleek kitchen furniture. A peek into the fridge tells her you — or your private chef, more likely — made paella. She closes it again and walks into the adjacent dining room.

Some plants that look like small palm trees, a long table for at least 16 people, a New Zealand wool rug.

Boring.

Back to the hallway she goes, the heated floors warm under her bare feet. Up the stairs, then back down, hand sliding over the glass railings. Two bathrooms, both with rain showers, a small wine cellar-like room, a huge balcony with a view of Central Park. Somehow, she ends up on the rooftop (and definitely makes sure to remember the pool there) before finally making her way back inside.

Your bedroom is next, complete with an en-suite bathroom and walk-in closet. She's seen the other bathrooms already and was, quite frankly, not impressed enough to look at this one as well. Instead, she decides to check out what kind of clothes you wear.

Natasha spins around in the massive space and scans everything. A minibar, a huge mirror, a seating area. It smells like fresh linen and that very same perfume you were wearing when you first took her home not too long ago.

Two months, she recalls. It's only been two months, and you're already whisking her away whenever you want.

She drags her hand along one of the black walnut shelves, inspecting handmade leather shoes and rows of accessories. Ties, watches, rings. She stops and eyes the tailored suits. Her hand moves to the back of her dress, fumbling with the zipper and pulling it down, then she lets the thin piece of fabric fall to the polished floor.

She steps out of the dress that's pooled around her feet and reaches for a crisp button-down. She puts it on and inspects herself in front of the mirror, then grabs some niche Parisian perfume from your fragrance collection. A spritz behind her ear, one on her wrist...

"Having fun?"

Natasha whips around and stares at you. You're leaning against the doorframe, trying to hide your smile. Despite being at home, where you should be comfortable enough to let loose for a little, you're in a suit. Your hair, however, is messy. A strand partially blocks your vision.

It took you ten minutes to find her. You didn't expect to walk in on her half-naked, barefoot, only wearing one of your shirts. Are you complaining, though? Absolutely not.

"You told me to make myself at home."

"So you did."

"Exactly."

"That's good." You push off the doorframe and stroll into the room. "Not gonna say hi?"

She meets you halfway, her arms coming up to wrap around your neck. Lips brush against yours, a fleeting contact, and your hands rub her waist. "Hi", she mumbles.

"Hey", you whisper, kissing her. First quickly, then a little more deeply. Your hands run up her sides, letting her shirt ride up, and you feel smooth warm skin under your palms. You pull away only to trail kisses along her jaw. "Missed you. How long have you been here?"

Natasha closes her eyes, her fingers raking through your short hair. "About an hour. Lonely?"

"It's a big apartment."

"Penthouse."

"Whatever", you mutter, catching her mouth again. Your thumbs hook into the waistband of her underwear and play with the lace. "Did you have lunch? The paella — I had it made for you."

"I wasn't hungry", she says, speaking in between kisses. "They served all kinds of stuff on my flight. First time trying mangosteen."

"Mhm, my favorite." You squeeze her waist before letting go of her. Walking further into the room, you pick up her dress from the floor and toss it over your shoulder. Her scent hits you, faint and sweet and familiar already. "Listen, I got another meeting in about an hour. Shouldn't take too long, though. You good here or should I ask Richie to give you the tour? He'll take you anywhere as long as it's not somewhere up in the clouds. Poor dude's got a fear of heights."

Natasha lingers where you left her, arms crossed over her chest. She watches you adjust things she never would've noticed are different: pushing the perfume bottle backwards the tiniest bit so it's perfectly aligned with the others, running your hand over the stack of button-ups to remove a crease she wouldn't be able to spot with a magnifying glass, nudging one of the shoes she touched.

"No", she says absently. "I'd rather stay here and wait."

"Whatever you want." You turn around and walk back to her. You wrap your arm around her waist and lead her out of the walk-in closet, faces inches apart, a smile on your lips. "I'd show you around, but I feel like that's pointless."

Natasha rolls her eyes and laughs, tugging at your shirt. You feel her lips against yours, the touch brief but charged with electricity. "You told me to make myself at home, so I did. Can't blame me for that."

"Not blaming you. Just happy you felt comfy enough to rummage through my clothes."

"I didn't 'rummage' through them."

"Oh no?" You grab the hem of the button-up she's sporting and smirk. "What's that, then?"

She doesn't say anything. Instead, she cups your face and pulls you into a deep kiss.

It's the first time in over three years that you cancel a meeting.

. . .

The rug you're on is soft and fluffy, the fireplace next to you way too hot for a September morning.

Sleep-warm skin and cashmere blankets, a half-empty bottle of wine left next to the coffee table. Natasha wakes, blinking lazily, and stretches her arms. You turn just enough to be able to kiss her forehead.

"Morning", you mumble.

"Morning", she replies, hands moving to your chest. Fingertips dance over bare skin, then she starts buttoning up your shirt. "We slept in."

"Yeah", you say, still tired, and lay back down. "Fuck. I have so much work to do."

"No, you have me to do."

"Obviously. Top priority."

Her hands splay out on your chest and smooth out the fabric of your shirt. She leans in, plush lips on your jaw, kisses that are warm and a little too arousing. It's 9 in the morning, and you need to get your ass off the floor and into the office.

However, there is a pretty, naked lady next to you, and that is much more enticing than a desk chair and a meeting with a bunch of old people. And her mouth is all over your skin, her hands starting to roam your body, and fuck it, maybe you can cancel again. Just one more time.

"Dammit", you curse, nails raking down her back. "You're costing me a shit-ton of money, baby."

"You have enough money as it is", she mumbles, voice muffled against your neck. Your arms wind around her. "There's only one woman in your arms, though. Your choice."

You hum, nose buried in her messy hair. Her kisses against your neck start to become wetter, more urgent, her hands squeezing and squishing every part of you she can reach. You moan and she knows she's convinced you.

You hastily take off your shirt and push all the blankets aside, then hold her close before rolling over. You're on top now, where you want to be, and start trailing hickeys along her throat. Her fingers run through your unruly hair and mess it up further.

Palms squeeze and run over smooth skin. Your hand kneads her thigh before moving between her legs. Wet heat against, then around, your fingers. You thrust in and out slowly, rhythmically, and listen to the way her breathing gets heavier.

Face buried in the crook of her neck, you leave lazy kisses on her skin. Slender fingers tug at your hair, insistently, telling you to go faster.

The fire next to you crackles, but it's nowhere near as hot as the space between you. Heavy breathing and muffled moans, fingers curling and nudging deeper. Your thumb circles her clit and you hear a little whine. Natasha comes around your fingers, clenching and unclenching, and you bite back your own moans.

"Shit", she mumbles, slumping into the rug again.

"Yeah." You lift your fingers to your mouth and quickly lick them clean. "I still got work."

"Breakfast first?"

A knock on the doorframe makes you both whirl around. Your eyes land on your private chef slash maid, who's got her eyes covered with her hand. You can see the timid look on her face, anyway.

"Sorry", she says. "I waited until you were...done. I made breakfast and didn't want to disturb you, Ms. Y/L/N. Also, Mr. Pasini is waiting for you."

"Linda", you say, grabbing a blanket and covering both you and Natasha with it. You're so aghast you don't even know what to say. "That's, uhm- that's good. Give us a minute? Please?"

She nods, stepping away and bumping into a potted plant.

"Of course. My apologies, Ma'am. I'll be in the kitchen."

The second she's gone, Natasha starts laughing. You narrow your eyes at her, but the smile on her face is too infectious to not crack one as well. You sigh and melt into her. A kiss is placed on her cheek.

"Alright, laugh it up."

She smirks and jabs a finger into your side. "Come on, that was hilarious. Does she usually stalk you like some creep?"

"No", you say firmly, sitting up and putting on your shirt. Your fingers tremble slightly as you button it up. "She doesn't. And she didn't 'stalk us', she just heard we were finished and came to inform me about breakfast."

"Sounds believable enough, hotshot. You're sure she doesn't have a secret crush on you?"

"She's 58 and married, dummy." You get up and look for your underwear. "I promise, she's just a sweet lady who helps my blood sugar spike. Try her madeleines, they're godly."

Natasha hums and gets up, still butt naked. She grabs her lace panties and the shirt she stole from you the night before and puts both on. You, one leg in your slacks and the other hovering in the air, watch her with wide eyes as she makes a beeline for the kitchen.

"Wait-"

"Breakfast", she says, unbothered, and adjusts her hair a little. "Hurry your pretty little ass up or all the madeleines will be gone."

The exaggerated French accent she used to pronounce the pastry makes you roll your eyes. You hurry to get into your pants before following after her, zipping up and fastening the button.

"You're naked!"

"Anything that could be considered inappropriate is covered."

"I can see your butt."

She glances at you over her shoulder, strolling into the kitchen. Linda glances at her, but doesn't seem too surprised by the sight. Instead, she plates breakfast for you. Avocado on sourdough toast, freshly squeezed juice, Eggs Benedict, buttery madeleines, some cappuccino.

As soon as she's done, she tells you to enjoy your meal. You catch the small smile on her face as she leaves the room to go on about her duties.

"You were right", Natasha says, sitting on a chair with her foot propped up on the seat. "These are godly."

"Told you", you say absently, scrolling through your work-related emails. "The best. Dip them in the cappuccino."

She hums, eating in silence and watching you respond to emails and texts. Her leg stretches out under the table to bump against yours. Then, she rests it in your lap. You squeeze her calf, eyes locked on your phone.

"Hey", you mumble, sliding your hand further down her leg and tapping her ankle, "how would you feel about a slight change of plans?"

"Hm?" Natasha tilts her head, a half-finished glass of orange juice in her hand.

You turn around and show her the email. She leans forward, eyebrows furrowed, and reads it.

"I said we'd spend the next two weeks here, but I gotta go to Tokyo. Work-stuff. Want to tag along?"

"Tokyo?" She looks up. "Just like that?"

"Yeah. Like I said, work-stuff."

She smiles faintly, then shrugs. "Sure. Why not."

"Great."

"All of this is normal, right?"

"What?"

"Forget it, hotshot." She gets up and kisses your temple. "See you in a minute. I have to try that rain shower before we leave."

The urge to get up and follow her like a lovesick puppy is strong. But then your phone buzzes, announcing another email, and you sigh as you realize you'll have to wait a bit longer.

. . .

— TOKYO, JAPAN —

You order the sushi in near-perfect Japanese.

Natasha leans into your side. Clad in the off-shoulder black dress with the deep neckline that you got her right after your arrival, she's been turning heads all night long. Her fingers toy with the shimmering necklace you put on her, oblivious to the 18k white gold's worth, and her eyes roam the restaurant's interior.

"Fancy", she whispers once the server has dashed off. "I wanted to come here for a while."

"This restaurant? I've been here a couple times."

"No, dummy. Japan. Tokyo." She smiles and looks at you. You flush under her gaze and nudge her cheek with your nose. Her hand cups your cheek, thumb against your lips, and you press a kiss to it. "You need to get out of your bubble more, you know."

"What bubble?"

"This bubble. Not every experience has a Michelin star, or costs a couple thousand bucks. There's more to life than just fancy dinners, hotshot."

You hum, studying here. There's a truth to her words that stings. You're privileged, and you know it, but your lifestyle and career make everything about you and everything you do so different. The way you live traps you in a bubble you either can't or won't escape, which limits the things you experience.

Natasha is the best example for that. You may have been lucky enough to run into her, sure, but only because of a coincidence. Again, you don't go to bars. You don't go out with friends, or even colleagues. You spend your Friday nights sitting at your desk with a dozen files opened on your laptop. Maybe you'll drink some whiskey or fall asleep ten minutes into a movie, too, but that's about it.

"You'd rather I take you to McDonald's tomorrow?", you ask, trying to deflect. She tilts her head. "Okay, okay. Not a fan of the clown. Got it."

"You know what I mean", she says, hooking a finger into the collar of your shirt. "Saving up for another car, or jet, won't make you happy."

"I know", you say earnestly. "It's why I got you. To spend that money on you instead. Now — sake or umeshu?"

"Oh, no. Wait. Did you just-"

"I'll spoil you rotten", you say, quickly pecking her lips, "and get happy in return. You make me happy. Now tell me what drink you want."

She rolls her eyes, but doesn't argue. It's not like she doesn't like the whole princess treatment you've been giving her ever since your first night together, after all. She enjoys it maybe even too much.

You enjoy it, too. Before her, all you knew was work and lonely beds. Pleasure mostly came from meaningless one night stands, never lasting longer than a couple hours, or — a classic — your own hand.

It's different now. You get to satisfy someone else, someone who's interested in you, who makes you smile, who's pretty. You can spoil her all you want. Dresses, champagne, jewelry, spontaneous trips to the most gorgeous places on earth. In return, she makes you happy. There's not even much she has to do to achieve that. You appreciate it a whole lot, anyway.

Her breath fans your ear, lips tickling your skin. You exhale sharply, silently, and close your eyes.

"Sake, please", she mumbles, voice sultry and soft. Her hand runs down your front, deliberately brushing against the buttons of your shirt, before coming to rest on your thigh. "And you. Sake and you."

. . .

Being in another country usually means vacation.

Not for you, though. You've been stuck behind your desk for over an hour now. Keyboards clack, the a/c hums, bedsheets rustle. In front of you are floor-to-ceiling windows, displaying Tokyo's skyline. Thousands of lights in every color imaginable adorn tall buildings, creating a sea of neon. Billboards and pulsing nights, and streets that never seem to sleep.

You're not sleeping, either. And neither is Natasha. While you're tapping a pen against your knee before responding to an email, she keeps rolling over in bed and trying to fight boredom.

You briefly glance at her. Only in a silk robe that hugs her curves and leaves little to the imagination, it's getting increasingly harder to not just call it a day and join her.

You turn to your laptop again and bite back a sigh. Another email popped up, this time by one of your employees, so you click the reply symbol and start typing. Right as you hit send, you feel a familiar pair of hands on your shoulders. You close your eyes when her palms slide down to your chest.

"Hey", she murmurs, warmth breath fanning your ear. Her lips press against your nape, then the side of your neck. "Still working?"

"It won't end. I just keep getting new emails."

She hums, continuing to trail hot kisses along your neck. Her fingers fumble with the buttons on your shirt, slowly undoing them. "You need to relax a little, you know. Forget about work and come to bed with me."

"Emails", you protest. Natasha smiles against your neck. Her hands move down to yours on the keyboard, gently peeling them off. "I need to finish this. It's important. Seriously."

No response. Heat shoots into your lower belly when she sucks on your pulse point. She runs her hands up your arms and to your biceps, squeezing the muscles there, then she slides the shirt off your shoulders. Fingers dance across your skin, trace your chest and your stomach, before teasing the waistband of your pants.

"I want you to fuck me", she rasps into your ear. "Show me I'm important, too."

Of course she's important. More important than the emails, more important than anything else. Can you say it, though?

No. The only thing that leaves your mouth is a quiet whine. You hear the laptop in front of you being shut. Natasha pulls at the back of your chair and swivels it around, your eyes opening automatically.

The sight is godly. She's standing between your legs, her robe thin and enveloping her body like a second layer of skin. You catch a glimpse of the bra she's wearing, black lace showing through the open top of the robe, and your fingers twitch with the desire to touch her.

You cave. Fingers find the end of the silk sash around her waist to give it a deliberate tug. The robe comes open and reveals creamy skin and black lingerie.

"When did you..."

"You left your credit card when you went downstairs to pick up those files", she says, fingers trailing along your jaw. Her hand cups your jaw. "Thought it'd be a nice surprise."

"Credit card fraud", you say, both amused and turned on. "Theft, too. Dammit."

"You like it, though."

Oh, you do. You can't even be mad. There's more than enough money on your bank account, and truthfully, purchases like this one benefit you both.

You put your hands on her waist and get up. Her body is flush with yours, her breath fanning your lips. You kiss her, tasting strawberries and sake, and trace the seam of her lips with your tongue. Her mouth opens, letting you deepen the kiss, and you swallow her moans.

Bodies up against the window, the heat between you fogging up the glass. Natasha's robe falls to the floor, and you start trailing kisses over her shoulder and chest. You pull away for a split second to drink her in. With the backdrop of the city's lights — bright and flickering and reflecting off her skin — you're once again proven that she's the most gorgeous thing you've ever seen.

The clasp of her bra comes undone easily. You push the straps off her shoulders, let the tiny piece of clothing slide off, then your mouth is attached to her body again. Hands squeeze and grope her breasts, thumbs flicking over her nipples, before running down her sides.

You hear a soft thud when her head falls back against the window. Breathy moans and mhh-sounds, nimble fingers raking through your hair. You lick a stripe over her breast and suck her nipple between your lips. Pushing aside the fabric of her panties, you find her cunt. Her pussy is soaked, your fingers sliding in with ease.

"Fuck", she moans, tugging at your hair. "Baby, slow down."

You look up, not able to speak through the mouthful of boob. She looks down at you, panting, and brushes some hair away from your forehead.

You don't want to slow down. Not now, not when she's looking at you like this, still wearing the panties she bought with your money, standing in the suite you payed for. She makes you happy. She chases the loneliness away. You want to give her everything, the entire world, and that includes a night filled with orgasms.

Holding eye contact, you thrust your fingers into her. Her hips buck to chase the feeling. Moans fill the space around you, whiny and needy, and her hips rut against your hand with more fervor.

Your mouth releases her breast. You litter it with kisses and hickeys, still fucking her with your fingers. You slowly sink to your knees to bury your face against her stomach, leaving kisses there as well, and continuing pumping your fingers in and out of her. Slickness covers your hands, dripping down your wrists, and Natasha meets every thrust.

"I'll buy you everything", you moan. "Anything. Whatever you want."

"Bribing me?" She tries to laugh, but it comes out strained. She grinds against your hand, forcing you in deeper. You nudge that spongy little part and hear another moan. "I'm not your trophy, you know."

"No." You kiss along her lower stomach, your free hand gripping her thigh. Your movements become quicker, harder, feeling her walls clench around you in desperation. "Never said you were."

Natasha wants to respond, but in that moment, she can't. She lifts one leg and hooks it over your shoulder, letting herself take you wholly. Goosebumps and kiss-bitten lips, hickeys and flushed skin. Your fingers curl, your lips wrap around her clit, and her body tenses up.

You feel her orgasm as if it were your own. Intense, all-consuming, wiping every thought from her brain. She keeps riding your hand until it all becomes overstimulating, then you pull out.

Looking up, the sight of her disheveled state brings a smirk to your face. She pinches your bottom lip.

"Ow. What's that for?", you ask, her fingers lingering on your mouth.

"You're getting cocky."

"Am not."

"You definitely are. Get up, hotshot."

You grumble and kiss her fingertips, but do as told. Natasha leans in to kiss you, her hands fumbling with the zipper on your slacks. She walks you backwards, pushes you onto the bed, straddles you. The bedsheets are cool against your skin, tangled from Natasha's earlier tossing and turning.

There's not much time to think about any of that, though.

. . .

— RIO DE JANEIRO, BRAZIL —

A private pool that seems to spill out into the ocean below. A plate of fruit sits on the edge, the papaya and mangoes long forgotten about, with two empty coconut shells next to it.

Aside from the lapping of the water and the rustling of the trees, only your soft moans fill the air. Her hands on your shoulders and yours on her hips, you guide her up and down the strap rhythmically. She looks down, watching the girthy piece of silicone through the water. How its full length disappears inside of her, again and again, blurred by the water you're in.

Another moan. You lean in and press your lips to her collarbone, tasting sunscreen and something sweet. Her fingers mess up your hair and slide back down to your shoulders, fingernails raking over your skin and leaving marks.

"I'm close", she whimpers, hips rotating on the strap. You guide her every movement, pushing the toy in as deep as you can. You watch stupidly how her body moves on it.

"Sound like it, too", you rasp. After almost a year of this, you know every telltale sign. "Open wider, baby."

Her thighs part just the tiniest bit more, but it's enough for her clit to rub against the base of the harness. Her head drops forward, forehead resting against yours, and she cries out quietly.

"Fuck, I-"

"Almost there." You rub her sides and watch her ride harder, pushing herself over the edge. Once the climax has lost most of its intensity, she collapses against you. "Holy."

"I feel like we should stop. For our neighbors' sake."

You laugh and kiss her bare shoulder. You're both completely naked, thanks to the pool being directly attached to your suite. No one can see you, but you're sure many people can hear you.

"Need a break already?", you tease.

"No, hotshot", she replies, nuzzling your neck with her face. "I just want to enjoy this for a moment. No distractions."

This. You and her, intertwined, doing nothing in particular. It shouldn't surprise you, but it does, anyway.

Neither of you know where this is going. You don't know whether this is just going to end someday, or whether you actually have a shot at making it. But, truthfully, you don't know what 'making it' would entail, either.

Natasha also doesn't know. She still doesn't know whether you feel the same as her. Whether you're in as deep as she is. Maybe she is exactly what she fears most to be — a trophy. Someone you don't feel anything real for.

You don't talk about it. Starting a conversation like that is risky, because the worst case scenario is everything falling apart.

In the beginning, it was fun. It was passionate and indulgent, a sexy fantasy. It was all about sex and money and pouring champagne like it's water.

Then, feelings came into play. You're not sure whether that's ever ended well.

. . .

— PARIS, FRANCE —

"God, you're obsessed."

You look up, still kneeling on the floor with a high heel in your hand. You give her a deadpan look.

"Keep that up and you're sleeping on the balcony tonight. Now give me your foot."

"I'm just saying. You, on your knees for me? Should've rented out the jewelry store instead."

"What?... Oh. Ha. Uhm-"

Natasha laughs and does as told. You shake your head, cheeks pink and warm, and slide the heel onto her foot. You make sure it fits right and then hum in approval.

Aside from the two of you, the changing room is empty. In fact, the entire store is. You rented it out for the next few hours, making it easier for Natasha to look at clothes and try them on without being bothered.

"Not bad", she says, resting her leg over your shoulder. You turn your head and kiss her calf. "Maybe in another color?"

"Which one? Black, maybe? Or lilac? Those would look nice with that dress you-"

"Y/N", she cuts you off, "this one's fine. Really. I like it."

You give her a skeptical look, but she just raises her eyebrows at you. She seems to be telling the truth, so you squeeze her ankle before moving her leg off your shoulder. Straightening up, you reach for another dress.

Natasha grabs it and steps into the fitting room. She returns not too long after, and the sight renders you speechless.

A deep red gown, its fabric hugging every curve just right. The silk cascades down her body and pools at her feet, but the long slit at the side keeps it from looking too modest. Your eyes land on the plunging sinful neckline, then trace the delicate straps framing her shoulders.

She steps in front of the mirror and studies herself. In this lightning, the dress looks like molten wine clinging to her skin. You finally look up and catch her gaze in the mirror. Paired with the faint smirk, the timeless dress becomes something entirely different.

Dangerous. Unfair.

Heat crackles between you. You swallow heavily, eyes locked on the sight, fingers twitching and want throbbing in your body.

"You're staring."

You swallow again. "You're in that."

"I am."

Your hands ball into fists. You shift and try crossing your legs, but when she runs a hand down her side, it's over. You step closer, unable to stop yourself at this point. Your hands find her waist, your lips hover next to her ear. Then, you press a kiss to her earlobe.

Your hands wander further up her body, cupping the swell of her breasts. You toy with her hardened nipples, which are barely concealed by the dress's thin fabric. Natasha moans and leans into you.

"We're in a store."

"We're alone."

"The employees..."

"The employees won't come in unless we call them", you assure her, voice a strained mumble. Your fingers tug at the neckline of her dress until her chest is revealed, then you tuck the fabric under her breast. "Look at you. Fuck."

Her head drops against your shoulder. You kiss her neck, bared to you, and cup her breast. Your free hand runs down her body, finding the slit of her dress and dipping underneath it.

"Move the dress?", you mumble.

One hand on the back of your head, Natasha pulls the skirt of the dress aside until you can see everything clearly. Her thighs, her lingerie, the garter belt. Creamy skin, adorned by the faintest of stretch marks. Your face has been buried between those very thighs dozens of times by now, but you'll never get sick of the feeling.

You run your fingers over her underwear. It's soaked.

"That was quick."

"Really? You'll make fun of me now?"

"No, baby." You kiss her shoulder and pull away, only to step around her and get on your knees again. This time, for an entirely different reason. You hold onto her thighs and look up. Her breathing is slightly uneven. "This okay?"

"Anything else wouldn't be okay", she replies. You hook your fingers into the waistband of her underwear and pull it down. It drops to the ground and gives you a full view of her cunt. Hand on the back of your head, she guides you closer.

You bury your face between her legs and immediately feel the slick heat. It coats your cheeks, your tongue, letting you taste the tangy sweetness you've grown familiar with. You grip the backs of her thighs for more support and run your tongue through her folds.

Natasha feels every touch, every movement. She grips your hair to keep herself from falling over, nails digging into your scalp. You eat her out surrounded by mirrors, letting her see every angle of what you're doing to her.

. . .

Hand in hand, you walk down Avenue Montaigne.

The sun is beaming down at you, making the street look even more fairytale-like than it already is. Tall buildings, brick walls, trees lined up on either side of the road. You squeeze her hand.

"What's next?", you ask, looking at her. "Perfume? Maybe a purse?"

Natasha tilts her head. There you go again, asking about things that should be irrelevant. Things that, if she's being honest, never were relevant. All of this extravagance is fun. Being flown around in private jets, traveling the world, getting whatever she wants whenever she wants it — she enjoys it, no doubt.

But is that all she wants?

Of course not. In fact, it’d be a lie if she said it ever was.

From that first night in the bar, she wasn't trying to find someone who'd drown her in money. Otherwise, she would've found someone like that ages ago. The bar she worked in was one of the most prestigious in all of Los Angeles. It would've been easy to pick a random person and make them fall for her.

She didn't want that, though. She stuck to dating literally anyone else to avoid ending up as a trophy, as someone who isn't anything else but something to make her partner look good.

Then, you stumbled in. Not once, but twice. Everything about you was painfully similar to the other people sitting in that same bar that night, but you were also completely unlike them.

Everything about you screamed money. The stupid suit, the Black Card, the way you talked to her. But you weren't snobby. She'd known that from the first time she saw you there — when you got so drunk you passed out. Everyone else cares about their reputation, their public image, but you let yourself get black out drunk.

You returned. You sat down right in front of her. She took one look at your face pressed against the counter, hair a mess, and knew she'd love whatever is hidden underneath that hated suit you were wearing.

Your hair is always a mess. Even now, walking down the street in Paris's most luxurious shopping street, you look like you got caught in a storm. Short, unruly strands, some blocking your vision, others hastily tucked behind your ear.

Natasha stops in the middle of the street. She leans in and kisses you.

Another indulgence or something sincere — she doesn't know. Maybe she doesn't want to know.

"No more shopping", she says. You give her an unsure look. "Please."

"Okay", you mumble. You continue walking.

Her instruction should be simple enough to follow. No more shopping, no more expensive clothes, no more Michelin starred food. But how does someone who's spent their entire life surviving on money, and gifts, and everything material, suddenly change their ways? It's your form of affection.

It's more difficult than it should be.

You keep walking. You don't pay the big designer brands any mind.

That is, until you pass Chaumet.

A French jeweler specializing in refined pieces, romantic pieces. Jewelry with meaning.

Your eye catches the engagement rings. Natasha follows your gaze.

For a moment, neither of you move. Do you really have what it takes?

You look at her. She brushes the hair away from your eyes. Your hand squeezes hers once more.

A bell rings, a door closes.

It's your last big purchase of the day.

[seumyo]

BAKUGOU KATSUKI ⭑.ᐟ A SERENE CELEBRATION, MERRY CHRISTMAS

A younger Bakugou Katsuki had always been certain of his future. At 26, he’d be a man with it all: a nice house, a career as the undisputed Number One Hero, happily married, and maybe, just maybe, a little brat on the way. That was the dream his teenage self clung to—the vision he worked tirelessly to acheive.

At 26, Bakugou stood in the middle of your shared apartment, arms crossed and staring at the half-decorated Christmas tree with a deep scowl. Strings of golden lights glimmered around the tree’s branches, lengths of ribbons are accompanied by shimmering with faux flowers, and ornaments—carefully chosen by you—hung delicately in place.

The problem? The color scheme.

“What’s wrong with red and gold?”

“It’s boring,” Bakugou grumbled. “We do red and gold every year.”

“It’s classic!” you argued, turning to face him fully. “And it matches the rest of the apartment’s decor!”

He narrowed his eyes. He could not believe that he’s having this conversation with you right now.

“We could try something new for once. Like silver and blue.”

You gasped, clutching an ornament like he’d just insulted you personally—even cursed your entire bloodline and ancestors. “Silver and blue? Are you trying to make our tree look like a corporate lobby?”

“It’d look cooler than this,” he shot back, gesturing vaguely at the warm-toned ornaments. “This looks like something out of a cheesy holiday catalog.”

“And what’s wrong with cheesy?” you challenged.

Bakugou opened his mouth, then closed it. He didn’t actually have anything against cheesy—hell, he secretly loved how excited you got during the holidays. But arguing about it? That was part of the fun, if not a branch of his quality time as a love language.

“Whatever,” he muttered, grabbing a red bauble and hanging it perfectly on the tree. “You’re just scared to try something new.”

You laughed, walking over with another ornament to decorate with. “And you’re just scared because I’m right.”

As Bakugou worked to string the lights around the higher branches, you began unpacking the remaining ornaments from your storage box. You pulled out a small, slightly worn ornament in the shape of a star and held it up with a nostalgic smile.

“Do you remember this?”

He glanced down from the tree, frowning at the star in your hand. “Should I?”

No matter how much he tries to remember, he simply couldn’t recall what made this star so special that you had to ask him if he remembers it.

It’s a star, that’s for sure. A faded one at that.

You sighed, clearly unimpressed by his lack of sentimentality. “It’s the first ornament we bought together. Back when we were... what, eighteen?”

Bakugou paused. It had been a spur-of-the-moment purchase during a rare day off from hero training.

You had somehow convinced him to go with you to wander around a Christmas market, bickering over everything from what food stalls to visit to what decorations looked “cool.” You had insisted on the star, and Bakugou—reluctantly—agreed after a heated argument about which shape of star’s better.

“Are you having a flashback monologue right now?”

That brought out a scoff from him. “Fuck no. Just remembered how you were annoying as hell that day,” he muttered.

“And you were so stubborn, god. You kept saying it was pointless to buy an ornament because I didn’t even have a tree back in my dorm.”

“Yeah, and you said, ‘It's not about the tree; it's about the tradition.’ What kinda cheesy crap was that?”

“It's true, though!” you argued, accepting his hand to place the star gently on the tree’s highest branch. “And now, look. We still have it. And now we can buy all the Christmas trees we could ever want.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

As you continued decorating, the sound of your laughter and playful arguments filled the apartment, giving it a cozy home feel. By the time the tree was finished, Bakugou begrudgingly admitted to himself that it didn’t look half bad—even if it was the same colors as last year, though a decent fortune was spent for it to not be too repetitive.

It’s a good thing his work pays well (you split the cost of decorations equally; he just says that his work pays better even if yours is a lot higher than his).

You stepped back, admiring your work with a satisfied smile. “Perfect. Now, onto the Christmas Eve menu. I was thinking we could do something light this year—maybe roasted chicken and a salad?”

Bakugou groaned, collapsing onto the couch. “Salad? On Christmas Eve? No fucking way.”

“What’s wrong with salad?”

“Is your childhood a bland mess to have salad as one of the main foods? It’s boring,” he said, sticking his tongue out at you when you gave him a pointed look. “We should make something warm and filling.”

“Okay, but you’re helping.”

“Since when did I ever leave all the cookin’ to you?”

Now that he’s 26, standing in the modest yet cozy apartment he shares with you, he realizes that dreams don’t always come in the exact shape you imagine.

Sure, he doesn’t have the massive house he once envisioned, but this apartment—filled with laughter, memories, and the faint scent of your favorite candles—is more of a home than anything his younger self could have dreamed up. The framed photos of your milestones, the shelves of books, and even a few of his hero equipment with the tools scattered on his office—it’s all perfect in a way he didn’t know he needed.

And his career? Well, Dynamight isn’t the Number One Hero yet, but he’s close. Close enough that his younger self would sneer but grudgingly admit it’s not bad.

He’s built a solid name for himself, and he’s done it his way. His rank might not be where he wanted it to be at this age, but he’s learned something more valuable than being the best—he’s learned the importance of balance.

The last part of that dream? The wife? He looks toward the kitchen, where you’re humming some off-tune melody, beginning to prepare what Bakugou’s about to cook with for dinner. The sight of you, so comfortable and almost glowing in your shared space, makes his chest tighten.

He must have a heart problem by this point because it comes at him at the most unexpected times whenever he sees you.

No, he doesn’t have a wife yet. But he’s about to change that.

He’s been thinking about it for weeks now.

He’s got the ring—it’s hidden in the drawer under his socks, where he knows you won’t go snooping.

He knows you’ll say yes, but he would be damned if he didn’t admit that it made him a bit nervous. He knows because you look at him the same way he looks at you: like the world would become lighter and easier to conquer as long as you have the other.

But still, he waits.

Not because he’s unsure, but because he wants the timing to be perfect. Not rushed, not forced. He’s learned to be patient over the years.

“Kats, help with cutting the onions, please!”

“Yeah, yeah. Comin’!”

Soon, he’ll drop the question. He’s not in a rush. This is your life together, and it’s not perfect, but it is just right—chaotic, loud, and full of love. And when the time comes, he’ll make sure you know just how much you mean to him.

But you already know that, don’t you?

SEUMYO © 2024, PLEASE DO NOT REPOST, PLAGIARIZE, MODIFY OR TRANSLATE.

[marvelstoriesepic]

Eyes made of Starlight

Pairing: Prince!Bucky x Maid!Reader (Cinderella Au)

Summary: You are drawn into a royal masquerade by a mysterious woman with a magical mask.

Word Count: 1.8k

Warnings: Classism (social hierarchy themes); self-worth struggles; fantasy themes (fairy godmother, spells, illusions); power dynamics; magical disguise

Author’s Note: Oh how I loved writing the magical Cinderella vibe!! This amazing request also comes from my lovely darling!! I hope you'll enjoy this as well, beloved ♡

2k Drabble Challenge Masterlist | Masterlist

The palace walls groan with music. Light spills through stained glass. You can hear the laughter of women who never had to scrub anything in their lives.

You have no reason to be here.

You have no right to be here.

The gown does not belong to you.

The mask does not belong to you.

This moment does definitely not belong to you.

You shouldn’t be here. Not walking under crystal chandeliers, not between silk-slick gowns and heels carved from heaven. Not with perfume-laced air choking your lungs or golden music playing with your ribs. Your hands are calloused. Your eyes are too wide. You walk as if waiting to be punished.

Because you will be.

You are nothing but a maid in this place. One of many. A slip of a girl with sore fingers and silent steps, always in the background, always apologizing.

You had ash on your hands just this sunrise. Streaked across your apron. Tangled in your lashes.

You had scrubbed the same hallway twice - once out of duty, once out of nerves.

You are not meant to be here among those royals, and yet you are.

The mask that sits on your face is not just a disguise. It’s an enchantment. Deep green velvet shaped like leaves, spun with gold threads that glow when the light hits just right. You remember the exhilaration you felt when you held it in your hands after it was placed on your bed. Remember the woman who you believe put it there.

No one speaks to her. No one trusts her. They call her strange, witchy, always lingering too long in the shadows of the garden wall, half-swallowed by ivy and moonlight. She has been a part of the place longer than anyone seems to remember, sweeping corners no one else would touch, talking to birds like they can answer her.

Everyone avoids her.

They say she curses the cooks and sings to the moon and never ages a day past forty.

But you have spoken to her. Brought her bread once, tucked it into a cloth napkin with a wildflower and an apology. Timidly waved at her when you saw her standing cloaked in midnight-colored shawls that fluttered like wings.

And one night ago it was just there. The mask. Lying under your sheets, ready to be worn. You don’t know why you actually decided to do it. You never would have. It’s not a decision you would even consider. But somehow, you pulled on that mask and were suddenly dressed in a gown more worthy than your life.

You are trembling now, standing at the edge of the ballroom. The candlelight plays games with your shadow. You can feel your heartbeat tap-tap-tapping against your ribs.

The clock chimes nine.

The doors open wider and the crowd shifts.

You saw him once.

The prince.

You were delivering lines for another maid who either quit or vanished or both. And on your new route, you saw him at the end of the corridor, coming closer with each step. He had been dressed in navy and silver, his hair pulled back and his expression unreadable.

You tripped and dropped the stack of sheets in your panic, not expecting to just encounter the real prince on a simple delivery. Not as a simple maid. You hated yourself for being in his way.

And when the sheets met the floor, you didn’t breathe.

Just watched the crown prince himself bent - bent - to help pick them up.

Just watched him smile at you and ask if you were alright.

As if he wasn’t a prince and you weren’t made of floor polish and forgotten names.

You didn’t stop thinking about it since. Didn’t stop thinking about him since.

You don’t even recall if you even answered him or kept staring all while blushing so hard your skin stung.

All you are able to recall is that he had eyes like storms and a mouth made for poetry, and something about him - something in the way he looked at you, not through you - unraveled your spine.

That was weeks ago.

And now he is here.

And you are too.

He enters without fanfare, without guards, without his title dragging at his heel. He wears deep blue tonight, with black embroidery shaped like curling vines across his shoulders. His dark hair is loose, falling just below his ears.

He is beautiful. But in a way fire is beautiful. Dangerous and too bright to look at for long.

He stands there like a painting brought to life.

He scans the room and stops suddenly.

On you.

Eyes lock.

Breath caught.

Your heart drops out of your chest and slams into the floor.

He is staring. Not at the dress. Not at the mask. Not at your lips or your waist or your trembling fingers.

He’s staring at your eyes.

As if he is trying to place them in the sky.

And then he is moving. Descending the stairs slowly as if the floor belongs to him and he is offering it to you.

The crowd parts for him.

People turn to watch. Whispers start.

You want to run.

You want to melt.

You want to rewind the world and be a maid again and never take that mask from that strange woman and never come here.

You clutch the sides of your gown, panic boiling in your chest. You could run. You have to run. He can’t know.

But he’s already there and you are not moving.

“Don’t go,” he speaks and his voice is velvet.

He is standing in front of you now, impossibly close, all shadows and silver eyes staring straight into yours.

Deliberately, and without taking his eyes off of yours, he offers his hand.

“Dance with me,” he says. “Please.” His voice is deep. Genuine. A request.

A prince should not talk to a maid this way. You are sure he wouldn’t if he knew who you were.

But a maid also cannot say no to a prince.

So you take his hand with shaking fingers and the second you touch him, you are pulled into his arms, into his chest. The music swells around you as if it were meant for this.

You dance like the world has forgotten gravity.

His touch is light and guiding. One hand presses against your back, the other is intertwined with yours. He doesn’t say anything about the tiny nicks in your palm you got while hanging linens out to dry and forgetting the rose bushes behind.

Never in your life have you danced before.

Never in your life have you felt the proximity of a dance partner or the sequence of the steps to the music.

Your mind doesn’t know but somehow your body does. Your body moves as though it’s been waiting its whole life to be near him. To dance this dance with him.

Perhaps that too has something to do with the mask.

Music rises. Time bleeds away. It feels like flying. It feels like burning.

He looks at you. Doesn’t stop looking at you. And you wonder if he sees past the magic. If he sees the girl who cleans his windows and folds his sheets. The girl who dropped them in front of him and stammered out an apology so awkward she wanted to dissolve on the spot.

Your breath is suspended like the stars outside the palace windows. His hand rests against your back, the pressure just enough to keep you guided, not enough to push. The thumb of his other hand moves in slow circles over your skin and you find yourself staring at it.

His head tilts down to you.

“You keep looking away,” he observes slowly, calmly.

You look up and his gaze is already waiting for yours. “Excuse me?”

“Your eyes,” he adds, voice gentle. Quiet. “You keep hiding them.”

He leans in even closer. You hold your breath. Your steps falter.

“The most important part of dancing,” he states quietly. “is eye contact.” His eyes don’t leave yours. “Everything else follows if you don’t look away.”

You feel the breath of his words against your skin and it makes you hot.

He is not teasing. Not amused. Not quite serious either, but sincere. Thoughtful. As if this moment means something to him too. As if it’s not just your heart fighting its way out of your chest.

You swallow. “Why is that?”

He pulls you closer, shifting his grip. His voice drops even softer. “If you don’t look at your partner, you cannot read them. You cannot anticipate the next step. Cannot be ready to catch them if they fall.” Something passes through his expression.

A beat. His gaze dips to your mouth. Your chin. Back to your eyes.

“And people fall.”

The words land inside of you immediately and you feel them spark a fire that heats up your neck.

You blink a few times, snapping your gaze away from him only to have his hand leave your back to turn your head in its right position - looking at him. His thumb brushes your jawline before he pulls away and settles right at your back again.

As if nothing happened.

You force yourself to nod. Careful. Like if you move too fast the spell will shatter and you will wake up barefoot in the laundry quarters with soot on your face.

He watches you some more. The way your eyes move over his face. The way your brow is twitching. The way your breath is uneven.

You almost stumble. He steadies you effortlessly as if he’d known it would happen.

“Try again,” he encourages gently. “Just look at me.”

You meet his eyes again. Fully. The ballroom fades. The velvet and glass and gossip melt. The crowd around you spins in their own perfect orbit but this is something slower. Something more important.

He leans in another time, breath ghosting your cheek. His voice is a whisper.

“Do you think I could ever forget your eyes, hm?”

Your heart drops alongside your stomach.

The clock chimes midnight.

One.

Two.

Three.

You stumble back. Out of his hold. Out of his arms. Out of his orbit.

The mask is growing warm. Too warm. Your vision flickers. Your dress begins to dull, like color draining from a dream.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, voice breaking, rushed. “I have to-”

And you turn.

“Wait-” he almost shouts, desperate, confused. “Please tell me your name-”

But you are gone.

Glass slippers skim the marble. Tears burn behind your eyes and make it hard to see. The mask slips from your face as you disappear into the night, heart hammering loud enough to break open the stars.

[imaginariumwanderer]

!!Announcement!!

News series!! A freshly baked, extra scrumptious webcomic spin-off based on the hit game Cookie run: Kingdom! Featuring our fan-favorites: White Lily cookie, Pure Vanilla cookie, Elder Faerie, Space Donut… and many more! An energetic love story for all ages!

~Please marry me, Miss White Lily~

Summary:

At the Witches banquet, White Lily cookie ended up falling through a dimensional rift opened by the Moonstone. Only to find her soul transported into the body of Blanc Lily, a powerful-legendary-hero-turned-villainess-turned-Silver-Tree-guardian-maiden-alternate version of herself who is a human being instead of a cookie. Accompanying White Lily cookie in this world are many familiar faces and yet… "Such an odd feeling when I'm with you, it's as if the raging blizzard inside me have been quelled." "This kind of perfect world can only be build with you beside me. So please, stay." "My dearest friend, now that we're united. I will never let you slip away again…" Huh? What is everyone saying? Why are all of her friends acting so strange?? Follow White Lily cookie as she try to naviagte her new life full of danger and romance!

Arch Mage ~Elder Mage Faerian~

An arch mage belonging to the elusive Silver Tree tower. His face framed by silky silvery locks, through his eyes colored by the gentle shines of the moon are millennia of wisdom. By chance or fate, the wise mage's meeting with Blanc Lily when fighting the Great Calamity caused him realize he still have something he has yet to understand. For mysterious reasons, Faerian can switch between his younger and older forms.

Duke of the North ~Darek DaCacao~

The duke of a certain Northern kingdom, famed for his battling prowess. Possessing long black hair with graying streaks, his face is a perpetual scowl adorned by tulip poplar purple eyes. Behind his cold and resolute exterior is a lonely heart, waiting for someone to bring the warmth of spring into his life. Tend to say "Interesting…" a lot when interacting with Blanc Lily.

Crown prince ~Puré von Vanilla~

Our heroine's estranged childhood friend turned crown prince. With golden blond hair and heterochromia eyes, his right being pale yellow and the left being faded blue. Puré von Vanilla is greatly beloved by all of his subject. Even so, for now and forever, he only longs for one person. His queen, his everything. What lay behind Puré von Vanilla's regal perfection? Do you really wish to face the scary truth? Read more to find out!

Now available on: Tapas, Webtoon, Lines... And many more!

[florencemtrash]

In a year's time - Azriel x Reader

Warnings: Angst, jealous Azriel, fluff

Masterlist of Masterlists

"But for all he knew you could have fallen for some dashing golden warrior, or found that you preferred your shiny, new friends over him - that you’d found a quieter city full of fae that stole your heart as well as your attention away from him."

Mor narrowed her eyes at the Shadowsinger, watching as he adjusted the collar of his newly tailored suit jacket and then combined his hair back with scarred fingers. 

Azriel had always been annoyingly beautiful - even during their middling years when their voices cracked and they hadn’t yet grown into their long, slender limbs - and so he’d never needed to take special care of his appearance. His hair dried in perfect waves, his skin was smooth and clean despite the scars, and his training had carved out a silhouette as strong and capable as it was alluring. So why did he keep smoothing down his waistcoat like he was nervous?

Mor darted out a tongue, cleaning up the drop of wine that threatened to fall from her ruby red lips, “Azriel? What in the Mother’s name are you doing?” 

His eyes barely flicked over to where she lay sprawled out on his bed. She had no intention of attending this ball sober, and if the near empty bottle of wine balanced precariously against her knee was any indication, she would exceed her goal before they even stepped outside his bedroom. 

He picked up the tie - midnight blue and hand-embroidered with silver thread - and flung it around his neck.

“Getting ready for the ball.” He answered blandly.

She rolled her eyes, “Obviously,” then continued to stare at him expectantly as he finished knotting the tie, folded his pocket square, and then slid his weapons into place as a last measure, cobalt blue siphons flashing from the backs of his hands. 

It clicked all at once as he strolled for the door, forcing Mor to abandon the glass and drink straight from the bottle. 

“Oh my gods.” She said, mouth agape. Her shoes clicked along the marble floors of the River House like the beating of drums. 

Azriel groaned internally. Even tipsy and wearing seven-inch heels, Mor kept up with his long strides easily, prodding his side accusingly with her wine bottle. It magically refilled itself with every jab.

“You’re trying to impress Y/n!” 

Suddenly it was as obvious as the sun rising in the east. He’d chosen the tie you complimented him on last Starfall, despite his hatred of its fanciful nature. He was wearing the silver moonstone cufflinks you’d bought him for his birthday. He’d even combed his hair because he knew you’d notice and muss it up for him.

“Mor-” He warned, color beginning to dust his cheeks. His shadows darted around the hallway, climbing the velvet curtains and peering around the corners to watch for any potential eavesdropping. 

“I knew it! I knew it!” She said, swatting him with a frustrated hand. Her red silk dress clung to her waist and thighs before fluttering out in a halo around her knees as she chased after him, aiming to slap him across the head. 

Azriel stopped in his tracks and grabbed at her wrists, desperately hoping no one else in the house had left their rooms yet. If he was really lucky, the two mated couples would be making enough noise of their own to drown out Mor’s excitement.

“Mor, stop it. And be quiet.”

“You loooove her.” She crowed, dragging out the sound. Suddenly she straightened up, hands on her hips and frowning, “Is that why you’ve been so irritable lately? Because you miss her?” 

Azriel said nothing, gave away nothing, even though Mor had hit the nail on the head in her drunken stupor. 

It had been a great honor when Thesan offered to take you under his wing and train you personally. More than a favor to Rhysand, he’d seen your healing talent and wanted your expertise to be well represented in the Dawn Court. So a year ago you’d packed up your things and said your goodbyes.

“It’s only temporary.” You’d promised him, “I’ll be back before you know it. In a year’s time.”

But a lot could change in a year. You’d sent plenty of letters back and forth to each other, and Azriel would be loath to admit that he slept with them clutched against his chest every night so whispers of your scent would chase the nightmares away. 

But for all he knew you could have fallen for some dashing golden warrior, or found that you preferred your shiny, new friends over him - that you’d found a quieter city full of fae that stole your heart as well as your attention away from him.

He was happy for you and had been the one to encourage you to move to Dawn. But that didn’t mean he didn’t miss you terribly. You’d been missing from his side like a torn limb, and Azriel had been walking through life at a crooked angle ever since. 

“I don’t-” He sighed, he couldn’t lie and say he didn’t love you. He just couldn’t, “It’s none of your business, Mor.” He amended. 

He released her wrists breezed past her, but she sprinted ahead of him, splaying her limbs out on the staircase to block his path.

“You need to tell her you love her. Tonight.” She commanded. Her words slurred out gently, the faerie wine finally kicking in when she’d wanted it to. “I mean it, Az.” 

He shook his head, “I can’t tell her tonight.” 

“Why not?” 

“I haven’t seen her in a year! I can’t drop that kind of truth on her.” 

“Yes you can!” She fought back. There was some muddled piece of information hanging at the edges of her mind, something important she needed to tell Az. But the wine held it back. Fuck. She cursed inwardly.

“No. I. Can’t.”

“Yes. You. Can.” She was practically seething, pearly brown eyes unfocused but unrelenting. She knows something I don’t, Azriel realized in a burst of shock. 

“What is it, Mor? What did she tell you?”

She blinked, dropping her arms from the burnt umber railings. His heart quickened. Had his worst fears come true? Had you found someone else in Dawn worth staying for?

“I-” Damn it. She shouldn’t have finished the second bottle. She cradled it protectively against her chest, feeling the glass cool her hot skin, “I don’t fucking remember.” 

“What do you mean you don’t remember?”

“I mean, I’m drunk, Az. And drunk Mor doesn’t remember shit.”

His heart quickened further, a crushing sense of guilt and loss wrapping around his chest like a corset and tightening. Mor at least was saved from further useless interrogation when Rhysand and Feyre bounded out from down the hallway, tastefully disheveled and looking sinful in Night Court black. 

Rhysand cleared his throat, straightening his dinner jacket and absent-mindedly straightening Feyre’s crown for her, “Everyone ready to leave?” His eyes glazed over, calling out to the last missing members of their party. 

Cassian and Nesta spilled out of their room next, the braids of her coronet slipping out and spilling over her heaving chest. Azriel tipped his head to the ceiling and cursed silently. Mother have mercy…

Nesta pulled up on the strap of her lace dress, only to find that it had been torn to ribbons. 

Cassian was in no better shape - the collar of his white shirt was smeared with lipstick, although he didn’t have the same sense as Nesta to look annoyed at the interruption to their… activities. A toothy grin bloomed on his face, shoulder-length hair tangled like someone had been yanking it for hours.

“Can’t make it tonight, Rhys.” He said. He glanced down at Nes, “I’m not feeling well.” 

“Me neither.” Nesta said hastily, slipping back behind the door and hauling Cassian inside with her like he weighed as light as a feather. Four months after their mating ceremony and they were as insatiable as ever. 

“You’re full of shit, Cass!” Rhys called out just before the door slammed shut. A muffled Fuck you! Came from within, followed by a, Tell Y/n we’ll see her at home! From Nesta. 

They winnowed to the outskirts of Daybreak Hill, landing in a field of cushiony moss dotted with pink and violet heather that stirred in the breeze like the dusk-painted clouds above. 

Feyre sighed deeply, breathing in the scent of lavender and rosewater. She loved Velaris and no one could hold a candle to the beauty of the Night Court… except perhaps Dawn. 

It was like someone had laid a mirror flat on the earth. Periwinkle skies kissed rolling sage green hills dotted with red-roofed villages and sank into lakes of pearl and lavender until it was impossible to tell where the sky started or ended. 

The Dawn Court Palace’s twisting spires of honey marble glowed brighter than the setting sun. So brightly in fact that Mor had to help shield Azriel’s eyes with her soft hands as he carried them up through low-hanging satin clouds. Dots of scarlet and midnight black soaring through cotton skies. 

His hands turned clammy and the tightness in his chest felt like a giant’s fist squeezing his heart, but he convinced himself it was the thin air that was responsible, and not the raging longing in his heart for you. Still, he had to appreciate the beauty of the red-roofed villages below, tinkering hands hard at work inside chestnut workshops filled with glistening bronze and copper. 

They dove through the columns into the open-air hall, any dampness from the mist magicked away by Thesan’s careful hands as he stepped down from the golden dias to greet his honored guests. His rich, copper-colored skin radiated light, melting with the darkness that rippled off Rhysand and Feyre’s shoulders as they shook hands and exchanged the usual pleasantries. 

Mor stretched her silky arms above her hands, catching the eyes of a cherub-faced female reaching to grab a flute from the champagne tower. Normally, Mor would have been flattered, but with Emerie at home and a wine-drunk haze over her mind, she was feeling more anxious than anything else. What the fuck was it that she was trying to remember?

Faelights bloomed above him, tinkered in the shapes of roses that gently pulsed, fluttering petals propelling them across the room in a sway of light. 

But Azriel was barely paying attention. His eyes skimmed the crowd, searching for a silhouette he knew as intimately as the ridges of his hands. 

There. 

You stood across the room, half-hidden in the stone archway beside Thesan’s lover, Herades. You bowed your head towards him in silent conversation, nursing a glass of champagne in your hand to try and cool your nerves. Azriel would be arriving soon, if he wasn’t already here, cradling the walls in search of dark corners like he was bound to do. You’d been imagining all the ways you’d greet him - with a joke, with a meaningful embrace, with a kiss. You shook her head, pushing the last thought out of your mind and focusing on Herades’s story again. 

Your laugh was a flare of light blooming at the end of a match. Azriel stared utterly captivated. Time moved slower than syrup when you finally met his eyes and smiled with an affection more precious than gold. 

“Az!” You squeezed Herades’s arm, politely excusing yourself, and then you were off. You sprang across the room in a billow of cream fabric, like milk poured into coffee. The tips of your pleated skirts were touched with blue like you’d waded out into the night sky. The color matched the ribbon in your hair, and the siphons of a certain lovestruck Shadowsinger. 

“Y/n,” He breathed out. You flowed into his arms and he gathered you into them like a bouquet of wildflowers, breathing in your familiar scent of rosemary and peppermint. Gods I missed you. He whispered in his mind, hoping that somehow you’d hear it at the end of that glowing thread.

But the hug was short-lived. Too short-lived. 

“Mor!” You sang in that melodic voice he loved so much, grasping for her next, then Rhys, then Feyre. 

Thesan looked on humbly, sighing faintly when Herades caught up to you and immediately slid to Thesan’s side. 

“Oh I’ve missed you all so much.” You said, rocking back and forth. 

“We missed you,” Feyre said into your hair. She was the one to pull away, smoothing out ribbon and giving you a once-over look. 

Your time had been well-spent at the Dawn Court. Extra color bronzed your cheeks and tinted your lips a pale berry shade. You stood up straighter, smiled a little wider, and walked with an extra height to your step. You’d always been beautiful and graceful, but it was like you were aware of it now - like you’d grown the last few inches into your body. 

“You look lovely, Y/n.” Feyre said and Mor agreed enthusiastically, commenting on your dress and your hair and your… well everything.

“Thank you,” You said, blushing, “Thesan’s treated me very well.” 

That was an understatement. He’d set you up in his personal household, paid you handsomely (even more than Rhysand paid you if that were possible), and had had the royal seamstress sew ten dresses for you to pick from for tonight’s ball alone. It was your party after all in commemoration of the advancements you’d made in child birthing practices. You’d handled twelve pregnancies alone in the past year across Dawn and Winter, all of the children delivered safely and as plump and rosy as summer cherries. 

“And you’ve repaid it to my court ten-fold.” Thesan said and held up his drink. Even Herades smiled, tawny feathers flaring out with pride. You were responsible for the safety of his sister-in-law and the birth of his nephew - hawk wings and all. 

It was a flurry of activity following the Night Court’s fashionably late arrival. You dragged Azriel and Mor up to the dais after Rhys and Feyre. Traditionally the table was only meant for High Lords and their partners, but Thesan was a unique and progressive leader in more ways than one. 

Herades and Thesan sat in the middle with Feyre and Rhysand, leaving you, Azriel, and Mor at one end and Thesan’s sister and her husband at the other. 

Azriel was eternally grateful when Mor lunged for the center-most seat, forcing you to sit between her and Azriel. You bumped knees with him, leaning close as you whispered about the Court gossip you’d managed to overhear from the cooks or discussing the progress you’d made in the Winter Court. 

Course after course appeared in front of him and disappeared, hardly touched. He wasn’t hungry for anything other than you, focusing on the crease within your brows as you tried to remember all the news you couldn’t write to him about or the twist of your perfect, flushed lips as you displayed your displeasure and your joy. 

If he believed himself to be worthy of your affection he would have whisked you away hours ago, disappearing into whichever room in the palace was yours and pressing you against the wall, lip-locked until the need for air forced him to stop. 

“How are Kallias and Viviane doing?” Mor asked, perking up at the mention of the Winter Court.

You smiled, your cheeks flushing with color, “I’m not supposed to say, Mor, so you must promise not to tell anyone. Anyone.” Mor locked her mouth and threw away the key. Your lips brushed against the sharp curve of her ear, “She’s pregnant.” 

Mor clapped a hand over her mouth, nearly upsetting the glass of wine balanced precariously on the edge of the table. One of Azriel’s shadows darted out, pushing it safely out of the way of her swaying arms.

“Stop.” She hissed in disbelief. Her golden hair seemed to brighten with her cheeks. 

You nodded, “With twins.” 

Tears flooded her eyes, “That wench didn’t tell me.” 

“She’s been busy, if you can imagine.” 

“Still!” Mor muttered under her breath, eating her food slowly and sipping on her wine quickly. She gave up on being sober the more males approached her from the base of the dais, bowing deeply with proud, puffed up chests and asking for a dance. Word had gone around about her… preferences, and far from dissuading suitors, it seemed to have been offered up as a challenge as to who could change her mind. Thank the gods Emerie had declined the invitation to join them. She would have castrated half these males in an instant, if Mor didn’t beat her to it. 

Thesan, gratefully, put an end to it once he caught onto the pattern. One sharp look from him sent them scampering back, coattails between their legs. 

There was one final male though who ignored the previous warnings, humbly bleeding out of the crowd as remnants of rose cake disappeared from the tables and the quartet swelled to include twelve musicians plus a singer. Full, cream-colored wings hovered above the ground, tawny-tipped and lush. Even Mor had to admit, with his olive skin, amber eyes, and warm honey curls he was stunning. Like liquid gold poured out of the setting sun. 

He bowed deeply, a subtle smile on his face. Azriel went rigid, seeing you lean forward out of the corner of his eye with a blush coating your cheeks. 

Mor closed her eyes and groaned. Fuuuuuuuck. That’s what she’d forgotten about. Or rather whom she’d forgotten about. 

Naemon - the golden boy who’d begun to court you seven months back. You’d dropped his name only a handful of times in your letters to Mor. Not enough times to convince Mor you were actually taken with him, but enough times for her to remember the bastard’s name. 

“Y/n,” His voice was silky smooth and kind, “May I have the first dance with you?” He asked politely. 

Your breath caught in your throat and you risked a glance over at Azriel. He looked… bored and unaffected. He reached for his glass, looking more interested in the faerie wine than the male who’d just asked for your hand. It was stupid of you to think he would care for you  as anything more than a friend, and even more foolish of you to think he might be jealous. 

You pushed away from the table and floated down the dais, taking the strong and sturdy hand Naemon offered you. The first song was too spirited and quick to reveal any true feelings. It was a blur of silks and lean arms as you wove through the sea of dancers and were gently tossed from partner to partner. But the second song was slower, more intimate. Naemon flashed a look of gratitude to the singer, who winked in return, before scooping one arm around your waist, hand flat on the small of your back. You rested one hand on his shoulder, feeling the rolling of muscle beneath his crisp linen tunic, and held his free hand. 

Naemon was a kind and gentle male. After the death of his parents, he’d all but raised his younger sister Namia on his own, relying on the money he earned in the Peregryn legion to make ends meet. It was his care for his sister that had first drawn him to you - any misgivings he’d had melting away as you grew close to Namia from among the other healers. You’d supported her throughout her pregnancy, become her friend, and served as a balm to his anxieties whenever his duties took him away for long stretches of time. 

You looked down bashfully, apologizing for missing one of the dance steps and crushing his toe, “I’m better at the quicksteps.” You explained. 

Naemon smiled brilliantly, and you couldn’t stop the faint flutter in your chest, “I can’t blame you. The slow ones can get boring. Leaves too much time for overthinking.” 

“Exactly.” Too much time for overthinking about a certain Shadowsinger.

 You’d never given Naemon any false pretenses about your feelings, always reminding him and Namia that your position in Dawn was temporary. But still… It felt nice to be courted by someone as open as him. With Naemon you never had to guess whether he wanted you or not - you knew he did. The flowers he often left in the healer’s temple, or the offers to take you out to dinner or to dances like this one proved it. 

A curl of guilt coiled in your stomach. Maybe now was a good time to bow out and return to your seat. Surely the slow waltz would be finishing soon. The-

“You’re overthinking again.” Naemon said, his full lips brushing against the sharp curve of your ear and heating the gold cuffs you wore. “I don’t want you to worry about anything, Y/n. If you’re enjoying yourself - if you like dancing with me - keep doing it.”

“Naemon-” You began apologetically.

He shook his head, “Don’t worry about me, Y/n.” He said honestly, “I just want to dance with you tonight. Nothing more. Nothing less.”

You stared into his eyes, finding nothing but truth in them. A portion of your nerves melted away and you found that when the cello began to hum out a simple tune, you were still holding onto him and letting him move you through the next movements. 

Azriel was barely holding on by a thread. Wine glass now empty and clenched dangerously between shadow covered hands. Rhys shot him a look, and when his attempts to breach his brother’s mental shields were met with resistance, he turned to Mor. 

What’s wrong with him? His eyes flashed the question.

He’s being an ass who can’t come to terms with his emotions. Mor grumbled back, sinking into her seat with a fling of yellow-gold waves. 

Rhys’s eyes went from confused to wide open as he shot a look to you across the dance floor. Fuck.

Feyre followed her mate’s attention with a look of concern, and then traced Azriel’s steely gaze to the dance floor where you were smiling reservedly up at Naemon. You two made a handsome couple, weaving a clear path through the other dancers as they parted for his magnificent feathered wings. 

Azriel stiffened. He’d never been particularly proud of his Illyrian heritage, but his wings… his wings were one of the few true beauties he possessed. But in comparison to the golden-boy warrior that smiled at you and brushed back a loose strand of hair with his soft hands, Azriel found himself lacking… once again. 

Naemon was a gentle breeze where Azriel was blistering wind. He was a wide open door, every look he gave you filled with clear affection. Azriel was a dozen locked boxes, each one nestled within the other with all the keys rusted and thrown away. Naemon looked reserved and in control. Azriel felt completely out of it, and it took every inch of willpower to keep the mating bond from driving him mad enough to launch across the dancefloor and bruise Naemon’s high, perfect cheekbones.

But then the dance ended and Naemon parted from you long enough to reach behind his back and pluck a feather from his wing. A few shocked gasps scattered throughout the room. Even Thesan and Herades looked on with raised eyebrows, leaning close enough to touch. 

The feather was a beauty - the length of Naemon’s forearm and such a pure white it glimmered like moonlight. You froze, staring down at the treasure he offered you with bated breath. 

Peregryns were fiercely protective of their wings and rightfully so. To be allowed near them alone was a great honor. To touch them was an intimate act reserved for family members and lovers. To be offered a feather?! In some circles it was akin to being gifted a thousand roses. In other circles it was tantamount to a marriage proposal.

Both offers were completely overwhelming to you.

“Naemon-” You began carefully, backing away, “I-I can’t.” 

He smiled softly, eyes flashing briefly up to the dias where the Shadowsinger had gotten up to his feet, something like desperation and longing buried deep beneath the layers of his hazel eyes. 

“Don’t worry about me, Y/n.” Naemon said resignedly, “But please, take this,” He begged, spreading open your fingers before curling them again around the feather, “For everything you’ve done for my family.” 

And because I love you, even if you don’t love me back - were the words he didn’t say aloud.

“Naemon-” A shadow fell over your feet, curling around your ankles and skirts and tugging you away like a child seeking attention.

Naemon, for all his relative youth and gentle disposition, didn’t seem surprised or affected by the Shadowsinger’s presence. Azriel hovered close behind you, eyes blown open and desperate. 

Please don’t. He silently begged. Please don’t say yes to him.

He almost melted with relief when Naemon only dipped his head in acknowledgement and kissed the palm of your hands. Even that innocent touch made Azriel’s stomach turn. 

You turned when Naemon finally disappeared into the crowd. “Azriel, I-”

You had half a mind to hide the feather behind your back, but you couldn’t do such a cruel thing to Naemon. And it wasn’t like Azriel hadn’t watched the whole thing unfold in front of him. You clasped the feather in your hands, careful not to ruffle the delicate barbs.

Azriel was no longer bored and unaffected. In fact he seemed unnaturally flustered and nervous. 

He swallowed thickly, mindful of the curious stares you were attracting. Not only had you just been proposed to, but now you were being approached by a male from your past after an ambiguous response - you’d accepted the feather, but Naemon had left alone. The court gossips would have a field day, if they weren’t already.

“Y/n,” He said, his voice thin and quiet. A mere whisper among the riff raff that was steadily building up again in a crescendo, “Can we please talk?” His wings fluttered nervously, and he shot a dangerous look at a male who came too close to you, “In private? Please?”

Your heart fluttered in your chest. You’d barely recovered from Naemon’s dramatic display and you were scared about what Azriel might offer next. 

Still you mumbled, “Oh-um… yes.” 

The words were barely out of your mouth before Azriel’s hand was on your wrist, delicately leading you through the crowd towards the archway and into the hallway beyond. Fae mingled about in their finery, happy to escape the music and the sweep of dancers. 

Azriel scowled. This was hardly any more private. 

“My quarters are further down this hall,” You offered, pointing down a sky bridge that connected the public wings of the palace to the private ones. Azriel exhaled in relief, nodding and following you as you cut through unfamiliar halls draped in rich reds, golds, and turquoises. 

You stopped at a door of solid oak, hand painted to look like it had been lifted from the pages of a storybook. Resplendent gold filigree traced the footsteps of maidens running along hills dense with colorful flora. Water trickled down from the mountain tops, so realistic that Azriel was amazed to find the handwoven carpets in your room were dry. 

You peered down the hall before closing the door with a gentle whisper. Only the songbirds nesting in the high crevices bore witness to your activities. 

You hesitated and then tucked the feather into one of the empty jewelry boxes on the vanity. Out of sight, but not out of mind. 

Azriel stood motionless by the door, watching as you closed the box and slid it back against the mirror.

“Did you say yes?” He whispered, hating the way his voice caught in his throat, “Do you love him?”

You turned around quickly, the length of ribbon in your hair rippling through the air to land on your collarbone. Azriel was upon you in an instant close enough for you to feel his shallow breathing, but all he did was trace the blue ribbon with his fingers and then push it back over your shoulder.

“I don’t-I don’t know what you’re talking about.” You stuttered and your face burned with feeling. Azriel had asked you for privacy so he could ask you about Naemon? 

Azriel clenched his fists once. Twice. “The male you were dancing with. The feather-”

You blushed deeply, turning your face away to hide your embarrassment. You had hoped he didn’t know about that Peregryn custom.

He gently gripped your chin with his thumb and forefinger, pulling your gaze back to him. You blinked in surprise. For once Azriel looked… scared.

“Did you say yes to him? Please. Tell me.” 

If you had said yes he might just shrivel up into nothing on the spot. Why had he waited so long to tell you his feelings? Why had he waited so long to tell you about the bond? But if he did it now it would just be terrible timing all around. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

You shook your head and Azriel’s wings dropped in relief, eyes closing as he murmured a quiet thanks to the Mother beneath his breath.

“He-it wasn’t even a real proposal. He gave it to me as thanks for helping his sister. That’s all.” 

He gave you a pointed look like he knew you were lying. There was no questioning Naemon’s feelings for you. No questioning at all.

“You never answered my second question.” 

You crumpled under his gaze. Gods, he looked beautiful tonight. Torturously so. It wasn’t fair. Naemon had loved you openly, never given you cause to doubt his intentions nor made you feel guilty for not returning his feelings. And yet here you were, still pining after the male who’d never seen you as more than a friend. A male whose intentions were never clear. A male who always made you question how well you knew him, and whether those small touches and reserved smiles and affectionate letters were just a polite kindness or something more. 

“No.” It felt wrong of you to admit it so callously, even if it was the truth, “No I don’t love him.”

Azriel looked ready to kiss the ground and something about that set a fire within you. Leave it to Azriel to ignore any romantic advances from you, to chase after other females left and right for literal centuries, and then get upset the moment another male found you appealing. 

You huffed, pushing him away harshly and crossing your arms over your chest, “It’s none of your business anyhow. I’m allowed to have my lovers and my almost lovers. And if you truly thought Naemon was proposing to me, I don’t know why you’d want to fucking interrupt it!”

Azriel flinched at the coldness in your voice, “I didn’t mean it like that.”

“Then how did you mean it, Az?” You exclaimed, clearly irritated now, “Gods, you never just say what you mean.”

Azriel tried again, grasping at straws. “I would never judge you for your choices, even if you said yes to him or-I just-fuck.” 

On any other day you’d be laughing. Azriel was a male of few words, but the words he did say were always perfect and calculated. Nothing about this was calculated or thought out.

“I… you’re my best friend, Y/n. And I haven’t seen you in over a year. I just…” He cringed. Hard. Cauldron boil him. He was doing this terribly, “I was scared.” He finally admitted, and rather pathetically.

“Scared?” You dropped your arms. That wasn’t the answer you’d been expecting, “Scared of what? You’re hardly ever afraid of anything.”

He shrank away, hands clasped tightly behind his back, “That you’d leave me-us. That you’d find a reason to stay here instead of returning to Velaris. And when I saw you dancing with him tonight - the way he was looking at you and the way you were looking at him - I thought… I thought Naemon would be that reason.” 

Now you were confused and even more irate than before.

You stalked up to him, jabbing his chest with an accusatory finger, “You were the one who encouraged me to do this. You were the one constantly writing to me about the importance of making friends and “putting myself out there.” You were the one who practically shoved me out the door when I left-”

“Because I thought you wanted this!” 

“I did! I-I do!” 

“Then what was I supposed to do, Y/n?!” He cried out. His shadows, which had been held back so tightly on a leash throughout the night, exploded outward, coating the bright colors of your bedspread and the rugs and the curtains in inky black. They swirled there, as agitated and timid as their master. 

“What was I supposed to do?” He whispered again. He sounded tired. Defeated. “I couldn’t… I couldn’t hold you back from what you wanted. From the happiness and opportunities you deserve.”

“You could’ve at least said something! You could’ve at least told me that you were upset with me leaving. That you were going to miss me and that you-you-” 

That you love me and that you wanted me to stay. You shoved the thought out of your mind, slamming the door and turning the lock. Useless, lovestruck pipedreams would do you no good now. 

“Instead you just pushed me out the door and it’s been nothing but empty letters from you since.” 

“They weren’t empty.” Azriel said weakly. He’d never been a man of words or poetry, but in that moment he desperately wished he was. “And I did miss you. Y/n, I missed you so much some days it felt like I couldn’t breathe.” 

You deflated, your anger slowly ebbing away like the ocean during low tide. Sometimes you forgot that beneath all those hard-won layers of shadow and muscle, Azriel was still that little boy that had been abandoned in a cellar and taught to believe he was worthless. A waste of time and a waste of space. Nothing more than an inconvenient bastard. 

“Why didn’t you tell me? I thought you were all doing fine. That I’d come back and it would be like nothing had ever changed. I would’ve-I would’ve made time to visit. Or-or come back sooner.”

Azriel chuckled without humour. He had not been “doing fine” without you. He hadn’t been “doing fine” since the moment you’d stepped across the doorway and winnowed out of Velaris.

“You make it sound like I was going away forever.” You added softly.

“It felt like it.” Azriel admitted quietly, “I always worried there was a chance you’d decide you liked things better in Dawn. That you liked the people better. So when I saw you with Naemon I just…” His voice trailed off and he slowly backed up to your bed, sinking down into the pillowy comforter. Even the beds seemed softer and kinder here. Softer and kinder than him.

“I’m sorry.” He whispered. 

He felt the bed dip beside him, your knee pressing against his in a burst of warmth. The blue tipped pleats of your dress slowly waved with his shadows as they once again curled around your feet, inching up your dress and closer and closer to your hands. Now that he was looking down he noticed the shoes you were wearing - cobalt blue with matching velvet ribbons tied up your calf. Same as your dress. Same as the ribbon in your hair.

“I wanted to believe you wore those colors for me tonight.” He said quietly, aching for your touch. Your hands were so close to his he could almost imagine that-

You covered his hands with your own, smoothing the rough skin with gentle caresses, “I did.”

It had seemed like such a stupidly hopeful choice at the time - some not-so-subtle declaration of love for all the months you’d spent apart - but when the seamstress had laid out all the dresses, you’d taken one look at the cobalt blue accents and the shoes and snatched them up in a heartbeat. 

Azriel’s eyes were wider, more open, than the moon, shimmering with disbelief and hope, “You did?” He whispered.

“I did. They reminded me of you.” You stopped looking him in the eyes. It felt like too much. Too much emotion. Too much feeling. “I missed you too, you know.” 

Azriel stayed quiet for a long while, sorting out the myriad of feelings roiling in his chest and trying to latch onto a single coherent thought. Finally he murmured, “I guess we could both work on saying things outright.” 

You laughed softly, shaking your head and wiping at the corners of your eyes, “Yes. I guess we could.” 

“We could start now.” Azriel offered hesitantly. His heart hammered away in his chest like a blacksmith at his anvil until he was sure his sternum would crack. 

You raised your eyebrows. Curious.

“The next five minutes. We say everything honestly. No holding back.” 

“I don’t know, Az. I-”

“Please.” He begged, holding onto your hands a little tighter. His shadows had traveled all the way up to your waist now, ghosting over flesh that he didn’t dare touch. He didn’t want to lose you. He’d thought he could handle being apart from you physically - that it would be no different from the decades he’d spent quietly loving you from right by your side - but he’d been horribly wrong. And he didn’t want to risk another, better male than Naemon coming to whisk you away before he had the chance to do things properly. To do things honestly.

His hands were shaking now, gripping your hands like you were the anchor to his ship trapped in raging waters, “I’ll start.” 

“Ok.” You whispered, leaning a little closer.

Azriel swallowed and tried to stop the trembling in his hands and in his voice. In this he managed quite well, falling into a rigid, flat silence.

“I love you. I’ve loved you for years now, actually.” He dared to look at you. Your lips were parted in shock and he wished he could taste them, “Is that…is that ok?” 

“Is that ok?” You repeated dumbly. “Is that ok?” You repeated a little louder, “Are you serious, Azriel?”

“Y-Yes?” He was trembling again, face open and terrified. He was offering you up his heart on a platter and praying to the Mother you wouldn’t crush it beneath those velvet blue shoes. Even if you did, he would find some solace in knowing you were the one to destroy him. He loved you so dearly that it was only within your right to do so. 

Your lips broke in a stuttered smile, opening and closing like you didn’t quite know what to do. “I never thought I’d hear you say that. I’d hoped you might feel that way but I… I was never sure. I…” You cradled his face in your hands, tracing the curve of his jaw and his cheekbones with your fingertips, “I love you too, Azriel. I love you so much.” Your voice cracked, silver gathering in your eyes no matter how fiercely you tried to blink them away, “Gods, Az, you don’t even know.” 

He gripped you close enough enough to bruise, arms locked around your waist and hands laid flat on your back. It was a sweet pain that grew even sweeter when you kissed him, searching for breath like you’d find it in his lungs. Azriel was just as desperate, ravenous even as he tugged at your clothes and flipped you flat on the bed. He wanted your lips again. You tasted like strawberries and cream, and he was starving. 

He climbed on top, slotting himself between your legs as you yanked him close.

“Your hair,” You muttered, “It’s too neat.” The next minute was all teeth from Azriel as you mussed up his hair and he grinned wildly against your lips.

“Five-” He groaned, sinking further into you when you wrapped your legs around his waist, “Five minutes aren’t-” He propped himself up on his elbows, looking down at your flushed face as you gasped for breath and finally untangled your hands from his hair, “Five minutes aren’t up yet.” 

“You’ve been keeping track?” You dropped your head back on the bed with a disgruntled hmph. Had he been counting the whole time he’d been kissing you?

He kissed your chest, then the sensitive skin of your neck. But there wasn’t any expectation in the brush of his lips, just quiet, honest love. 

You raised your head, finding that Azriel once again looked scared. “There’s something else I need to tell you.” He said seriously. “Before… before anything else.” 

You drew yourself onto your elbows, craning your neck for one more kiss, “You can tell me, Az. You can tell me anything.” 

The bond sang in his chest like a songbird in a cage. It wanted to be released. To be acknowledged in words if it couldn’t be acknowledged through feeling at this moment. Because Azriel knew you didn’t feel it yet. You didn’t feel the burning he felt in his chest that made it hard to breathe when you weren’t around. 

What if she doesn’t want this? What if she doesn’t want me? Azriel swallowed thickly, tears springing into his eyes. He wanted so desperately to be worthy of you - to be the kind and gentle lover and mate that you deserved. He’d been born crooked even before he’d been tossed into that cellar, before his half-brothers had set his hands on fire. But… but he was yours completely. He’d offer whatever meager, broken shards of himself that he could in hopes it might be enough. 

“Az,” You whispered his name lovingly and slid a wayward curl behind his ear so gently he thought he might break apart into a million pieces, “Tell me. Please. Tell me.” 

“You’re my mate.” He confessed. 

The words hung in the air, unaccepted, unrejected, and you went preternaturally still. 

He had no feathers to pluck out and present to you. But he had his shadows. You tipped your head curiously to the side when Azriel knelt on the ground, holding your hand in his. 

“I don’t have any pure white feathers. I don’t even have a ring on me right now-”

“Az, you don’t need to-” You stilled when a shadow flickered down Azriel’s wrist onto yours. It was a small, delicate thing. Willful too. You could tell by the way it traveled confidently down your ring finger, curling there tastefully like a castle spire reaching towards the sky.

It hovered over your skin like mist hanging over wetlands. A proposal in and of itself.

“Yes.” You said before Azriel could open his mouth again. He hesitated, afraid to believe he’d heard you correctly, “Yes.” 

“You don’t even know what I was going to say,” He teased weakly. 

But this time you knew exactly what he meant, even if he didn’t say it out loud. 

The bond burst to life in your chest as the shadow sank into your skin, settling there like a tattoo. Like a promise. 

Azriel stumbled, actually stumbled, clenching at his chest at the wildness growing within him. He chased after you, hurtling down the bond and finding you wide open on the other side. You were anxious and surprised and so so so happy. So happy you felt like you might just die from it, and Azriel felt it all. 

Hello, Y/n. He called out.

Hello, Azriel. You responded. My mate. 

Azriel groaned, slamming his lips and his body against yours. You held steady as you always did, letting him press against you as if you could keep him there forever.

I am yours and you are mine. You gripped his hair again, feeling the silky strands caress your skin. With one smooth motion he pulled out the ribbon and started to undo the buttons of your dress.

Promise?

You grinned. Promise.

___________

Author's note:

Nothing like a declaration of love after a year spent apart to make my heart swoon.

But honestly I would have fallen in love with Naemon... sorry Az...

[petalbcrnes]

﹅ CRIMSON RINGS◞ j. todd ✗ fem!reader | 3.4k wc.

SYNOPSIS: Your piercing eyes scan the crowd, searching across the mingling elite for a certain someone. Their dim glow reaches Jason even from the distance between you two—it turns luminous when you spot him. He almost chokes on his breath.

Or, you and Jason share a dance at a gala and it takes an intense turn.

A/N: author knows nothing ab galas!! do not judge me </3 this was an old request, my first ever explicit work and i wanted to post it on this new acc. !! reminder, i am a minor writing smut, read at your own discretion!!

TAGS: explicit smut, clothed sex, body worship, praise, p in v, oral sex, cunnilingus, come eating, afab!reader, vaginal fingering, riding, aftercare, established relationship.

MASTERLIST.

THE SILVER BEAMS OF MOONLIGHT POUR THROUGH THE GLASS WALL, COVERING THE ROOM WITH AN OTHERWORLDLY HUE. Cool and polished, the marble wall gleams under the light, its smooth surface marbles with veins of smoky silver and hints of gold. Tonight, Wayne Enterprises is holding its annual charity gala at Gotham Museum of Antiquities—complete with an elegant venue; eye-catching decor and displays; unending speeches and presentations along with slow, dramatic waltz and special VIP rooms.

Tonight, Jason leans on that polished marble wall—with his own polished black-tie suit. The ink-black velvet suit makes him blend in with the rest of the crowd. He’s done well with avoiding the rest of the mingling Gotham elite, choosing to hide away in some dark corner. Jason watches the ivory-colored champagne in his hand as he tilts the glass from one side to another—a game, if you will. A game to pass the time.

He looks down at the opulent watch on his wrist. It was a gift given to him by Dick. No matter how much Jason said no—or complained, by his brother's words—he didn’t want the ridiculously costly accessory. Though, Dick persisted—just as he did with Jason attending this gala.

Jason glared at the numbers on the watch’s dial. The Roman numeral IX stares back at him as if it’s mocking the man. Jason fidgets with the collar of his alabaster button up shirt—too tight around his neck. His foot restlessly taps against the shining surface of the floor beneath. Jason folds his arms across his chest as he retreats deeper into the corner.

Time couldn’t move slower, he thinks.

He hears a singsong voice call out to him as light steps echo closer—

“How long are you going to stand there like a statue?”

The raven hair and ocean-like blue eyes of Dick are unmistakably familiar, even the teasing and lighthearted tone of his voice is engraved in Jason’s mind. Dick takes his place next to his little brother, leaning against the tall marble wall. His smug grin danced across his face. Dick playfully nudges Jason, prompting an answer out of him.

“Until this tedious, faux gala—I mean, important social occasion—ends. I don’t know how you survive here.” Jason groans, head falling back against the cool surface of the wall.

Dick lets a soft chuckle escape, “Well,” he clicks his tongue, “—It helps when you have a pretty thing by your side.”

Jason picks up on the tone of Dick’s voice and the suggestion. He can’t help but roll his eyes at his brother’s oh-so creative idea. The thought lingers in his mind for a minute—you, in some fancy outfit, perfectly suited for you, thin fabric hugging your plush and petal soft skin in all the right places.

His hand tightens around the champagne glass. Dick laughs again, satisfied with Jason’s reaction.

“Just wait until you see it in front of your own eyes.” Dick makes sure to emphasize the final words as he motions Jason to look across the dance floor.

There you stand, on the edge of the dance floor. The golden filigree of the ivory floor glows beneath your feet. The crystal chandelier casts a shimmering light upon your dewy skin. The crimson-colored velvet fabric flows across your frame like waves in a calm sea. Your hair meticulously detailed and styled drifts down from your neck and lightly touches your bare shoulders. A rose-gold pendant rests in the dip of your chest.

Your piercing eyes scan the crowd, searching across the mingling elite for a certain someone. Their dim glow reaches Jason even from the distance between you two—it turns luminous when you spot him.

He almost chokes on his breath.

“I’ll leave you two to it.” Dick smirks as he pats Jason on the shoulder. He moves before Jason can give him a nudge of his own and disappears into the crowd.

Your heels clink across the ivory floor as you approach him. Jason can swear he can feel and hear the champagne glass crack under his tightened grip. The drink is left forgotten as he leaves it on a nearby table. Jason meets up with you. Suddenly the suffocating air of the gala dissipates.

“Thought I’d find you moping in some far away corner.” You giggle softly.

“Well,”—Jason takes your hand in his—palm face down as he places a gentle kiss on top of it. His lips linger on you as he holds eye contact, the aqua hue of his eyes are like a siren’s call, beckoning you closer—“everything has changed since you’ve arrived.”

Jason’s warm touch lights a fire on your skin’s surface. You take a second to break out of your sweet reverie. “For the better, I hope?”

“Of course it’s for the better. Without you this entire ordeal would be rather boring.” He muses.

“You think all galas hosted by your father are boring, but with enough persuasion, you always show up.”

“Enough persuasion, huh?”, he laughs, “you think I’m so easily persuaded?”

You gather the courage to step even closer to him. The slight bob of his Adam's apple gives you all the confidence you need.

Your eyes dart across his frame. The ink-black suit sits on his body like it was made for him specifically. The heat spreads throughout, settling deep into the crooks of your body. Does he even know how he looks right now? A sculpted statue of a Greek god, made meticulously by a renowned artist, stands in front of you.

You can’t seem to tear your eyes off him, your mind too busy and occupied with wondering what other details of the statue hide behind the black velvet fabric. Jason notices this too, proved by the flustered cough that leaves him and the slight pink tint on his cheeks.

You gaze into his eyes again, “Aren’t I proof of that? A few sweet words from me and you’re at my beck and call.”

Jason chuckles, “You’re the only one. Count yourself lucky, you minx.”

A sly grin dances across your face, “Oh, I am very fortunate. Though, I’d like to test your weakness for me one more time.”

“What do you have planned?” He lets out a faux groan, eyes following your lips every move.

“Dance with me.”

“What?”

You stammer, the confidence you felt a few moments ago slowly leaving your body, “It’s a gala, right? I’m your partner and I thought we could dance? Only if you’d like of course! It’s not mandatory to dance, I just-”

Jason takes your hands in his own, “—I want to.”

“To dance? With me?”

“Who else?” He laughs, the sound akin to honey. You want to taste his sweet oh-so desperately on your tongue.

“Okay.” You lead him to the dance floor with a smile dancing on your lips.

The ivory floor contrasts with the colors of your clothing. The lights across the room dance on you both, bathing in the warm, golden hue of the glow. Jason’s eyes shine like aquamarine crystals under the sunlight on a coast near the sea, touched gently by the sea foam. The two of you move and sweep through the crowd on the dance floor akin to the soft, rhythmic ebb of a river. It’s not precise, nor perfect. It reminds you of the cracks between broken pieces dipped and stitched back together with gold.

Your hand in Jason’s feels incredibly right, as if it was always meant to rest in the safety of his touch. Your cheeks graze as you attempt to hide yourself in the crook of his neck. A single whisper breaks you out of your trance.

“Don’t hide yourself, please. I want to see you—all of you.”

The words escape from the tip of your tongue, “you can, if you’d have me.”

Your suggestion rings in Jason’s ears. The surprise on his face is proven by the widening of his eyes and the slight part of his lips. His grip on your hands slightly strengthens, careful not to hurt you.

“Fuck.” He groans, the sound going straight to your core. The music slowly ends as he starts leading you towards an empty hallway. “I think they have rooms for the VIP’s here.”

There’s excitement in your every step. The more you walk, the more impatience eats at you.

“Jay-” You whine out, “Please-”

“Shh,” He smiles, “patience, and maybe you’ll be rewarded.”

Jason spots an unoccupied room near the two of you. In a few seconds he has you ushered into the privacy of its walls.

Now it’s just the two of you. The air feels hot and intoxicating. It doesn’t take long for the both of your lips to meet. The feel of his lips against yours is so familiar it strikes an aching feeling deep in your heart. Your cherry lipstick gets smeared more and more with every move of your lips. You finally let go of the strings of worry pulling at you and melt into his hold.

His hands travel from your hips to your waist and lay flat against your spine, bringing you closer as if the two of you will embrace each other as one. Every touch lights a fire on your skin. You suck on his bottom lip as your hands move from his face to the back of his neck, luring him closer as his tongue explores every corner of your mouth.

You whimper against Jason’s mouth. The wet kiss finally breaks. He sucked in a sharp breath. His eyes pierce into your own. The look of them makes you quiver in his hold.

Jason’s fingers graze your swollen lips, parting them. Your tongue reaches out on instinct, searching for his skin—his taste. He chuckles followed by a quiet hiss.

“Needy thing.” He moves closer, making you take a few steps back before reaching the bed. “Did you plan this?” He softly lowers you on the bed, hands trailing down to your hips, teasing the slit slightly in the fabric hugging your plum skin.

You shamelessly drag your hands down his chest, clawing to reach his skin underneath the layers of clothes. “Please, Jay-” Your body aches for him, every part of you calls out to him, yearning for his touch, his kiss, his—

“Did you think about this?” He asks, his voice low as he reaches down to whisper in your ear, his lips teasingly close to you. “I know I did.” You can see his flushed skin and slightly tangled hair. He looks so beautiful, intoxicatingly so.

You let out a whine as he kisses the skin connecting your jaw and neck. He nibbles down on the skin, pleasure and the slight bite of pain mixing into each other oh-so well. It lights embers in your body as in his. He takes in the captivating smell of your lingering perfume, making him wish he could drown in it.

His tongue on your neck trails down to your chest, leaving blossoming marks in its wake. They feel electrifying, sending bolts of lighting down your body, straight into your core. Your thighs press together, searching for friction.

He chuckles, looking up at you, “Shh—” He hikes the fabric above your waist, “—let me take care of you.”

Jason sinks to his knees. His lips dance across your thighs, leaving wet kisses in its wake. Your hips shake, body too sensitive from previous touches. Your hand covers your mouth to muffle the whimpers escaping from it. His hand reaches up to yours, ripping it from your mouth.

“I want to hear you—every sound. Just lose control, love. You look angelic like this—under me, spread and so giving, ruffled hair and needy whines—such a pretty mess.” He purrs.

“Jay—” You shudder when his lips graze across your clothed pussy, “—Oh my god.”

Jason chuckles against you, the sound vibrating from your pussy to the rest of your body. He hooks the fabric of your soaked panties on his finger, moving them aside. You bite back a moan at the cool air touching you. Tears well up in your eyes, ruining your mascara.

“Look at you, dripping from me. Did I make you wait for it, baby? Let me make it up to you, yea?”

“Yes, yes, please, Jay—!” The moan hitches in your throat as Jason's lips kiss your folds, his tongue teasing the entrance. “Feels good, Jay…”

He pushes your thighs above, placing them on his shoulders. His hands grip around your hips, trapping them in place. You arch your back as his tongue delves in your cunt. Your breath quivers as he sucks down on your clit. His tongue flicks along it, sending bolts of pleasure up your spine.

“Fuck, right there— don’t stop!”

Jason’s digits rise and part your folds as he inserts one inside you. The moans bounce across the room as he works you towards your climax, as if you’re an instrument that he knows every string of, which one to pull, graze, shake, and grip.

The pleasure builds up, spreading slowly throughout your body. Your climax hangs as if it’s a thin thread about to snap. You shake and cry out for Jason—the one currently working you up to the oh-so satisfying cut of that string.

Your noises feel him with a confidence he doesn’t feel anywhere else. It’s enthralling—the fact he can make you feel so good. He’ll carry you to your climax because that’s what his darling deserves for giving him such a good present—dressing up for him, being so giving—his sweet darling.

The shaking of your thighs grows more intense, just like the moans escaping your mouth. He adds another digit, curling deep inside your cunt. His touch reaches you just in the right places, making you feel dizzy from it all.

“‘m close, baby,” you whine, “god, yes.”

The thread tithers on the edge. Every curl of his fingers and flick of his tongue pushes you closer to that very edge. Your breath gets caught in your mouth, only a strangled moan leaving when your climax hits. You can feel his satisfied grin on your pussy lips. Your chest rises with every bolt of pleasure. His tongue doesn’t let it go. He laps up your cum leaking from your cunt, savoring the taste.

Jason’s fingers delicately dance across your folds, cum collecting on them. He raises his hand for you to see. The moonlight reflects off of the shiny white liquid on the tips of his fingers. Your walls clench at the sight, eyes widening and head falling back against the bed. He laughs again.

“C’mon, be good—clean them.”

He rises from his position climbing on top of you again. His head tilts as his hand moves closer to you. You shudder as the smell of your own climax reaches you. You open your mouth, tongue searching for a taste. He settles the fingers in your mouth. Your tongue swirls around his digits. The striking taste of your slick and cum spreads your mouth. His eyes never break contact with yours, the stare is too intense. You squirm against his body.

Jason’s breath gets caught in his throat. “Fuck—god—pretty girl, good job, just like that.”

His praise makes your hips buck into his own. You want to pleasure him too. The bulge in his pants proves his arousal and need. Your hand slowly trails down his clothed body, searching for any sign of refusal. When he gives you a shaky nod with a crooked smile, you take that as approval.

You take this chance to switch positions. Lowering him down onto the bed you move to straddle his hips. The fabric of his pants grazes your bare pussy, the sensitivity making you shake. Your hands move to his bulge again, palming him over his clothes. He sighs with pleasure, hands clutching the sheets underneath him.

You coo at his reaction, “My pretty boy.”

He whines, the sound coming out as a quiet plea. His hands leave the sheets and grip your hips—surely leaving bruises decorating your flush body. Jason’s hair’s akin to a halo, the moonlight seeping through the window faintly covers him in a faint glow, making him look heavenly. The sight makes you groan.

“Let me take care of you now.”

Your hands move to unzip his pants and free his clothed cock. The flushed red tip leaks of precum.

Jason rasps, “darling, touch me, please.”

“Shh, don’t worry—” You lean down to press a chaste kiss on his forehead, “—I’ll do whatever you need me to.”

You raise your hips as you settle your hands on his chest, hands digging into his disheveled clothes. The tip of his cock kisses your cunt as you align yourself. You sink down onto him, his entire length slowly disappearing into your warmth. Your velvety walls hug his cock.

He shudders with pleasure, “—Fuck, baby- tryna milk me dry.”

You try to settle onto a rhythm. His hands—still on your hips—help you along with the pace, pulling them down onto his cock. The sounds of moans and skin slapping against skin spread throughout the room, bouncing across wall to wall. His hands reach up to your chest, grazing your nipples. Jason chuckles as your eyes widen and thighs shake with every touch.

Both of your moans mix into each other—the sound downright shameless but akin to ambrosia. The similar thread coils for Jason. His breaths become shaky, as your rhythm changes and pace becomes messy. Jason’s hands trail down from your chest to your hips, hanging on.

“Don’t stop, baby- please.”

He bites down onto his bottom lip hard enough to draw blood, trying to muffle his sounds. The coil threatens to unfold any second. Jason’s back arches with every desperate thrust, his hips coming to meet you in the middle, chasing that high. His climax reaches closer and closer.

“Can I kiss you?” You ask with a shaky voice.

He barely makes out your words in his hazy mind, “Of course, god-”

Both of your lips crash together as Jason’s climax hits him. He whines into your mouth, hands flying up to grip any piece of you he can—waist, spine, neck—he settles on cradling your face. Breaking from the kiss, his red and flushed lips tremble from ecstasy.

“How are you feeling?” You mumble into the crook of his neck, snuggling closer.

Jason wraps his arms around your frame, hiding his face in your hair, taking in your smell. “I’m feeling amazing- Christ.”

You giggle in response. Moving from his neck you place a soft kiss on his cheek. “I love you—like I’m crazy in love.”

“I love you too, baby.”

You settle against his chest. Your eyes scan the room, taking notice of the messy sheets and the smell of sex spreading throughout the entire place. You suddenly remember the promise you made to his family about making him step out of his shell when it comes to these galas. Plan successfully failed?

The two of you slowly shuffle off the bed. Adjusting your clothing is fairly easy, the hair is more of a problem. Your make-up is a mess, too.

You tut, “Jay…”

“I think you look beautiful.” He moves closer to place a chaste kiss on your lips, his tongue slipping out to taste the smeared cherry lipstick.

“Crap, are we just going to leave the room and return to the gala like this?”

Jason lets out a laugh, seeing him lighthearted and content like this spreads a warmth in your heart.

“Well, I’m sure you’re a sight for the eyes, but I don’t want to share. We’re sneaking out.”

“I miss home. I don’t like these galas.” you whine.

“Me too. But I did like this one.” He smirks as his hands smooth out the back of your dress.

You snort, “Good. Maybe next time you’ll get lucky again.” You button his suit.

“I’ll hold you to that.” His hands try to settle your hair in a more presentable state. “We’ll get there and I’ll set up a warm bath for the two of us. After that we can finally rest.”

“I love you. I wanted to say that again.”

Jason smiles, eyes moving across your face, “—Me too, darling.”

© petalbcrnes | all rights reserved. even when credited, these works are not allowed to be reposted, translated, or modified.

[harmonyrae]

A Valkyrie & Her Viking

Synopsis: His name on her lips, this must be a dream. A vision in crimson and silver, wings as pure as snow, eyes so bright it puts the moon to shame - his Valkyrie. 

AN: I needed a short break from Regency writing & this was in my drafts for a long time… So, this is my ideal myth for Sylus.

Content Warnings: explicit language & sexual themes/descriptions, rough ROUGH sex, creampie, PiV, implied unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it pls), creampie, semi-public sex (kinda), dom!Sylus, Sylus's sensitive chest at it AGAIN, violence, fighting, blood, 18+ MDNI

Word Count: 7.1k

“Are you even listening to me?”

Astrid finally stood from the table and walked over to you. She leaned against the balcony next to you and tried to follow your gaze to see what had you so transfixed. She watches the sun settle just beyond the rainbow bridge, making the colors sparkle. 

“Itching for another trip to Midgard are we?”

The mention of Midgard brings your attention back to your mentor. You stare at her, mindlessly swirling the wine in your cup. 

“Or maybe you’re daydreaming about Heimdall?” 

You shake your head, trying to clear your head so you can come up with a witty reply. Unfortunately, you are too distracted. You straighten up, set your cup on the ledge and cross your arms. 

“Struck a nerve?”

“Shut up.” 

“Come on, what’s going through that head of yours? And don’t lie to me. I always know.”

You scoff, one day she’ll tell you how she does that. She knows everyone’s “tell” and loves to remind us, daily. You smooth the fabric of your dress, picking at the fabric that’s worn down. You need to fix that, if it tears while you’re wearing your armor it’ll chafe. Finally you look at Astrid, her yellow eyes glowing in the light of the setting sun.

“Allfather has requested my presence at dawn.”

Astrid’s smirk falters, she pulls her shoulders back and faces you. 

“You’re nervous?”

“Shouldn’t I be? I’ve done nothing wrong, I’ve been trying to figure it out all day.”

She wraps an arm around you, her warmth bringing you a touch of comfort.

“Maybe it’s time?”

You let out a harsh laugh and pull out of her embrace to pick up your cup. You down the rest of your wine and return to the table. 

“I doubt it. I’m not ready.”

“That’s for me to determine.”

You set the jug of wine down, your shoulders tensing at the harshness of Astrid’s tone. You could joke with her and talk to her like a best friend, but when it came to her duties she was deathly serious. You set your cup down and turn to face her, bowing your head in reverence. 

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have…”

Astrid raises a hand to silence you. She simply takes your hands in hers. 

“You’re ready. You’ve been ready for some time. I have nothing left to teach you.” 

You allow your gaze to drift over her shoulder, your eyes catching the last rays of the sun as it sets beyond the edge. Asgard never had true night, the realm was awash with golden light no matter what time it was. Another reason you loved Midgard, it got dark, cold and the humans…

“Try to get some rest. I will speak with you after your audience with Allfather.”

With that, Astrid leaves you. You watch her go, her emerald dress swaying behind her, candlelight gleams off of her gold chest plate. She never removed all of her armor. She was always prepared for battle. You weren’t used to wearing armor. Only dawning it for brief periods, opting for the comfort of your tunic or shift dress. If Astrid is right, you will have to learn to wear your armor more regularly. Could it really be your time? 

The gilded doors to Allfather’s throne room stand before you. After a few restless hours, you went to the training hall and spent hours drowning your nerves in sweat. Your hands ache and new callouses had already started to form, but at least you weren’t anxious for a few hours. The doors groan as they open and you step forward through the narrow entryway. 

Allfather sits upon his throne, reading from a large tome. A small group of men and women in armor stand behind him. You keep your head bowed as you approach, your stomach twisting and sinking with every step forward. You stop at the edge of the platform and kneel, keeping your eyes glued to the floor.

“How many?”

His booming voice startled you. You nearly jumped out of your skin. A gentle chuckle follows.

“I did not intend to frighten you. You may look at me, no need to stare at the ground.”

You take a deep breath and lift your gaze to meet his. The patch over his eye glimmers in the morning light, his other eye scanning your face, your dress, your armor, silently taking notes. The spear in his hand was nearly twice as tall as you and the edge was so sharp you wouldn’t even feel it as it sliced through your skin and bone. Two ravens sit on his shoulders, one with its beak tucked under its wing. 

“Huginn and Muninn.”

When the raven untucks its beaks and they flutter their wings you realize who they are. 

“They’re quite a handful, but always loyal.” He lifts a finger to gently pat the head of the raven on his right shoulder. 

“They’re beautiful.”

Your voice is small and you instantly gasp, nearly placing your hand over your mouth. You couldn’t remember if you were supposed to only speak when asked a question. You close your eyes, preparing for the worst.

“They are, aren’t they?”

His voice is deep and filled with pride. You hear the flutter of wings and then feel sharp talons grip your shoulder. Your eyes fly open and you see one of the ravens is perched on your shoulder. You carefully turn your head to look at it, not wanting it to peck your eyes out. It simply stares at you, tilting its head as it examines you.

“I assume you know why I’ve summoned you? Or at least have some idea?”

You lift your eyes once more and straighten your back.

“I do not wish to make assumptions.” 

He laughs, the floor rumbles beneath your knees. A small smile plays on his lips, what you can see of them anyways, his thick white beard hides most of his face. 

“It’s time for you to take flight, young one.”

Your breath catches in your throat and you feel your cheeks burn. He tilts his head and snaps his fingers, his raven flying back to him in an instant.

“You are uncertain?”

You shake your head, but then stop and nod slowly. 

“I suppose I’ll never feel quite ready, but feeling ready and being ready are two different things according to my mentor.”

“Astrid taught you well.”

You nod and force yourself to unclench your fists. 

“So, I will ask again. How many?”

You swallow and close your eyes, the faces of hundreds of warriors flash through your mind. Centuries have passed and it feels like only yesterday you started guiding fallen warriors to Valhalla. You always loved seeing their faces morph from fearful to elated. They were chosen and you were their shepard to their new training ground. 

“One thousand, nine hundred and ninety-four.” 

“I thank you, my army is stronger because of you. But now, you will take on a new role. You will take your next steps as one of my beloved Valkyrie. You will no longer shepard warriors to Valhalla. You will guide my chosen commanders directly.”

Your chest swells with pride. You were terrified, but every Valkyrie dreams of this day. When you no longer pass by countless faces, but guide the chosen. You bow your head.

“I will serve you well.”

“I believe you will. Astrid never stops singing your praises.”

Astrid speak about you? He chuckles at your confusion. 

“These two bring me news from all over the Nine Realms.” 

You smile so widely your cheeks begin to ache..

“I have selected a warrior. You will go to him immediately, create your bond and begin training.” 

Your heart skips a beat. So soon? You bow your head once more.

“He’s one I’ve had my eye on for some time. Gifted and vicious. I don’t make a habit of choosing berserkers for my army, but something intrigues me about his behavior. The rage is not mortal magic. He may have been cursed by the gods - but I find no trace for who would impart such a curse to this mortal. I wish for you to find out.”

A berserker? You’ve only seen them on the battlefield, never actually met one. Excitement and anxiety flood your senses, leaving you eager to begin your journey.

“He is known to his clan as ‘Victorious Defender’ - responsible for saving his people many times. They’re in a war with a larger clan, who are slaughtering their women and children and burning their land. Will they rise or will they fall? Aid him and see his people victorious by his hand and he will be worthy of his place in my army.”

He motions for you to stand and rises with you. He holds out his spear and a servant retrieves it. He lifts his hand and a wash of energy, as cool as mist and bright as a blue flame, passes over you. You look down to see your bronze armor fade to silver and the fabric of your sapphire blue skirt transform into a vibrant crimson. The weight of a helmet forms on your head, your shadow reflecting the curved wings sprouting from its sides. A tingling sensation spreads across your back as your wings expand, growing larger to aid your flight across the battlefield. He holds his hands out before him, palms to the sky. You watch in awe as a sword materializes, much wider than the one you’ve trained with your entire life. He steps closer, taking the sword in his hand and offering it to you. You wrap your hand around the hilt and nearly gasp at its weight. It’s nothing you can’t handle, but the extravagant details and significance of a Valkyrie’s destined sword makes it all the heavier. 

“Impart my wisdom, protect my chosen, fly with purpose.”

His final words echo in your mind as you bow, sheath your new sword and turn to leave the throne room. Your destiny is laid before you. Your power as a Valkyrie, unleashed. Your first warrior waits for you. Who is he? How intense will his rage truly be? It’s time to find out.

[Sylus POV]

“Bring another!” 

The young man nods and races out of the tent.

“Bjorn, I’m fine. Let the boy join the celebration.” 

Another carafe of water won’t help ease the burning deep within. Rags soaked in herbs and snow lie across your chest. Your jaw clenches every time tremors threaten to ravage your body. You’ve grown accustomed to the after effects of your rage, but your closest friends are always cautious not to anger you until you’re back to your usual self. 

“The boy is of age, he must see the reality of battle.”

Bjorn’s rough hands work quickly to dress your wounds, using just enough strength to stop the bleeding. He adjusts the rags across your chest, adding a handful of snow. The chill causes your teeth to chatter, a strangled groan escapes your throat. Bjorn lifts a ladle to your lips. 

“Drink this.” 

The distinct flavor of Elderberry, it isn’t horrible, you’re just tired of the flavor. The clan shaman always makes sure you drink a whole pot of Elderberry tea after a bout of rage. Promising it would protect you from your wounds festering. 

“Where is Helga?”

It wasn’t like her to not be the one treating your wounds after a battle. 

“She was called back home. Her sister…”

You close your eyes, you already know what’s happened. This battle was a distraction, used to pull your strongest warriors away from home so they could pillage and kill. Rage threatens to resurface and tear through your skin. How much longer could your people survive this onslaught? 

“Leave me.”

Bjorn doesn’t budge, his hands steadily applying a salve to a wound on your stomach. You grab his wrist, stopping him.

“Bjorn.”

He sighs, but puts the salve back in the leather bag next to your cot. 

“Sylus, we had no way of knowing.”

You nod, but avoid looking him in the eye. Bjorn runs his hand over his beard as he backs toward the exit of your tent. 

“I’ll send the boy with the stew in a few hours. Eat it this time.”

You huff out a laugh and watch Bjorn leave. You groan and force yourself to sit up. The rags on your chest falling to your lap. You stare into the flame of the candle sitting beside you. Watching the light dance and sway. This war is draining you, destroying your home and your people are slowly disappearing. 

You reach for your axe and a sharpening stone from under your cot. You slide the blade across the stone, the sharp scrape calming your senses. Tending to your weapons always calms your nerves. And tonight, you may spend the whole night sharpening every blade in camp. 

The light of the candle flickers, as if a gust of wind had swept past. You glance around the small tent, trying to find the source of the air flow. Finding nothing, you turn back to the stone in your lap. Again, the flame dances wildly, this time it is snuffed out. You grab hold of your axe and lean forward, letting the whetstone fall to the ground. You struggle to stand, clutching your stomach to hold the cloth covering a particularly deep wound. Using your axe to lift the drapes of your tent entrance, you thrust your head outside, surveying your surroundings. You hear the drunken cheers of your men in the distance and see the glow of the bonfire. Nothing seems amiss, but you stagger out regardless. 

This forest is dense, even without the snow, you doubt your footsteps would have been quiet. You’re slow, eyes scanning the treeline. There’s no reason to suspect another attack, with scouts watching every possible entrance and men taking turns walking around the perimeter. You have no doubt you are safe, but your gut is twisting with every step. 

Then you see it, a shimmering light near the riverbed. Your grip around the handle of your axe tightens as you approach. The frozen water reflects the light, mimicking the orb of silver. You squint, the light getting brighter as you get closer. As you are about to speak, the light is extinguished. You blink rapidly, what stands before you is not what you expected. 

A woman, staring down at her reflection on the frozen surface. Her silver armor shines in the moonlight, the chest and shoulders adorned with rows of red gems. Her skirt draped to show the full expanse of her toned thighs. Her armored boots strapped tightly, causing the muscles of her legs to strain against the leather straps. A blade rests against her hip, the hilt covered in the same red gems. She holds a helmet in her hand, a helmet with wings fixed to the sides. The wings are the same as those on her back. Her wings are folded against her, fluttering in the gentle night breeze. Her ivory hair swept into a braid which cascades down to her waist, stray strands brush against her cheek. 

You gasp, not realizing you had been holding your breath. Her head whips around and her eyes lock onto yours and you feel your knees give out. You crash to the ground, your axe clattering against the stones along the riverside. A strangled moan escapes your throat, pain radiating through your chest. 

A warm hand rests on your shoulder, you pull back to look up at her. The moonlight behind her shrouds her face in shadow, but you see her eyes glow. Her hand remains on your shoulder, her warmth seeping into your skin. She lifts her other hand to hold your face as tears fall. She wipes them away before a golden mist wraps around you, warmth spreading from her palms through your skin, deep into your marrow. You grab onto her wrists to steady yourself.

“Better?”

Her voice, Odin save you, is smoother than silk. You straighten your back and your eyes widen when you realize your pain is gone. You look down and see the wounds are fully healed, the burning in your chest has cooled, your swollen knuckles softened. You meet her gaze once more, but the right words allude you. 

“Sit with me.”

You lean back and settle onto the riverbank. She kneels beside you, sitting on her heels. The moonlight now washes across her face, highlighting her delicate features. You’ve never seen such a beautiful woman. But this isn’t a woman - or rather, a normal woman. You recognize the markings on her armor, the wings on her helmet, the wings folded against her back. Could it be?

“Am I dying?” You mutter, your voice barely above a whisper. 

She giggles - an intoxicating sound, you want to hear it again.

“No, you are not.”

“Then…”

She places a hand on your chest. 

“You’ve been chosen, Sylus. I am here to guide you.”

Your name on her lips, this must be a dream. A vision in crimson and silver, wings as pure as snow, eyes so bright it puts the moon to shame - your Valkyrie. 

“Chosen…”

She shifts and settles onto her hip, her eyes level with yours. 

“Allfather has tasked me with your training for Ragnarok. And to aid you in your battle to save your people.” 

He knows? Odin knows of your plight? He chose you? He sent you an angel, a Valkyrie, to help you save your people? And to prepare you for the greatest battle to come? Your chest heaves, breath barely filling your lunges. 

“Why me?”

Her soft lips curve into a sweet smile.

“I do not question the Allfather. He never chooses a warrior who doesn’t have the capacity for greatness. In his eyes, you are worthy of that chance. Now the question is, are you ready?”

You feel your heart pound against your ribcage, the blood flowing through your veins, your focus sharpening, your nerves suddenly firm as steel. 

“I am.”

[Back to Valkyrie POV]

Your presence in his clan is easily accepted. A wanderer bound for the coast in need of a shelter for the winter months. When they saw your weapon and Aegishjalmr tattoo, they nodded in approval. You would be a valuable ally during this time. 

Shifting your appearance was a challenge. You’re suddenly very grateful Astrid forced you to walk through Asgard without your wings on a daily basis. You still feel their presence, but they feel small. Your feet would be the only thing to carry you across the valleys and mountains of the region. 

You replace your armor with a more traditional wool skirt and banded top. Intricate runes etched in white thread popped against the dark blue fabric. A fur trimmed cape hangs around your shoulders, helping you fight off the bitter cold. Thick leather belts around your waist to carry your sheath and throwing knives. Your blade remains undisguised, its size and extravagant details further proving your status as a seasoned warrior. You keep your hair in a loose braid, if Astrid saw you she would lecture you about the importance of keeping your hair better secured. 

"Your hair will disrupt your vision, do you want your blade to strike true or not?"

You miss her voice. It had been three Midgardian days since you last saw her - which felt like mere seconds in Asgard. You spent your time learning the names of Sylus’s men and memorizing their ranks. You enjoy helping Bjorn tend to the wounded, and while you can’t heal them instantly, you can nearly erase their pain without raising any questions. 

Every night, when the sun has fully set, you sneak into Sylus’s tent to continue your lessons. You had never imagined your first charge to be a man who took your breath away with just a single look.

His broad chest, scarred from his battles, always on full display, even in the dead of winter. His arms are adorned with a scattering of symbols and runes. You’d taken your first night with him to tend his wounds. While that was your duty, you caught yourself staring longingly many times.

You recognize the wings etched into the skin over each shoulder, Huginn and Muninn. Various designs of an axe were drawn onto his forearms, so when he held his own it’s an extension of the art. The fine lines of the Vegvisir sit at the center of his chest, the symbolism not lost on you. You’d have to ask him about it later. But the tattoo that surprised you the most was the large depiction of Jormungandr across his back. You’d heard stories as a child about the “mysterious dragon of the north” or the “Midgard serpent”. Rumors of a prophecy, where this serpent could possibly bring an end to the Aesir. You’d ask about that one too, just not now. 

He didn’t dress like a warrior. Is it because he’s a berserker? Legends say they often choose to enter the battlefield bare-chested with only the essentials due to their rage burning too hot. He wore leather cross-straps across his chest to hold his axe on his back. A wool cape lined with black feathers, tied at his neck, barely covering his shoulders. He’s noticed your staring many times, but he simply stared back. So you’d sit in his tent, or across from each other at the bonfire, basking in each other's presence.  

“Your hair…”

“Yes?”

You clear your throat as you sharpen your blade. Sylus sits across from you in his tent, sharpening his own weapon. Your lessons usually start with a session of weapon maintenance, something you’ve grown to enjoy. Your sudden question had broken the comfortable silence as your curiosity got the best of you.

“I’ve never seen a man as young as you with hair so light.”

He chuckles under his breath, that deep timber making your stomach tighten.

“White hair, red eyes, rage as hot as the fires of Muspelheim. Some say I was cursed as a child. That I was never meant to see adulthood.”

You rest your sword across your lap and lean forward, urging him to continue his story.

“My mother died giving birth to me.  And my father died during his journey home to her. He was the chief warrior and his men turned on him, throwing him overboard. The men spun a tale of a portal to Niflheim opening at the bottom of the sea. That my appearance is due to a deal he made with Hel. That he cursed me with the rage he felt after the betrayal of his men, so I may avenge him.”

Strange, Hel was not known for prioritizing vengeance. She encouraged those in her realm to continue living, letting the memory of those left behind vanish into the mist and ice. She wasn’t against revenge, but to aid a human in this way and channel his rage into a baby? 

Your eyes trace his features, the sharp contours of his cheekbones and jaw, his strong nose, his piercing eyes. His white hair falling across his forehead, the sides shaved down like many of his men. Long thick braids falling down to his collarbone, silver clasps woven throughout. 

You’d met many humans, but never one so captivating. He was effortlessly gorgeous and you wondered why Astrid had never told you such men exist. Maybe the pressure of your duty of training him was making you see things? Or maybe he was just extraordinary for his kind. 

“I’ve grown quite attached to my curse actually.”

His voice brings you back and you tilt your head.

“Why?”

“Stories of a red-eyed madman have protected my home. My people love telling tall tales when trading with other clans, keeping the rumors spreading.”

He leans his axe against the edge of his cot. He leans forward, his face inches from yours.

“I prove the stories are true often enough that opposing clans usually steer clear. But, not everyone is frightened by white-hot rage.”

His smile falls and your heart aches. He told you about the past year his clan had been at war. The deaths of women, children, elders, homes burned down, cattle mutilated - they were very nearly destroyed. Sylus’s rage was the only thing keeping their army pushing forward. 

He was a skilled warrior without his rage, but when the tide turned he constantly threw caution to the wind and let anger guide him. His scars were proof enough he has relied on his rage far too often. 

“Your rage has sustained you, but if you’re not careful it will define you.”

Part of your duties was to impart Odin’s wisdom. Warriors cannot pass into Valhalla unless they truly understand his teachings and accept them as law. Not every fight can be won by brute force. You have a feeling this will be the lesson Sylus struggles with the most. 

“I only wish to see my people safe again. Once they are, I will face the damage I’ve done.” 

“Some damage cannot be repaired. Don’t put it off for later. Especially when you don’t know when the war will end.”

His shoulders tense. You hate pointing out the fact this war is far from over. 

“Is that tonight’s lesson then?” 

The chill to his tone makes you stiffen. You lift your blade, pressing it into the ground and leaning on it to stand. You stare at him in silence until he scoffs and stands to look down at you.

“You like the pain of your rage, don’t you?”

He glares at you, eyes fixed, jaw clenched. He crosses his arms, his muscles flexing to make his tattoos dance.

“Why would I like that?”

“Because you believe it is your greatest strength, so the pain is somehow worth it.”

Your voice is steady, your expression neutral. This seems to infuriate Sylus. He stalks out of the tent, grabbing his bow and quiver on the way out. 

He walks into the forest, his pace quickening when he hears your footfalls behind him. You don’t race to catch up, you simply follow. He doesn’t yet realize you will always know exactly where he is and exactly what he is feeling at any given time. You’ll never lose sight of him or wonder how much pain he is in. You watch as he draws the bowstring back and sends an arrow soaring through the air into the neck of a boar. He quickly sends another arrow to strike the animal down. You lean against a tree as he kneels to skin the animal. 

“I won’t move on to the next lesson until we discuss this one. And the spoken lessons must be completed before battle training can begin.”

“I don’t need battle training.” His harsh tone doesn’t deter you, instead you laugh.

“Of course you don’t.”

He looks at you over his shoulder, his eyes glowing against the darkness. You can feel the heat of his rage that is slowly building. Good. 

“I know how to use any manner of weapon. Axe, sword, knife, bow, spear. I don’t need any further training. I just need this war to end and then I can focus on what the Allfather has sent you to teach me.” 

You circle him while he quarters the animal and stores the meat in the bag on his hip. You laugh again and feel another wave of heat from his glare.

“It doesn’t work like that. In case you forgot, I’m in charge of when these lessons happen. And it’s no use even trying to teach you now. All I see is a man lost to his rage. Have you had a battle recently where you haven’t lost control?”

He only needs to take two steps to back you against a tree. His frame towering over you, his cheeks flushed and his breathing shallow. The thick wood of the bow in his hand creaks. You lean back, your calm demeanor only makes his anger burn hotter. His right eye begins to glow and your smile momentarily falters. He turns on his heel and walks away before you can get a good look.

“I never lose control, I choose when to rage. Always directed at my enemies, to protect my people.”

You let him gain some distance. You need to keep pushing him, but you know better than to get too close to a caged animal. And soon, he will realize his rage is in a cage with no lock. He is not as in control as he likes to believe. 

“So you haven’t fought man to man. You let your beast come out to play instead of fighting the battle with your head clear.”

He slows for a moment, letting out a deep growl and then continues, his pace much slower. He hasn’t noticed the bow in his hand has snapped completely in two. 

“I am in control. My head is clear.” His voice shakes.

“Go on, say you’re in control a third time. Maybe a witch will hear your plea and make it true.”

He spins around and barrels towards you, a roar erupting from deep within his chest. You’ve finally got him where you want him - showing you his rage. You didn’t need to witness it in battle, you needed to see how quickly he lost control of the beast within. Taming this beast is your first true challenge with your warrior.

You dive out of the way and Sylus skids on his knees to a halt, digging into the dirt with his hands to hurl himself in your direction. You evade his advances easily, tumbling and leaping with grace. The dance continues until Sylus grunts loudly, growling as he pulls his knife from its sheath secured to his thigh. 

You smile, which awakens a new level of his rage. He sprints towards you and you stand your ground, no weapon in hand. He pulls back the knife and lunges forward. You twist to the side, the knife sliding right past you. You grab Sylus’s shoulders and leap into the air, you flip over him, grabbing the other knife tucked into his belt. As your feet find the ground, you slice the knife across Sylus’s back. He groans and tumbles forward. He twists to look at you over his shoulder, his anger creates a dark aura around you both. 

He continues his attack, you dodge every lunge. He throws boulders as if they are mere pebbles, they crash into the ground around you sending shockwaves through your system. He hurls his knife at you and you deflect it with your own, sending it into a nearby tree. You retrieve it and send it right back to him. It sinks into his shoulder and he howls in pain. You take this moment to sprint at him, wrapping your hand around the knife in his shoulder. You twist the blade, causing him to fall back onto the ground. You stab your other knife into his opposite shoulder and pin him to the ground. You press your foot onto his chest, extending the other to hold his wrist to the ground beside him. He reaches up to grab at your neck but misses as you lean away. He grabs onto your ankle and tries to pull, but you twist the knives and he yelps.

“Control. Sylus. Control the beast.”

Your voice is calm and steady. His body shakes violently and you dig your heel into his wrist. He kicks his legs and bucks his hips as he tries to shove you off. You’ve fought a half-Giant with a sword twice your height. You’re not afraid of him, or the beast inside of him. This won’t be the first time you deal with his rage and he needs to understand you are not afraid to fight. 

You lean your weight onto the foot placed on his chest and he wheezes. You stare directly into his eyes, the glow slowly fading. You can feel his body heat through the sole of your leather boot. You release the handle of one of the knives and place a hand on his chest gently. His skin is hot, he shudders, gooseflesh rising around your hand.

As the glow dissipates and his breathing steadies, you shift your weight and straddle his stomach. Your hands grasp onto the handles of the knives in his shoulders, he needs to be back to himself before you remove them. His arms lay motionless at his side, his legs restless but unmoving. 

“I… I didn’t…” 

His voice is soft, slightly hoarse from the growling. You shush him.

“Eyes on me.” 

You swiftly yank the knives from his shoulders. Sylus groans loudly, his shoulders tense as streams of blood trickle down from the wounds. You throw the knives into the tree a few meters away. You place your hands over the open wounds, a golden mist swirls and Sylus sighs as he feels his wounds close. You move to stand, but Sylus grabs onto your hips keeping you where you are. He looks up at you, your hands shifting from his shoulders to his chest to ease the pain from where your foot dug in.

“I’ve never…”

“Lost control outside of a battle?”

He drops his gaze, his body going rigid beneath you. His rage was subsiding but he was barely cooling off. You refocus your energy to cool him down and he moans, catching you off guard. 

“I - ugh… no…”

It caught both of you off guard it seems. Sylus doesn’t know where to look. You try to ignore the blush creeping up your neck to your cheeks. 

“You’re right. I have not battled with a clear head in… I don’t know how long…”

You lift your hand to caress his cheek, his eyes close as he nuzzles into your palm. His skin continues to burn against yours.

“I am here to help you with that. You will not serve the beast. Do you trust me?”

When his eyes open, they are filled with tears, his rage giving way to something far more carnal. His hands flex against your hips, sending shockwaves through your most intimate places. 

“Yes…”

Your chest begins to rise and fall faster, your hands on his face and chest itching to move, to explore in a way you haven’t yet. Strands of hair fall forward, brushing against your face and sticking to your lips. Sylus lifts his hand to move the hair aside and tuck it behind your ear. His touch lingers, fingers trailing down to trace your jaw and resting against the side of your neck.

“Sylus…”

You whispered his name like a prayer, which he swiftly answers. His hand at your neck pulls you down to him, his lips crashing into yours with a heat that matches his rage. White hot, but deeply controlled this time. His arm circles your waist and holds your body flush against his. You sigh into his mouth, making him all the more desperate to consume you. 

Your back hits the ground and you gasp at the sudden chill of snow. He glides his hands over your waist and digs his fingers into the plush of your hips. Your hips twitch and you feel something hot and heavy press into your lower stomach. The air around you is clouded with your combined breaths, every kiss met with a gasp and a groan. Your nails skate across the expanse of his back and he shakes, pulling his lips away to rest his forehead against yours.

“I want to touch you… To… take you…”

His words make the pooling warmth between your legs unbearable. It was not difficult to decipher how he was feeling, you didn’t need to be a Valkyrie to know what he desired. And Odin forgive you, you want nothing more. Your hands thread through his hair and you nod, almost frantically. His soft smile and breathy laugh make your heart flutter.

“My Valkyrie…”

His lips make their way down your neck. You close your eyes, surrendering yourself to every sensation. Shutting off the part of your brain which always knew his intentions and feelings, allowing your own to take priority. Pleasure sparks across your chest as he leans down to suck your pert nipple through the fabric. Your back arches off the ground, pressing your breast against his face. He flattens his tongue against your nipple, licking the sensitive peak, while he lifts your skirt over your hips. 

“Take it off… ngh… now!”

The desperation in your voice is almost embarrassing, if only you cared. A resounding rip frees your breasts and you shiver as the cold breeze touches your bare skin. Sylus discards the torn fabric of your banded top before closing his mouth around your nipple once more and you moan, direct contact making the feeling mind numbing. Sylus groans against you as you press your hips upward. He places open mouth kisses across your chest, letting his lips drag across your nipples, back and forth until your writhing and whining. His fingers pinch and tug at whichever nipple he isn’t suckling. When you’re nearly certain you’ll faint from the overwhelming pleasure, he stops.

Looking down you see him tear through your skirt, leaving you completely bare before him. He then makes quick work of pulling the chord to loosen his bearskin trousers. Your fingers trace his flushed cheeks and swollen lips, it’s only when your hands brace against his chest that he gasps. You circle his nipples and feel your cunt pulse with need as he whimpers and tosses his head back. You continue to toy with him, eager to hear those sounds continue. His hand sinks lower and he pushes his trousers over his hips, freeing his aching cock. Your loud groan at the sight of him sends Sylus into overdrive, his hips lowering to tease his tip through your slick folds. 

“Sylus… yes… mmm…” 

His fingers finally make contact with your clit and you buck your hips. You look down to see the tip of his cock hovering just over your pussy. Digging your fingers into his shoulders you pull yourself up to latch onto his ear, sucking his earlobe into your mouth, biting gently. He growls and you bite him again. Yanking his ear free he lifts himself to look down at you. In one swift motion, he flips you over, an arm around your stomach to force you onto your knees. When you try to reach back he chuckles, that feeling of his chest rumbling against your back was your only warning. He grips your hips and lifts, pressing his cock against your ass. You turn to look at him and his heated glare makes your pussy spasm yet again. 

“Fuck…”

His voice is ragged, just your tear-filled eyes looking back at him are enough to undo him. His hand spreads across your back, pushing you down to the ground. You gasp as the rough ground rubs against your tender nipples. Sylus grabs your wrists, holding them with one hand behind your back, his other hand tugs your hips further back. You finally feel it, the tip of his cock bumping against your clit. 

“Sylus… fuck… me please…”

“Anything for my angel.”

His hand releases your hip for a moment to line up his throbbing cock. He sinks into you slowly, your tight cunt squeezing him so deliciously he can only whine in response to your whimpers. You arch your back and spread your hips, urging him to press deeper. He leans forward, wrapping his free hand around your lower stomach to yank you back. His hips slap against your ass and your combined moans of pleasure echo through the dark forest. 

”Hands… up…”

He lets go of your hands and you try to slide them on the ground upwards. His large hands circle your wrists and tug them above your head. He crosses them and plants a hand over both. His chest remains molded to your back, his heart beats rapidly, syncing with your own. He returns his other hand to your hip and begins to thrust. 

His hot breath against your ear, his heart beat at your back, his cock buried so deep you feel your belly bulge with every thrust. He whispers your praises, punctuated with questions to ensure your pleasure is everything you wished it to be. His hand returns to your stomach, you know he can feel himself through your skin and muscle. He curses under his breath, his forehead against your shoulder. You push your hips back to meet him.

Your screams are silenced by Sylus’s hand covering your mouth. His own shouts of pleasure are muffled as he sinks his face into your neck. His release is scorching, filling you completely and sending you tumbling over the edge. The burst of warmth that spreads down your thighs and ass makes Sylus swear. He places messy kisses to your shoulder and back as he rocks you through your climax. 

Finally, you’re lifted off the ground, Sylus’s cock slipping out, his cum dripping down your inner thighs. He leans back, sitting on his heels as he holds you to his chest. You run your fingers along his forearms, sighing as he kisses your neck. 

“I’m sorry about your clothes…”

“Don’t be…” 

He gently wipes the dirt off of your chest and motions for you to stand. As you tuck your feet under you, your legs tremble and you fall, Sylus catches you and laughs. 

“Seems I will have to carry you then…”

You’re glad he can’t see your flushed cheeks, his ego is big enough as it is. He tucks himself back into his trousers and turns you around. You wrap your legs around his waist and loop your arms around his neck. He covers your back with your torn skirt and stands to slowly make his way back to camp.

The bonfire and candles in almost every tent are extinguished when you return. Sylus quietly slips into his tent, kicking his boots off as he walks to his cot. He tosses the thick fur blanket aside and sets you down, sliding your boots off and tucking your feet underneath. He stands to remove his pants and you bite your lip at the sight of his half-hard cock. 

He slides into the cot next to you, his naked body pressing against yours. As he pulls the blanket up to cover you both, you stroke his cheek. He looks at you, pleased yet surprised by the sudden touch. All you can do is smile, but you know he feels the same way. 

He leans in and kisses you deeply. His searing kiss sends tingles along your spine. His tongue dives between your lips and you lift your leg over his hip, pressing yourself even closer. You sigh as his cock slides back inside of you. You’re not sure how long it is before you’re biting into his shoulder and coming all over his cot, but you never want the feeling to end. To be here with him. Your warrior.  🪽 ⚔️ 🔥

AN #2: The tattoos explained: ψ Aegishjalmr (on Valkyrie) - a circle with eight tridents, is believed to grant its wearer strength, courage, protection & to instill fear in enemies. 🧭Vegvisir (on Sylus) - a compass, is a symbol of guidance & protection. 🐍Jormungandr (on Sylus) - the Midgard Serpent (World Serpent) who encircles the realm of Midgard. And no, I cannot pronounce any of them. Smile. 

𝕿𝖆𝖌𝖑𝖎𝖘𝖙: @trishiepo0 @not-so-quite-human @kitsunetori @babyx91 @libriomancer @lilyadora @crowskitten22 @letharue @silverbrain @alastor-simp @drama-trauma @0tterteeth @mysticcollectionvoid @godzillaglitter @godoffuckedupcats @m00nchildwrites @plsdonttakemyname @hauntedbysmut @withering-dream @lostwingz2236 @simpfortheseven @freddy-2002-blog @sylus-hunter @klmpun

[jacevelaryonswife]

Golden and Silver, my new colors | Part Seven

As a second son Aemond had to fight from an early age to conquer what he wanted, so the search for the forgiveness of his beautiful wife couldn’t be different.

∴pairing: Aemond Targaryen x Wife!reader

∴warnings and a note: fluffy and suggestive content; english is not my first language. 2,5k of words

golden and silver masterlist

It's funny how the course of things varies with time. Months ago you anxiously wished for your husband's love and haste, weeks ago you hated him with all your fury and a few days ago you accepted that your heart could forgive him. Aemond wasn’t only doing his duty as a husband, he was being everything you longed for him to be: kind, attentive and interested. Your husband was perfectly fulfilling the oath that wouldn’t be negligent again, from small gestures as gentle caresses on your back and hands as in quiet conversations throughout the days.

How are you feeling? Would you like something? How were the classes with the septã? What have you been reading? Did something happen?

And gradually you began to match him with the same questions.

How was the training? How is the food? How are you feeling?

He was genuinely fine with you.

As a second son Aemond had to fight from an early age to conquer what he wanted, so the search for the forgiveness of his beautiful wife couldn’t be different. He learned the most difficult way the consequences of an absent paternity and devalued motherhood, so why affect his own family in this? You deserved more than was emotionally offered. Therefore, in that mild late afternoon he decided to fulfill a previous promise and took you to your first love and conquest: Vhagar. In addition to stimulating the creation of the affective bond between you, Aemond thought it would be a good way to knock down some bricks of your barrier to allow your passage.

You wore a light golden dress for the occasion, which exhibited the growing prominence of your belly. Your hair was mostly loose with the exception of a simple hairstyle and some jewelry adorned your ears and neck. All the way there was a conscious heat in your stomach about what was about to happen, almost comforting — although anxious. Your husband was very incisive in questioning the Grand Maester Orwyle if the flight would not harm your health and pregnancy, being assured that a light flight wouldn’t harm your condition. It was a big step for your relationship and for him, you knew, but seeing him perform it warmed your heart. Although you didn’t share the same enthusiasm as your husband on the subject in question, you responded in a cordial and polite way — too cordial to go unnoticed.

"Are you nervous?" He asked.

You took a deep breath, looking at him before facing the ground. “A little bit.”

Aemond wasn’t common to physical touches, but he chose to lower the arm you squeezed to your waist and caress the swollen side of your belly. "There's nothing to fear while you're by my side, she feels what I feel."

"And what do you feel?" You asked softly, but expectantly.

Maybe that was the first time your beautiful husband displayed a genuine, restrained, but genuine and kind smile. "Good things," he said, making you reciprocate the soft stretching of lips.

"It's good to know."

Even there is a long distance, the great centenary figure became visible and intimidating. The tales used to be pleonastic most of the time, but you found that there was no exaggeration about the description of the colossal and aggressively imposing being. Another perception was the mild behavior of your husband, a great contrast to the usual stiffness of his closed jaw and intense eyes. He looked almost ethereal with his elegant posture and perfectly combed hair. Even though it was a sin, you thought it looked visually divine.

A meek roar drove away your daydreams and made you realize that you had arrived at your destination. Staying a few steps behind, you saw again a part of your husband's armor fall when you approached his mount and... caressed her?

“Uēpa riña, skorkydoso glaesā?” He said. Old girl, how are you? Unfortunately you weren’t knowledgeable of High Valyrian to understand what that meant. “Jaelan ao naejot rhaenagon mēre issaros.” I want you to meet one person. He took your hand and put it on the rough and rigid skin. “Bisa iksis ñuha ābrazȳrys.” That’s my lady wife.

It was the first time touching those beings... it was... unbelievable.

"What did you say?" You asked softly, delighted with the big animal in front of you — under your touch.

"I just introduced my beautiful wife," he said, taking your hand from his and landing on the small bud in your belly. "... when our baby is born I want a dragon egg in his or her crib." A trace of seriousness filled his tone and softened feature, visible in the intensity that your good eye looked at you.

His past was never an option to be approached because it was too painful and intimate, but you weren’t oblivious to what had happened, not when the evidence was quite clear.

“I appreciate it, but I wouldn't mind if he or she was as brave as the father and claimed his or her own,” you said, putting your hand on the left side of his face.

Another feeling flourished in his expressive look, which you didn’t know how to unravel, but kept your eyes attentively on his for the following moments. Even not knowing the feelings of others, you both thought that would be a good time for a passionate and kind kiss, it was enough for one of you to lean over and...

Vhagar's guttural roar announced that she was still there, making you laugh. "So, how do I get on that thing?"

"Don't call her a thing, it's impolite," he corrected you with humor.

Whatever it is...

"I believe it's more rude to you than to her," you replied as you took his hand to be carefully guided through the body of the big animal. The construction of nervousness was accentuated when you arrived in the saddle used by your husband. For the seven!

A satisfied and somewhat presumptuous smile was sketched by Aemond when he positioned himself in front of you. “Hold on tight, the sprint is turbulent,” he instructed.

"Where should I hold it?" You asked confused — afraid to touch him.

"In me, hold tight on my body."

Seven heavens...

You held his hips initially, but... but it seemed appropriate to lean to wrap him in an intimate hug and rest your head on his back. He always smelled good, there was no way to resist. And then, Vhagar started to take off the momentum and you've never felt so nauseous in your life with those movements. With eyes closed to focus on not vomiting you didn’t capture the transition between solid and volatile, opening your eyes when you were close to the clouds.

You were flying. You were flying!!

“Gods be good!” You laughed excited and incredulous.

"It's a beautiful view, isn't it?"

“Yes! It's.”

Your husband smiled satisfied. “That's just the beginning,”

After the start, the rest of the flight was smooth, but it still made your stomach float a few times. Aemond was perfectly fine flying with his beautiful wife in the largest dragon in the world. His dragon's blood naturally inflamed his veins, but at that moment your firm touch ardently ignited each contemplated part and fed a primitive and inappropriate carnal desire. Seven hells...

In addition to the running activity, Aemond planned to show you something else, which partially occupied his mind in place of inappropriate thoughts. But still...

No, stop!

Although the most beautiful fields were described in The Reach, the one-eyed prince had made a recent discovery in Riverlands (which was also not behind in soil fertility and native beauty) of a beautiful field of yellow flowers, and even better for being close to Kingslanding since wearing you out wasn’t an option.

Wearing you out...

May the Father have mercy on me.

“Can I quickly let go of my arms?” You asked.

“Take the test quickly with one arm and hold me tight with the other,” he instructed.

Oh! That exuded freedom! And it was as tasty as dornese meadwine!

It's been so long since you've left Red Keep, and even longer since something so fresh and soft ran through your body. It was so good. All the recent moments spent with Aemond were good and compensating.

At first, after your explosion on the night of the princess's ball, you thought it would be the end, but life likes to surprise us, doesn't it? Even your parents were surprising not to mention that you had danced with Rhaenyra Targaryen's heir. While the Queen... well, you didn't talk again as before.

They were promising weeks in general, however, you were afraid of facilitating his work in your mission to fix things, after all you were neglected for four months. But well... it's been a month since things changed, so... No! Stop ruining the day!

Unfortunately that feeling lasted longer than you wanted, making you distract you from the reduction of speed and the beginning of the fallow. Until you realized the beautiful yellow flowers arranged as far as the horizon allowed. You couldn't believe it. You had never seen such beauty before — besides your chic dresses and set of diamonds earrings.

Aemond went down first, taking your hand to guide you carefully to the ground.

“Aemond... it's beautiful, it's so beautiful, I can't believe it!” Your emotional eyes were bathed in the orange rays of the sunset. You were radiant and more beautiful than ever.

“Yes It's. It's a beautiful view."

Again, Aemond wasn’t common to physical affection, but he didn’t restrained himself by wrapping you in a hug from behind and touching your belly, smiling when you returned the comfort. "I really appreciate this and everything you're doing these days."

"That's all for you. For both of you. For my beautiful wife and my future family,” he said, breathing his addictive smell.

Your steps were slow and delicate so as not to damage the flowers, following the prince's side as he passed his hand on each vibrant petal. You've never felt so alive before; so full of color and calm down. The velvety texture of the flowers and the refreshing breeze were sweet additions to your happiness. And then, the words started to come out before you could control it.

"You know... before... the day I fainted I had talked to Princess Rhaenyra about pregnancy," you began, "not that I thought it was easy. It started when I thought I would be alone throughout the process. She said things got easy with support, with the right people. And I just... I didn't want to be alone; I don't want to be alone while I go through this, it's confusing, I feel tired and my mood varies so much and I just... I don't want to be alone. I don't want to do this alone."

How he hated himself for hearing that.

Aemond stopped in front of you and held your face, determined to solve all the doubts you might have about him.

“Listen to me. It took me a long time to realize what I had done. My relationship with my father was never good, not when he always favored his first daughter... not when nothing happened when I lost my eye, not when my mother begged for justice," he could not let you believe that he would be alone, "and unfortunately I let the result of that splash on you, because I underestimated you and was not ready for our union, but you made and I regret letting things get where they are, I really regret it, so I assure you with everything I have that I won't leave you alone again."

That was the first time he confessed such intimacy to someone. And he doesn't regret at all releasing such a burden from his chest — neither do you.

"I'm sorry for what happened," you said, copying the position of his hands, "you were just a boy, you didn't deserve it," your thumb traced the perimeter of your scar, "you’re a man dedicated to your studies and training, well-behaved and intelligent, much more than the King could see. And... I know it's not appropriate for the moment, but you're a very handsome man too," you whispered the last part, making you gasp. He wouldn't expect to hear that in a sincere tone.

"Do you see all these qualities in me?" His voice was small.

“Yes, I do.”

Fuck the appropriate.

He leaned with determination to capture your lips in a kiss never before shared between you, full of love and wish, without fear or estrangement, just a soft contact between mouths. He sucked all the air out of your lungs with the initiative and execution, making you hold his jaw while moving your lips slowly (a little clumsy) and intensely.

He circled your waist when he deepened the kiss, approaching your body with tenderness and care.

“Aemond...” you broke a kiss with an enchanted sigh and bright smile, floating around him like a cloud. You have never shared such a passionate kiss before and never in such a beautiful place.

“My beautiful wife,” he closed his eye and leaned his head against your own.

✩。:*•. ──── ❁ ❁ ────. •*:。 ✩

"Have you ever thought of names?" He asked on your way to your shared cameras.

"I thought of some. For a son I thought of Aelor or Aemon, for a daughter I would like Daella or Aelora," you replied, being very comfortable with your head rested against his arm.

“Hm,” he buzzed attentively as he analyzed the options. “No Aegon?”

“I believe this family has enough Aegons,” you were quick to say.

Aemond laughed silently and opened the door for you, watching your body rest against the mattress.

God, you couldn't imagine how much worse your tiredness would be as your belly got bigger and rounder. Your grunt caught the attention of the prince, who directed a watchful eye in his direction.

"Is everything okay?" He asked.

"Yes, I'm just tired," you closed your eyes when your back sank into the pillow, "and I need a good shower."

“I'll arrange it. Do you need anything else?"

"... no, I don't."

He walked to the edge of the bed and sat next to you, touching your belly lightly. It was highly inappropriate for the moment, but it wasn’t something he wanted to keep hiding from you.

"I... I know we didn't have fruitful nights of... you know, intimacy. But I have to say…I need to confess and take it off my shoulders," he began, holding your thigh with his other hand and sending a heat wave to your femininity, "I can't stop thinking about us... in intimate situations."

Seven hells... he wanted to say... copulating?

"I can't stop thinking about having you," he added, "when you're rested on another day, I... would you like to join me in bed?"

Gods be good! Your whole body formed with revelation, a hitherto unknown need bloomed in your shells and your interior squeezed subtly.

"Husband... I..." you didn't expect this, but the warm feeling of his hand on your thigh along with the intense look he watched you fed his courage to say: "do you want to show me the fire of the dragon?"

He took a deep breath and felt his member squirm. "Yes, I want to.”

——————————————————

Well, we are in the final stretch of the story (I still don't know how many chapters are left) and I would like to thank in advance each of you who has been following the course of the story!

taglist: @immyowndefender @arcielee @malfoytargaryen @drinking-tea-and-be-obsessed @fan-goddess @dark-night-sky-99 @siriusdumblittlepuppy @let-love-bleeds-red @sassysaxsolo @cicaspair418 @yentroucnagol @mefools @risefallrise @auratiqs @glitterandgoldfinds @bellaisasleep @plzletmedaydream @padfooteyes @bellameshipper @zillahvathek @schniiipsel @little-duck @dc-marvel-girl96 @nina2697 @kaemond-zafiro @the-hufflebird-girl @panagiasikelia @whatsonthemirror @namgification @minttea07 @crazymusicgirl104 @sahvlren @aemonds-fire @partypoison00 @glame

[iveneverbeenhere]

💋Ateez as Sugar Babies💋

Genre: Fluff, mildly suggestive

A/N: This is for me and @jjongbearshoney 🫡 also, in the process of making a masterlist and bio in general 🫡 do with that what you will

💋💋💋💋💋💋💋💋💋💋💋💋💋💋💋💋

Hongjoong- Insane. He’ll become unhealthily attached to you, even if he tries to keep it professional. He’s ridiculously jealous and possessive around anyone and everyone, especially in public settings. He is borderline bratty with his attitude, whether because he wants his Balmain bag NOW or you’re not paying him enough attention.

| “Mama.”

“Yes, Baby?”

“Who were you on the phone with?”

He looks at you with a piercing glare, but the numerous black and purple hickies covering his upper body make him seem like a declawed kitten. You roll your eyes; he does this all the time.

“A coworker, baby.”

“Which one? What’s their name? The fuck are they calling you so late for? Don’t they have someone else to bother?”

“Baby, he’s new. He needs a little extra help.”

“Yeah, a little extra help into your pants.”

“Jesus Christ. How bout this, I’ll take you with me to work today to show you that he’s harmless. Hm?”

His face lights up deviously. He throws himself out of your shared bed to fix his bedhead and to wear his most revealing outfit. He can’t wait to show up your new employee. |

Seonghwa- He is such a sweet boy; hardly asks for anything, even though you constantly tell him you have money for him to spend. He uses his weekly allowance on Legos and games. He wants to be as good as possible for you.

| His head lazily lays on your lap as you gently scratch his scalp. He pays you no mind; he’s too absorbed in his newly bought Legos.

“Your roots are growing out, Star.”

“Are they, Mama?”

“Mmhm. How ‘bout I schedule you a haircut? Maybe, even dye it a new color.”

He fiddles with his finished legos and gives a small pout. He thought you liked the silver hair.

“...Ok, Mama.”

“Don’t be so pouty, Star. You know Mama loves whatever you do.”

You gently grab the sides of his head to lean down and kiss him on the forehead. He feels the imprint of Chanel lipstick stain his forehead and smiles up at you.

“Love you, Mama.” |

Yunho- He makes you feel like you adopted a large house dog. Ridiculously energetic, adorable, and lovesick. Like Seonghwa most of his allowance goes towards gaming and food; however, whatever he has left, he uses to buy lingerie. He likes to feel pretty for you.

| Yunho without fail will greet you at your shared home with a kiss and a crushing hug.

“Hi, Mama.”

“Hi, baby.”

He lays his head on your shoulder and rubs himself into your expensive Gucci suit. He tries to be more of a house husband than a sugar baby; He feels more like a golden retriever to you.

“‘Missed you.”

“I missed you too, baby. You did anything special while I was gone?”

His face perks up from your shoulder.

“Yeah! I played some games and I went shopping with Mingi. I bought something…special.”

“Oh? Well, let me get out of my work clothes, so you can show me the special thing you bought.”

“Yes, Ma’am!” |

Yeosang: This man is incredibly awkward😭. I can only see him getting involved with this because of Wooyoung or by pure accident; there is no in-between. He keeps his allowance in his bank account and only uses it for necessities or others. The money isn’t his concern; he’s too focused on you and your happiness.

| “How come you didn’t use the money I sent you, Puppy?”

He feels his cheeks heat up; not sure if it’s due to your direct questioning or the onslaught of bites and kisses, he turns away.

“C’mon, Pup. Was it not enough?”

“No…I just feel bad.”

Your head shoots up.

“Why?”

“‘Feels weird, Mama.”

“Oh, Puppy.”

You snuggle into him and give him a small kiss on his neck. You can see how red his ears are.

“I like spending money on you. Be more selfish with me. I can handle a few blows, Pup.”

He looks at the crown of your head; he can feel your breath tickle his neck.

“Ok, Mama.” I

Mingi- The most spoiled princess known to man. He gets attached to you so quick. Constant texts and calls that don’t even have to do with your agreement. He just loves you; the allowance is the cherry on top. Buys anime merch, food, games. He basically blows through his allowance every time. Another one who loves to buy lingerie, especially lacy stockings and collars. He wants to be your obsession.

I “Mama, look.”

He comes into your bedroom with a black cat ears headband and a bell collar.

You give a low whistle and motion him closer. He loyally follows.

“Don’t you look so pretty, Hun. Like a little black cat.”

One of your hands pat his hair while the other smooths itself under his collar to stretch it closer to you. He gives you a toothy smile as he blushes a soft pink.

“I bought a set to match.”

“Oh yeah? Lemme have a look, Princess.” |

San- He’s a bit more shy about being spoiled. He’s not ashamed about it, but the idea of someone taking such good care of him gives him butterflies. He gets attached almost as fast as Mingi. He uses his allowance for food, plushies, and on you. He likes to pick both your outfits; it makes y’all feel like a real couple.

I He lays down in his single bedroom surrounded by a mountain of plushies you bought him. He misses you. He wonders about asking to move in with you. He knows you’d let him; you never say no to him. His phone rings and he knows it’s you.

“Hi, Mama.”

“Hi, Handsome.”

He smiles into Shiber.

“What are you up to?”

“Nothing. Thinking about you.”

“Really?” He hears you smile through the phone.

“Mhm.”

“Well, I’m ‘bout to get off of work, so, why don’t I pick you up and take you home.”

“I’d like that.”

He’ll ask you tonight. I

Wooyoung- Brat of the century. He lives to get on your nerves and max out your card. A strict allowance is necessary with him because he’ll bleed you dry. He’s ungodly attached to you. He’ll demand attention every day, and he’ll make sure he gets it.

I “Mama. Ma. Mama.”

You take a deep sigh. You love Wooyoung so much, but he can be obnoxious.

“Yes, kitty?”

“Pay attention to me.”

You pinch your nose bridge and narrow your eyes. You need to finish your work.

“In a minute, kitty. I have to finish this assignment.”

He gives an exaggerated pout. You haven’t paid him mind all day. He’ll fix that.

You feel something rubbing your calf causing you to almost jump out of your seat.

“Jesus christ! What the fu-Jung Wooyoung!”

“Hi, Mommy.”

“What the hell do you think you’re doing down there?”

“Helping you finish your work! Now lay back.”

He pisses you off so bad. I

Jongho- The only one who seems to keep it professional; he never asks for more allowance. He’s never more flirtatious than he needs to be. Honestly, he almost feels a bit cold in your interactions. You feel the business in your relationship. Little do you know, he’s been saving his allowance to buy a place together.

I He lays down in your bed with his hair ruffled from sleep. The white of your sheets contrasting his honey skin makes him look like a cherub on a cloud. You try to leave the bed slowly, so you can get to work on time; suddenly, you feel a hand gripping you. As if it

“Stay.”

You look over. Jongho, still half asleep, sinking into the pillow reached his hand out to grab you.

“Baby bear, I need to work.”

“Mhm mhm.” He shakes his head slightly.

“I’ll be late.”

He refuses to let go; that simple, rare action is enough to get you to stay. I

[vibelladonna]

❛ 𝓇𝑜𝓈𝑒𝓂𝒶𝓇𝓎 ❜ 𝜗𝜚 𝓈𝑜𝓁 𝓍 𝒶𝒻𝒶𝒷!𝓇𝑒𝒶𝒹𝑒𝓇

𝓈𝓎𝓃𝑜𝓅𝓈𝒾𝓈: You were never meant to fall—never meant to kneel before something unholy, with bloodied hands and a soul stretched thin between heaven and hell.  

But the devil saw you for what you were. He peeled back your skin, traced the rot beneath, and smiled. He whispered sins like lullabies, carved damnation into your spine, and when the time came—you didn’t run.

Now, the chains are too tight. The air is too thick. And when he pulls you close, lips brushing against yours, his voice is a promise, a prayer, a curse.  

"Our love is God, after all."

𝓇𝑒𝓆𝓊𝑒𝓈𝓉: I was inspired by Heathers movie (maybe a little from the musical, too), @prince-silver-lining’s beautiful art (above), and now here I am, ruining it by writing this shit. My ideas always come in the oddest ways.

𝒸𝑜𝓃𝓉𝑒𝓃𝓉 𝓌𝒶𝓇𝓃𝒾𝓃𝑔: 18+ NO KIDS (Adults Only) This content contains mature themes unsuitable for children. Please respect the creator's intentions. 

𝓉𝒶𝑔𝓈: sol x afab! reader, smut?? forced intimacy, mind games, worship kink, psychological horror, dark romance, manipulation, toxic relationship, yandere, religious symbolism, guilt, and desire, the morally gray protagonist, obsession, possessive love, emotional turmoil, and…  god won’t save you, but he will.

When people think of angels, they imagine something pure—beings bathed in golden light, untouched by sin, cradled in the hands of God Himself.

You used to believe you were one of them.

A soul untainted, moving through this world with purpose, with righteousness. You carried yourself like a disciple, holding fast to the belief that goodness was enough, that virtue would shield you from the rot infesting this earth.

But God’s kingdom does not extend to places like this.

This college is not a temple but a pit—a den of indulgence, cruelty, and corruption where the wicked thrive, where the privileged few sit atop thrones of deceit. Their words drip with venom, their laughter echoes like hymns of the damned, and their eyes watch you like scavengers circling something already dying.

You clutch the rosemary around your neck, something you swore would protect you. A reminder that once, long ago, you thought you could remain untouched by the filth of this place.

However angels are not made for a world like this. Because once the devil came—red-orange eyes burning, voice like a whispered prayer—you didn’t run. You didn’t fight.

Even the holiest of creatures can fall.

You once dressed for yourself, for the joy of feeling like you controlled your own image—soft, free, unburdened by the expectations of a world that had no place for your kind.

But that was before you learned the rules.

Before you learned that kindness is a weakness, and empathy, a quick road to being chewed up and spat out. Before you realized that in this world, standing out only made you a target, while blending in could keep you alive.

So, you changed.

The first thing to go was your individuality. The clothes you used to wear, those that felt like a part of you, became buried beneath layers of the uniform—the colors, the styles, the things that said “I belong here.”Your rosemary cross, once proudly displayed, now lies hidden under your clothes like a secret prayer—its power still there, but buried. 

Because the world doesn’t care about purity.

It rewards power.

You learned quickly that the game was rigged, and that if you wanted to survive, you needed to manipulate the pieces. You couldn’t be the angel anymore, not in a place like this. 

You needed to be something else.

So, you joined the shady girl group—the ones who ruled the social scene. They didn’t care about you, not really. They cared about what you could do—your journals, your perfect hand, your ability to forge anything. They gave you what they thought you wanted: new outfits, extra attention, an easy way in. 

They turned you into their project, their doll to dress up, but you didn’t mind. Because you knew something they didn’t: you were the one holding the cards.

You played the game but on your terms.

It used to bother you—the pretending, the act of slipping into a world that wasn’t yours. But you learned to let it go. You learned to embrace it, because this was how it worked. People didn’t give unless they wanted something in return. And you knew how to make them give.

And when you looked up, you saw it—God. Not the one you were taught to pray to, but one of power, one who existed in the shadows of this world. The god who didn’t care for morals, only for domination. And you realized—you were always meant to wield that power.

In a world where devils walk free, you’re not here to survive. 

You’re here to reign.

But even power has its limits. And sooner or later, the game will come for you, too. It wasn’t long before the leader of your old girl group that entitled bitch—decided you were done the second you threw up all over her precious dress at that fancy party. As if it was your fault, she made you drink a gallon of cheap vodka just to fit in. 

Monday morning rolls around, and the verdict is: You’re out of the group. 

She doesn’t even have the decency to look you in the eye when she says it. But to say you didn’t care? You’d be lying. You’d be lying if you said it didn’t sting a little, even if you never really felt like you belonged there.

But losing that power? 

That influence you had over everyone? 

The way they looked at you because they thought you were one of them? Nah. That’s not happening. You’re not going back to being just another faceless girl getting bullied by these assholes who don’t know how to shut their mouths.

Who needs a god when you’ve got someone like Sol?

Solivan Brugmansia.

The weird, quiet artist kid who’s cold as hell—he’s the kind of guy who only wears green and black, which just screams ‘I’m deep’ and ‘I don’t give a damn.’ Everyone in school knows him for one thing:

He’s the perfect target. 

The bullies at the school use him like a punching bag. You’ve seen the videos. The ones where they throw punches at him so hard his face becomes a canvas of purple and red, like a twisted work of art. It’s a damn shame, honestly. They think it breaks him, but somehow, he always gets back up. 

Every punch he throws back looks like it comes from a place of pure rage. You’ve caught yourself watching him sometimes, walking to class. Every time, that little flutter in your stomach as you see him throw a punch, standing tall like he’s untouchable despite everything they do to him.

What was it about him?

Well…

Let’s just say, after that party, you ended up with your head nestled into his flat-ass pillow as his scent filled the air—green, metal, something almost intoxicating. You can feel the weight of his presence even though he's barely moving. 

Yeah, you hooked up with him. And the whole thing was... well, weirdly comforting. You’ve never felt more alive, more real, than when he was there with you, holding you in a way that made you forget all the shit the world tried to throw your way. Not that you’d ever admit that to him, or anyone for that matter.

It didn’t feel like a transaction. It didn’t feel like some pity hookup. For the first time, you didn’t feel like you were just pretending to be something for someone else’s amusement. You felt seen and heard—even if it was just for a moment. It felt dangerous, but in a way that turned you on more than anything ever had before.

And maybe that’s exactly what you needed. 

Someone who wasn’t afraid to fight back, who didn’t need you to fit into some mold. Someone who could see the world as messed up as it is and yet still have the guts to stand tall.

Lying in Sol’s bed felt like a damn drug—every second wrapped in a haze of heat, of fire, of something you couldn’t name but needed desperately. It wasn’t just his bed. It was him—the way he was, the way his presence felt like it could pull you under, drown you in something deeper than just physical need. 

You hadn’t planned on it. 

It wasn’t supposed to happen. 

After you left said lame-ass rich party, you walked by a late open convenience store, minding your own business—going home that’s when you saw him. 

The way he stood outside, staring off into the distance with that same disaffected look he always wore like the world didn’t matter. And for some fucking reason, you couldn't help yourself. You had to pull him into your orbit. 

You weren’t entirely sure how you’d convinced him to follow you back to his place.

One moment, you were laughing too loud under neon bar lights, the tequila in your veins making the world tilt just enough to feel weightless. The next, you were stumbling into the dim warmth of his bedroom, the door clicking shut behind you like a secret being sealed. The air smelled like him—clean linen and something darker, something alive—and your pulse thundered in your ears.

“You sure about this?”

His voice was rough, frayed at the edges like he was clinging to the last thread of his self-control. You didn’t answer. Couldn’t. Because the truth was stupid, embarrassing—you were a goddamn virgin—but tonight, that didn’t matter. 

Tonight, you needed to feel something real, even if it burned.

So you stepped into him, your body moving with a liquid courage you didn’t recognize. The alcohol still hummed under your skin, blurring the lines between bravery and recklessness. His hands came up to push you away, but the contact was weak, his fingers trembling against your waist.

“You’ve been drinking,” he murmured, but it sounded like a plea—to himself, not to you.

You didn’t let him finish. Your mouth found him, and the second your lips touched, his resolve cracked. A sharp inhale. A low groan. His kiss was softer than you expected, almost hesitant, but his body betrayed him—his heart pounded against your chest, wild and frantic, and the heat of him pressed into your thigh, hard and wanting.

You climbed onto him, knees sinking into the mattress, and his hands finally stopped resisting. They gripped your hips like he was drowning like you were the only thing keeping him anchored.

You needed this.

And God help him, he was done fighting it.

You slid your hands down his chest, feeling the solid, warm muscle beneath your fingertips, “You want me,” you muttered against his lips, a playful, teasing smirk curling on your face. “Don’t pretend like you don’t.”

His eyes flickered shut, and for a moment, he looked like he was trying to convince himself he didn’t want this. “I…” he trailed off, his voice shaky. But then his hands moved, gripping your waist, pulling you closer, and you felt it—the way his control shattered beneath you. 

The moment you took control, it was like you were commanding every piece of him. He was trying so damn hard to resist, but when you moved, when you rode him, there was no pretending. He groaned, his hands tightening on your skin, and you couldn’t help but laugh, a low, sultry sound that sent chills down your spine.

“Say no now,” Your voice was a challenge, a smirk curling your lips as you hovered over him, your thighs bracketing his hips. His chest rose and fell beneath you, his breath already ragged.

"You’re not fooling anyone."

Sol’s eyes—burning like embers in the dim light—locked onto yours. There was something terrifyingly open in his gaze, something that made your stomach twist. 

Not fear. No hesitation.

Hunger.

But not just the kind that devoured. The kind that worshiped.

His hands slid up your sides, rough palms skimming your skin like he was memorizing you. Every touch was deliberate, reverent as if you were something sacred he was afraid to break. You rolled your hips, taking him deeper, and his breath hitched—sharp, unsteady. His fingers dug into your waist, but he didn’t move, didn’t thrust up into you.

He let you take. Let your claim.

And God, the way he felt—thick and hot inside you, stretching you in a way that bordered on pain but tipped so easily into pleasure. You moved slowly, savoring the drag of him, the way his jaw clenched as he fought to keep his composure.

"Fuck," he gritted out, his voice wrecked.

You grinned, leaning down until your lips brushed his ear. "That’s It."

His restraint snapped.

One hand tangled in your hair, the other gripping your hip as he finally, finally met your movements. But even then, it wasn’t frantic. Wasn’t rough. It was deep, every roll of his hips deliberate, like he was trying to fuse himself to you. His mouth found yours again, kissing you like he was starving for it like he’d die if he didn’t taste you.

And the way he looked at you—

Eyes dark, lips parted, his entire body trembling beneath you like he was coming undone. Like you were unraveling him.

You haven’t been with others before. But this?

This was the first time either of you had ever really fucked.

There was no rush, no mindless chasing of pleasure. Just the two of you, tangled in sheets and sweat and something too heavy to name. His hands never left you, tracing your spine, cupping your face, pulling you closer like he couldn’t stand even an inch of space between you.

And when he finally spilled into you, it was with a broken groan, his forehead pressed to yours, his breath mingling with yours. You followed him over the edge, your body clenching around him, your nails biting into his shoulders.

For a long moment, neither of you moved.

Then your thumb brushed Sol’s cheek, his voice barely audible.

"…Good boy."

It was a sinful saying. And you knew that. 

But in that moment, you didn’t care. You could’ve stayed in his bed forever, lost in the fire of it all, and maybe—just maybe—you didn’t ever want to leave. But you knew, deep down, you couldn’t afford to get too lost. 

There were things to worry about.

Like, for one, the fact that you had a sneaking suspicion Sol had something to do with the sudden, suspicious death of your former group leader. The one you just so happened to throw up on at that goddamn party. 

Maybe it was a coincidence. Maybe it wasn’t.

After all, when she asked you to get her something to cure her hangover, you didn’t give a damn. Couldn’t have cared less if she lived or died. You weren’t about to drop any more of your pathetic leftover cash on her. You were broke. Besides, it wasn’t like you had a reason to play nice. You were done with her, done with the group, done with their petty little games.

You complained to Sol, slouched across his bed, half-dressed, staring at the ceiling like it was the only thing keeping you sane. He didn’t care, though. He didn’t need your complaints. Instead, he offered something simple, something that felt like a lifeline to cling to when everything around you felt like it was crumbling: "You can use my kitchen," he said, voice low and calm, the sound almost soothing. "I’ll take you to drop it off."

You couldn’t help but smile a little, amused by how nonchalant he was about everything. How even now, after what happened between you two, he was still so calm. So unaffected.

And so, you went.

You used Sol’s kitchen, not giving a damn about what you were making, the motions mechanical, the noise of the pot stirring a dull soundtrack to the mess of thoughts crowding your head. 

You needed to do something. 

Anything to shake off the constant tension clawing at your insides. Your stomach churned, but it wasn’t from hunger—it was from the gnawing confusion and dread eating away at you, as if your body already knew something bad was coming.

The thought of her—the bitch—lingered in the back of your mind like a thorn you couldn’t shake. But you shoved it down. Focused instead on stirring, on the repetitive movement of the spoon, anything to drown out the thoughts swirling in your brain. The smell of the ingredients wasn’t comforting, but it was something to focus on, something that made the moment feel mundane, even if it was anything but.

You tossed things into the pot like you didn’t care what came of it—this wasn’t about cooking, after all. You’d made this concoction a thousand times before, for yourself and for the others when you went out drinking, those long nights where the world blurred into something hazy and forgettable.

It had become a ritual, a way to get through, but tonight it felt more like a mask. You were just going through the motions, trying not to think too hard about what was really hanging over you.

You thought about her again, the leader, the one who had always looked down on you, the one who thought she was better than everyone else. You didn’t care that she’d caught you throwing up on her dress at the party—she was just another problem you didn’t have the energy to solve. 

But now? Now, she was gone. 

The weight of that truth hit you harder than expected, but you pushed it away. Not yet.

You finished the drink and dropped it off with Sol, who was waiting outside, casual as ever, his posture relaxed like nothing was wrong. You handed him the drink, but as he walked over to the leader, the thought of what she might do with it made your stomach tighten. 

The entire thing felt wrong like something was off, but there wasn’t time to second-guess yourself.

And then it happened.

A few slips. A few moments, and then—boom. Dead.

Like, what the actual fuck?

The death wasn’t natural. The first thing you noticed was the color of her tongue—blue. And not just any shade of blue, but something sickly, unnatural. It looked wrong in the worst way. It twisted your insides, but there was no time to linger on it.

Because now, she was dead. And that meant you had to act. Fast.

You didn’t want to be anywhere near the mess that was about to unfold. The last thing you needed was to be connected to a rich girl’s death. Hell, the media would have your neck if they even got a whiff of your involvement. You didn’t care about her death—she was just a footnote in your life—but your survival? 

Now that was a whole different story.

Sol, ever the calm presence, suggested the only thing that made sense: write a suicide note. Quickly, and convincingly.

You didn’t hesitate. You had to write that note fast, your hands trembling with the weight of it, the words coming out in a rushed stream of desperate lies. You didn’t care what you wrote, as long as it kept your name out of it. You had to move carefully—no fingerprints, no mistakes. Everything had to be flawless.

The cops would be swarming any minute now, so you and Sol slipped out, making sure to leave no trace of your presence. You didn’t want to leave anything behind that could tie you to her. You weren’t going to be the one to pay for her mistakes.

It wasn’t about caring for the girl or feeling anything for her death. No, it was about making sure your own skin stayed clean. You didn’t have the luxury of being caught up in a mess like this. You’d been through too much already, and the last thing you wanted was for this to be the thing that pulled you under.

Survival. That’s what mattered now.

Now, you might be thinking—why the hell would you assume Sol had anything to do with it? Your bitch of a leader wound up dead, yeah, but you were the one who made the damn hangover concoction. That was your little trick, your go-to remedy for long nights and regret-filled mornings.

So, shouldn’t you be the one to blame? Not exactly.

Because you saw him, Sol.

You saw him lingering by the counter, careful not to make any noise while you went to the bathroom to change before heading out. You saw the way his fingers moved, casual—too casual—as he fiddled with the cup. And then you saw the switch, so quick it was almost imperceptible. 

The blue cleaner. A few drops, maybe more. A slip of a hand, a glance in your direction. And yet—

Did you ever bring it up? No.

Because you were already too fucking deep in this.

You and Sol, like it or not, we’re in this together. And with that bitch dead, the school needed a new god. The natural order should’ve pointed to the last two girls in the group—the ones who used to worship at her feet, waiting for their turn to take the crown. 

But the moment the leader’s body went cold, one of them was already off somewhere else, building her empire with the fame of her dead leader, shaking off the past like a snake shedding its skin. And the other? She folded. Gave up. Ran off to follow the next rising star.

That left you.

Because whether you wanted it or not, people had always compared you two. Same energy, the same pull, same effortless way of drawing attention without even trying. You used to be second best.

Well, not anymore. But this wasn’t what you wanted.

You just wanted to go to class, pass your exams, maybe get through the day without being dragged into some social bullshit. That was the goal. But instead, here you were—the most followed person in the student body. 

This wasn’t high school. This was college. 

And yet, somehow, it felt just as fucking stupid.

Every waking moment, every damn day, all you wanted was to go to class, take notes, and leave. But no—some dude, some random fucking guy, always had to try his luck, like they were programmed to shoot their shot no matter how many times you said no, no matter how many times you muttered, I have a boyfriend.

Didn’t matter.

They’d still try, still hover, still think they had a chance like you owed them something just because you existed.

And honestly? It made you sick.

Sometimes, in the back of your mind, you swore you could hear that bitch of a leader laughing at you from the afterlife. Oh, you wanted to be me so bad? Enjoy it, sweetheart.

It was all so fucking overwhelming

You hated this. You hated this dead-end college. And sometimes—just sometimes—you wished the whole place would fucking blow up. Just poof—gone. Then maybe you could run away, transfer somewhere new, start over, and live a normal life, away from all this bullshit.

Instead, here you were—outside late, making your way back from some lecture you were forced to take at night because all the earlier ones had filled up before you could even register.

And of course—of course—the universe just had to make things worse.

Because there they were.

Fucking Abel and Cain.

The pretty boys. The well-known bops—two fine ass bastards every woman on campus either wanted or knew to stay the hell away from.

And yet, here they were, standing on the sidewalk, their gazes locking onto you like wolves spotting a lone rabbit. You didn’t look at them. You didn’t acknowledge them. Just keep walking, picking up your pace, focusing on your apartment’s front door in the distance. 

You hate it. 

Hate how people think they have a right to you now. Hate that the moment your old leader took their final breath, the weight of the world shifted onto your shoulders, crowning you the new god of this campus. But of course, they called your name.

And of course, they followed.

"Yo, you deaf now?" Abel scoffed, his voice dripping with faux amusement.

"Yeah, what, you ain't getting our messages?" Cain added, tone lower, sharper.

You felt their eyes burning into you, felt the heat of their presence as they got closer, their footsteps heavy against the pavement.

You didn’t stop. Didn’t dare look back.

Just kept walking. Because if you did, you knew this night would take a turn you really didn’t have the energy to deal with.

You kept your pace steady, ignoring them like they were nothing more than background noise—like their words, their presence, their very existence didn’t fucking matter. Because to you? They didn’t.

But, of course, they didn’t like that.

“Damn, she’s really tryna act like she don’t hear us,” Abel muttered, just loud enough for you to catch.

Cain chuckled, a low, amused sound that made your stomach churn. “Maybe she’s shy.”

You weren’t shy. You just didn’t give a fuck.

But they weren’t letting this go.

Next thing you knew, Abel was right next to you, keeping pace, that cocky smirk already stretched across his face like this was some kind of game. Cain was a step behind, like they had this whole routine practiced like they knew how to trap people in conversations they didn’t want to have.

“Damn, you in a rush or somethin’?” Abel grinned, leaning in slightly like that’d make you break. “Where you headed, mama? Lemme walk you home.”

You finally spared them a glance—just enough to give him the most deadpan expression you could manage. “Nah.”

Cain whistled, all smug like he thought this was cute. “Cold as hell. I like it.”

Abel laughed, but there was something mean behind it. “C’mon, don’t be like that. We just tryna talk. You really don’t be seeing our DMs?”

“Oh, I see ‘em,” you said flatly. “I just ignore ‘em.”

That shut him up for a second.

Cain let out a little ooooh like you just roasted his boy in a rap battle. Abel, though? His smirk twitched. “That’s kinda rude,” he said, tilting his head like he was trying to figure you out.

“And?”

Cain barked out a laugh. “Damn, you got a mouth on you.”

You rolled your eyes, adjusting your bag and picking up your pace again. “Yeah, and it’s saying leave me the fuck alone.”

You weren’t scared. Not really. Just annoyed.

But they didn’t fall back. If anything, that just made them more persistent.

“Y’know, most girls would kill to have us hitting them up,” Abel said, his tone dipping slightly. Less playful. More... annoyed?

"Then go hit them up instead," you shot back, eyes locked on your apartment complex in the distance. Almost there. Just a few more steps.

“But we want you,” Cain added, voice lower, smooth like oil, like he actually thought he could charm you. “You really turned us both down? That’s wild.”

“Y’all are wild for not taking the hint,” you muttered, stopping just at the front of your apartment gate.

They both stopped, too.

Abel crossed his arms, looking you over like you were some puzzle he couldn’t crack. “For real, though. You got a man or somethin’?”

“Yeah. And he’s crazy as fuck,” you said, not missing a beat.

Cain raised a brow, clearly amused. “Yeah? What, he gonna pull up on us?”

Fools.

They didn’t realize they were speaking to something untouchable. Something already claimed. So you exhaled, slow and deliberate, before tilting your head slightly, voice smooth as silk, dripping with something just shy of amusement.

"He’s already watching”

Abel and Cain followed your gaze, and for a moment—just a split second—you swore you saw something ancient flicker across their faces. A primal instinct whispering to them that they had fucked up. Because there—perched on the second-floor railing like a god overlooking his domain—stood Sol.

His presence was undeniable. Absolute.

His red-orange eyes burned through the darkness like twin embers in the void, glowing with an unnatural light that made the streetlamp look like a cheap imitation of fire. He wasn’t leaning lazily anymore. No, now he was upright, hands stuffed in his pockets, his gaze locked directly on them.

Watching. Waiting. Judging.

Cain clicked his tongue, but his cocky smirk faltered just a bit, as if the weight of Sol’s stare pressed against his chest like a blade. “Tch. Guess we’ll see you around then.”

Abel lingered half a second longer like he was considering saying something else—but then Sol moved.

Not fast, not aggressively, just the slow, deliberate shift of his shoulders, the lazy tilt of his head. But it was enough. Enough to send an unspoken message.

Run along, little boys.

And so they did.

You didn’t turn to watch them go. Didn’t need to. You just stepped through the gate and let it slam shut behind you, the metallic clang ringing out like the closing of a coffin.

But as you climbed the stairs, you could feel it. The way Sol’s eyes dragged over you, heat crawling up your spine—not just watching, but seeing. When you reached him, his fingers were already curling around your wrist, warm, and firm, pulling you close. His touch was casual, lazy even, but his grip? 

Almost Possessive.

His voice, low and edged with amusement, sent a shiver down your spine. "Have fun?"

You huffed, pressing a hand against his chest, feeling the steady rise and fall of it beneath your palm. “Oh, loads.”

He smirked. But it wasn’t just a smirk—it was something deeper, something more dangerous. Like a god deciding the fate of his worshippers. Like a storm rolling in before the first crack of thunder. Then he leaned in, breath warm against your ear, voice dropping into something almost reverent.

"Want me to kill ‘em?”

You held your breath, watching Sol’s expression carefully, searching for the telltale twitch of amusement in his features, the playful glint in his eye that usually came when he joked about something questionable.

But there was none. He just looked at you, unreadable, that lazy, knowing smirk resting on his lips like he already knew the answer. Surely, he was joking. Right?

For someone who had such an appreciation for horror movies, you hated it when he joked about killing people—only for right now. Not when that memory was still lurking in the back of your mind. The memory of your hands gripping a pen, scrawling out a suicide note as quickly as possible, while Sol stood over your dead leader’s body with that smile.

That damn smile.

A shiver crept up your spine, but you shook it off, exhaling sharply before rolling your eyes, masking your unease with a playful sigh. You gave him a light punch to the shoulder, a simple motion that masked too much, that tried to communicate things you weren’t ready to say.

"Don’t joke about that, dumbass," you muttered, forcing out a laugh. "Especially not when we’re already in the hole. Deep in the fucking pit."

Sol hummed, tilting his head slightly. "You think we’re in a pit?" His fingers ghosted over your wrist, his voice smooth, too calm. "Nah. A pit means we can’t get out. We’re just…" His grip tightened slightly like he was anchoring you. "Visiting the bottom."

You scoffed, brushing past him. "That’s some pretentious artist bullshit."

"And yet, you love it," he teased, following close behind as you made your way to the bathroom.

You ignored him, flipping on the sink and splashing cold water onto your face, letting the sharp chill jolt your senses back to reality. You needed to wash off the weight of tonight—the tension, the stares, the suffocating presence of everyone watching you as if waiting for you to snap.

Sol leaned against the doorway, arms crossed, watching you through the mirror with an unreadable expression.

"You tired?" he asked, though it wasn’t really a question.

You exhaled, grabbing a towel and pressing it against your face. "I’m always tired."

He was quiet for a moment before he spoke again, voice softer this time. "You don’t look like you."

You frowned, lowering the towel slightly to glance at him through the mirror. "What the hell does that mean?"

"It means," Sol said, pushing off the doorframe and stepping closer, "that I remember you before all this. Before them."His gaze burned into you, intense in a way that made your throat tighten. This wasn’t his usual teasing arrogance, the lazy smirks and smooth words meant to make you roll your eyes. 

No, this was different. This was something else.

"You were free." His voice was low, almost nostalgic, but there was an edge to it—something sharp, something almost bitter. "You dressed how you wanted. Acted how you wanted."

He gestured vaguely, eyes dragging over you, taking in the perfectly curated image you had become—the safe version of yourself. The version that blended in. The version that followed the rules.

Now, you looked… normal.

Plain. Society’s definition of acceptable.

The clothes that once made you feel like yourself—the bold choices, the personal touches, the outfits that turned heads and made statements—were gone, replaced with something neutral, something designed not to offend, not to stand out. 

The makeup you once wore to highlight what you liked about yourself had been swapped for whatever the trend was. Your hair, once styled in whatever way you felt like at the time, now fell in the safest way possible, effortless but calculated.

You had stripped yourself down to something palatable.

"This isn’t you."

Your jaw tightened. You met his gaze in the mirror, the weight of his words pressing against your ribs, making it just a little harder to breathe.

"I had to survive." Your voice was firm, clipped.

Sol was quiet.

Then he sighed, shaking his head. "Yeah. I get that."

You exhaled sharply and turned off the sink, gripping the edge of the counter, your eyes flickering downward. Your reflection stared back at you—polished, presentable, a perfect product of adaptation.

Unrecognizable.

Sol watched you for a moment, his gaze heavy with something unreadable. Then, in a voice softer than before, he murmured, "You're still pretty."

For some reason, that irritated you more than anything else.

You scoffed. "Gee, thanks."

"But it’s not about that," he continued, stepping closer until he was right behind you, his hands resting on either side of the counter, boxing you in. His voice dipped, lower now, careful, yet firm. "I liked you better when you liked yourself more."

Your breath hitched.

His words clung to you, wrapping around your ribs like vines, refusing to let go. They settled deep, sinking into that part of you you’d tried so damn hard to bury.

You swallowed hard, hating the way he saw you—really saw you—like his fire-red-orange eyes could peel back the layers of armor you had so carefully constructed and lay you bare without even trying.

"I don’t want to talk about this," you muttered, shaking him off as you grabbed your toothbrush as if the simple act of brushing your teeth could drown out the weight of everything pressing down on you.

But Sol just chuckled, low and knowing. He leaned in slightly, his breath warm against your skin, his presence an anchor you weren’t sure if you wanted to hold onto or escape from.

"Don’t worry," he murmured, voice like embers in the dark. "I’m not going anywhere." Then, softer. More deliberate.

"Use me if you need to."

The words sent something sharp down your spine. Something dangerous. You wanted to pretend they didn’t sink in. You wanted to pretend that they didn’t make something inside you snap. But they did. Because Sol was right here. Warm. Solid. Real. And you—

You were so fucking angry.

Not just at Abel and Cain. Not just at the dead social media apps that kept your name in their mouths. Not just at the way your classmates looked at you today like they knew you—like they had any fucking clue.

You were angry at everything.

At this school. At life, you have to build for yourself just to survive. At the fact that no matter what you did, no matter how quiet you stayed, the world still found a way to put its hands on you.

And Sol? 

Sol was offering himself up like he always did, and fuck, you were selfish enough to take it.

You turned, grabbed the front of his shirt, and yanked him toward you. His body hit yours with a force that should’ve knocked you both off balance, but Sol just let out a sharp breath, his hands already finding your waist like he’d been waiting for this.

You didn’t think. Didn’t hesitate.

Your lips crashed against his, open-mouthed, desperate.

Sol let you take control at first, let you kiss him like you needed to rip something out of him, let you take and take and take—but he wasn’t passive. No, he met you head-on, groaning into your mouth as he walked you back until your hips hit the bathroom counter.

"This what you need?" he muttered, voice rough as his hands dug into your sides.

You didn’t answer. Just pull him closer, press yourself against him like he was the only thing holding you together.

Because right now, he was.

You let him lift you onto the counter, your legs wrapping around his waist instinctively. The mirror behind you reflected the scene at you—your lips swollen, your eyes unfocused, your expression raw. You almost didn’t recognize yourself.

Maybe that was the point.

Maybe you didn’t want to.

Sol’s hands trailed up your thighs, the warmth of his touch searing through the fabric of your clothes, grounding you in a way you didn’t realize you needed. His lips brushed your neck, sending a jolt of electricity through your body, his breath hot against your skin as he moved lower, his hands anchoring you to the counter with a firm grip that almost felt possessive.

"Tell me what you want," his voice came a low hum that seemed to vibrate through you, reaching places you didn’t know you could feel.

You squeezed your eyes shut, unwilling to face the war raging inside you.

God, you needed this—needed him to drown out everything that had been gnawing at your insides, clawing at your thoughts. But even as you pressed yourself closer, even as your hands gripped the back of his shirt like you were trying to pull him inside you, you knew it wasn’t enough.

The whispers kept creeping in, insistent and ugly.

The rumors.

Abel’s smug voice, practically oozing with triumph.

Cain’s laugh, that mocking, arrogant chuckle that you couldn’t escape, no matter how far you ran.

And the whole campus? They all thought they had the right to claim you. To dictate your life, your choices, your body. They were already filling in the blanks, deciding who you were, and who you should be.

It wasn’t long before you and Sol collapsed into your bed again, tangled in the kind of desperation that felt more like drowning than desire.

He was already between your thighs, his breath hot against your skin, murmuring words you barely processed—“Let me, please, just let me make you feel good.” And you did. 

You let him. 

Because even if it wouldn’t fix anything, even if the hollowness in your chest refused to be filled, at least his mouth on you was something real.

His lips were soft, his tongue relentless, tracing patterns you’d long memorized but still made your back arch off the mattress. Your hands fisted in his hair, pulling him deeper as if you could press him straight through your skin and into the parts of you that ached. 

The pleasure was sharp, bright—too bright, like staring into the sun until your eyes burned. You wanted it to blind you.

Your breath came in ragged gasps, each one shuddering out of you like a sob. Sol knew your body better than anyone, his touch so familiar it should’ve been a comfort. But instead, you felt untethered, floating somewhere outside yourself, watching as your hips rolled against his mouth on pure instinct.

Closer. You needed him closer, needed to disappear into the heat of him, the weight of him. But the more he gave, the more you realized—no amount of him would be enough. The storm inside you wasn’t something he could fuck or kiss or worship away.

“Please… more—”

The words spill from Sol’s lips in a broken whisper, his mouth still searing against your clit like he’s starving. You barely have time to process the plea before his fingers curl just so inside you—a merciless twist that sends your back arching off the bed. A gasp rips from your throat, raw and unfiltered, as your hips jerk against his face.

“Fuck—” Your moan is half-snarl, half-prayer, fingers twisting in the sheets like they’re the only thing tethering you to earth. His touch is relentless, every stroke deliberate, studied—as if he’s mapping the way you flutter around him, the way your body betrays you with every slick, tightening pulse.

“Look at you,” You moan, “Couldn’t wait, could you?”

The accusation sends heat flooding Sol’s cheeks—because you’re right. You felt yourself already close, teetering on the edge, and he’s barely started. His thumb brushes your clit in a slow, filthy circle, and you jolt, a whimper catching in your throat like a sob.

“Tell me,” he rasps, grip tightening on your thigh to spread you wider. His other hand doesn’t stop—if anything, his fingers plunge deeper, crooking to drag against that spot that makes your vision whiten. “Please. Tell me what you want, pumpkin.”

You can’t.

The words clot in your chest, stolen by every ragged breath, every electric scrape of his calloused fingers. All you can do is feel—the ache he’s stoking into an inferno, the way your hips grind shamelessly against his mouth, the sound of him—low, hungry groans vibrating against your skin as he drinks you down like something holy.

And when his teeth graze your clit—gentle, so gentle—you finally shatter, his name a shattered scream on your lips. It was violent, overwhelming, your thighs clamping around his head as you choked back something too raw to be a moan. Sol didn’t let up, licking you through it until you shoved him away, oversensitive and raw.

He looked up at you, lips glistening, eyes dark with something like concern. You turned your face away before he could see it—the tears, the fracture—it was for the silence, for the absence of everything that was suffocating you.

But even in the heat of the moment, your mind refused to let go.

You knew. You knew.

This wasn’t going to fix anything. Nothing ever did.

Because People—people with nothing better to do—had decided that their life was the perfect subject for gossip, and of course, they had to drag it across every dead social media app that nobody even bothered with anymore, unless it was for the filters. And this time?

It wasn’t just petty rumors. No, this was a different beast entirely.

You had to hear it from everyone. Every fucking hallway. Every class. 

Every goddamn second spent looking at your phone or stepping outside your apartment—it was all whispers, side-eyes, and those insufferable, smug smirks from people who thought they knew you, who thought they knew what happened.

And it all led back to two names.

Abel and Cain.

It was always them, wasn’t it? The infamous duo—the campus it-boys, the ones who somehow got away with everything, every time, with no consequences. They were untouchable, always looking so clean, so perfect in their shit-eating grin ways, while everyone else got swept up in their chaos.

And what were they saying this time?

That they had a threesome with a “special girl” they ran into.

No names. No specifics. But you didn’t need specifics. Everyone knew exactly who they were talking about. You. You.

Your actual friends—your real friends—began asking questions. Concern was written all over their faces, voices shaking with uncertainty. 

They wouldn’t leave you alone.

“Are you okay?”

“Did something happen?”

“Why are they saying this?”

You couldn’t even look them in the eye. You couldn’t answer. Instead, you sat there, frozen, staring at your phone, the screen burning your eyes. The words blurred together in a haze of pain and fury. A ringing noise drowned out everything else as your fingers clenched around the device like it was the only thing anchoring you to the present.

Fuck this.

Every inch of you felt like it was going to crack, like the anger and disgust were going to bleed out of your skin. It was a lie, a fucking straight-up lie. But it didn’t matter. No one cared about the truth. Not when they already had a story to tell.

The worst part? It wasn’t just the lies—they were believing it. The campus didn’t just buy into it; they were savoring it like it was the juiciest piece of gossip to ever grace their empty little lives. People who barely even knew your name were now looking at you like they had some kind of claim to your life.

Every time you stepped outside, it was like the world was watching, whispering about you, judging you, reducing you to some fucking scandal. And you?

You were just trapped in the middle of it all.

No matter how many times you told them it wasn’t true, how many times you tried to explain, they didn’t care. The perception was everything. Once a story like this had legs, it ran wild. It didn’t need the truth to keep moving—it only needed people to keep talking.

And that was all anyone was doing now. …Talking.

After your last class, you couldn’t wait to get the hell out of there. It felt like the walls were closing in with every step, suffocating you as you walked through the crowded halls, your classmates' whispers and looks searing into your skin. Every footstep felt like it echoed too loudly in your ears, a constant reminder of the gossip, the rumors, and the lies that were now following you like a shadow you couldn’t escape.

No. No, no. You weren’t going to let this happen. 

You couldn’t. 

You wouldn’t.

You kept repeating it in your mind, the words like a mantra, trying to drown out the noise, trying to drown out the sick, twisted feeling clawing at your chest. You didn’t have time for this. Not when you still had so much left to do, so many plans that needed to be carried out. 

This? 

This wasn’t part of the plan.

You rushed back to your place, heart hammering in your chest, your mind spinning with what to do next. How to fix this. How to make it stop. 

You opened the door to your apartment and slammed it shut behind you, locking it as quickly as you could. But the feeling of being trapped didn’t go away. You paced back and forth in your small space, your mind racing, plotting your next move. You had to do something—anything—to get the control back. 

You couldn’t let them get away with this. 

Suddenly, the window beside you creaked open, and before you could even react, a figure slid through, startling the hell out of you. “Fuck!” You yelped, barely managing to keep your phone from smashing into his face as you whipped around. 

Sol. Of course, it was him. He stood there, grinning like it was any other day as if he hadn’t just scared the shit out of you. "Woah, woah, easy there," he said, holding up his hands to stop you from swinging again, his usual cocky smile plastered on his face. 

"You okay?"

You took a deep breath, trying to steady your shaking hands. "Stop climbing through my window. It's a crime, Sol. Not the time for this."

He shrugged nonchalantly, not at all bothered by the fact that he had literally just broken into your apartment. "You’re still alive, aren’t you?" he said, voice soft and smooth. "I figured you could use the company."

You took a step back, barely even registering his words as you continued to pace. You couldn’t stop moving. Not with all the chaos swirling in your head, not with the weight of the entire situation pressing down on you. 

Sol watched you, his expression softening, the cocky grin falling away for a moment. "You’re really losing it, huh?"

“Losing it?” You let out a sharp laugh, but it was humorless, edged with frustration. "No, Sol. I’m not losing it. I’m trying to figure out what the hell I’m supposed to do now. These people—" You gestured wildly, your voice rising. "They think they know everything about me, and they’re lying. It’s all lies!"

Sol stepped closer, slowly, like he was giving you space, but you didn’t want the space. 

You needed to move. You needed to think. 

You couldn’t stand still. 

"Look, I get it," he said quietly, his voice steady as he reached out and placed a hand on your arm. "I know it sucks. But you can’t keep running from it. You gotta deal with it, or it’s just gonna keep eating at you."

You jerked away from his touch, irritation flaring. "I don’t need you telling me what to do, Sol. I know how to deal with my own shit."

His gaze stayed on you, unwavering, like he wasn’t going to back down. "Then what? What’s the plan? Are you gonna sit in here and hope it all goes away? Or you gonna take control back?"

You stopped walking, turning sharply to face him, the heat rising in your chest. "I’m not just gonna sit here and let them tear me apart," you snapped. "I’m gonna make it stop. I don’t care what it takes."

Sol raised an eyebrow, stepping forward again, his voice barely above a whisper. "Then let me help."

You paused. Your mind screamed at you to push him away, to tell him to get the hell out, but somewhere in that moment, you couldn’t bring yourself to do it. You were angry and frustrated, but deep down, you knew this was something you couldn’t do alone.

"I don’t need your help," you muttered, but even as you said the words, you felt the cracks in your resolve begin to show. "I’ll handle it. I’ll fix it."

Sol tilted his head, giving you a look that said he didn’t believe you for a second. "Yeah, sure. You’re really great at handling things on your own."

You shot him a glare, but deep down, he was right. 

You had been trying to handle it all by yourself, trying to keep everything together, but now it felt like it was slipping through your fingers, like no matter how much you fought, it wasn’t enough.

"I don’t know what to do, Sol." The words left you before you could stop them, the exhaustion in your voice more apparent than you wanted it to be.

He didn’t say anything at first, just stood there, letting the silence fill the space between you. Then, he took a step closer, his eyes softening, his usual arrogance gone. "I know you don’t. But you don’t have to figure it out by yourself."

You wanted to argue. You wanted to tell him to leave. But something in his voice—something in the way he was looking at you—stopped you.

For the first time in what felt like forever, you felt a small glimmer of something that wasn’t rage or frustration. Maybe it was hope. Maybe it was just the fact that someone, anyone, was standing there with you, not turning their back.

“All right,” you muttered, voice low, still shaky, but more resolute than before. "Help me. But we do this on my terms."

You sat there, phone pressed against your ear, trying to ignore the fact that your heart was hammering in your chest. Sol sat beside you, arms crossed, watching you with a look that was equal parts concern and curiosity. 

You could feel his presence, like a weight behind you, but right now, you needed to focus. 

You had to do something—anything—to reclaim control of the narrative. So, you borrowed his phone. You didn’t want to make this call, but you had already told yourself it was too late to back out.

The number had come from one of the girls who’d been all too eager to share Abel’s contact when they found out what was being said about you. It was all too easy—far too easy—and that made it all the more unsettling.

You took a breath, your fingers slightly trembling as you dialed the number.

Ring… ring… ring…

The phone in your hand felt heavier with each second.

"Hello?" Abel’s voice broke through the static, and you straightened, your heart jumping in your throat as if the sound of his voice was a physical blow.

"Hi, Abel," you said, your voice soft but steady. You weren’t sure if it was the shock or the fact that you were doing this that made your voice sound even more controlled than you felt. "This is me. You know, the girl you and Cain were talking about."

You could practically hear his smirk through the phone as he laughed, the arrogant bastard. "Oh, so it’s you. What’s up?"

You paused, trying to gather your thoughts, knowing this was a game you were playing, but you didn’t quite know the rules. "I, uh, heard about what you said on those social media apps," you started, swallowing the lump in your throat. "

The... rumors. The ones about me. It’s not true, by the way, but, uh..." You faltered, but only for a moment. "I guess I’m kind of into it. It’s... kind of a fantasy of mine. Two guys, you know?"

The words felt like they were burning on the tip of your tongue, but you pushed them out anyway, watching Sol as he stood there, tense, his lips pressed into a thin line. You could feel him tense as you spoke, his arms crossing tighter, his eyes narrowing.

“Wait, so you’re saying you’re into it?” Abel’s voice came through, mocking. "Guess I didn’t think you’d be this easy." His words made you sick, but you bit your tongue, holding it together. 

"Yeah, I’m into it," you said again, your voice quieter now, but the lie was out there. "You and Cain. So, is that something you want to make happen? Or was it just talk?"

Sol shifted behind you, stepping closer, but his arms didn’t reach for you. He didn’t touch you, not yet. You could feel the tension, the strain in his muscles, but you had already committed to this. His hands were at his sides, fingers flexing as if wanting to grab you but also knowing he couldn’t interfere.

On the phone, Abel’s laugh was low and smug. "I like the way you think. I knew you were different from the rest of those girls." He continues, “So, when’s this gonna happen?" Abel asked, clearly already thinking about his next move.

You took another breath, steadying yourself. "In the woods behind campus," you said, making sure your voice was clear. "Dawn. Don’t forget Cain."

There was a pause on the line. It lasted too long, long enough for you to wonder if you’d lost him, but then Abel’s voice returned, smooth as ever. "All right. Dawn. I’ll be there."

You hung up the phone before he could say anything else before you heard his usual mocking laughter. The second the line went dead, you threw Sol’s phone onto the bed, not even looking at him as you sat there, hands shaking slightly.

He moves forward, his voice low. "What the hell was that?"

You ignored him, crossing your legs crossed, your head spinning. Your mind was a whirlwind of thoughts, none of them making any sense. You needed to think, to figure out what the hell you were doing, but the pressure was suffocating. You couldn't back out now, not with everything on the line, but you also couldn’t go through with it. 

It was a mess, a disaster, and the worst part was, you had no idea how to clean it up.

Sol sat there, watching you, his expression unreadable, but you could feel the tension in the room. He was waiting for you to say something, anything, but all you could do was stare at your hands, clenched in your lap. The phone call was still fresh in your mind, Abel’s smug voice echoing in your ears. 

You couldn’t believe you had just made that call. You’d thrown yourself into a situation you didn’t fully understand, and now it was too late to undo it.

"Hold on a sec," you muttered, your voice shaky as you crossed your legs tighter, hoping that physical discomfort might distract you from the chaos in your mind.

Sol, sensing the urgency, nodded but couldn’t help himself from speaking up. "Are you done yet?"

You bit your lip, frustration bubbling up inside you. "No. Shut up. Hold on."

He raised an eyebrow but didn’t push. You could hear his breathing, steady but loud in the silence that followed, like he was trying to figure you out. You didn't want him to figure you out. Not now. Not with everything crashing down around you.

"You know," Sol started again, voice careful, almost hesitant. 

"I have an idea."

You immediately shot him a look. "I said, shut up," you snapped, trying to focus, trying to ignore the growing panic in your chest. "Just... hold on, okay?"

He was quiet for a second, probably biting back whatever retort he had, but then his voice came again a little sharper this time. "I don’t like it when you tell me to shut up, you know."

You didn’t want to hear it. Not now. 

Not when your entire world felt like it was crumbling in on you. "Well, I don’t give a fuck right now, Sol," you growled. "Okay? Just shut the hell up and let me think."

Sol’s eyes softened then, but there was still a hardness in them. He wasn’t buying it anymore. "Fine," he said, stepping back, his arms crossed tightly across his chest. "But I’m here if you need me."

You heard the unspoken question in his voice—what the hell is going on with you?

But you didn’t have an answer. 

You didn’t even know what was happening anymore.

The tears came then, slowly at first, one slipping down your cheek, then another, until they were falling freely, soaking the sleeves of your hoodie. You buried your face in your hands, your body trembling. You couldn’t stop. 

You couldn’t think. You were just... overwhelmed. 

Overwhelmed by everything—by the lies, by the rumors, by your own stupid decisions.

This was all your fault. You'd fucked up. 

You’d gotten so lost in the need to take control that you didn’t stop to think about the consequences. And now you were stuck in a nightmare that you couldn’t wake up from.

Sol didn’t say anything for a while. He just stood there, watching you with a mixture of frustration and concern. He wasn’t the type to offer comforting words, but you could feel his presence, steady and unwavering behind you.

But you couldn’t even look at him.

 You were too ashamed. Too angry at yourself.

"You really fucked yourself over, didn’t you?" Sol said quietly after a while, his voice low, almost like he was talking to himself. "All this for what? To get back at them? To prove something?"

You didn't respond. You couldn’t. 

The weight of everything was crushing you. Your mind felt like it was constantly spiraling, a mess of self-loathing and regret that you couldn't escape, no matter how hard you tried. The guilt gnawed at you, relentless and suffocating, leaving you with nothing but frustration and confusion.

"I told you not to do this," Sol's voice broke through your thoughts, softer now but still thick with frustration. "I knew this was a bad idea, but you—" He paused as if deciding not to push you further. You could almost hear him biting back his words, but it was too late. 

You spun around to face him, the anger and tension finally breaking free. "Just fuck off, okay?!" you snapped, the words sharp and laced with all the bottled-up emotion you hadn't let out yet. 

"You don't listen to me. Maybe quiet the box dye, it’s fucking your brain up." You couldn’t hold back anymore. “You don’t get it, okay? You don’t get what it’s like to feel like you have no control. Like everyone is just… talking about you, deciding who you are and what you’ve done. I didn’t want this, Sol. I didn’t want to get caught up in this shit, but here I am!"

He didn’t flinch. He didn’t say anything for a long moment. Sol just stood there, staring at you, his expression unreadable. But there was something in his red-orange eyes—something that made you hesitate, made your anger fizzle out for a split second. It was like a flicker of something deep, something that made you pause, unsure of what to do with it.

“Oh shit…” you mumbled, the weight of the words you’d just thrown at him hitting you harder than you expected.

Sol let out a breath, his tone quieter now. "Look, I’m sorry for not respecting your boundaries," he said, his voice soft, calm, but carrying that underlying sincerity you never expected from him. "And I promise it won’t happen again. You’re not alone in this." He stepped forward slightly, his eyes steady on yours. 

"I’m here, whether you want me to be or not."

You didn’t know how to respond. His words were unexpected, but there was something so honest in them, something that made your stomach twist. You didn’t even know if you could trust yourself to speak. His actions, his words, they didn’t make sense to you right now. You didn’t even understand what he was doing or what he wanted, but somehow, you knew he meant it.

“What…?” you muttered, still not sure if you were hearing him right. You frowned as Sol gave you a half-pitying look like he knew something you didn’t. "I was totally in the wrong, pushing you like that…” He said it with an almost apologetic tone, but before you could reply, he suddenly moved forward and hugged you.

You froze, caught off guard by the sudden closeness, his face pressing into your chest. His arms wrapped around you in a way that felt far too familiar, far too intimate, and for a moment, everything hit you like a wave.

His words, his actions—none of it made sense. Sure, he always let you push him around, always let you fuck him whenever you needed to blow off steam. 

But this? This was different. 

You’d never seen him act like this, not in the way that felt… obsessive. So why, then, did it all feel so wrong and yet, so right at the same time?

His voice came muffled from your chest. “You had every right to say that to me…” His words were softer now, vulnerable in a way you hadn’t expected from him.

You shifted awkwardly, still thrown off by the way he was holding you. "Well…" you mumbled, still trying to process everything, your words coming out uneven. "As long as you’re sorry, you asshole."

“I know I’m an asshole,” Sol replied with a sigh, a little smile tugging at his lips, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. There was something different there, something that made the space between you feel... softer, in a way.

For a moment, you both just sat there, the silence settling in, only the sound of your shaky breaths filling the room. Sol held you, letting you calm down, and slowly, you felt your body relax into him, even if you were still trying to make sense of everything. 

His warmth was a strange comfort, and as he kept you in his arms, you couldn’t ignore the sense of safety that washed over you despite how lost and confused you still felt inside.

You pulled away just enough to wipe the tears from your face, your hands trembling slightly as you did. You let out a shaky breath and pulled your knees up to your chest, wrapping your arms around them. 

"I... I fucked up, Sol," you muttered, the words bitter on your tongue. It felt like you were admitting to something too big for you to truly grasp. "I thought I could control it, but now I’m just... stuck. And I don’t know how to fix it."

Sol didn’t say anything for a long moment, his eyes studying you, not offering any immediate solution, but his presence felt reassuring. He was there, steady, not pushing, not trying to fix it for you, just letting you be. His words finally came, quiet and unassuming. 

"I’ll help you figure it out," he said softly, and for once, it didn’t feel like a hollow promise. It felt like something he meant.

You didn’t push him away. For once, you didn’t feel the need to. Maybe it was because, deep down, you knew there was no easy way out of this anymore. Again, you were in too deep. The mess you’d created wasn’t something that could be cleaned up overnight. But maybe, just maybe, with him there, it wouldn’t be so bad. 

But still, a part of you knew—there was no going back. Not now. Not after everything that had already been set in motion. The weight of it pressed into your chest like a vice, but all you could do was watch as Sol, ever reckless, ever smug, sat there with a gun in his lap like it was just another piece of the game you were playing.

You stared at him, then at the gun, then back at him.

You were deadass over it.

"Sol." Your voice came out flat, caught somewhere between disbelief and exhaustion. "You can’t be serious."

That smirk didn’t waver. If anything, it deepened, that usual glint of mischief in his eyes sharpening into something unreadable. He leaned forward slightly, elbows resting on his knees, his fingers ghosting over the grip of the gun.

"Dead serious."

A sigh pushed past your lips, heavy with frustration. You dragged a hand through your hair, nails digging into your scalp for a brief moment, like maybe if you pressed hard enough, you could force your brain to make sense of this.

"Our Bonnie and Clyde days are over," you muttered, the words coming out bitter like they left a bad taste in your mouth. "We already took care of the bitch-ass leader…" The unspoken part of that sentence hung in the air between you.

Because you know it was him that caused that.

Sol didn’t even try to defend himself. He just shrugged, casual as ever, his expression unreadable. He wasn’t confirmed, but he wasn’t denying it either. He never did. 

That was the thing about Sol—he always left just enough room for doubt. Just enough space for you to wonder whether you were paranoid or if he was just that good at covering his tracks.

You exhaled sharply, jaw tightening, and reached forward, taking the gun from him with careful hands. You weren’t afraid of it—not really—but something about the way it felt in your grasp made your stomach turn. Cold metal, heavier than you expected.

You moved to stand from your bed, trying to piece together just how insane this whole thing had become, but before you could even get your feet off the mattress, Sol’s fingers wrapped around your wrist. 

His grip was firm but not forceful—just enough to make you stop.

"Wait a sec," Sol said, his voice shifting into something unreadable, something that made you pause. His fingers tapped idly against the gunmetal, his eyes flicking toward you with a glint of amusement. "Do you know German?"

You blinked, thrown off. "What?"

His grin widened like he was enjoying some inside joke only he understood. "Right, right," he mused, almost like he was talking more to himself than to you. "This uni has all the majors except computer science and engineering. And they force you to take a language to ‘keep the culture alive.’ But you—" He pointed lazily at you. "You tested out of your requirements, didn’t you?"

Your confusion deepened, a chill creeping up your spine. "Yes—?" 

How the fuck does he even know that?

Sol reached into his bag again, rummaging for a second before pulling out a handful of small, polished bullets. He let them clatter onto the bedspread between you both, the dim light catching on the brass casings.

"Echt Luger rounds," he said, the German words rolling off his tongue with casual precision. His fingers traced one idly, spinning it between his thumb and forefinger.

You narrowed your eyes. "WWII-era. Scored them as a decorative piece—because you know—”

"You’re a dirtbag. Emo and all." You cut him off, deadpan.

Sol looked up, caught off guard for a fraction of a second. "Really?"

You just nodded. "Yes."

He rolled his eyes but let it slide, too preoccupied with whatever he was scheming. "Anyway…" He lifted one of the bullets again, twirling it lightly. "They’re basically like tranquilizers. Just enough force to break the skin, draw some blood, but no real damage. No organ penetration, no fatal wounds—just enough to make it look like a kill shot."

Your brows furrowed as you studied the rounds, turning one over between your fingers. It was unsettling how something so small could carry so much weight in the right hands.

"So…" you started, tilting your head slightly, arms crossing. "It looks like someone’s been shot and killed, but really, they’re just unconscious and bleeding?"

Sol nodded, looking entirely too pleased with himself. "Exactly. When we shoot Abel and Cain, it'll look like they shot each other. By the time they wake up? They’ll be the laughingstock of the whole damn campus. Possibly even kicked out of school. Not to mention—" he leaned in slightly, smirking, "—no one’s gonna fuck with you after this."

He wasn’t wrong. It was an airtight setup. Humiliation, expulsion, and a clear message to the entire school—don’t cross you two. But there was still a piece missing.

"The note’s the punchline. How’d that turn out?" Sol asked, nodding toward your bag.

You didn’t answer right away, instead reaching for your bookbag and yanking it onto the bed. From inside, you pulled out one of Abel’s old papers, along with a separate sheet covered in your scrawled handwriting.

"First, tell me the similarity isn’t incredible," you said, placing them side by side.

Sol leaned in, scanning the papers with a slow grin creeping across his face. "Shit." He exhaled, shaking his head. "It’s almost perfect. Just make sure to rewrite it clean—don’t leave any fingerprints on the final note."

You nodded, already mentally noting the steps. "Okay…"

Sol’s gaze flicked to you, suddenly skeptical. "Also, how the hell did you even get his paper?"

You met his stare, deadpan. "None of your business."

He chuckled under his breath but didn’t push. Instead, he gestured toward the note, waiting for you to explain.

"Suicide notes have to be believable," you began, fingers drumming against the paper. "So I made it all dramatic—Abel and Cain, forced to live a lie, unable to reveal their forbidden love because they’re expected to be the ultimate straight heartthrobs." You read a few lines aloud in an overly serious tone before side-eyeing Sol.

He let out a short laugh, shaking his head. "That’s fucking ridiculous."

"That’s the point," you shot back. "The note is just enough to make people speculate, but not enough for anyone to outright disprove it."

Sol leaned back against the bedpost, nodding in approval. "Dumb it down a bit, make it digestible for the idiots, and we’re golden."

You agreed, already reaching for a fresh sheet of paper.

"Oh," he added, reaching into his bag once more. "Almost forgot—brought some props to sell the scene."

You raised an eyebrow as he pulled out a handful of small, folded love notes, a cheap-looking heart-shaped locket, and a half-empty pack of cigarettes.

“The evidence,” he smirked. “Gotta hammer it in."

You stared at him, then at the items, a slow exhale pushing past your lips. "You’re fucking insane."

His smirk only widened, dark amusement glinting in his eyes. "And you love it."

Do you?

Yeah, Sol is a bit weird sometimes—lowkey emo scary tall dude—but still, he cares about you. Maybe in a fucked-up, possessive way, but caring nonetheless. The kind of care that made your chest tighten, made you wonder if you should be wary of it or melt into it.

You sighed, the tension between you thick and electric, before shifting onto your knees. Your arms wrapped around his neck, fingers curling into the fabric of his hoodie as his hands instinctively settled at your hips, gripping you like he had no intention of letting go. 

His gaze burned into yours, intense and unreadable, but beneath the chaos of his mind, there was something raw there—something unspoken.

Without a word, he took your hand in his, flipping it over and pressing a slow, deliberate kiss to the inside of your wrist. His lips were warm against your skin, his breath featherlight, but the way his grip tightened on you sent a shiver crawling down your spine.

Then he moved.

Before you could fully process it, Sol had you pinned beneath him, his body pressing you into the mattress as his mouth crashed onto yours. The kiss was deep, consuming—desperate. His fingers dug into your hips as he kissed you like he needed it, like he was starving for you.

And god, he was.

Every time he touched you, it was like he was trying to memorize the feeling, like he was terrified you’d slip away.

His lips left yours only to trail lower, dragging along your jaw before settling at your neck. He inhaled, and fuck—rosemary. You always smelled like fresh rosemary. He didn’t know why it drove him insane, but it did. His teeth grazed your skin, and then—bite.

A sharp gasp slipped from your lips, and god, he fucking loved that sound. That lovely, breathy noise that only he could pull from you. His tongue flicked over the fresh mark before he bit again, harder this time, feeling you squirm beneath him.

Fuck.

Every little sound you made, every breathy exhale, every shiver that ran through you because of him—it was all his doing.

And he was going to make damn sure you never forgot that.

The night blurred into something feverish, something tangled in sheets and desperate hands. Sol made sure to fuck your brains out, so deep, so rough, so unbearably good that your nails raked down his back, leaving angry red scratches in their wake. He didn’t care—if anything, he welcomed the sting, craved the proof of it, and reveled in the way your body clung to his like it was made to take him.

Your moans, the way you whimpered his name, the way you fucking trembled under him—it was enough to send him over the edge, enough to make him lose himself in you entirely.

And when it was over, when your body finally went limp beneath him, exhausted and spent, Sol didn’t move. He stayed pressed against you, chest rising and falling in sync with yours, fingers still gripping your thighs like he wasn’t ready to let go.

Not yet.

Not ever.

But sleep? Yeah, that wasn’t happening.

Sol lay awake long after you’d knocked out, your breaths slow and even, face buried in the pillows. He couldn’t help it—he just watched you. So soundly, so peacefully… so pretty. All the words really.

The bruises you’d left on him—teeth marks at his collarbone, nail marks at his ribs—they ached, but he didn’t mind. So what if it looked like you were just using him for his body? If that’s what you wanted, that’s what he’d give. He didn’t care. 

Not when he got to have you like this, not when you were his.

With a quiet sigh, Sol finally sat up, pushing off the sheets and heading to your bathroom. The dim light flickered on, casting sharp angles over his tired face as he leaned against the sink, exhaling slowly. His red-orange eyes traced the marks you left on him in the mirror, fingers brushing over the fresh scratches down his back, his sides. 

Red. Deep. Yours.

Then, his gaze dropped to his hand.

The rosemary necklace—your necklace—dangling from his fingers.

For a moment, he just stared at it, rolling the small pendant between his fingertips. His grip tightened, then loosened. Then, with slow deliberation, he brought it to his lips, pressing a soft kiss against the cool metal. His eyes fluttered shut.

You’d need it.

He’d need it.

Because you, this, everything—it was in God’s hands now.

And God help anyone who tried to take you away from him.

It wasn’t long before dawn came in. The night air was thick, clinging to your skin like a second layer, the scent of damp earth and pine filling your lungs. You stood in the woods, tired but ready, eyes sharp despite the weight of everything pressing down on you. 

Your fingers flexed against the cool metal of the gun in your hands before you tucked it behind your back, pressing it firmly against your spine.

Are you ready for this?

A voice snapped you from your thoughts. "Hey, babe. You really here?"

You turned slowly, masking every bit of tension behind something effortless—something playful. 

Abel and Cain. Right on time. 

"Hey," you greeted, lips curling into a teasing smirk. "Glad you could make it."

They grinned, stepping closer, oblivious to the tension humming beneath your skin. The three of you stood there for a moment, suspended in the night, the setup almost awkward in its anticipation. 

Then Cain huffed, running a hand through his hair. "So… what now? Should I whip it out?"

You bit back a laugh, playing along with ease. "Yeah, go ahead. Right here. Let’s see what you’re working with."

Cain smirked, his posture relaxed, a hint of cockiness lacing his stance. Abel, beside him, shook his head, lips tugging into something between amusement and exasperation. 

Men. Always so easy.

"So, what now?" Abel drawled, brow arching as he sized you up. "You want us to just—take our clothes off? Right in front of you?"

You tilted your head, pretending to consider it, letting the silence stretch just long enough for anticipation to settle in. 

Then, with slow deliberation, you nodded. "Mhm. Every last piece."

They hesitated, just for a beat, before exchanging glances. But it wasn’t hesitation out of uncertainty—it was intrigue. A silent, unspoken challenge.

How far would you go?

Cain chuckled first, his fingers already moving to his belt, metal clinking softly as he loosened it. "All right," he muttered, clearly unbothered, the smugness never leaving his voice. "You’re the boss."

Abel followed suit, reaching for the hem of his hoodie before tugging it over his head in one swift motion. The dim light caught on the sharp lines of his muscles, his toned frame flexing slightly in the cool air. 

Jesus fucking Christ. You hadn’t expected them to be this built. At least they had the decency to keep their boxers on.You smirked, tilting your head as if admiring your work. Too easy.

"Abel, stand to the right, in front of me. Cain, to the left." They obeyed without question, their movements fluid, eager to see where this was going. The way they adjusted their stances, the way their eyes never left yours—it was almost laughable how predictable they were.

Abel smirked as he looked you over, a knowing glint in his gaze. "And what about you?" he asked, voice dipping into something lower, something teasing. "You gonna strip for us too? Or just watching?"

Your lips curled into a slow grin, eyes gleaming as you stepped closer, letting your presence pull them in further. 

Closer. Just a little more.

"Oh, I’m definitely getting undressed," you murmured, watching how their eyes trailed you. "But I want you two to do it for me." You let the words linger, letting them feel the weight of it before adding, voice smooth as silk—

"Rip my clothes right off."

Their expressions flickered—excitement, amusement, interest twisting into something sharper. Their grins widened, their bodies tensed in anticipation. They barely spared each other a glance before shifting forward, ready to take the bait.

Right where you wanted them.

And just like that—the pieces fell into place.

The woods swallowed every sound except the rustling of leaves under your feet and the slow, steady rhythm of your breathing. You could hear the faint chirping of crickets, and the occasional distant hoot of an owl, but in this clearing, nothing else moved—except for the three of you.

Abel and Cain stood before you, their smirks widening, the hunger in their eyes unmistakable. 

Like lions ready to pounce.

You lifted your hands slightly, fingers curling, drawing them in. "All right, boys," you murmured, voice dropping into something sultry, teasing. "On three."

They nodded, anticipation thrumming between them.

"One."

Their muscles tensed, Abel rolling his shoulders, Cain shifting his weight.

"Two."

A flicker of something in their eyes—excitement, impatience. 

They were ready.

"Three."

The word barely left your lips before the night erupted.

CRACK.

Two gunshots shattered the fragile quiet, ringing through the trees like the voice of God itself. The impact was immediate. Abel’s smirk melted into pure shock as his body jerked, violently convulsing as the bullet struck home—right in the neck, just a breath away from his heart. 

A sick, wet gurgle bubbled up from his throat, eyes wide and uncomprehending as his knees buckled beneath him.

Then—dead weight. The forest floor held him now.

Cain hesitated, just for a heartbeat, before instincts overrode whatever stupidity had kept him standing. “Shit!” he muttered, his breath catching before his feet moved.

He ran.

And you? You laughed.

A sharp, breathless burst of amusement tore through you, so abrupt and visceral that you had to clamp a hand over your mouth, trying to stifle the sheer delight curling through your ribs. God, that was good.

Abel—pass out.

Cain—running like a scared little bitch he was.

You doubled over slightly, shoulders shaking. "Oh my god—" you wheezed between giggles, eyes flicking from Cain’s retreating figure back to Abel’s crumpled body.

Perfect. Absolutely perfect.

Sol, who appeared from behind the tree, however, was not entertained. His sigh cut through the night like a blade, dark eyes narrowing in unmistakable irritation. "Did you miss him completely or something?" His voice carried over to you, exasperation curling around every syllable.

You tilted your head at him, still grinning beneath your fingers, breathless from laughter. "Yeah, but—" Another laugh bubbled up as you pointed at the direction Cain ran in. "Don’t worry, it was worth it just to see the look—"

"Don't move, pumpkin," Sol snapped, already turning away, his patience thin. "I’ll get him back."

He didn’t wait for your reply. His long, steady strides carried him into the trees, his dark figure melting into the shadows of the forest as if he belonged there. The gun in his hand—so much bigger than yours—glinted under the pale light filtering through the canopy, black and menacing.

With a sharp click, he cocked it.

And then—gone. Just like that.

The woods swallowed him whole, leaving you alone in the quiet aftermath, your laughter still lingering like a ghost in the cold air.

The silence wrapped around you. The wind slithered through the trees, rustling the leaves with ghostly fingers, whispering secrets you couldn’t quite catch. Somewhere in the distance, an morning dove called out—a slow, drawn-out sound that sent an eerie shiver down your spine.  

You exhaled, long and steady, but the cold still settled deep into your bones. The adrenaline that had once thrummed in your veins, hot and electric, was fading now—leaving behind something heavier. Something quieter.  

Your arms folded around yourself, a subconscious attempt at warmth.  

And then—your gaze dropped.  

Abel.

He lay sprawled on the forest floor, motionless, starkly contrasting to the wild energy that had filled the space just moments ago. His body was unnaturally still, limbs twisted where they had fallen, his mouth slightly parted as if caught mid-breath. The pool of blood beneath him was thick, seeping into the earth, dark and viscous under the slivers of moonlight breaking through the canopy.  

It looked… too dark.  

Your fingers twitched.  

His chest. Was it rising?

Your breath caught in your throat. You swore—just for a second—there had been a flicker of movement. A barely-there shift in his ribs, a whisper of breath that shouldn’t exist.  

No. That wasn’t possible.  

Sol didn’t lie to you. Right?

Your fingers curled, nails pressing into your palms. Sol knew what he was doing. He never missed. And yet…  

A sudden gust of wind swept through the trees, rustling Abel’s blood-matted hair. You flinched.  

The forest was alive with motion—branches snapping, leaves rustling, heavy footfalls pounding against the earth. The adrenaline that had begun to fade roared back to life as you listened, heart thrumming in your ears.

Oh… no.

You heard Sol from afar, “Fuckin’—hold still, asshole!” His voice rang out through the trees, frustration sharp like a knife’s edge. Cain was running like his life depended on it—because it did. His breath came ragged, his legs burning as he wove through the undergrowth, trying to lose Sol in the tangle of trees. 

But Sol was faster, relentless, his boots striking the dirt with the precision of a hunter closing in on his prey.

They circled back—Cain, desperate, Sol, determined.

And then—you.

Kneeling beside Abel’s body, frozen, watching. Cain burst into view first, panic flashing across his face as his gaze locked onto you. He skidded slightly, trying to correct his path, but the split-second hesitation cost him.

CRACK.

A gunshot ripped through the air once more. Sol had fired his gun, but the bullet barely grazed Cain’s shoulder. A clean shot was impossible—he was still moving too fast.

"Shoot!" Sol’s voice cut through the chaos, raw, commanding. His eyes snapped to yours, burning with urgency. “Fucking shoot!”

Your breath stuttered, but your fingers didn’t.

BANG.

Your gun kicked back, the force jolting up your arm, but your aim was true. The silver bullet struck Cain square in the chest. He let out a strangled sound—something between a gasp and a whimper—before his body collapsed to the ground with a dull, lifeless thud.

Everything went still. Your hands were trembling.

What have you done…?

Sol exhaled a sharp, satisfied breath. “Thank fucking god.” He strode over, as composed as ever, as if this were just another night.

You barely registered his words, your eyes locked onto Cain’s unmoving form. Blood pooled beneath him, dark and spreading, just like Abel’s.

Sol crouched beside the body, reaching for his gun. He didn’t hesitate. With practiced ease, he placed it in Cain’s limp hand, curling his fingers around the grip. 

Then he turned to you, holding out his palm expectantly.

You stared at him.

His eyes met yours, unwavering. "Your gun, pumpkin."

You swallowed hard, fingers tightening around the silver weapon still warm in your grasp.

Sol’s voice softened—just slightly. 

A reminder. A reassurance. A warning.

"They shot each other, remember?"

The cold air bit at your skin, every inhale sharp, laced with the scent of damp earth and blood. Your pulse thundered a wild rhythm that refused to settle. 

The weight of what you had just done clung to you like a second skin—Cain’s body hitting the ground, the way Abel’s hand now gripped the gun Sol had placed there, the sickening realization of what you had done.

But there was no time to wait. Silly silly…

Then—sirens. Distant but growing louder. 

Your head snapped up, breath hitching. Red and blue lights flashing quick beyond the tree line, flashes of color bleeding through the dim lighting. A voice rang out, sharp and authoritative. "We got something!" Panic shot through you like ice in your veins. 

Sol moved before you could. With one smooth motion, he grabbed you—arms locked firm around your waist, hoisting you up before you could protest. "Shit—hold on, pumpkin." 

And then he ran.

Sol moved with purpose, every footstep controlled, every breath steady. It should have been impossible—how quickly he reacted, how effortlessly he carried you through the trees. He knew these woods. The paths, the turns, the dips in the earth. As if he’d studied them, traced every possible escape route long before this night.

Was it always supposed to be like this?

The voices behind you faded into the distance, but they were still there—too close. The snap of twigs, the rustling of disturbed underbrush.

They were searching for you two.

Sol didn’t slow down nor didn’t hesitate. Even as the trees thinned and the open road came into view, he kept moving, his grip unwavering, his body a shield between you and whatever threat lurked behind.

And then—you saw it.

The car you guys took, just parked just off the side of the road. Sol reached it in seconds, yanking the door open with one hand, and setting you down with the other. His movements were fluid, and practiced.

Again, like he’d done this before.

"Get in." His voice was calm, but there was an edge to it—something sharp, something unreadable.

You hesitated, only for a second. Your hands trembled as you slid into the passenger seat, fingers gripping the edge of your clothes. The adrenaline was wearing off now, the weight of what had just happened settling in.

Sol slammed the door shut behind him, “Make out with me.” he somewhat ordered.

Your head snapped toward him, breath still uneven. “What?”

Sol had already pulled his shirt over his head, tossing it somewhere into the backseat. For the first time since the gunshot rang out, you looked at him—really looked at him. Like you don’t mean his well built body that you ever so tempted to kiss.

His jaw was tight, his brows furrowed in focus. But beneath that… there was something else. Something cold.

No fear.

No guilt.

Something far more dangerous. Satisfaction.

And that terrified you.

“Make out with me,” he repeated, reaching for you, hands already settling against your thighs. His grip was firm—assured.

Your pulse stuttered, confusion mixing with the lingering adrenaline in your veins. “Sol, this isn’t—”

“They’re coming,” he murmured, voice steady but low. “And if they see two kids sucking face instead of suspects covered in gunpowder, they won’t think twice about letting us go.”

The realization struck you like ice water.

Your stomach twisted, but you nodded.

Before you could overthink it, his lips were on yours.

It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t sweet. It was deep, consuming. His body pressed against yours, hands sliding up your waist, heat radiating between you in the confined space. His breath was warm, lips urgent against yours, but even as he kissed you—whispering how much he loved you between every stolen gasp—something felt… off.

Like you weren’t being kissed. Like you were being swallowed.

Like this was never about love—only survival.

You let it happen anyway.

You didn’t resist when he shifted, pulling you closer, his hoodie long forgotten as your fingers tangled in his hair. Maybe it was the adrenaline, or maybe it was the way his touch demanded you be his—but you felt like you were losing yourself.

Then—a knock on the window.

Your entire body went rigid.

Sol moved before you could react, his arms pulling his hoodie over you, shielding you from view before his head turned, eyes flicking toward the window. The cop stood there, face already turning red as he coughed into his fist, looking anywhere but at the two of you. Sol took his time rolling the window down, his expression unreadable. “Yes?”

The officer cleared his throat, still avoiding eye contact. “Uh—gunshots were reported in the area. Just need you guys to clear out, all right?”

Sol barely blinked. “Yeah. Sure.”

The officer nodded stiffly, clearly eager to leave, but just as he turned away, his radio crackled to life. “Status update. What’s going on down there?”

“Nothing,” the cop responded quickly, walking back into the woods. “Just some young adults getting carried away. The area’s clear.” The second the officer disappeared, Sol exhaled, his body finally relaxing against the seat.

You barely moved. You could still hear your pulse in your ears.

Sol glanced at you from the driver’s seat, something smug flickering behind his eyes. He reached over, running a hand down your thigh—almost reassuring, almost possessive.

“See?” he murmured. “Told you I got you.”

You forced yourself to swallow, gripping his hoodie tighter around your body.

You weren’t sure if that was meant to make you feel better.

Your hands trembled as you looked down at them, barely recognizing the fingers, the skin, and the way they clenched into fists like they belonged to someone else. The phantom weight of the gun still pressed against your palm, and the recoil still echoed in your bones.

“Take me home,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper.

Sol’s hands tightened on the wheel, his knuckles flexing before he turned to you. “Pumpkin…” His voice was low, coaxing, but you felt the shift—the tension rolling off him, the way he wasn’t going to let you just leave this moment behind.

You turned your face away, but he didn’t let you go.

His hands found you, firm and insistent. He pulled you into his lap with an effortless motion, trapping you there, his grip pressing against your face, forcing you to look at him. His skin was fever-warm, his fingers splayed against your jaw as he tilted your head up.

And then—he saw himself.

Tears streaked your cheeks, glistening against your skin. Your lips parted, breath hitching, but Sol’s grip didn’t loosen.

Your chest burned. Your body shook.

And then it snapped.

“WE KILLED THEM.” Your voice cracked, raw, and unfiltered. “We fucking killed Abel and Cain, Sol!”

He didn’t flinch.

You shoved at his chest, but he held you still. “And you—” Your breath hitched as a new wave of realization struck you like a gunshot to the ribs. “You tricked me once again, unaware.”

Sol’s eyes flickered.

Your fingers curled around his wrists, digging in.

“At the start, you switched my drink,” you spat, voice trembling with fury. “You—fucking—switched my hangover drink for BLUE CLEANER.” Your voice cracked again, but you didn’t care. “You fucking LIED to me. And now—after everything—all you want to do is make out with me?”

Sol exhaled through his nose, slow and measured. “Yes.”

“ECHT LUGER BULLETS, SOL.” Your breath hitched as the weight of your own words crushed down on you.

Sol tilted his head, studying you, his expression unreadable. But then—his eyes softened, and he smiled, just barely. “Look,” he murmured, voice almost affectionate, too calm. “You believed it because you wanted to believe it.”

His fingers brushed over your cheek, catching the tears before they could fall further. “Deep down, pumpkin, you wanted to kill your bitch-ass leader.” His voice dipped, smooth, persuasive. 

“You wanted Abel and Cain dead.”

You snapped. “I DIDN’T WANT ANYONE TO DIE!” You pushed against his chest, your heart hammering against your ribs, breath coming too fast, too sharp. “I just—I just wanted to be free. I just wanted to stop feeling like I was constantly being judged—”

Sol clicked his tongue, shaking his head. “Everywhere you go,” he murmured, “there are gonna be judgmental people.”

You glared at him, but the fire in your chest—rage, grief, something deeper, something unspoken—twisted into something unrecognizable. It burned, spreading through your ribs like a sickness, clawing at your throat.

And then—your breath hitched.

Because he was smiling.

Not in amusement. Not in triumph. But in something far worse.

His red-orange eyes gleamed, the heart-shaped pupils wide, blown out with something dangerous, something devoted. It wasn’t quite love, wasn’t quite insanity, but something in between.

Something unshakable.

His fingers brushed against your throat, slow, deliberate. A soft touch—contrasting the brutal weight of his presence. Then, a curl.His knuckles dragged over your pulse, feeling it race beneath your skin. Then, his fingers twisted into your rosemary necklace, tugging.

Not enough to hurt.

Not enough to choke.

Just enough to pull you forward, to leave you breathless, to let his warmth settle against your lips. His breath, hot and steady, ghosted over your skin.

“Our love,” he whispered, voice silk and steel, “is God, after all.”

Your whole body went still. The words wrapped around you like chains, thick, heavy—drowning you. The air between you suffocated. The weight of his devotion pressed down, crushing, inescapable. 

There was no running. No fighting.

Not anymore.

Your hands—your hands.

The same hands you once swore to keep clean, the same hands that once trembled in prayer, the same hands that clutched at salvation—

Tainted. Drenched. Bloody.

Sol moved before you could think before you could stop him. His lips crashed against yours, demanding, consuming—claiming.

There was no hesitation, no uncertainty in his movements. He kissed you with purpose, with finality, like sealing a deal that had long been written in blood.

His hands gripped you, firm, one curling into your hair, the other splaying against the small of your back, pressing you against him. His teeth scraped against your bottom lip, coaxing a gasp, and he took it, and swallowed it like he needed it to breathe. Like you were his oxygen, his altar, his sacrament.

You didn’t move.

You let him.

Because at the end of the day—

This was your fault.

You had dragged yourself into this hell, into his hands, into his arms. The weight of it all pressed against your skin like a brand, burning, permanent. There was no undoing it. No redemption. No salvation.

You and Sol were tied together by God. 

A twisted, cruel god—one that had abandoned you the moment you took that first step into damnation. 

Once, you had been an angel.

A believer.

The rosary beads dug into your palm, their familiar ridges offering no comfort now—not when his heat surrounded you, not when his hands knew your body better than prayer ever had. You had whispered Ave Marias in the dark, trembling fingers clutching at faith like a lifeline. 

But faith was a fragile thing, and the devil—Sol was real.

His breath was hot against your throat, his lips tracing the frantic pulse beneath your skin as if savoring the way your heart raced for him.

Only for him.

The car was too small, the world outside too distant. There was only this: the weight of his cock deep inside you, the sinful roll of his hips dragging a broken sound from your lips.

"Look at you," he murmured, "All those pretty prayers, and yet here you are—riding the devil himself."

You should have recoiled. 

Should have crossed yourself and begged for forgiveness.

Instead, you arched into his touch, his name a plea on your tongue.

His fingers tightened on your hips, guiding you, using you, his groan vibrating against your mouth as you took him deeper. The rosary tangled between your joined hands, the sacred and the profane colliding—just like the two of you.

"Fuck," he hissed, teeth grazing your jaw, his breath hot, ragged. His hands dug into your hips, possessive, unrelenting. "Still so tight. Still fighting it."

But you weren’t fighting.

Not anymore.

Every slow, deliberate drag of him inside you unraveled another thread of your resolve, another carefully constructed lie you’d told yourself.

That you were strong. That you were good.

That you could walk away from this. From him.

Sol’s laugh was soft, triumphant, curling against your skin as your thighs trembled around him. His grip tightened—possessive, knowing. "There it is," he purred, swallowing the moan you couldn’t bite back, lips crashing against yours in something more than hunger. More than needed.

It was devotion.

And God help you—so were you.

Because what was the point of fighting anymore?

You tried. At least, you told yourself you did. A half-hearted rebellion as you arched against him as if the space between you would bring back something you had already lost.

But Sol was faster. Stronger. His hands caught you—iron and unyielding. "Don't run from me, pumpkin..." he growled, dragging you back into him.

You gasped the stretch burning, the pleasure a sharp edge that bordered on pain. Your nails dug into his shoulders, desperate, as if you could claw your way free. As if you hadn’t already made your choice.

But your body betrayed you.

Betrayed you in how it clenched around him, pulled him deeper, and welcomed the very thing that had ruined you. His laugh was low, smug. Victorious. "That’s it. No one takes me like you do. Such a pretty angel...”

The words twisted inside you like a knife.

You weren’t an angel. Not anymore.

Your rosemary wasn’t stopping him. God wasn’t stopping him.

God wasn’t saving you.

Because your body—was already left in the hands of the devil.

[godmadeaterribleerror]

Chapter 17 - You Come Back

Series Masterlist - Main Masterlist

Author's Note: I fear my “every action in this story must have a consequence” is coming back to bite us in the butt this chapter. Also Dean middle name just dropped. It’s an owie.

Chapter Title from This Love by Taylor Swift

Word Count: 17.9k

Chapter Summary/Warnings: Dean has some hard conversations, and you destroy a building and make a friend. Extra warning on blood/injury.

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

Chapter 16 - Chapter 18

Read on A03!

A week.

Dad was going to be gone a week. 

It was less than last time. More than the time before that. And Dean had been alone for longer—part of him was pretty damn sure he’d simply been alone his whole life, and everyone else that passed around him knew that he’d be temporary better than he did—but it never made the pit smaller. 

“Are you sure you don’t need extra hands-“

“I’ve told you, Dean. This ain’t a family bondin’ hunt, it’s a real hunt. Gotta be me alone.”

Dad alone. 

At least he’d be alone by choice. 

And he could’ve kept Dean with him, but Dean wasn’t Sammy. Dad wanted Sam—the only person who’d ever left Dad alone on purpose—and Dean couldn’t be Sam if he tried.

It was for the best. Someone had to take the heat, be the grunt.

But the whole fucking point of that was that Dean was supposed to be a good hunter, too. Nothing out there in the real world to offer him comfort, just himself, the pit, Dad, and a siren-like voice is his ear that he could never get rid of. 

And he was still being benched. It was a ‘real hunt’ and Dad didn’t trust him, or want him, or something, so Dean was being benched in the middle of freakin’ nowhere, and he was going to be alone.

“I could just handle the lore,” Dean offered, one last time, because this pit was gaping in the cavity of his chest, and he really didn’t want to be alone. “I’d use one of the baby pistols for defense, I wouldn’t even leave the motel room-“

“Well, good news, son. Since you’re stayin’, you can leave this motel all you damn want.”

Dad wasn’t moving on this. 

And Dean wouldn’t want to hunt with himself, either.

So he dropped it, and Dad vanished. Simply turned into something like mist and faded from the room, leaving Dean stranded. 

Alone.

In real life, he’d been alone barely a day. Dean had found a body a little warmer than his hands, and he’d let it sway him into bed, then he’d spent the night staring at the ceiling. Listening to that beautiful, haunting voice call his name. 

There had been an itch in his hands. A tug from just to the right of his heart, telling Dean that he had to go. Had to move and never stopped until he crashed into something, until the pit in him was tended to and lined with silver and flowers. He hadn’t been able to sit still for the whole damn night, the night air had smelled like an unnamable fruit when he’d gone outside, and he’d been driving himself out of his damn mind.

It had been sunrise when he’d grabbed a newspaper, started circling different stories, and found a case about people going mad with dancing just a few towns over. 

And it had been a little before noon when-

“Dean?”

He turned, and She was there. He was still in the motel room, but She was fucking there. And beautiful, and bright, and almost seeming to literally glow in the low light of the morning.

Maybe the morning. 

The sky outside the motel blinders was shimmering, and made of a million soft colors. There was a moon but no stars, and the sun was still hung on the horizon—making the whole world seem almost golden—and none of that really mattered anyway, because She was there.

With Dean.

“De-“

“Hey, Princess.” He gave Her a smooth, slightly crooked grin, and had a brief and terrifying thought that She could feel his heartbeat through the whole world. “You’re, uh- I don’t think you’re supposed to be here.”

She raised Her chin at him, eye narrowing, and there She was. 

More commanding over the world than anyone should have the right to be. Gorgeous and ethereal—turning the world colorful where Dean could’ve sworn it had been muted shades of brown—and just out of Dean’s reach. 

Always just out Dean’s reach. 

“You don’t get to tell me where to be, Winchester.”

“I think I got some right, given this is my motel room.”

She flushed, and Dean wanted to grab that color and paint it over the sky. “Yeah, but-“

“You just gotta ask me, sweetheart.”

“Ask-“

“To be here.” 

To stay.

Dean wanted Her to ask him if She could stay.

And She was rubbing the scar on Her palm, glancing around the room, and when She broke the silence it must be because this was Dean’s dream. Or memory. Or whatever.

It was Dean’s head, so he could have whatever he wanted.

“Can I please stay?”

Dean grinned at Her. “Yeah, you can. Good work on the manners-“

She rolled Her eyes. “Shut up-“

“That’s not very nice,” Dean drawled Her name, and side-stepped Her shove. “And here I was, missing you all the time-“

“You miss me?”

Dean paused, and there was suddenly something incredibly open and nervous about Her features.

She was made of all Dean’s thoughts. This version of Her, at least, should know that Dean missed Her more than he was pretty freakin’ sure he’d miss his heart, if it just fell out of his chest.

“Course I miss you.” He shrugged. “Always missed you.” Dean paused, frowning at the door. “Even today, I think. I really missed you today.”

“Today-“

“Texas. That pagan douchebag you helped me gank-“

She scoffed, and Dean wasn’t sure when She’d gotten right to his side, but he wasn’t about to complain. “Fuck off, De, that was a team effort-“

“I got the kill-“

“I worked out the whole case. And you’re the one who called us a team.”

He had done that. Shit. 

She was too pretty to fight with. And Dean missed Her too much to try.

“Yeah, well, I’m also the one who found you.” He looked down at Her carefully, and if this really was a fantasy, this was the part where She should smile at him and kiss him. Tell Dean that he’d always find Her, and they’d always stay together, all the way down.

But instead She tilted Her head at him, Her voice soft, and the whole universe glowing in Her eyes. 

Dean still wouldn’t want Her any other way.

“You did, didn’t you.”

“Yeah,” he murmured, leaning down a little further. Just to be a little fucking closer to Her light. “Wish I could do it again, Princess.”

She gave him a small, sad smile, and for a brief second, She shifted. Glitched. Became covered in blood and bruises and cuts, Her shiny hair tangled and hanging over Her almost battered features, one of Her eyes swollen and a large gash on Her arm and puffy mark on Her cheek, and Dean wanted to reach out and grab Her—keep Her safe however he could, maybe trade himself to whatever was hurting Her, or wrap his body over Her’s so nothing could ever hurt Her again—but he couldn’t fucking move-

“You’ll find me,” She hummed, and the words didn’t sound like they were for Dean. “Or maybe I’ll find you.”

Bobby’s house was quiet, in the early morning. It was why Dean’s groan seemed to split through the air, his brow furrowing at nothing when he felt the stiff mattress of the guest room, and knew that if he reached over, the other side of the bed would be cold.

He hadn’t found Her. He’d sworn he would, snapped at Sammy that he had to, and he’d made himself a lying son of a bitch because he couldn’t. He was back at Bobby’s because—after three weeks of running around and calling numbers and looking for cases Dean knew She'd be drawn to—he'd ended up exactly where he'd goddamn started.

"You ain't gonna be able to keep this shit up, Dean."

Bobby's words over the phone had been clipped. Tired. 

Dean really hadn't wanted to hear them.

"I told you, I'm not coming back until-"

"What? 'Till you find her? You got a single fuckin' lead?"

He'd scowled. "No, but there's a case of some weird shit going on up in Maine, exact type of case-"

"I know what cases she likes, boy. I'm asking you to use your damn brain for five seconds, and think about where she'd be headed to first, moment she got back to the states-"

"We don't know that she's not in the states." Dean had muttered, running a hand over his face. "Maybe she's trapped, Bobby. Maybe she's in fucking trouble, and she's got no one to help her because you and Sam just let her run off-"

"Dean." Bobby's voice through the speaker had been low. Gruff. A warning. "You know damn well we didn't let her do a damn thing. I've told ya', we got back to the house and she was just fuckin' gone-"

"You should've looked." Dean had hissed, and Bobby had scoffed.

"You think I didn't? She didn't want to be found Dean, so there was no fuckin' way I was gonna find her-" Bobby had cut himself off, the exact same moment the words had sunken in, and twisted into Dean's gut.

She didn't want to be found.

Maybe Dean hadn't been able to find Her because She didn't want to be found.

But She'd said she'd come back home. She'd pinky promised him, over the phone, that She'd come back. That Dean would be able to see Her soon, and hold her, and know that it was real. 

That She wasn't just a ghost or a demon, that he was really alive, because something like Her could never exist in Hell. 

But maybe She'd heard it in his voice. How that pit inside of him had been slashed further and further open, and how there was goddamn gaping void where all the redeemable parts of him used to be. Every bit of pain he'd inflicted on others, staining him and rotting him and making him a little more than a wet dog, at Her feet in the mud. Dean had turned himself into something fucking ugly, and mangy and horrid and undeserving of Her light, and she could've heard it and decided that She'd made promises to the Dean from before Hell, and she owed whatever he'd become after nothing at all.

Maybe in Her time away, She'd found her way back to somewhere heavenly and bright—filled with luxuries Dean could never offer Her—and decided She'd rather stay there than return the mud. 

Mud that was now boiling and toxic, and made of all Dean's sins. She should stay away from it. She never should've been cursed with it—with Dean—in the first place.

And he was being selfish, wanting Her to return to his side. She'd deserved better than him before, and Dean sure as shit hadn't made himself worthy.

But he still wanted Her back.

He'd never stop wanting Her back.

And if he found Her, he'd tell Her that he was ugly, but he'd still be Her shadow. He didn't need to be good for that. He just had to keep doing what he'd always done. Wanting Her, following Her, protecting Her and holding Her the way no one else could.

Maybe She'd found someone who could hold Her the way Dean did, but without all the tragedy and horror of it being Dean.

The thought made him fucking sick.

And he still wanted Her back. He was a selfish piece of shit, and he wanted Her home. 

“I didn’t mean it like that, Dean.” Bobby had muttered through the phone. “I’m sayin’ that when you were gone, she ran. Ran far. Off the face of the damn earth, and it’s gonna take her a minute to find her way back.

Bobby had said that like She was finding her way back. 

And son of a bitch, Dean was clinging to that. Bobby was the only person who knew her just as well—if not better—than Dean, so if he said She was coming back She had to be.

There was a chance She’d look at Dean, and everything that he’d been afraid she’d hear, she’d see. Right over Dean’s soul, all that ugliness visible to Her, until she couldn’t bear to look at him and She left. 

At least then Dean would know She was safe. Alive, and safe, just wanting nothing to do with him at all. 

He wouldn’t bother to try and hate Her for it. It wouldn’t work. It never had.

There was always a sliver of a chance that She’d stay. She’d stayed before. And it would mean the same thing for Dean no matter what.

She’d said all the way down. And even if that had been temporary—something She’d said before, that she’d never be able to promise him now—Dean would sit at the bottom for Her until she returned.

Or until She didn’t.

He’d gone to Bobby’s because they had angel shit to deal with, and chasing empty cases and weak leads wasn’t going to help him find Her. Sam had given him a grimacing, sympathetic smile, and said nothing of it for the first few days. None of them had even mentioned Her name, focusing on the crazy chick, and Cas and Uriel’s bullshit, and all the millions of other fucking problems it was their responsibility to fix.

“You know this is the first place she’ll go.” Sam had broken the silence in the kitchen, not looking up from his laptop as he spoke, and he hadn’t need to say who.

Dean knew. There was no other She that mattered.

“She might be heading here now-“

“Sam.” Dean had grunted, picking at the label of his beer. “Don’t.”

Sam had sighed, glancing up with a heavy gaze. “She’s probably fine, dude. Nothing’s gotten to her before-“

“She had us before.”

“She has us now-“

“Not in goddamn Brazil, she doesn’t.” Dean had narrowed his eyes, and every word had fucking hurt. “And don’t tell me it’s a long drive again. She should’ve been back by now, and you know it.”

“Yeah, but, it’s- She’s fine, Dean.” Sam’s voice had dropped under his breath, and he’d shaken his head at his screen. “She’s got to be.”

And Sam was, at least, right about two things. 

She had to be fine. She likely wasn’t, but if Dean ever wanted to sleep or look in a mirror again, she had to be.

And Bobby’s was the very first place She’d return to. 

It was Her home. She grew up here, and She’d have to known they were all waiting for Her. 

That Dean passed by Her room every day, and had to force himself not to open the door. And that on the weaker days—when he really deserved a little extra punishment—he would look up and down the hall before he caved, and looked inside.

Bobby hadn’t moved anything. The only thing different from when Dean had left was the little bit of tape on the door, leftover from his note.

The note was gone though. Bobby mentioned they’d never found it in the trash, but maybe She’d crumpled it up and stomped it into the mud. 

Or She could be holding onto it. 

Dean wasn’t lucky enough for that to be true. Not important enough for Her to cling to a paper, just because he’d touched it.

He still liked the idea that She was. Lying to himself had always made this easier and harder, all at once, the exact same way standing alone in the middle of the room was torture and relief. 

It was evidence. Proof She’d existed at all. That She wasn’t just a collective hallucination, and that Chuck hadn’t included Her because She’d simply never been real.

She had been.

Was.

She was real. 

Clothing Dean had seen Her wear was in the drawers. All of Her indecipherable notes about demons and deals were still scattered on the floor, and sometimes Dean would glance to the bottom of the wall and think he’d find Her curled against it, bags under Her eyes and a stub of a pencil in her hand. That he’d get to kneel before Her, talk until she looked at him, and when She did, the whole world would become good again. No demons, no Hell, no angels, no weird, impossible mysteries.

Just Her and Dean. And She’d lean into his touch, and let him lead Her to bed, and he’d wake up the way he wasn’t allowed to anymore.

With Her at his side. 

He had things to do. The morning was crawling in, and they had a lady in the basement, and Dean needed to get up and be useful. 

It still took another minute of staring at the ceiling. Of warding off thoughts about, how if She wasn’t okay, if She needed Dean, he didn’t have a goddamn clue how to find Her.

She’d come home.

She had to come home. 

And if Dean had to wait a million years—until the house was covered in vines and he was just a pile of bones and ash—he would.

But now he had to move.

Sam was already at the kitchen table, bent over a newspaper with his laptop pushed off to the side.

“Coffee’s on.” He said, not looking up from whatever the hell he was doing. “Bobby’s going to town, getting groceries. Said he wasn’t expecting to feed four people or something.”

Dean grunted. “Any updates on the angel shit?”

“Anna’s still in the panic room.” Sam shrugged. “And I’m looking for a new psychic, but none of these guys seem legit. I can’t tell the real deal would be more or less expensive.”

“What about Pam?”

“I’d rather not bother her after last time,” Sam muttered, grimacing slightly. “At least try to find someone we didn’t blind.”

“Maybe put out an ad online?” Dean dropped at the table, not bothering to put any life in his tone. He was too fucking tired. “Three men, looking for someone to read the mind of the woman we locked in our basement?”

Sam shot him a dry look. “She volunteered to go in our basement.”

“Yeah, the cops are gonna buy that.”

“Not helpful, Dean.”

He shrugged, glaring at his coffee. “Not trying to be.”

He knew this was important. That this meant things even Bobby hadn’t fully been able to understand, and that people weren’t just casually hunted by angels and demons, but all it made him think of was Her.

She’d know how to fix this. She’d look at Anna and solve the puzzle in two seconds flat, then give Dean a smug, blinding grin that could probably part the ocean or bring an army its knees.

But She still wasn’t here.

So they were stuck running in circles, trying to find answers to problems they didn’t even fully understand. 

“Online ad thing isn’t a bad idea, actually.” Sam frowned between his paper and the laptop. “I mean, we’ll get a lot of false leads and, uh, less than stable people responding, but it can’t hurt.”

“Cool.” Dean muttered. “Good luck with that.”

“Thanks.” Sam’s tone was dry as he nodded to the fridge. “Can you take Anna her food for me?”

Dean frowned. “You do it yourself-“

“I’m working on this.”

“Nobody freakin’ told you to do that-“

“Dean.” Sam sighed. He’d been doing that a lot, lately. “Please. The sooner I get this done, the sooner we can figure out what’s going on with Anna, and the sooner this whole thing is done.”

The sooner Dean could go back to looking for Her.

It was a false promise. Deep down, Dean knew—and he was pretty damn sure Sammy did as well—that this thing wasn’t going to just be done. The angels hadn’t raised him from Hell just to find and turn over a redhead. Lilith wasn’t running around breaking seals just for the shits and giggles of it all. They’d still have work to do. 

And She’d still be missing.

But Sam had said please. And Dean hadn’t really caused anything but fucking problems since he’d been brought back, so the least he could offer was walking some toast and coffee down the stairs.

“Fine.” He grunted, pushing out of his seat with a scowl. “But you better find that damn psychic.”

“I’m trying.” Sam muttered, glaring at his laptop. “Why do people think it’s fun to pretended to have these powers? Don’t they have anything better to do with their lives?”

Dean didn’t have an answer for that. The only people he’d known with the real deal were Missouri—who hadn’t seemed that bothered by it, but also didn’t allow bullshit—and Her. 

And She’d hated it. Whatever She was, she’d despised it. Didn’t even entertain the thought of using it. She said it hurt Her, Dean had seen it hurt Her, and he couldn’t imagine someone wanting to have that kind of power if it made them pick their skin raw and choke the air from their own lungs. 

Dean’s stomach twisted, and an image of Her curled on the floor of a motel—Her body tensed and features panicked, Her own hand wrapped around her throat—burned its way through his skull. She could’ve hurt herself. There was always a chance no monster would be able to touch Her, but she’d snap her own neck to try and keep Her power under control, and Dean wouldn’t be there to stop Her-

He must make a face, every time he thought of Her, because Sam cleared his throat and said Her name.

Carefully. 

Like just the sound of it might make Dean crush the mug in his hand.

“It’s- I know you’re worried about her-“

“Save it.”

“Dean-“

“I mean it, Sam.” Dean shot him a glare, grabbing Anna’s food from the counter. “I know everything you’re going to say.”

Sam shook his head. “You don’t-“

“I do. I promise you, Sammy, I know exactly the type of fuckin’ lecture you’re gonna give me, and I’m not hearing it.”

Dean didn’t wait for a response before he was walking away. Sam wanted him to bring down the food, he’d bring down the fucking food, but one more speech about how She was probably okay and safe and Dean worrying wasn’t going to help Her, and he’d lose his goddamn mind.

Worrying wasn’t going to help Her, but it was better than just sitting on his ass and not thinking about Her. And it made him feel better. Part of Dean’s head was convinced that—if he worried about Her loudly enough—the angels would hear and bring Her back, just to shut him the hell up.

They wouldn’t. And Dean wasn’t exactly in heaven’s favor right now, between the whole Chuck thing and Anna not being turned over to the angel police.

Dean would be a lying asshole if he said that, for half a second, he hadn’t considered turning Anna over in trade for Her. But the angels couldn’t be trusted with that type of deal, Dean hadn’t hit that big of an evil, awful low, and She’d never forgive him for that. Christ, Dean would never forgive himself for that. Anna was sweet, and she’d been nothing but patient with all their bullshit, and trading lives was the exact type of shit Dad would have done.

And Dean couldn’t really stomach that thought anymore. The idea of what would Dad do felt a little too much like one of Alistair’s weapons in his hand. Fitting, but wrong, and full of fucking hate just for Dean to get his own way. 

Dad would’ve turned Anna over. Dad never wouldn’t have considered the thought to be a moment of bitter, exhausted, horrible weakness—born from Dean really fucking missing her, and never sleeping enough, and still have half a foot in the door of Hell—and would’ve gone through with the idea in a heartbeat. 

Dean didn’t doubt for a second that, if the angels had told Dad to trade some random girl over for Mom back, Dad would’ve even hesitated.

But Dean couldn’t. He was a hell of a lot fucking weaker than Dad, but for Her, he didn’t want to be anything like Dad. 

Dad had only ever hurt Her. Driven Her away. And She wouldn’t make the trade, because She was smarter than Dad and Dean combined, and She’d insist that there was another way.

She’d say there was always another way. 

And She wouldn’t like Dean being Dad. She’d want him to be Dean. 

And Dean wouldn’t turn over Anna. So he didn’t.

Anna seemed to appreciate it. The angels seemed to be pissed off about it.

That made it, almost certainly, the right call.

“Delivery.” Dean’s voice was flatter than he wanted as he pushed open the door, but Sam also hadn’t let him finish his coffee. “Got you breakfast.”

Anna looked up from the panic room’s cot, offering Dean a small, appreciative smile. “Thank you, Dean.”

“Don’t.” He muttered, passing it into her hands. “Looks like Sammy burnt the toast, and I spilled a whole lot of the coffee coming down the stairs.”

That got a gentle laugh, but Anna still hummed a soft thanks as she took the food. “Sam said you were going to try and find me a psychic?”

“Yeah, uh,” Dean shifted on his feet, glancing around the mostly empty panic room. Filled with signals and concrete, so unbelievably cold. Later, he should bring Anna a sweater. “He’s putting an ad online, seeing if we get any real hits. Right now it’s just a lot of crazies.”

Anna frowned. “What’s wrong with the crazies?”

“They’re frauds.”

“Oh.” She paused, looking between Dean and her toast, and maybe if he walked away now he could avoid a conversation- “Thank you for your help, Dean. I know you have other things to be worrying about besides me.”

He did. He’d have to be an even bigger asshole to say that out loud. “’S fine.”

“Can I ask you something?”

Dean shrugged, and Anna paused, frowning at the air for a long second before she spoke.

“Am I… the first?”

“Uh, the first what?”

“Girl. That you’ve kept in here.”

Dean was lost. “Yes?”

“Are you-“

“Sweetheart, we don’t just keep girls in panic rooms-“

“Then whose are these?”

Anna nodded down to her side, and Dean realized that she’d been doing something, before he’d arrived. Scattered over the cot were torn pieces of paper, all scribbled on in slightly faded paper, all written in-

Son of a bitch.

“Where the fuck did you get those.” He grunted, and it was a harsher than he meant it, but that was Her goddamn handwriting, in that odd code only she seemed to understand. “Anna-“

“Ruby said they belonged to the girl before me.” Anna’s words were slow. Cautious. 

Dean was really fucking sick of being treated like a rabid dog, about to attack.

She’d never treat him like that. 

“Ruby said that.” Dean’s lip curled into a sneer, and he had to have a long talk with Sam about Ruby just being allowed to wander around Bobby’s house. “You showed these to her?”

Anna nodded nervously. “I- I just wanted to know if she knew who’d made them. They’re… incredibly intricate. And confusing.”

Dean’s gaze shot up from the notes as Anna’s words sunk in. “Can you fucking read them?”

“Yes?” Anna frowned back down to the notes. “I’m not sure how, and it- It makes my head hurt, but I can.”

“What does it-“

“I’m honestly- I don’t understand most of it. Whoever wrote this, they weren’t in a good state of mind. It’s a lot of… ramblings? And ideas?” Anna gave him an odd look. “Do you know? Who wrote them?”

“Yeah.” Dean muttered. He might not have a clue what those notes said, but he’d recognize anything of Her’s blindfolded. “It- You just found those things in here?”

“I did. Over there.”

Anna pointed to the other side of the room, at a large pile of old, woven blankets, and Dean marched over without a glance over his shoulder.

The blankets were cold. Tangled and itchy, and—when he moved them, rifling through them for any further sign of what he was already pretty damn sure was the truth—smelling of an unnamable fruit.

She’d been in here. Dean didn’t know how long ago, but She’d been in this panic room, wrapped in these blankets, and She left all those fucking notes that Anna-

Anna could read the notes. The girl who could tune into angel radio could read the same language She wrote in, the one that big tome had been written in, and that had to mean something but Dean didn’t have a damn clue what-

“Dean?”

He grunted, his hands still fisted in the blankets, and Anna cleared her throat.

“I- The girl who wrote these-“

Dean snapped Her name, because She wasn’t just a girl. He was getting really damn tired of people making Her just a girl, and not the most important and bright and awesome person in the universe. “She wrote those. That’s her handwriting.”

“Oh.” Anna paused, repeating Her name slowly. Dean didn’t hate how she said it, but it there wasn’t enough awe or glory in the tone. Anna didn’t seem to be appreciating the fact that they were all lucky to be blessed with even knowing of Her. “Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

“Okay, it’s just- This is-“ Anna sighed, and Dean glanced back to see her frowning back down at the notes. “I’m not sure how to describe it. I just know that these are made of a really, really old, dark… something.”

Dean raised his brows. “Something. What’d you mean, something.”

“I mean that magic isn’t a strong enough word.”

Of course it wasn’t. It was Her. No word was ever strong enough.

His girl could never make anything and simple.

He missed Her more than he’d missed the sun in Hell.

Dean grunted Her name, and he always said it right. Like it was a prayer. “She- It’s complicated.”

Anna blinked at him with confusion. That word was always fucking unhelpful.

So Dean tried again.

“She’s got a complex past-“

“Don’t we all?” Anna asked, and the question was innocent, but Dean still had to bite down a snarl.

“Not like her, we don’t. None of us do.”

Anna frowned. “I don’t know who I am, Dean. And I’m being hunted by demons and angels, and locked in a panic room-“

“You asked to be locked in the panic room-“

“Yes, but I just don’t think we should turn our suffering into a competition.”

That was a fair point. And if Dean thought about it for a few more seconds, he could acknowledge that maybe Anna would know a little about Her, and relate to what She’d been through.

But it felt different. Anna got to have them help her solve all her problems, while She was missing, and fighting for herself. Anna had some clues for what she was, and they had some leads they could follow. Every single thing they learned about Her—and whatever the hell She was—just offered more damn questions.  

And Anna didn’t know what the hell she was talking about. Anna hadn’t been tormented by pain her whole life, as far as Dean knew. Anna’s parents had been normal, and up until all this shit, she’d lead a nice and easy life.  

Anna had never had to listen to Dad ask a demon to kill her. And if she had, Dean was pretty damn sure she’d run for the hills.

But She’d stayed. Against all reason and odds, despite Dad doing everything to keep Her away from Dean, She’d always come back.

And nobody got act like they knew Her. No matter how kind and well-intentioned they were, nobody got to fucking speak about Her if it wasn’t with care and reverence.

“It’s not a competition.” Dean kept his voice low and even, and he was pretty sure he was going to throttle this blanket. “But if it was, we would even be in her fucking heat.”

Anna frowned at that, but Dean kept going before she could push back.

“All these wards, keeping you safe? She made them. Half the books in Bobby’s library are there for her, and she knows the lore better than anyone, and all this angel shit, she’d work it out like it was freakin’ breathing.”

“I-“

“Demons are afraid of her.” Dean snapped, and something was wrapping around his throat. “And she can kill anything. Doesn’t hunt with a gun because she doesn’t need it, been hunting since she was barely a fucking teenager, and all the angels should count themselves lucky she’s not here, because she’d kick their asses.”

“I know.” Anna’s voice was soft, and a lot of the fire died in Dean very quickly. He was being an asshole.

But he fucking missed Her. 

Missed Her smile and voice and laugh, missed Her sparring with him and never backing down, because—despite all previous evidence—She always seemed to trust Dean to not properly hurt Her. To have Her back. To be in Her wake and carry her to safety when she fell apart. Dean missed Her looking at him like he was worth something. Like Dean, just Dean, was enough for Her. Like She could see the gaping pit inside of him, see just how deep and tragic it was, and always seemed to decide that it was never too deep for Her to walk away.

It might be too deep now. He was snapping at girls he’d locked in basements, and he could still always slightly taste the metallic blood he’s spilled in Hell, and She might want nothing to do with him now.

But Her spitting in his face would always be better than anyone—Sam or Bobby or fucking Anna, who barely even knew him—looking at Dean with pity. Soft, cushioning fucking pity that he hadn’t earned, and didn’t deserve. 

“You know.” He muttered, giving Anna a flat look. “What, angels having a little chat about my-“ Dean cut himself off with Her name, and prayed Anna hadn’t caught his slip.

Anna just shrugged and hummed. 

He was probably safe.  

“The angels don’t… Every mention I’ve heard of that name, they’ve been confused. Like even they’re not sure to make of her.”

Dean swallowed, and something chilled over his bones. “But they talk about her.”

“Yes. A lot. Ruby said-“

“You talked to Ruby about this?”

Anna had the decency to blush with slightly shame, but it didn’t stop Dean’s hands from curling into fists.

“The fuck did Ruby say about her,” he grunted, and Anna sighed.

“That she was a distrusting, paranoid, self-important bitch. That I shouldn’t bring her up around you, because your judgement about her is, um.” Anna swallowed, tucking some hair behind her ears. “Clouded.”

Dean was going to fucking kill Ruby. Sam could cry about it all he wanted, Dean was going to fucking kill her.

“Ruby,” Dean grunted through his teeth. “Is a fucking liar.”

“She’s been kind to me-“

“Because you trust her.” He snapped Her name, and Anna’s mouth snapped shut. “She and Ruby never got along, and Ruby doesn’t know what the hell she’s talking about. I fucking told you, my girl, she’s a fucking fighter, and Ruby’s just never liked that she won’t go along with whatever the fuck the bitch says. Ruby hates that she’s not in control.” Dean said Her name again, and something to the right of his heart was pounding. “She’s not fucking self-important. She just doesn’t let people fucking walk all over her, and she fights for what she wants. She fought for me, and I-“

He’d died. 

He’d left Her, and now she was gone.

And Anna’s head was bowed, and Dean felt like a dick, but he’d do it again. She wasn’t self-important. She’d damn near let herself waste away, just for Dean. And She’d done it right until the very end. 

And he missed Her.

“I-“ Anna’s voice was barely a whisper. “Okay. I’m sorry.”

Dean let out a long breath, running a hand over his face. “Thanks. I shouldn’t have yelled.”

Anna nodded, meeting Dean’s gaze with a small frown. “She sounds like she’s… really important to you.”

“Yeah. She is.”

And there weren’t enough words for it in the world for it. For how much he missed Her. How much he wanted Her. How there was something just to the right of his heart of that would never rest until he knew She was safe, and would ache for Her every single second until She was at his side again.

Anna let him take the notes back upstairs, and Dean gave another mumbled half-apology that didn’t even sound sincere to his own ears.

He’d try again later. When there was less to deal with, and his head wasn’t spinning faster than he could keep up with. 

Because Anna could read the language. And the rituals She made were from an old, dark something—not a helpful description at all—but in a language that existed outside of just Her insane family.

There was a chance She could hear angel radio, too. Maybe she wasn’t coming home because She could hear all the angels shit talking Her, and saying things about Dean he’d wanted to tell Her—She’d find out on Her own if he didn’t, She was too smart and important to hide things from—but she’d now heard from feathered douchebags who weren’t going to be able to explain to Her why. If Dean told Her everything, he’d be able to sink to his knees and ask Her to stay with him anyway. To tell Her that he’d never let anything hurt Her again, if She let him be her shadow. That he was broken and evil, but he was still Her’s, if She’d have him.

He’d never be brave enough to say it like that. 

But he still wanted to. 

And knowing his life, Dean never got what he fucking wanted. So the angels had probably told Her of how he’d become barely better than a demon, and She’d run, because who wouldn’t. 

Maybe if Dean solved this puzzle for Her, figured out what She was, with this odd lead was clutched in his hands as he climbed back up the stairs, She’d smile at him one last time. 

He could figure this out.

For Her, Dean could do anything.

Bobby was back from the grocery store. Standing at the fridge and talking to Sam in a low voice about something Dean really didn’t fucking care about.

He slammed the notes down on the table, and Bobby and Sam both looked over to him with wide eyes.

“Dean, are you-“

“You got some explaining to do, Bobby.” Dean cut Sam off with a hiss, shoving the notes across the table. 

“Explainin’?” Bobby raised his brows as Sam pulled the notes forward. “Boy, I don’t know what the hell has gotten into you-“

Dean snapped Her name, and Bobby tensed. “Those are her’s. And Anna found them in your panic room-“

“Dean,” Sam muttered, examining the notes with a frown. “These- Isn’t this the same language as that book she stole from her family?”

“Yes. Not the point, Sam-“

“I mean, it’s not a real language, and if it’s a code I can try to break it after I find the psychic-“

“It’s not a code.” Dean grunted. “It’s like- A magic language. Anna can read it, but-“

“Anna can read it?” Sam was gaping at him. This really wasn’t the fucking point. “What- how?”

“I don’t know. Bobby-“

“Dude, what if Anna knows what-“

“She doesn’t. Says the angels don’t either. I-“

“That’s not right.” Sam frowned back down to the notes. “At Chuck’s, that bald guy obviously knew, and maybe, uh, Cas might know too-“

“Cas doesn’t know. And even if he did, it’s not like we’re on chummy terms with him right now-“

“Yeah, but maybe-“

“Sam,” Bobby grunted, watching Dean far too carefully. Like he already knew what was about to happen. “Now ain’t the time.”

“Bobby, you should be on this, it’s-“

Bobby said Her name with a sigh, and Dean whole fucking body whined. “I know, that’s why I think we should hear about whatever the hell is buggin’ your brother that’s got him slammin’ on tables and shoutin’.”

Dean scowled. He was not shouting. He was talking firmly.

“You got somethin’ you want to say to me, Dean-“

Dean said Her name, holding Bobby’s firm gaze. “You were locking her up in your panic room.”

“No, I wasn’t.”

“Don’t fucking lie to me, Bobby, those blankets fucking smelled like her-“

“Why do you know what she smells like, Dean?” Sam’s grin was shit-eating, and it was going to get knocked off his fucking face with all his teeth. Sam knew Dean thought about how She smelled, he knew why Dean thought about it, he was being an asshole-

“Shut your face, Sam-“

“No, Dean.” Bobby’s tone was deadly. Dean should’ve brought his gun. “Why don’t ya’ explain why you got my little girl’s smell memorized?”

“I- This isn’t about that!” He regained his fury and footing, every word spat through his teeth. “This is about why the fuck you were locking her up-“

“I told ya, I wasn’t-“

“You were!” Dean roared. “You fucking were! And now she’d fucking gone, and you never bothered to fucking look for her-“

“Dean.”

Sam’s voice was a careful warning. Dean barely heard it over the blood in his ears, and on his hands, and chocking his breath because they’d lost Her, they’d fucking lost Her and now Dean couldn’t find her-

“None of you fucking cared about her! You’re letting Ruby run around and shit-talk her, and you’re locking her up like a fucking animal, and Dad tried to have her fucking killed-“

“Dean Adam Winchester.” Bobby snapped, and Dean’s whole body went rigid. Braced for something that never came, as Bobby only glowered at him from across the kitchen.

Bobby hadn’t know about Dad’s deal with Azazel. Dean could it all over the fury on his face, that She’d hidden it from everyone, Bobby included. For Her own, fucking insane reasons, She’d lied to everyone about it. And Dean had fucked up. He never knew how to stop, and he’d fucked up, and he was lower than the mud-

“I didn’t lock her up.” Bobby grunted, and there was something in his voice that could probably send an angel running for the hills. “She started lockin’ herself up, after she fuckin’ chased you to the goddamn hospital when you were dyin’, then came back cryin’ and tellin’ me she needed to start runnin’ again. I thought she was runnin’ from the pain, but it turns out you got some news for me.”

“He didn’t know, Bobby.” Sam mumbled. “Neither of us did until Chuck told us-“

“Told you what. That your Daddy tried to fuckin’ kill my kid?”

“Azazel.” Dean muttered, something very deep in his muscle tissue shriveling away. “Dad asked Azazel to kill her.”

Bobby’s jaw ticked. Dean was going to get shot. “You two are fuckin’ idjits-“

Sam swallowed. “Bobby, we didn’t know-“

“And I don’t give a flyin’ pig’s ass what you knew. I care that you, Sam are lettin’ me take all the fuckin’ heat for losing her when you’re the one who ran off with a damn demon the moment your brother kicked it. And you,” Bobby turned to Dean with a sneer, and now Dean was going to get shot. “I am not your fuckin’ father. I’ve known that girl’s somethin’ special since she grabbed my face and told me that the flowers like how I sing. You’ve heard me sing, I sound like shit, but she said the flowers liked it and hell, I believed her.”

Dean understood that. It was just how loving Her was. She said something, and it was true, and there was no room for questioning it because they truest law of the universe was whatever the hell She said it was.

“That girl is the light of my fuckin’ life,” Bobby hissed, still holding Dean’s gaze. “And if I had been smarter I woulda stayed with ‘er when you two went chasin’ Lilith. She runs Dean, and she’s damn good at it, and no one ain’t ever been fast enough to catch her. But if you think for one fuckin’ second I don’t leave my porch light on every night just in case she needs to open the door, you’re a hell of a lot more stupid than I thought. Just cause John tried to get her away from you don’t mean the rest of us are to fuckin’ blame for it, Dean. And that includes you.”

There was a long, heavy silence as Bobby just glared at him, and Dean felt something crushing his ribs. Someone had to be to blame. There needs to be something he could fight, someone who could bleed, because She was lost and everything in Dean was hurting, and there had to be something he could punch and beat into the concrete to make this better-

“Go walk it off.” Bobby grunted, and Dean shook his head. Weak. He was fucking weak.

“Bobby, I-“

“I know you- I know what she is to you. Same as I know what you are to her. Jesus, Dean, the only reason you ain’t gettin’ kicked out to sleep it off is cause I know that if she do come back tonight and you ain’t here, we’ll never fuckin’ see her again.”

Those words might have hit deeper in Dean’s body than Bobby had meant it. It might have snapped something in him then fused it back, all in half a second, and Dean-

He needed to walk it off.

It was dark outside. Dark and cold, and the wind was biting at his skin, and the last time he’d been out here at night had been-

He didn’t want to think about that. If he thought about that his legs might give out, and he might roar loud enough that the engines in the junkyard would howl back, and the whole world would stop turning for just a second, all to join in on the demand that She was safe.

Not even home, just safe. Not in the hands of Lilith, or being hunted by angels or Hell’s Assassin’s, or, son of a bitch, Alistair was top side, and knew about Dean’s… care for Her.

He’d taunted him about it, when Dean was still on the rack. Told him words that had to be lies, but hurt all the same. That Dean had always been right, thinking She deserved better, but he’d also been right thinking that he was the only one who knew how to hold Her right. That without Dean, She was going to go on and settle down with some rich Hollywood douchebag, and they’d have a happy little apple pie life, and she’d never look back to see if Dean was behind her again. That her husband would neglect her, and she’d keep having episodes that made the whole world bend into her, and then one day she’d implode on herself and join Dean down here.

“And I’ll make you watch, of course.” Alistair had hummed, turning over a blade in his hands. “That can be your new torture, for a few thousand years. Watching your Princess get carved up, watchin’ me touch her everywhere you were too much of a little fuckin’ pussy to, and listening to her curse your name. Oh, she’ll hate you, Dean. Hate that you left her to kill herself, even though we all knew it would happen eventually. To think you could’ve saved her, if you hadn’t let her destroy herself in your pathetic, unimportant name-“ 

Dean had spat on him, but the words had hurt more than the knife in his skin, the very next second. 

And if Alistair had Her, there was someone who could bleed, but-

There might not be anything left of Her to retrieve.

“Dean.”

He didn’t even bother to shout at Cas for popping up without warning, or doing it when Dean felt like was about to goddamn cry. Dean just rubbed his face with a hand, and tried to not let his words be as empty as he felt. “Cas, now’s not really a good time, try again when you’re not looking to kill innocent girls-

“I am not here about Anna Milton.”

That got Dean to turn around, and Cas was a few feet away, staring at him with an unreadable expression.

And there was something behind it.

Dean just didn’t have a damn clue what. 

“You gonna elaborate, dude?”

Cas said Her name. Slowly. Like he’d been practicing. “I have located her.”

“Cas, if this is some sort of twisted fucking joke or play to get Anna-“

“It is neither.” Cas titled his head, the odd expression deepening. “I believe you’d call it a peace offering. I wish you no harm, Dean, and this is meant to show that.”

Dean’s heart might not be beating. Time may not be moving. “And what, you think we’re just going to be buddy-buddy again because you might have found-“

“I did find her.” Cas said with a frown. “It is… Not possible to replicate or possess her.”

“So why aren’t you running back to your big bosses in the sky, telling them-“

“Because of the peace offering.” Cas said, like it was fucking simple. “I am afraid I am not able to bend on Anna, but this- I am under no orders to find her. This is of my own volition.”

“So you just, what? Combed over the earth until you found her?”

“No, I didn’t use any type of brush-“

“It’s a- Never mind.” Dean glanced back to Bobby’s house. To the flickering light on the porch. “How sure are you that you-“

“Positive. As of exactly three minutes ago, she is checked into a motel in Mission, Texas, United States of America.” Cas paused, watching Dean carefully. “Dean, if you are to… retrieve her, it may go badly for you both. Many of my brothers and sisters do not understand what she is, but we have been told that she cannot be allowed to interfere with our work.”

Dean narrowed his eyes. “Well, I hate to break it to you Cas, but your bosses might count this as interfering-“

Cas shook his head. “The area around her is scrambled. She is an anomaly of our knowledge, and she had quite an odd effect on our grace.”

“Then how’d you-“

“I cannot linger, Dean.” Cas sighed, glancing up the sky. “Being near her has given me a brief amount of cover, but it will wear off soon. We will be back soon for Anna. I hope you and Sam come to your senses and that you,” Cas paused, and let out a long, slow sigh. “Make the right choice.”

Cas vanished, and Dean didn’t care if he was talking about Anna.

The only right choice was going after Her.

And he knew there was a world where She’d seen his soul and hate him. Know what Dean had done, and despise him for it. 

But he’d rather—selfishly, weakly, fucking pathetically—see Her one last time. If She cast him down and away, spit on him and left him to rot, at least he would seen Her, and known that she was okay. If She’d come to her senses about him while he was gone, at least he’d had Her, just in a fleeting moment before She returned to whatever Heaven she was made for, and Dean crawled back to the mud knowing he’d been smiled at by a god.

He’d give Her his fucking heart and whatever shreds of his soul were left, and even if She threw them away, at least Dean would have made his offering. 

At least She’d know that Dean was still with Her, all the way down. 

——————

Your guts are in your hands. You’re going to have nightmares about this for the rest of your life.

And you wouldn’t call yourself safe.

But at least you’re fucking free.

You’d started driving the day Dean came back. The phone had hung up, you’d looked up to the sky, and it had flickered in warning. But your silent words had been an oath. You were going to get home, and if the Sky had a fucking problem with that, it could come down and try to restrain you itself.

Even then it wouldn’t work.

You were going back to Dean.

You’d wanted to go straight back to him. To drive and drive until you pulled into Bobby’s yard, and you could burst through the door, and he would be there, in the kitchen. You’d fall into his arms and his body would be warm because he was alive, then you’d cling to him until the world was Silver in a way that wasn’t painful, and all of Dean’s Gold was stained on your shirt and pants and skin. Until it would take a tidal wave to wash him away.

A tidal wave you’d never let touch you, or Dean. You’d be home, and you’d be able to keep him alive. This time you wouldn’t fail him. If Lilith came for him, you wouldn’t hesitate to crush Her with the Silver. If Dean—the beautiful, amazing, clever dumbass—made another demon deal, you’d wipe it off his soul then strangle him for doing that to you twice.

Then you’d hug him, and hold him, and he’d be fucking alive.

You might have traded the whole world just to be allowed to hold Dean. Sooner, and forever. To be permitted to crawl into his lap, and wrap your legs around his torso, then just fucking stay there. The Sky wouldn’t see you, and nothing would hurt Dean because you’d be there, and monsters never hurt you.

Monsters never hurt you. 

Humans did not have the same reservations.

You’d been distracted. Ketch and Davis only caught up to you because apparently, whatever was funding their fancy suits was also funding their fucking planes and cars. You’d been driving the Firebird, and it was a beautiful car that you wouldn’t give up for anything, but no amount of Dean’s mechanical skills could make a car that was older than you were faster than a plane. 

The distraction had come from the combination of the Silver—rocketing around your body and the world, restless until you could look at Dean and know he was safe—and the fact that you’d been rushing. Sloppy. Careless. Half your body had been coffee and off-brand energy drinks, and the other half had been gas station slop that would’ve made Dean proud, but only made you a little sick. 

You hadn’t been eating much before he came back. You could barely stomach healthy food without feeling like you were going to vomit. And Dean may be alive, but the light that was spinning and humming and refracting through the Spiderweb couldn’t repair months of damage to your body. 

And if it could, you hadn’t had the energy or power or time to find out.

You’d needed to get home. And if sleeping four hours every other day—a small part of you still rotting with fear that you’d fall asleep, and dream of Dean in Hell once more—and only eating sparsely when you stopped to refill your gas got you home faster, so be it. 

It hadn’t been healthy. You’d known that.

But knowing had never helped. And you’d just really fucking wanted to get home to Dean.

So your body had been weak. And the Silver had been suffering from your neglect as well, and the world had been slightly blurry, and Ketch and Davis had gotten the fucking jump on you.

They must have known they’d only get one shot. That once they showed that they’d been tracking and following you—with their cryptic fucking ways—you would fortify. Account for it, and adjust, and the chance would slip through their fingers.

It hadn’t. 

They’d found you in Monterrey, Mexico. A few hours from the border. So fucking close.

The Firebird had been left in the motel. They’d told you that.

Maybe not told you.

But you’d heard it.

“What should we do about her car?” That had been Davis, off to one side as they transported you like fucking cargo. Iron cuffs around your wrists, a cloth gag in your mouth—they still didn’t seem to fully grasp that gagging you really didn’t do fucking shit—and your legs bound as you’d been laid in the back of the van.

They’d at least given you a pillow. 

That had likely been Davis. And you’d bet a lot of money it was Ketch who’d knocked you out with a blow to the back of your head before the Silver could pick up on a threat and riot.

It had at least given you an advantage. 

They hadn’t known you were awake and listening. 

“Leave it. It’s a scrap of shit from the 70s, we won’t even be able to sell it for a proper gain.” Ketch’s voice had been dismissive. Bored. 

You’d had to fight the urge to sit up, spit out your gag, and hiss at him that it wasn’t a scrap of shit, it was an amazing car that Dean had made for you, and only about forty-five percent of it was actually from the 70s, because Dean was fantastic with cars and he’d made this one with a million different modern parts, so Ketch could suck your fucking dick.

You hadn’t done that. It wouldn’t have done you any favors, and this way, you’d been able to keep that in the back of your head.

They’d left your car in the lot. And it was old, so no one would try to steal it. 

If they did, you’d track it down and take it back. It was your car, and there was no fucking way you were going back to Dean only to tell him you’d lost his gift. He might say it was fine, and he’d just build you another one, but you didn’t want him to have to do that. You wanted to have some sort of proof to show him that you had been waiting, and missing him, and loving him, and you would’ve spilled blood for that car because it was a little piece of Dean that got to be yours, so you’d cared for it.

Saying that the car was still there had been their first mistake. 

The second had been keeping you in Mexico. Where you could get back to your car, once you broke out.

Because there had been no fucking way you weren’t going to break out. Ketch and Davis could tie you up where the fuck they wanted, and starve you and torture you and weaken you further, but you were always going to break out.

The only reason it had taken so long was that the state they’d been keeping you in hadn’t done your exhaustion any favors.

“We’ve learned better than you try and ship you over, after your little display in Bolivia.” Ketch had drawled, sitting a carefully distance away and watching you with a smirk. “But our doctors are quite… fascinated by you.”

You’d rolled your eyes, and kept your mouth shut. They’d taken off your gag, but entertaining Ketch’s mocking might be worse torture than anything.

“You know, if you behave, we might offer you a partnership. A little tit for tat. You’re an American, we have limited ability to work in America, and you’re obviously far more disciplined than their dogs of hunters-“

That had gotten you to narrow your eyes, and Ketch had caught it.

“Interesting. Would you consider yourself a hunter? Even with your affliction?”

No entertaining him. You couldn’t entertain him, if only for your own dignity. 

“Do the other American hunters know of what you are? Do you know what you are?”

You’d bitten down on your tongue until you tasted blood, and Ketch had sighed. 

“You know, darling, it doesn’t matter if you won’t speak to me. Once our experts get here, they will ensure you’re cooperative.”

He’d got up and left, and if you could’ve, you would’ve laughed in his face.

In a way, you had.

Their experts had arrived the next afternoon. You’d been tied to the same chair, Davis across from you with a small frown, trying to get you to talk to him.

“You know, you are the first case that’s required me to have a gun.” He’d hummed, and you’d blinked at him. “I am not usually put on these types of missions, but you have fascinated us. Witches are usually quite easy. They go down fast, with a dirty fight, but you have evaded us longer than anyone. And I do not believe you are a witch.”

You’d only stared at him, and he’d pressed further.

“I went back to retrieve your possessions, yesterday.” Davis had watched you carefully, and you’d forced your face to remain neutral. “You have very few personal belongings.”

That had been true before Dean’s death. And everything you hadn’t had on you the day you left was still at Bobby’s. 

You really hoped these douchebags didn’t find out about Bobby. Or Dean. Or Sam.

Especially Sam. Given the whole special child thing, they wouldn’t treat him well, and whatever partnership Ketch had been implying earlier likely wouldn’t extended to a boy with demon blood.

“Please tell me if I missed anything,” Davis had continued, pulling out a small notepad. “Your bag continued a flask filled with water, and I’m afraid we had to empty it for precautions, but the flask itself remains intact.“

You’d scowled at that. That had not been fucking water, and it had taken you a whole fucking day to get it.

“There was also a book.” Davis had frowned at you, and the curiosity on his face had almost been genuine. “It is not something I’ve seen before, which, I hope you understand, is quite rare. I have to ask, are you capable of reading it? Do you think you could provide me with a translation to English?”

That had gotten a reaction. You’d sat up straighter with an obvious confusion all over your face, because that copy was English. It was made of all the same, slightly floating and shifting words that were on the Blade—that spelled out woman of the high—but they were in English. You could only read in English, and—after your time in South America—some shoddy Portuguese and Spanish. 

You’d been able to read that book since you were a kid. It had been one of the reasons you’d been yelled at, by your grandfather, because you couldn’t just go around claiming to know what you did not understand.

And Davis had seen your obvious reaction, but he’d misread it. Taken it for defiance, and let out a long sigh before moving all.

“I suppose now isn’t the best time to be make offers. I did tell Arthur you’d be more cooperative if we didn’t treat you like an animal, but he- Never mind. We’ll discuss it later. Now,” he’d looked back down to his list. “Your jacket was on the bed, and I found a little note from DW in one of the pockets.” Davis had raised his brows and you, and the Silver had bucked pathetically in your chest.

The pain of the possible concussion Ketch had given you, combined with your exhaustion, had been holding it down. But the mention of Dean had made the Spiderweb flare, and had jolted the Silver, and your gag had disintegrated in your mouth.

Davis’ eyes had widened. “How-“

“What else did you find in my jacket.” You’d snapped, and he’d shaken his head.

“Ah- Just two knives. But-“

“Did you touch them?”

“No, that would go against protocol-

“Good.” You’d muttered, rubbing your palm, your hands still tied behind your back. “Don’t.”

Davis had frowned at you. “I-“

Ketch had burst through the door with a woman whose soul was a flat, slate-like color—almost nothing under it, made of the same parts of the earth where life could never grow—and Davis had been dismissed.

He’d given you one last odd look, before he left, and you think Sam would’ve liked him, if he hadn’t chosen whatever this was as a career. They both had a habit of asking too many questions at all the worst possible times. 

And you were grateful, because now you’d known about their third mistake.

They’d taken your stuff. The stuff Dean had given you, that you’d do anything to get back.

The first week had continued to pass. It had been long, and tedious, and painful, but you’d spent your whole life drowning yourself in pain. No matter how weakened you’d made yourself, there was nothing they could do to you that you hadn’t already done to yourself.

It wasn’t like you could answer their questions, even if you fucking wanted to. You had maybe less answers than they did.

“Would you consider yourself a witch?”

You’d shrugged at the cold woman, keeping your voice bored. “I dunno. Would you?”

The woman’s jaw had ticked. “This is not a conversation. Answer my question.”

You’d only hummed, swinging your feet a little off the floor. “Witch is such a loaded word, right? I mean, between Salem and the persecutions with Protestantism, there’s just such a complex history. And what is magic if not science that the general public doesn’t get to know about-“

“Arthur.” The woman had snapped, and Ketch had moved in a flash. 

You don’t think they knew that the only reason you hadn’t killed them all by then was because of the torture. Because that external pain was great enough for the Silver to balk and whine, and you were too weak and tired to drag it to the surface. 

“Let’s try again,” the woman had hummed when Ketch finally backed away, your skin cold and dripping wet, your breaths coming in ragged, shallow sounds. “Would you consider yourself a witch.”

“No, but I’d consider you one- Sorry.” You’d given her a soft, sweet smile. “I meant bitch, that’s my-“

The rag had gone back over your face.

But you didn’t break easy. 

“If you’re not a witch,” Davis had asked a few days later, when Ketch and the Bitch had left for the night. “What would you consider yourself?”

You’d shrugged in your binds. “Not sure. But I am taking suggestions.”

“Suggestions?” Davis had repeated, watching with a frown. “You are… Aware of what you are?”

You’d given him a grimacing smile—there really was no point in lying—and he’d given you a curious look.

“Interesting.”

If he’d passed it on to the Bitch and Ketch, their methods and questions hadn’t changed. 

“Are you a witch?”

“Yes, but only when I need a last-minute Halloween costume.”

“How did that book come into your possession?”

“Technically, it’s not in my possession.”

“You know what I am asking, you snide little creature-“

“Do I?”

Dean would be proud of you.

You missed him. 

But he was alive. The whole time, nothing in you really broke because Dean was alive, and nothing could really break you more than his death had. Where the Silver was whining and howling for him, the Spiderweb kept you peacefully tethered. You didn’t have the luxury of exploding fully—there was a possibly unfounded, but entirely certain fear that, after weeks and weeks of build-up, you’d explode and hurt a little more than the assholes keeping you locked up—but you were still alive.

And the woman had gotten frustrated quite fast. You like to think you’d learned to drive her insane from years of watching Dean talk in circles around people, just like this.

He really would’ve been proud. Once he got past being pissed about the whole kidnapped and tortured thing, he’d be proud.

And then there was mistake four. 

One of the agents—you’d thought it was just the three who never seemed to have anything better to do than talk to you, but apparently, they had a whole operation going on in Mexico—had been a fucking idiot, and touched the Blade.

The Silver had flared, when they’d told you. You’d never let anyone touch it. It had just been an instinct in your body, of no one should hold the hilt but you. When Sam had examined it, you’d made him wear Bobby’s kitchen mitts, or use a cloth. You’d slapped Dean’s hand away countless time, apologizing for the hit but knowing you’d do it again in a heartbeat, because no one should touch it. Ever. It’s yours. Made for you, only for you, and nobody else.

“Are they okay?” You’d whispered, and Davis had blinked at you.

You don’t think he expected you to actually care. But that instinct didn’t come from nowhere, and if whatever soul stuff was going on with you really was forbidden as Letitia had implied, that agent might be-

“He’s gone mad.” Davis had said, and you’d swallowed.

Better than dead. But only a bit.

“The doctor and Arthur will return soon.”

“Cool.” You’d shrugged, had Davis had sighed.

“They are not pleased with you,” he’d said your name gently, and you’d snorted.

“Well, they can get in line.”

“You are a remarkable woman, I am sure if you cooperated-“

“Look,” you’d raised your chin, holding Davis’ gaze. “I’m not interested in cooperating, and I cannot emphasize enough how little I care about your operation, and questions, and torture.”

“Our methods have been… ineffective.” Davis had muttered under his breath. “May I ask who trained you to withstand such proven tactics?”

“I did.” 

Davis had blinked at that. His words turning slow and measured. “Is there anything we could do? To sway you in our favor?”

You’d given him a flat look. “Stop torturing me.”

“That’s not unreasonable.” He’d nodded, and if you didn’t think you’d cough up blood, you would’ve laughed. “I’ll see what I can do.”

What he could do ended up amounting to them feeding you. The woman didn’t cease her questions—if anything, they increased, becoming harsher and more specific—and Ketch became, somehow, more of an asshole, but you were eating.

It was their fifth mistake. The moment you weren’t on the brink of starvation, the Silver started to grow comfortable again. Started to settle and build, and you were more than fucking ready to go home.

“Mick thinks you’d be a good addition to our forces.” Ketch had hummed, when it was just you and him in your carpeted prison. “I think he has a soft spot for intriguing things. You’re lucky you’re not his type, or he might be proposing every time you confused him.”

You’d gotten really sick of rolling your eyes, so you’d just sighed. “Yeah, well, he’s not my type either. And I tend not to accept proposals from people holding me prisoner.”

Ketch had given you a wolf-like smile. All teeth, no light, crawling over your skin. “And what is your type, darling?”

You had one type. Pretty green eyes and messy short hair, an infuriating and boyish smile, leaving Gold everywhere he went and holding your hand in a way that made you certain you’d kill something with your teeth so you never had to let go.

“I don’t think I have one.” You’d shrugged, twisting the skin on your finger, your hands still tied behind your back. “And if you’re building up to a proposal, I’d like to remind you of my prisoner rule.”

Ketch’s grin had grown. “And if I wasn’t keeping you prisoner?”

You’d been unable to stop your snort. “Dude, you can’t be serious-“

“You must know how beautiful you are,” Ketch had hummed, and the Silver had hissed and boiled in your chest. “Even if they don’t have mirrors in America, you must have spent a lifetime fending off suitors.”

“We have mirrors.” You’d said, your tone flat. You wouldn’t entertain this. And if Ketch was smart, he’d have dropped it there.

But he hadn’t.

Sixth mistake.

You could feel the Silver coiling. Tightening. 

Getting ready to burst. 

“You seem to have been running for a while,” Ketch had said your name, and it had sounded wrong. Too soft, too simple, barely even a word. “I’m sure you’d want to rest, and we have far more luxury to offer you than any brutish, American hunters ever could.“

Seventh mistake. 

Your lips had curled in a tight smirk, and you hadn’t bothered to hide the venom in your voice as you spoke. 

“Maybe not,” your smile had grown impossible full-lipped and sweet. If Ketch had used his brain, he would’ve seen it for the warning it was. “But at least they’ve never had to tie a girl up to talk to her.”

Ketch had laughed. “Oh, I’m sure they’re fun for a night, darling, but if they knew what you were? They’d kill you in a heartbeat. No offers of making use of your curse.”

For a half a second, an image of Dean holding you right to his chest as you sobbed had crashed through your head, his voice ringing in your ears.

Come home.

Dean knew what you were. And he was alive, and he wanted you to come home.

It sparked over the Spiderweb. A righteous fury—born of them daring to keep you from Dean, then act like he wasn’t the best thing in the fucking universe—overtaking your body. That there might be American hunters that would kill you, but you still had Bobby and Rufus and Sam and Jo and Ellen and Dean, and they’d do more than make use of you.

They’d hold you. 

And these fuckdicks had been keeping you from them.

Then, right as the Silver started to almost swell, humming and running under your skin, clawing to be set out, to set you free, Ketch made the eighth mistake.

The last one. 

Ketch’s hand had cupped your face, and it was sweaty and clammy, and then you were everything. 

The smooth exhaustion of the lights they’d been keeping on for weeks, right over your head. The itch of the carpet and the wear of the chair and the tension of the walls, too fucking tired from holding up the ceiling. 

You could relieve them. The same way you could relieve the chair of your weight.

Ketch had gone flying across the room, and you hadn’t bothered to look at him as you’d—rubbing your wrists where the bounds had fallen away—stepped over his dazed body. 

The wall deserved a break. And they relaxed just enough to cave in the room, and trap Ketch inside.

He’d be fine. They’d dig him out later, once you were long, long gone. 

It had taken a minute to find where they’d been keeping your possessions, and you’d barely open the box—marked with your first name in neat, little cursive letters—in the storage room when the alarms began. Blaring and deafening and pair with flashing lights and fuck, they’d been loud-

But you’d almost been free. 

And the Silver was still burning you into everywhere in the world.

So you’d shrugged on your jacket, grabbed your knife and flask and keys, and felt a little of the earth shake beneath your feet when you’d realized what was missing. 

The Blade and the Book. 

Fuck.

There wasn’t enough time to look for them, or find them, and god fucking Christ, all these assholes were British, maybe they’d fucking shipped your shit across the fucking ocean-

A problem for you in a week. When you were home, with Dean.

When someone wasn’t bursting through the door, and aiming a gun at your chest.

You didn’t have the Blade, but you had your knife. 

You’d be fine.

It was easier than it maybe should’ve been, to fight your way out. The halls had been dark, and you’d still been so fucking tired, but you hadn’t stopped moving for a second and by the time the second agent fired right over your shoulder, the blur kicked in.

These people were just a different kind of monster.

And you were really fucking good at fighting monsters. 

Your knife had spun in your hands—the world flashing and fading in and out of focus around you—and didn’t aim to kill. Every cut had been measured to cause harm, but not death. The worst was a man who grabbed you by the neck, and ended with a gash from his cheek to the base of his neck.

And you could see the daylight, and you were so fucking close, and-

The air had been hot and flat. If the jacket around your body wasn’t one of the only things you owned that was yours, you would’ve had to leave it on the sidewalk.

Instead you’d run. Ignored the stares of pedestrians, prayed no one called in a sighting of a woman covered in blood, staggering down the streets with a knife, and kept fucking running until-

Somehow, after almost a month, your car was still there.

The headlights were bashed in.

You should’ve killed Ketch while you had the chance.

But the Firebird had started—when you see Dean again, you’re going to buy him so much pie he’ll fall in love with you—and you’re fucking gone.

It’s only when you’d cross the border—with falsified papers, but that’s maybe your least severe crime of the afternoon—that the blur had fully faded. They won’t follow you into the States. You’d heard Davis and Ketch mentioning a lot about jurisdictions before. 

You’re safe. 

Safer.

Because the blur fades and you feel a little faint. And when you glance down for half a second, you see it.

Blood seeping through your clothing, hot and sticky. 

Fresh. 

Yours.

Fuck.

You’ll get through this. You always do.

You just have to get through this, and then you can go home. 

There’s just enough money on your card to get you a motel room for the night. It’s a shitty, creaking floorboard and concrete shower motel, but it’s got a bed. 

The woman behind the desk surveys you with raised brows as you lean against the wall, and you offer her a weak smile.

“Roleplaying convention.” You mumble, twisting the skin on your finger. “We like to be realistic.”

You’re not sure how she buys it, but you get the key, no other questions, and no cops come knocking on your door.

It takes a minute to heal the wound. It was a bullet shot, right to your abdomen, and your head is still spinning with dehydration and exhaustion and the weight of the past months crashing into you.

Dean’s alive, and you’d promised him you’d come home, but then you hadn’t.

And what if he thought that you weren’t. That you’d decided to leave him, and you simply weren’t worth the effort of looking for. What if he was looking for you, and he was putting himself in danger for it, and before you ever even saw him again you’d feel the Spiderweb go dark once more, and you would’ve missed your chance, and the Sky was still watching, but it hadn’t bothered to rescue you, so what the fuck was it even for then-

Dean wouldn’t just give up on you like that. He was a stubborn asshole, and even if he didn’t love you, he would never just abandon you. 

But he didn’t know what you’d done. What you’d become, while he was gone.

He might walk away once he learned. It would be for the better. You were still sick, still incurable. And you’d embraced it, when you should’ve been fighting it.

Dean wouldn’t be looking for the monster. She was what he’d find, when he found you, but until then you’ll cling to the idea that you’re going to knock on Bobby’s door and Dean would only hold you. Only tell you he missed you.

You’ll torture yourself with that thought later. 

Right now, you’re still bleeding out on the motel floor. 

The shot went through your body, and when you bite down on your tongue and carefully press on the wound with the palm of your hand, the Silver flowing into a soft, easy harmony as you focus on Dean.

He’s not here, but he’s alive. Safe. You’ll see him soon, and even if he pushes you away, you’ll get the chance to wash yourself in Gold. To have him with you all the time, just a little longer.

You love him. You don’t know how you’re going to tell him, when you see him. You might not.

He deserves more than to be loved by something wrong and dark and sick. That doesn’t stop you from loving him, but it does remind you that he’s been through enough, and you don’t need to give him the extra burden of gently turning you down.

And it would make things awkward, between everyone.

It might be better if you just never-

A low hiss pushes between your teeth, and the Spiderweb is straining at the thought of Dean turning you away, making the Silver flicker and weaken, and the wound opens up-

Shit.

Only good things. You’re going to see Bobby again soon, and you’ll make him slightly burnt pancakes as an apology for leaving, which he’ll accept it with a grunt when you bring out the whipped cream. You can tell Sam about all the monsters you found in South America, and talk to Jo about anything but hunting so you can both feel a little more normal, and Dean-

You’ll be able to touch him. And there will be color in his cheeks and heat in his body, and he’ll look at you. After months of nightmares, Dean will look at you. And he’ll say your name, and everything will maybe be okay.

You love him. 

And if you have to, you’ll learn to do it in silence. 

But you’ll still love him. The Silver will bloom until there’s a jungle of flowers and vines and shimmering water living along all your vital organs, and they’ll all be illuminated by the Spiderweb, and made of Dean. You love Dean. He’s alive, and you love him, and you can keep a small, secret world safe for him in your body because you love him, and there should always be something beautiful for Dean.

The wound stops bleeding—your skin and tissue mending itself with a slight sting—but doesn’t heal, yet your head drops back against the wall.

You need sleep. Proper sleep, where you’re not tied to a chair and you don’t know you’re going to wake up to annoying accents and more insane fancy people, trying to get you to be something you’re not, that you’ve never been.

You barely even know what or who you are now.

The world begins to fade in and out, catching you right between restless, pained sleep and real peace, and a voice you don’t recognize says your name.

Your full name.

With the proper, given last name.

Your eyes shoot open, your body bracing for the blur to kick in, but it never comes.

But there’s still a strange man in your motel room.

He’s tall—just an inch shorter than Dean—and dark haired, pale skinned, blue eyed, and his soul-

Your mouth falls open. 

This man doesn’t have a soul. He’s not possessed, either.

He’s concentrated. Made of packed down, shimmering, nuclear power. Millions of eyes molded into two, a thousand hands made the same, and an unnamable amount of colors—shifting, wrathful rainbows that run over his body like flames licking along his ribs—all being burned into a neon, electric blue.

But the other colors aren’t hidden. They’re more like television static. Turning and flowing over the blue, which is simply the strongest color among the countless others. 

It’s like staring at lightning, being fractured through a prism.

And he’s just staring right back. Watch you carefully, like you may explode.

When you find your voice. It’s soft. Hoarse.

“You’re…” You swallow, holding his gaze and curling a little further into your own body. “Colorful.”

The man blinks. “You can see me.”

“I- Yes?” You take a slow breath, hugging your knees to your chest. “Should I not be able to?”

“I am not sure.”

“Oh.”

There’s a long moment of silence as you only watch each other, and you finally clear your throat with slow, careful words.

“Can you see me?”

The man tilts his head at you. “Yes, I am looking at you right now-“

“No, I mean me.” You tap your chest, right over the core of the Silver. “My soul.”

“Yes.” The man says, a small frown on his face. “Although you are… brighter. Then any other human I’ve encountered.”

You sit up a little straighter at that. “So I am human-“

“There is part of you that is human, yes.”

Part. 

That’s not helpful.

“But you do know who I am?”

“Yes.”

He doesn’t offer anything else, and silence falls once more. The longer you look at him, the more certain you are that you recognize him. Not the man, but him. The thing inside the vessel, powerful and furious and-

“You.” Your eyes widen as it hits you, and your hand moves to your knife—resting at your feet—on instinct alone. “I- I’ve seen you before, you were in Hell.”

The man doesn’t seem fazed. His frown only deepens. “You remember.”

“Yeah, you- You fucking, you attacked Dean-“

“I saved Dean.” His correction is gentle, but firm as you push to your feet. “I was given order to raise him from Hell, and I executed them.”

“Orders-“

“From heaven.”

You blink at him. “What?!”

“I- Oh. My apologies, I forgot you didn’t know.” The man dips his head slightly, still holding your gaze. “I am Castiel. Angel of the Lord.”

This has been a long fucking day. Maybe whatever you were shot with had a hallucinogenic. Maybe you’re just finally fucking losing it.

But it makes sense. You can see him, and he can see you, and fuck, that means angels are real and they-

They’d wanted Dean.

And you don’t trust it.

“Why?”

Castiel frowns at you. “I am not sure. It is simply how I was made-“

“No,” you sigh, crossing your arms over your chest. “I mean why did raise Dean from Hell?”

“Because that is what I was ordered to do.”

You pause, spinning your knife in your hand as you turn over his words. Ordered. He hadn’t saved Dean by personal choice, he was simply the angel ordered to. That implied a hierarchy, that there was someone or something that-

“Did…” You let out a long breath. Stranger things. “Did God order you to get him?”

Castiel shakes his head. “God has not been seen of thousands of years. I was instructed to retrieve him by my superiors.”

“Your superior… Angels?”

Castiel nods, and you rub your face, scratching slightly at your skin.

“Sure,” you mutter. “Why not.”

“I do not understand the question.”

“It’s not a question.”

Castiel hums, watching you with an almost curious frown. “You are reacting better than Dean did. Have you met one of our kind before?”

“No, I just- Might as well be, right? I’ve seen stranger shit, and I guess-“ You cut yourself off as a lot of thoughts slam into you at once.

You had met him before. In Hell. And he remembers it, so that was real. You’d really seen Dean in Hell, every night, and-

Oh, God.

You stumble to the bathroom, and over the sound of your own retching, you don’t hear Castiel following you.

“Dean is in good health.” He says from the doorway. “My resurrection was successful.”

“I know.” You mutter, wiping a little bile from your mouth. “I just- I wasn’t sure it was real. What I saw.“

“Of course it was real. It caused many angels to be quiet… concerned.”

“Huh.” You take a long, shaking breath. “Have you been ordered to find me, then?”

“No. That is not my division.”

You glance up at him, trying to focus on the man rather than the angel burning inside of him. “Then why are you here?”

“It is… I am not sure.” Castiel frowns at you, but it’s not the under the microscope frown the Doctor gave you. It’s almost openly, innocently curious. “You are nothing I have seen before.”

“Yeah, I know I’m not human-“

“It is more than that. You are unique. I have never seen my brothers and sisters unable to find someone, let alone one woman.”

You pause, twisting to fully face him, but staying near the toilet. Just in case. “Then how did you find me?”

“I did not find you.”

“Wha-“

“You are covered in the stains of Dean’s soul.” Castiel mutters, and you feel your face heat. “I am the only angel who has touched him, and it has given me an… extra affinity. To locate him.”

You nod slowly. “Like a hound dog?”

“I- Yes, actually.” Castiel mirrors your nod. “Like a hound dog. It is not exact, I had to… comb the Gulf of Mexico to locate you.”

“Oh.”

“I am not here to harm you.” He adds. “I do not believe I would be able to. My superiors, they have forbidden us from allowing you to interfere, but they have also told us no harm may come to you.”

“Awesome.” You mumble, and Castiel takes a careful step forward.

“You are also very important to Dean.”

“I-“

“You are embedded in him. More I have ever seen any human bond with another.”

That wakes you fully up again. Embedded. You’re embedded in Dean, and you’ve seen all the additional, flitting colors on other people’s soul, but Castiel says you’re embedded in Dean-

“I don’t-“

“I cannot stay.” Castiel continues like he’d said nothing at all. “I simply wanted to… see you. I have never heard of any being simply walking in and out of Hell by whim, let alone remaining undetected-“

“I wasn’t really there-“

“You touched Dean.” Castiel says, the words sounding almost simple. “I could sense it, as I touched him. It felt like life.”

You swallow, and before you can ask what the fuck that means, Castiel continues.

“You do not seem to be the damnation my siblings fear you to be. You are remarkably human, incredibly flawed-“

“Gee, thanks-“

“You are welcome.” Castiel incline his head, and part of you wants to laugh. “But you are not only human. You are bright. It is- You may be all we have been waiting for.”

There’s another long second of silence, and you can’t think of a single possibly word or response. It’s been too long a day. Week. Month. Year. 

And you really don’t fucking care about the angel and Hell and damnation, you’re only looping around embedded. You embedded in Dean but that may have hurt him, what if you had hurt Dean-

Castiel scans over you—frozen on the floor and blinking up at him like an idiot—and lets out a slow breath. “If you do not go with Dean, and I trust you will not understand this to be an insult, I hope that I never hear of you again. And in the likely case that you do, I will see you soon. I would wipe your mind of our interaction, but I do not think it would take.”

Your eyes widen again. At this rate, they might pop out of your head. “Wipe my mind?”

“It is better for both of us that we pretend this never happened. As I said, I have brothers who are not fond of you, and I am… bending many, many rules to even speak to you. Be careful,” Castiel says your full name once more, offering you a slight nod, and before you can ask even one question, he’s gone with a rush of wind through your hair and a heavy beating sound in the air.

You’re left alone on the cold bathroom floor, and you need rest but your head is turning too fast because, at the end of the day, you’re nothing. You’re not the damnation or salvation Azazel called you, you’re not what the angel have been waiting for, and you’re not a good addition to any forces or possible partner to anyone-

But Dean. 

You’re his partner. That had been the first deal. Safer together.

And you’ll be a lot of other things for Dean before this—whatever this is—is over. You’ll be bright if it guides him home. You’ll be the fucking monster to keep him alive, and you’ll be the answer if it keeps him from ever being locked in Hell again. 

You’ll be damnation for anything that tries to take him away from you again, and you’ll be salvation if he lets you. 

You’ll take him any way he allows you to. You’ll grow so sick you rot into the dirt, and it will be the earth that keeps Dean always on steady feet. If Bobby burns your body, you’ll become the flame to keep him warm. If you’re frayed and snapped and disintegrated by something nuclear, you’ll follow Dean around so he always has some air to breathe. 

If you drown, kept in another warehouse or in a cage, tied with chains that aren’t Dean’s—although he would never bind you like that, he doesn’t have to, you’re wired to have him refracting and strong in your body—until you suffocate, you’ll turn yourself into his blood so that his heart keeps beating. 

You love him. 

And he can never know. Nothing can ever hurt Dean again, nothing can ever use him or tell him what to do like a dog, because he’s more than that. Smarter. Better.

Dean’s the best thing in the world.

You won’t let yourself be the thing that makes him feel more pain. Not for you.

So you’ll go back to him, but if he turns you away, you’ll go without a fight, and if he lets you stay, you’ll grab him and never let go, in the name of a silent love he’ll never have to hear-

There’s a knock on your door. Cutting through your thoughts and stilling your heartbeat for half a second, because the world is technicolor.

And when you push to your feet and stumble to the door, the Spiderweb is leading you more than your brain. Pulling you like a magnet until you’re fumbling with the handle and yanking it open, not balking at the blast of hot air because-

He’s more Golden than before. He was always so gold, but this is…

Every gash and cut and scar and bubbling wound that had been ripped and carved into him in Hell is gone. Replace by more gold, stronger and harsher but also more Dean. Protective and resilient, and you could move it if you touched it right. It still starts to the right of his heart and spreads out, and it’s still underlaid with that glowing river of Silver from before, and the sealed, firm, new parts of him see to wrap around the river. To shield it from the world. And he's not made of any element you’ve seen before, but you don’t care because it’s Dean, he’s here and alive and in front of you-

He grins at you, crooked, a little soft, and amazing. “Hey, Princess. You miss me?”

A weak, choked sounds escapes your throat, and Dean’s eyes widen right as your legs give out. 

You don’t know if you throw yourself onto him, or if he catches you before you hit the ground. It doesn’t really matter. The end result is the same.

Dean half carries you to the carpet of the motel room before sinking down to the floor, and you wrap yourself around him like maybe, if you really fucking try, all the gentle and healing parts of you—the bits that had been the White—will move into him, and he’ll never have to hurt again. 

If he minds how you’re holding him, Dean doesn’t show it. His arms are tight around you and his fingers brush through your hair, and he’s muttering likely soothing words over your sobs that you can’t really hear, because everything in you is fixed in on the sound of Dean’s heartbeat.

Right by your ear. 

Steady.

He’s alive.

“Dean-“ Your voice is soft, when you finally find a breath to speak. “I- I don’t-“

“I know.” He mutters, and you don’t ever want to hear another sound but his voice again. “I- I’m gonna explain it all when we get home, but there’s a lot going on. Got pulled out by angels, and they’re kinda assholes, but it’s we’re handling it. You’ll see.” 

You don’t tell Dean you know he got pulled out by angels. You don’t want to lie to him—it’s always only made you sicker—but Castiel said it would be better if no one knew. 

And you’re going to go with Dean. Anything that tries to take you away will have to kill you, and even then, you think you’d work out how to let the Silver raze through the world until there was a strong, clear path back home. Back to Dean.

So you’ll see Castiel again.

And some instinct in your body, designed and forged from years of knowing what to say and who to attach yourself to in order to survive, is telling you that it will be important to keep him near you. It’s the very same, nameless, often thoughtless instinct that told you trail after Sam and Dean when John was trying to kill you—separate from the pull to Dean’s gravity, made more of this is a safer place than most to be favored—and that allowed you to not run when Bobby found you on the highway.

So you just lean back, and offer him a small smile. “I’ll see?”

“Yeah, you’ll- son of a bitch.” Dean’s eyes are trained between your bodies.

On your not-fully-healed gunshot wound, and the blood seeping through your shirt.

“What the fuck- Up.” 

You blink at him. “De, I’m okay-“

“No. Up.” You don’t move, and Dean scowls. “C’mon, Princess, just-“

He hauls you up his body with a grunt, moving you to the edge of the mattress and setting you down with slow, almost precise ease.

“Shirt.” He orders, frowning around your motel room. “You got a kit in here?”

“No, it’s in my car-“

“Mine probably better stocked.” He mutters, mostly to himself. “Stay here.”

You gape as he stands straight up. “Dean Winchester-“

“I’ll be right back.” He grunts, and when he glances over his shoulder, his face makes it look like he’s the one in pain. 

“De-“

“I missed you.”

The door closes behind him, and he’s gone a total off three minutes, but you miss him every fucking second, and he looks so handsome when he stomps back inside with a medkit, but God, you’re going to strangle him-

It’s about halfway through your stitches—your back flat on the mattress as he kneels at the edge of the bed, and his knuckles brushing against your bare skin and leaving little, soft fires in their wake and that’s really not the fucking point—when Dean breaks the silence.

“What happened.”

“I got shot.” You mumble, and he lets out a long, audible breath.

“I got that, Princess. Who shot you.”

“Same people who bashed my headlights.”

“I’m not kidding around,” he says your name, and his voice is firm and deep and commanding, and he’s mad but you want to crawl back around him and never let go. “Who did this.”

You let out a long sigh, staring up at the ceiling. “Hunters.”

It’s not technically a lie, so Dean doesn’t catch it. His fingers still curl slightly against your skin. “Who.”

“Nobody you know.”

“So why-“

“They were hunting me, De.” You mumble, and his movement stills all together.

“What.”

“I- You know what I am.” You squeeze your eyes shut, even as one of your hands moves to hold Dean’s against your body. “That I’m not… You know. And some other people found out, and. Yeah.”

Dean’s words are slow. “So you’ve been out there, being hunted.”

“Dean-“

“Why the fuck did you leave.”

You squeeze your eyes tighter, the Silver rolling around through your body. Not to hurt Dean. Never to hurt Dean.

Maybe to hurt you. Maybe to hurt the Sky for not saving Dean before, or for watching you but never fucking doing something.

“I had to.”

“No, you didn’t. If you used your goddamn head for a second instead of just running off, nothing would’ve been fucking hunting you-“

“It’s-“ You shake your head, biting on the inside of your cheek as the stitches resume. “I couldn’t stay there, I-“

“You didn’t have to stay there! You just had to be fucking- God, at least in the goddamn states!” Dean’s jaw is clenched when you risk a glance at him, but the last few stitches are remaining neat. Careful. “I couldn’t protect you when you were in fucking Brazil-“

“You couldn’t protect me at all, Dean!” You’re screaming, and this isn’t even a real fight, but you’re so tired. You’re being sealed and remolded and cared for and picked apart all at once, and you’re too much and it’s all Dean’s and you can’t tell him that and he was- “You were fucking dead! You were gone, and I couldn’t- I couldn’t fucking stay anywhere that reminded me of you, and everywhere-“

You let out a loud, pathetic sound like a wounded animal, and Dean says your name softly, but you just keep going.

“I- I couldn’t stay. And I had to do something, because I promised you I wouldn’t die, and I- I just- I wasn’t good, Dean. I went to Brazil, and Peru, and Bolivia and Columbia and Argentina and Panama because I couldn’t be here, and I wanted to learn. I fucking tried, I tried so hard to bring you back, and I- You couldn’t have protected me. Not from this. Being hunted is what we do.” You let out a shaky, dry laugh. “And I’m the prey, Dean. They’re hunting me because I’m the prey.”

He’s finished the stitches. And when Dean speaks his voice is rough and strained. “Did my dad tell you that?”

You blink at him, a lot of the world seeming to do a stutter-stop, halting then speeding up, everything flipping upside down, because never in a million fucking lifetimes would you have guessed that to be Dean’s response.

“Did he?” Dean repeats, hold your gaze. There’s that floodlight. The one that’s showing you all the world, kept and vibrant in Dean’s eyes, and a little darker than the last time you saw it, but as if it’s being covered by a storm. 

Storms always pass. 

And you said all the way down.

So you nod, your voice barely a whisper. “He was right-“

“No, he wasn’t.”

This might be worse than getting shot. A least with being shot, you know what to expect. “Dean-“

“No. We all did things in these past few months, Princess. Bobby got drunk off his ass, and Sammy started hanging out with Ruby all the damn time, and I wasn’t exactly a boy scout while I was hanging out in Hell.”

You open your mouth to protest—what, you’re not really sure—and Dean gives you a firm look that shuts it in a second. 

“Dad wasn’t a fucking saint. None of us are. That’s not this life, this world, and he never-“ Dean shakes his head, bowing it until it’s rested on your knee. “You’re- You’re the fuckin’ best, Princess, and if you run from me, I’ll catch you.”

You blink at him. “What?”

“I dunno. Sounded less creepy when Bobby said it.”

“Bobby said he’d catch me?”

“No it’s- Never mind.” Dean props his chin up, his hands moving to hold you by your waist, and this is worse than getting shot. 

And better. And more. And Dean-

“Stop running.” 

“I-“

“I ran first, Princess. I know I fuckin’ did, but I’m asking you to be better than me. You’re always fucking better than me-“

You sit up, until you’re sitting right at the edge of the bed and Dean’s knelt between your legs. “Dean-“

“And I never should’ve left you, ever, on that first hunt or any of the times when it was just us, and I should’ve grabbed you when Dad made that shit fucking deal with Azazel and told him to shove it up his ass cause you were staying with me, all the way down. You shoulda always stayed with me, and I- Son of a bitch, I don’t want to you to go. Never want you to go, just, I like it when you’re here. Stay here, this time. I’m so fucking sorry, for dying and leaving you, and letting you think you’re not- I’m sorry.”

You have too many things to say to him. That you’re not better—you’re mostly just his—and he wasn’t a boy scout in Hell but that wasn’t his fault. That you never want him to go either, and you didn’t even know that you going was an option on the table, but he deserves something simpler and easier and stronger. That if he’ll have you, you’ll stay all the way down, and you need him, and you want him, and you love him.

But it’s easier to slide off the bed. To sink to your knees until you’re right on Dean’s lap, and wrap your arms around his torso until you folded into his body.

And it’s hot outside, and Dean’s a fucking furnace, but you could die of heatstroke, and you’d be happy, because it’s Dean.

He holds you back, and you can hear his heartbeat again. 

You might split the Sky in half to keep it near you. To keep Dean. 

“How did you know about Azazel?” You mumble into his body.

“You’ve missed a lot of stuff,” Dean mutters, his voice rolling through your whole body. “Sammy’s gonna have a field day catching you up.”

“Dean-“

“Come home.” He says your name, and you fall a little further down. “Just- come home.”

“Okay.” You whisper, burying your face deeper in his shirt, and you could swear he lets out a small sigh of relief.

You’ll follow him back down to hell, then further. 

But you don’t need to go home.

Dean’s arms tighten around you, and you’re already there.

End Note: They did it. They resolved a fight with a conversation. They’re so strong. 

Thank you so so so much for reading!! If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3

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[motherismotheringggg]

Hi, I really do love your stories and all that you give, I hope you have a fabulous day or evening. But I did have a request where you had Nicholas and maybe Cooper(or the readers' friend male or female) trying to fight for your love idk or something, and it turns into this mess where you all end having a three-way with each other and the reader can't up their mind and just wants both of them. Also, it would be cool if the setting was a 90s luxury vibe. But again, do have a good day, evening or night.✨️

crystal decadence 💎

summary: this lovely anon request; reader is the daughter of a wealthy family in beverly hills and her family is throwing a dinner party. when her mom invites the two guys she’s been seeing to the party, it open the reader’s mind to a world where she can have it all

type: post grad rich female reader x post grad rich nicholas x post grad rich cooper; set in the 90s in beverly hills

warnings/tags: masturbation (f!), face sitting (f! on m!), there’s more world building than anything

author’s note: IM SO SORRY IT TOOK ME SO LONG TO DO THIS 😭 little fact about me, i love a period piece!! anything from the 60s - 90s i just ADORE so this was so much fun to write. admittedly there’s more world building than smut but I'll probably do a part 2 and 3 to have individual smuts with both of them - anywho, hope you enjoy!!

word count: ~9783

taglist: @blackynsupremacy ,@emluvsuxo , @hoffmansgirl , @godzillawillsaveus , @purple-1995 , @ilovecheetahchrome , @nicholaslut

💎💎💎💎💎💎💎💎💎💎💎💎💎💎💎💎💎💎💎💎

The Beverly Hills sun poured in through the boutique’s tall windows, hitting the glossy tile floors with a golden glow that felt almost tangible. The air smelled of fresh leather, high-end perfume, and a faint hint of gardenia from the floral arrangements that flanked the entrance. Rows of designer dresses shimmered like liquid gems, the silk, satin, and sequins catching the light with every slight sway. Each display felt more like a gallery exhibit than a store, each piece deserving of admiration and awe.

You sat in the swivel barrel chair behind your best friend, Dionne, as she twirled in front of an oversized gilded mirror, her chocolate brown curls bouncing in sync with her movements. The mirror’s ornate frame, covered in gold leaf, practically glowed under the natural light. Dionne’s face was scrunched in disapproval as she examined herself from every angle.

“I like this one, but it does nothing for my figure,” she pouted, tilting her head. Her delicate fingers brushed over the fabric of a soft blush-colored wrap dress that, while gorgeous, wasn’t quite up to her standards.

She turned to you for commentary, something that either agreed with her sentiments or changed her mind, but her face was more pouty than hopeful, there was no changing her mind.

“I think you’ll look great no matter what but we can always go see what they have at Guess,” you suggested, giving her a hopeful look with a reassuring smile.

“They just got a new shipment, and you’d look good in literally everything they make.”

Minutes later, the two of you strolled down the sunlit promenade, every step a subtle strut. The sidewalk’s terrazzo design gleamed under your designer heels, and the rhythmic clack of Dionne’s shiny loafers echoed like a soundtrack to your own personal runway show. The air buzzed with the soft hum of luxury cars idling at the curb, their drivers patiently waiting for their impeccably dressed clients to emerge with shopping bags in hand.

The Guess storefront came into view, its iconic black-and-white logo framed by lush green hedges. The moment you stepped inside, the air conditioning hit you with a refreshing burst, carrying the scent of new denim and crisp linen. A sales associate—all sharp cheekbones and impeccable tailoring—approached with a silver tray of champagne flutes.

“Welcome in, ladies,” he said, his smile as polished as his cufflinks. “Champagne?”

“Don’t mind if I do,” Dionne grinned, plucking a glass from the tray with a practiced elegance that could’ve put an heiress to shame. You followed suit, taking a delicate sip. The bubbles fizzed on your tongue, cool and crisp, just indulgent enough to remind you that you were exactly where you belonged.

Dionne darted off toward the dresses, her eyes sharp and focused like a predator stalking prey. You’d seen her shop a million times before, but every outing was its own spectacle—the slow, intentional grazing of fingertips across fabrics, the sharp “no” she’d mutter to anything less than perfect. You were mid-sip when your phone buzzed in your Fendi baguette bag. With a sigh, you fished it out, glancing at the screen.

Mom flashed across the display.

“Hey, Mom,” you said, balancing the champagne flute in one hand while holding the phone to your ear.

“Hi, sweetheart,” her voice was honey-smooth but edged with the brisk efficiency of a woman accustomed to getting things done. “Are you still out shopping?”

“Yes ma’am, I’m at Guess with Dionne. What’s up?”

“Perfect,” she said, her tone lifting like she’d just solved a puzzle. “I need you to pick up a few things for the party tonight. Just some last-minute items. You know how your father gets about everything being 'just right.'”

You rolled your eyes, but a smile tugged at your lips. “Sure, I’ll grab them.”

“Also,” her voice grew lighter, playful even, “I know you always get bored at these dinner parties so I made sure to invite more people your age tonight. I thought you’d like that.”

“Uh-huh,” you hummed, eyes wandering to where Dionne was now holding up a silky champagne-colored slip dress. She held it against herself, giving you an expectant look.

“You know, Michelle’s son Ethan will be there. And Janine’s daughter, Ashley, you two did cotillian classes together in middle school. Oh! And two of those handsome boys you’ve been seeing lately…”

Your attention snapped back to the call. “Who?”

“Cooper and… Nicholas,” she said matter of factly. “I’ve seen them around you a few times and I know their families so I figured you’d appreciate them being here too.”

Your heart did a double beat almost falling out of your chest. Cooper and Nicholas. Cooper AND Nicholas. The two names bounced in your mind like a neon marquee.

“Are you still there, darling?” your mom’s voice pulled you back to reality.

“Yeah..yeah. I’m here,” you said, fighting to sound nonchalant. You glanced at Dionne, who’d lowered the slip dress and was watching you now with raised brows, her curiosity clearly piqued. “I’ll get everything on your list. I gotta go.”

You ended the call and slipped the phone back into your bag with hands that felt just a little too warm. Dionne’s eyes hadn’t left you.

“What was that about?” she asked, suspicion and delight mixing in her tone.

“Cooper and Nicholas are coming to the party tonight,” you muttered, finishing the rest of your champagne in one long, unbothered sip.

Dionne’s eyes went wide, then her grin stretched slow and wicked. “Both of them?”

“Yes.” You placed your empty glass on a nearby counter, grabbing another from the silver tray like it owed you money.

Her face lit up like she’d just been gifted a Birkin bag. “Oh, girl, you’re in trouble.”

She wasn’t wrong. You’d been seeing both of them—flirtations, lingering touches, stolen kisses, heavy petting in the back seat of their respective BMWs fresh off the lot —but nothing official. And now they’d both be at the same party, breathing the same air, under the same glittering chandeliers.

“You know what?” Dionne’s tone had the same decisive finality as a stylist’s finishing touch. “We’re gonna make sure you’re the most stunning thing at that party tonight. If Cooper and Nicholas want to compete, they’re gonna have to fight over a goddess.”

She yanked a sleek black mini-dress off the rack and held it up to you like she’d just discovered a gold mine. The silk fabric draped like molten lava, daring yet elegant.

“This. This is the one,” she said, eyes practically glittering.

You glanced at yourself in the mirror. The dress’s sharp lines and bold color did something to you, something powerful. Your reflection wasn’t just you. It was her. It was the girl who walked into a party and owned it.

————

The driveway to your home was already lined with sleek black sedans and luxury SUVs, a telltale sign that the party prep was well underway. As you stepped inside, the familiar symphony of controlled chaos greeted you. Maids buzzed about, fluffing cushions, arranging floral centerpieces, and wiping already spotless surfaces. The chefs moved with precision in the kitchen, their crisp white uniforms stark against the warmth of the marble countertops as the aroma of hors d’oeuvres drifted through the air.

When you reached the kitchen, you found your parents deep in conversation. The room was immaculate, bathed in the golden glow of a chandelier overhead that refracted light across the glossy marble countertops. The air carried a faint mix of roasted rosemary and aged wine, a scent that instantly evoked a sense of affluence and occasion.

Your father’s voice carried with its usual self-assured timbre, smooth as the leather of his oxblood loafers, a tone he reserved for strategizing. He stood by the kitchen island, one hand loosely gripping a crystal tumbler of scotch.

“This party will show him everything he needs to see,” he declared to your mother, his other hand gesturing with purpose. The sharp lines of his tailored pinstripe suit caught the light as he moved. “Once he sees my connections, he’ll have no choice but to promote me.”

Your mother stood nearby, her posture perfect, the pearls around her neck gleaming like tiny orbs of moonlight. Her nails—painted a classic red—tapped rhythmically against the stem of her wine glass. She listened intently, her expression serene but her eyes sharp, showing just how much this evening meant to her too.

It was your father who noticed you first, his face breaking into a grin that softened the otherwise calculated air about him. “And if all else fails,” he began, a touch of warmth entering his voice, “the fact that my daughter has joined my boss among the ranks of Stanford grads will seal the deal.” He opened his arms wide in invitation.

You stepped forward, letting yourself be enveloped in his cologne—a heady mix of cedarwood and power—before moving to embrace your mother. “You know I’m not a fan of using my education as a bargaining chip,” you teased, your lips curving into a small smile as you pulled back.

Your mother placed a manicured hand on your shoulder, her touch both tender and commanding. “It wouldn’t hurt,” she replied with an indulgent smile, her tone as polished as the sterling silver trays being carried past by staff. Then, her demeanor shifted, her voice taking on that quiet authority you’d grown up respecting. “Now, I need you to look over the seating arrangements before the guests arrive. There’s assigned seating for dinner, and I’d like your eyes on it to make sure it’s perfect.”

“Got it,” you replied, already glancing toward the dining room. From where you stood, you could see the flicker of candlelight bouncing off the long, polished mahogany table.

The place settings were immaculate: fine bone china with intricate gold detailing, crystal water goblets arranged like jewels, and name cards written in calligraphy so precise it could only have been commissioned. The centerpiece—a sprawling arrangement of deep red roses and soft white lilies—sat elegantly beneath another grand chandelier, a testament to your mother’s exacting standards.

“Don’t forget,” your mother added as she lifted her glass to her lips, “your uncle will be sitting next to Mr. Whitmore. Keep their egos balanced, darling.”

With a soft laugh, you nodded, stepping toward the dining room to inspect the scene. The sound of your heels clicking against the marble floor echoed faintly as you moved, the weight of the evening settling on your shoulders.

The dining room greeted you with the soft glow of candlelight, casting a golden hue over the sprawling mahogany table. The pristine white tablecloth looked almost too perfect to touch, and every detail, from the gold-embossed place settings to the hand-folded linen napkins, screamed elegance. The centerpiece—a lush arrangement of red roses and white lilies—stretched nearly the length of the table, its fragrance subtle but ever-present.

You ran your fingers lightly over the place cards, each bearing names written in delicate calligraphy. You knew your mother well enough to expect near-perfection, but there was always room for a few tweaks, and this was your chance to ensure things aligned with your vision. As your eyes scanned the arrangement, you found your name near the middle of the table, right next to Jason Mitchell, one of your mom’s friend’s sons. An Ivy League basketball player, Jason was pleasant enough, but you couldn’t imagine a night of forced small talk with him.

Just across the table, you spotted Dionne’s name. A smile tugged at your lips—at least your mother had the sense to seat her close. But across the table wasn’t close enough. You quickly slipped Jason’s card out of its holder and replaced it with your own, moving him to the other side. That was better. You and Dionne would have the whole evening to share knowing looks, inside jokes, and quiet commentary about the spectacle unfolding around you.

Satisfied, you continued down the table. Your mother’s place was naturally toward the head, right next to Nicholas Whitmore, a family acquaintance who always managed to dominate the conversation. A few seats down from them, you spotted another familiar name: Cooper. You paused, fingers hovering over his card. Something about seeing his name there sent a jolt of nervous energy through you.

For a moment, you hesitated, chewing lightly on your lip. Cooper was already close enough, but a small part of you—the part that couldn’t resist the chance to tilt the night in your favor—wanted to shake things up. You plucked Cooper’s card from its spot and swapped it with the one next to Dionne, biting back a grin as you imagined her teasing you later. And then, almost without thinking, you reached for Nicholas’s card.

Sliding it into place beside yours, you felt a rush of something you couldn’t quite name—excitement, nerves, or maybe a bit of both. You stared at the new arrangement for a moment, the butterflies in your stomach stirring. Should you change it back? This has the potential to blow up in your face.

Before you could second-guess yourself, you turned on your heel, grabbing a small bowl of fruit from the sideboard on your way out. The quiet clink of your heels against the marble was drowned out by the pounding of your heartbeat as you hurried upstairs.

Your bedroom awaited, a sanctuary fit for a young socialite. The space was expansive, with floor-to-ceiling windows that framed a stunning view of the city skyline. Plush cream carpets covered the floor, so soft you’d forgone wearing slippers long ago. A canopy bed draped with sheer white fabric stood as the centerpiece, its silk bedding in soft blush and ivory tones. A vintage vanity, lined with your collection of luxury perfumes and makeup, sat to the side, while a wall of custom closets held the curated wardrobe that your stylist loved to call “your personal archive.”

But it wasn’t any of that that caught your attention this time. It was the bouquet of pink tulips on your bed. The sight of them stopped you in your tracks. They were vibrant, freshly cut, and tied with a delicate ribbon. Resting against them was a small handwritten note. You picked it up, the paper soft and expensive beneath your fingertips.

“Can’t wait to see you tonight and make you mine.”

The signature at the bottom was unmistakable: CH, followed by a small heart. Your heart fluttered in response. Cooper. Of course it was him. He always knew exactly what to do. He remembered that tulips were your favorite — a detail Nicholas never seemed to catch on to, despite how many times he’d brought you roses. Roses were lovely, but tulips? Tulips felt personal to you, especially since Cooper knew why you liked them so much.

One sunny morning, a breakfast date with Cooper led to a stroll through the park. The air was crisp, the kind that made everything feel lighter, and the vibrant bed of tulips in bloom instantly caught your eye. You paused, pulling out your sleek Contax G2 to snap a photo, then another, and another.

Cooper chuckled, hands tucked into his pockets as he watched you. “Why so many?” he asked, his tone warm and teasing.

You smiled, lowering your camera. “When I was little, my grandmother used to sit me in her garden while she planted tulips. She was this elegant, no-nonsense woman, but in the garden, she was different. Softer. Tending to her flowers was her favorite kind of hard work. It always felt like our secret world, just the two of us.”

As you spoke, your voice softened with nostalgia, and Cooper listened intently. His usual playful demeanor shifted; the teasing glint in his hazel eyes was replaced by something deeper. He wasn’t just hearing your story—he was falling for you with every word.

The way you spoke about your grandmother, the light in your eyes as you shared this piece of yourself—it was mesmerizing. Cooper’s gaze lingered on you, filled with a quiet adoration that made the moment feel suspended in time.

From that day on, he made a silent promise to himself. Every time he saw you, he’d show up with a single tulip in hand. The first time, he offered it with a shy grin. “One for now,” he said, his voice low and sincere, “and maybe a bouquet later.”

Your phone buzzed, pulling you from the memory. Fully expecting it to be Cooper calling to see if you’d gotten the flowers, you smiled as you reached for your phone. But when you glanced at the screen, your breath caught.

Nicholas.

You hesitated for half a second before answering. “Hey, Nicky.”

“Hey,” his voice was warm, that lazy, playful drawl he always had when he was in a good mood. “Just wanted to say I’m really looking forward to seeing you tonight. I know you’re gonna look amazing. You always do.”

“Thanks,” you said, leaning back against your pillows. Your tone was sweet but eyes drifted to the tulips again, their petals catching the golden hour light filtering through your window.

“And listen,” Nicholas continued, his voice dipping into a conspiratorial tone, “I’ve got something planned for after the party -- If you’re up for it, of course. I’m pretty sure this will make things a little easier for you.”

You let out a breathy giggle. Nicholas knew his spontaneity and charm, aside from his good looks, could win you over. His voice blurred as your thoughts floated back to a different time, another moment when he’d swept you off your feet with his easy charisma and his knack for pulling you out of the whirlwind.

The summer after you graduated college was relentless—interviews and expectations piling on, leaving you breathless. You’d stood Nicholas up that week, overwhelmed by the chaos, but he didn’t seem to mind. He showed up at your door, calm and sure.

“You need a break,” he said, his brown eyes steady and warm. “Pack a bag. Just a change of clothes and a bathing suit.”

You didn’t argue. Moments later, you were in his car, the city fading behind he as Sinatra played softly through the speakers. The scent of saltwater greeted you long before Nicholas turned off the road onto a secluded beach.

The ocean stretched endlessly before you, sparkling under the sun. Without hesitation, you kicked off your shoes and ran toward the waves, laughing freely for the first time in weeks.

Nicholas followed at his own pace, watching you with a soft smile. “Don’t forget to breathe!” he teased, his voice light.

When you ran back, drenched and beaming, he wrapped a towel around you, pulling you close. “You’ve been carrying so much,” he said, his hand brushing your cheek. “But you don’t have to have it all figured out. Life is still beautiful, still yours to enjoy.”

Tears pricked your eyes, and you whispered, “Thank you, Nicky.”

“Always,” he murmured, his fingers lacing with yours as the waves rolled in behind you.

“Y/N…hello, are you still there?”

Nicholas’s voice pulled you back to the present. His tone was gentle but curious, a soft nudge to bring you back. “You okay? You got quiet on me for a second there.”

“Yeah,” you said quickly, blinking away the memory. “I’m here. Sorry, I was listening… I think the red turtle neck would look nice, trust me.”

“I’d wear one of those rainbow umbrella hats if you told me to”, Nicholas replied with coyness, you could tell came with a snide smirk on the other end.

Your lips curved into a smile. “And I’m sure you’d look great regardless,” you checked the time on your side table alarm clock, “And if I don’t start getting ready now, you’ll show up looking better than me at my own party. I’ll see you tonight”

“See you tonight beautiful,” Nicholas said hanging up the phone.

Your phone slipped from your hands onto the bed, and you let out a breath you didn’t know you’d been holding. It wasn’t lost on you how complicated things had become. Nicholas and Cooper had despised each other long before you’d come into the picture. Their families had always been at odds, but the animosity had only grown after the tennis match.

You’d gone to support Cooper, not realizing Nicholas was his opponent. The tension in the air that day had been palpable, charged with more than just competitive energy. When the match ended and they’d both approached you simultaneously, their expressions a mix of confusion and hurt, it all unraveled.

They’d each thought you were there for them. Words were exchanged, chests puffed, and if one of their coaches hadn’t intervened, fists might have flown. It was messy, a little brutish, and you’d be lying if you said it wasn’t kind of hot.

The memory replayed in your mind, and your breath hitched as the details sharpened. You remembered the way Nicholas’s strong hands curled into tight fists, veins bulging along his forearms, his usually calm demeanor flickering with fiery intensity. Then there was Cooper, his jaw clenched so tight you could see the muscle jump, his sharp blue eyes boring into Nicholas like he was daring him to make a move.

Both men had staked their claim over you in no uncertain terms. Nicholas, his deep, steady voice, a calming but commanding presence, telling Cooper to back off because you’d come to see him. Cooper, refusing to yield, had stepped forward, his broad chest rising and falling as he fired back with his own confident assertion that you’d made it clear who you were there for.

The more you remembered, the hotter you felt, a warm tingle blooming low in your belly. You couldn’t stop your mind from drifting to the way they’d looked in that moment—two powerhouses, their towering frames practically vibrating with restrained aggression, both ready to fight for you. The thought sent a spark straight through you, and you instinctively squeezed your thighs together, desperate to quell the growing ache.

But it wasn’t enough.

You pushed yourself off the bed, deciding a cold shower would help clear your head. Your bathroom was an opulent retreat, the centerpiece of your suite. Marble countertops gleamed under the soft glow of chandelier lighting, and the oversized walk-in shower, enclosed in glass, boasted multiple showerheads and a luxurious rainfall feature. You turned the water on, adjusting it to a cool but comfortable temperature, and stepped inside, the mist already softening the tension in your muscles.

Still, as the water cascaded over your skin, you couldn’t shake the thoughts from your mind. The memory of Nicholas and Cooper’s heated argument twisted into something darker, more intoxicating. You imagined them in a different setting, their rivalry spilling into the bedroom. Instead of fighting with words, they’d use their bodies to prove who could claim you more thoroughly, more passionately.

The vivid thought sent your pulse racing. You pictured Nicholas, his strong hands gripping your thighs as he whispered in your ear, his usually composed demeanor unraveling as he sought to make you lose control. Then Cooper, not to be outdone, trailing heated kisses down your neck, his cocky smirk melting into something desperate as he worked to outdo Nicholas, both of them vying for your moans, your gasps, your finish.

The ache between your legs became unbearable. Almost on autopilot, you reached for the detachable showerhead. You adjusted the settings, angling it just right as the water pressure hit your throbbing self. A gasp escaped your lips, and your knees buckled slightly, your free hand bracing against the cool marble wall.

You let your eyes flutter shut, the fantasy playing out behind your lids as the water pulsed against you. The imagined sounds of their voices—Nicholas’s deep, breathy whispers and Cooper’s rough, low groans—mingled with the steady rhythm of the shower. Your hips moved instinctively, chasing the sensation as you rode the wave of pleasure building within you.

The cool tile of the shower wall met your back as you slammed against it, your body arching with the building tension. The relentless spray of the shower head pulsed against you, sending waves of heat coursing through your body. Your hand instinctively reached up, cupping your breast as your fingers found your nipple, squeezing and pinching in rhythm with your escalating pleasure.

Breathy moans slipped from your lips, the sound mingling with the soft hiss of water against the tile. Each whimper was sharp and unrestrained, your breaths hitching as the pressure built higher and higher. Your eyes clenched shut, a desperate attempt to ground yourself, but the name that spilled from your mouth was entirely unexpected.

“Nicholas…” you moaned, the sound raw and unfiltered.

Your eyes snapped open, startled by how naturally it had slipped from your lips as if your subconscious had been holding onto it all along. The thought sent a fresh wave of heat spiraling through you, tightening the coil low in your belly.

Your free hand shot out to steady yourself against the opposite wall, your body trembling as the fantasy took hold. “Cooper…” you whimpered, voice laced with yearning. The thought of both men worshiping your body pushed you closer to the edge. Your lips parted, a soft cry spilling out. “That feels so good, baby…”

The vivid image filled your mind—Nicholas’s boyish grin turned wicked with desire, Cooper’s hands firm yet tender against your skin. The imagined weight of their attention, their touch, tipped you over.

Your body tensed, a shuddering gasp escaping you as the release swept through, leaving your legs weak and trembling. You clung to the wall for support, your breath stuttering in the aftermath. The tension slowly ebbed away, the pulsing water washing over you, grounding you back in reality.

A quiet laugh bubbled up as you ran a hand through your wet hair, shaking your head at yourself. “Get it together,” you muttered with a wry smile, reaching for the towel hanging nearby. Wrapping it snugly around your body, you stepped out of the shower, cheeks still flushed and thoughts lingering far longer than you intended.

----

You and Dionne lingered in the backyard’s conversation pit, the kind of luxurious setup that made you feel like you were in the pages of an interior design magazine. The space was undeniably chic—a sunken circular area surrounded by sleek stone walls, with plush cream-upholstered seating that invited you to sink in and stay a while. Overhead, string lights crisscrossed in delicate patterns, casting a warm, golden glow over the backyard. The faint scent of jasmine mixed with the lingering aroma of grilled vegetables and rosemary from dinner, while the hum of crickets filled the gaps in your conversation.

You’d both done your due diligence, making just enough small talk with the party guests to keep your mom off your back. Now, the two of you finally had a moment to yourselves. Dionne, dressed impeccably in a silky lavender blouse that shimmered in the light, swirled the champagne in her glass, watching the bubbles rise before taking a sip.

“Cooper’s family came in right behind mine,” she began casually, her dark eyes glinting with mischief. “And get this—he had a Van Cleef bag in his hand. When I asked him about it, he didn’t say much, but he did mention that he knew you’d love it.”

You inhaled sharply, a knowing smirk tugging at your lips. “It’s probably the Alhambra butterfly necklace. I pointed it out on our last date,” you said, leaning back against the cushioned seat. “I could practically see the dollar signs in his eyes.”

Dionne laughed, her voice a warm melody against the night air. “Girl, you are so lucky. I mean, seriously. The two hottest guys from our prep school—not to mention they’ve only gotten hotter—chasing after you like this?” She gave you a playful nudge with her elbow. “I love this for you.”

You tilted your head, a wistful smile creeping across your face as you exhaled. “Yeah… it’s a lot to think about.”

Her eyes narrowed slightly with mock seriousness. “So, what are you gonna do? You’ve got to choose one eventually.”

You chuckled softly, taking a sip of your own champagne. “I don’t know, Dee.”

With a grin, she leaned in conspiratorially. “Well, I say you pick whoever’s better in bed.”

You shot her a look, one eyebrow raised, and her mouth fell open. “Oh my God, wait—you didn’t!” She set her glass down on the low table in front of you, her eyes sparkling with excitement as she leaned closer. “Spill! I thought for sure, with all those drives up to the mountains with Nicholas and Cooper, you’d—”

You cut her off, laughing as you waved a hand dismissively. “No, no! Part of the fun is keeping them waiting. You know me—I like a little suspense.”

Her jaw dropped in exaggerated shock, and she gasped. “You’re telling me… you’ve gone all this time and haven’t…?”

You grinned slyly, lowering your voice just enough to make her lean in further. “Kissed them enough to fog up car windows? Sure. Teased them with neck kisses and… other things during movie nights? Of course.” You paused, watching her expression as she hung on your every word. “But I’ve been keeping them on their toes. The tension? The chase? It makes everything so much hotter.”

Dionne burst into laughter, throwing her head back. “You are such a tease,” she said, still laughing. “Pure agonizing tease. But I’m here for it. Whoever you pick tonight is gonna be the luckiest man alive.”

You shrugged with a playful smirk, murmuring under your breath but loud enough for her to catch, “Maybe I’m considering both.”

Her gasp turned into a shocked laugh, loud and unabashed. “You didn’t just say that!”

Before you could reply, the patio door creaked open, and your mom’s voice rang out, cheerful but commanding. “Dinner’s ready, girls!”

The two of you exchanged a look, Dionne biting her lip to keep from giggling as you grabbed your glass. “Coming!” you called back, your voice perfectly composed.

As you stood to head inside, Dionne leaned close and whispered with a wicked grin, “I’m sure you will be.”

----

The dining room was a masterpiece of luxury, with its vaulted ceilings and gilded accents that sparkled under the glow of cascading crystal chandeliers. The table stretched nearly the entire length of the room, draped in an ivory cloth embroidered with golden threads, each place setting carefully arranged with fine china and polished silverware. The scent of freshly cut roses mingled with the faint aroma of roasted vegetables drifting in from the kitchen.

You had nearly forgot that you fixed the seating arrangement; Nicholas next to you, Dionne across from you, and Cooper next her, across from Nicholas.

You were deep in conversation with a family friend about your post-college job search, nodding thoughtfully as you explained your next steps and goals. The sound of laughter and clinking glasses from the party faded into the background, your focus entirely on the discussion. You hadn’t even noticed Nicholas and Cooper making their way toward the table.

Before you realized what was happening, Nicholas was at your side, effortlessly pulling out your chair. His hand—large and warm—found its place on your waist, guiding you gently but firmly back to your seat. The subtle pressure of his touch sent a shiver up your spine, but you maintained your composure, offering a polite smile as you wrapped up the conversation.

His gesture wasn’t just polite—it was deliberate, designed to be noticed. A murmur of approval rippled through the room, subtle but unmistakable. You caught the small smile tugging at your mother’s lips from across the table, her eyes glinting with pride at the display of gentlemanly behavior.

You murmured your thanks as you sat, letting him slide your chair in. His cologne, an enticing blend of cedar and spice, lingered faintly in the air as he leaned in just slightly, his voice dropping to a near whisper.

“My pleasure,” he said, the words brushing against your ear like a secret meant only for you.

Across the table, Cooper’s reaction was immediate and impossible to miss. His jaw tightened, his hand gripping the back of his chair as he glared at Nicholas with barely concealed irritation. The muscle in his cheek twitched, and his eyes flicked back to you, darkened by an emotion you could only describe as possessive.

Despite his simmering frustration, Cooper stayed seated, refusing to make a scene. Dionne flashed you a look of saucy approval, you hid your smirk before the server came over to take your order.

As Nicholas returned to his seat, Cooper’s gaze lingered on you for a heartbeat longer, his eyes tracing your features before he finally turned his attention to the wine list in front of him.

You sat there, calm and poised on the outside, but your heart was pounding.

The servers moved seamlessly around the table, placing delicate plates of appetizers before each guest. The room was alive with the clink of silverware and soft murmurs of conversation, but your focus wavered as your father stood from his seat, raising his glass with an air of practiced authority.

“To community,” he began, his voice steady and commanding as it carried across the room. “To connections that bring us together and strengthen us—personally, professionally, and beyond.” He gestured toward his boss with a respectful nod, his smile warm but calculated.

He turned to you next, his eyes softening. “To my brilliant daughter, whose success continues to amaze us all.” His glass tilted toward your mom as his smile widened. “And to my wife, the love of my life, whose support has made all of this possible.”

The table erupted in polite applause and scattered cheers, and your mom lifted her glass with an appreciative smile. “To family,” she said, her voice bright and sincere. “And to the man who keeps ours grounded and inspired every day.”

The momentum of the toasts carried on as others chimed in. Your uncle stood to wish everyone health and wealth, and a few other family friends added their sentiments about the joys of togetherness and new opportunities. You thought the flurry of toasts had finally come to a close when a brief silence settled over the room.

But then, a low screech of wood against polished floors cut through the quiet as Cooper rose from his seat.

“And a toast,” he began, his voice clear and bold, the room instantly drawn to him. His gaze was locked on you, his hazel eyes shimmering with an intensity that made your breath hitch. “To Y/N, for her beauty and grace.”

The air seemed to still as the words left his lips, his tone brimming with sincerity. “Since the day I met her, she’s done nothing but charm me and challenge me to be a better man.”

Your heart thudded painfully in your chest as every eye turned toward you. You managed a smile—tongue-in-cheek, though your cheeks burned with heat. You could feel Dionne nearly vibrating across from you, barely able to contain her giddy excitement as she pressed her lips tightly together to suppress a grin.

Next to you, Nicholas’s expression darkened like a brewing storm. His fingers curled around the stem of his wine glass with such force you thought it might snap. His jaw clenched visibly, the muscle ticking with restrained fury as his eyes shot daggers at Cooper.

Your mom, ever the master of social nuance, caught your eye with a subtle nod and an intrigued glint in her gaze. Whatever this was, she seemed to think it was not only entertaining but possibly advantageous. Your dad, on the other hand, looked utterly bewildered, his brow furrowed in confusion as he glanced between you and Cooper.

The tension was thick enough to cut with a knife, Dionne, raised her glass high, her voice ringing out cheerfully. “To everyone here tonight!”

The collective relief after Dionne’s toast was nearly tangible as glasses were raised, and the murmur of polite conversation began to hum around the table once more. Everyone seemed eager to let the tension dissipate—everyone except for Nicholas, who still hadn’t lifted his glass.

His knuckles were white as they gripped the base of the wine glass, the sharp angles of his jaw working overtime as he stared daggers at Cooper. It was a standoff only the two of them seemed to be fully aware of, the air between them crackling with silent hostility.

Cooper, ever the opportunist, didn’t let the moment pass unnoticed. “Come on, Nicholas,” he said with a sly grin, his voice just loud enough to draw a few curious glances. “Don’t be a barbarian—it’s a wine glass. You just grab it and raise it when everyone else does.”

The jab was subtle but sharp, cutting through the tension like a knife. Nicholas’s jaw clenched so tightly you wondered if he might crack a tooth. His eyes burned with a fury that would have sent most people scrambling, but Cooper only leaned back slightly in his chair, his confidence brimming.

Cooper cocked his shoulders with an ease that was almost infuriating, a smirk tugging at his lips as he shot Nicholas a wink. It was the kind of victorious, self-assured gesture that screamed I’ve won this round, and it left no doubt in anyone’s mind about who had taken control of the moment.

Nicholas finally, begrudgingly, raised his glass, his movements slow and deliberate as if every second of compliance was a battle. His dark eyes flicked back to you briefly, the intensity in them leaving a shiver down your spine.

Dinner had gone smoothly, though the charged undercurrent of tension was unmistakable. The low murmur of conversation, the clinking of silverware against fine china, and the occasional burst of laughter from the adults filled the air.

The dining room was grand, with soft golden light spilling from an ornate chandelier above the long table, casting a warm glow over the elegant table settings and half-empty glasses of wine. Cooper and Nicholas, seated strategically to keep you in their orbit, continued their subtle battle for your attention.

You maintained a composed and neutral demeanor, responding with polite smiles and light conversation. Internally, though, you were keenly aware of their every move. Dionne, sitting opposite you, occasionally met your eye with a knowing smirk, clearly enjoying the game unfolding before her.

She couldn’t resist adding fuel to the fire. Between bites of her crème brûlée, she tossed out quips like, “Y/N needs a man who’s not intimidated by success. Nicholas, are you intimidated by women with success?” Her tone was teasing, but the twinkle in her eye left little doubt she was having fun watching them squirm.

Nicholas smirked, tapping the rim of his glass. “Oh, I’m more than capable of keeping up, Coop. It’s just a matter of knowing how to play the game.” His eyes never left you, the unspoken message clear.

Cooper leaned in, a mischievous glint in his eye. “It’s not about playing the game, Nick. It’s about winning it.” He raised an eyebrow, letting the words hang in the air as he slid a teasing glance in your direction. "And trust me, I know how to win."

Nicholas chuckled again, the sound low and confident. “Winning isn’t always about being first. Sometimes, it’s about knowing when to take your time.” His voice dropped a notch, a subtle invitation lingering in his words.

Cooper wasn’t backing down. “Taking your time? I guess we’ll see how far that gets you when the clock’s ticking.” He gave you a wink, his tone playful yet laden with challenge. “I work better under pressure, you know.”

“Oh, I’m aware,” Nicholas quipped, his gaze sharp. “But we all know who’s got the stamina for the long haul.” His lips curled into a knowing smile as he leaned forward, his voice a bit lower. "Some things can’t be rushed."

Cooper’s grin widened, the tension crackling in the air. “Maybe. But there’s a difference between stamina and strategy. And I’ve got both on my side.” He turned toward you with a knowing look, making sure to catch your eye before adding, “You’ll see what I mean.”

Nicholas shot him a sly glance, clearly not phased. “I think she already has, Coop.” He met your gaze, the connection undeniable, before turning back to Cooper. “But we’ll see how the game plays out.”

You and Dionne could hardly contain yourselves, struggling to stifle chuckles and your face getting hot from tension from the boys but trying to withstand the heat pooling in the pit of your stomach.

-----

The party had gradually wound down, the lively buzz of conversation and laughter from earlier now replaced by a soft hum of voices in the backyard. A few remaining guests lingered with your parents, gathered in the cozy conversation pit beneath the glow of string lights. The gentle rustle of the breeze carried snippets of their relaxed chatter, the occasional clink of glasses punctuating the calm atmosphere. The backyard was a picture of tranquility, the perfect wind-down to an otherwise bustling evening.

You, with a gentle nudge from Dionne, signaling that with everyone outside it’s the perfect time for you to get away with Nicholas and Cooper to your room. You put your hand on Nicholas’ thigh at the dinner table, speaking just above a whisper for him to join you in your room. You see the excitement bubbling in him, but it quickly diminished when you invited Cooper as well.

What had started as a laid-back conversation about clothes and music had spiraled into a heated argument between the two -- it was loud and abrasive but exactly your plan.

You sat on the edge of the bed while they stood on either side of you and argued.

“God, everything about you is so trite,” Nicholas scoffed, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed.

Cooper’s lips twitched into a sardonic smile. “Trite? Coming from you?” He gestured toward Nicholas, his voice steady but biting. “That’s rich coming from like the Ivy league frat trash."

Cooper’s gaze darkened. “Everyone knows how many times you got arrested for disorderlies, daddy came and bailed you out each and every time and now you have a cushy job at his firm because no one would hire your ass! ”

Nicholas straightened, stepping forward, his voice low and dangerous. “At least I can keep her interested. You? You’d bore her to tears with your lectures about art-house films and overpriced coffee.”

“You think she wants some overgrown frat boy? Grow up. She deserves someone who’ll treat her right, not drag her into your mess.”

“Oh, because you’re the knight in shining armor?” Nicholas sneered. “I bring something to the table you never could”

Cooper took a slow breath, his calm exterior fraying. “That explains why you showed up empty-handed tonight, huh? Not even a rose. Thoughtful as ever, I see.” He reached into his coat and pulled out a sleek Van Cleef bag, holding it up for emphasis. “This, at least, shows I care enough to know what she likes.”

Nicholas rolled his eyes. “You think gifts are the way to her heart? Please. She can buy that for herself. I give her what she needs.”

Cooper tilted his head, his voice dropping into a low growl. “You don’t even know what she needs.”

As their words grew sharper, the room seemed to heat with tension, and you couldn’t help the twinge deep in your core. Their arguing wasn’t just about their preferences or styles; it was about you. The way they both stared at each other, the venom in their words—it all pointed back to the same thing: they were fighting for you.

“Boys, please,” you interrupted, your voice low but firm, cutting through the heated tension between them. It wasn’t a harsh tone—just commanding enough to grab their attention and stop the bickering. Their arguing immediately ceased, leaving a palpable silence in its wake.

“Claiming you both know what I want without actually asking me? That’s a little ridiculous, don’t you think?” you said, your teasing tone relieving some of the aggressive energy in the room. Though the animosity between Nicholas and Cooper lingered beneath the surface, their eyes were now focused entirely on you, brimming with adoration.

Cooper shifted, sitting down beside you and resting a hand gently on your thigh. “Sorry,” he said, his voice soft and apologetic, but his expression still held a hint of smugness as he flashed you his charming, dimpled smile. “He just brings out the worst in me.”

Nicholas scoffed from across the room before dropping down on your other side with a dramatic plop. “As if you don’t deserve it,” he muttered, but his eyes were fixed on you with an intensity that betrayed his annoyance.

“What can I do for you?” Cooper asked, taking your hands in his, his lips brushing against your knuckles in a gesture that felt as much a declaration of his feelings as it was a jab at Nicholas.

“Relax,” Nicholas cut in, his tone flat and stern, clearly irritated by Cooper’s display. His gaze never left yours as he leaned in closer.

The exchange made you chuckle, and to diffuse the tension, you leaned toward Nicholas and pressed a soft kiss to his jawline. His eyes softened slightly, the hard edge of his frustration melting away under your touch.

You took a steadying breath, your heart thumping in your chest as both sets of eyes bore into you, waiting. “I appreciate the gifts, the dates,” you began, your tone gentle but deliberate, making sure they both felt the weight of your words. “You know I do. But I want—need—more.”

Both of them stilled, their hesitation palpable as they processed your words. The room seemed to collectively hold its breath. You met their gazes, your voice calm but dripping with intent as you added, “I want you both to show me.”

Nicholas blinked, his brown eyes wide, stunned into silence for a beat before he managed to stammer, “You mean… both of us? Now?” His voice cracked slightly, a mix of disbelief and anticipation.

You gave him a pointed look, your eyes heavy-lidded and smoldering. Bedroom eyes, they used to call it, and now you wielded them with purpose.

“Like… at the same time?” Cooper’s voice was shaky, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed hard. His uncertainty didn’t stop him from leaning forward slightly, his gaze sweeping over you with a mixture of awe and yearning.

Instead of answering, you rose from the bed with a fluid motion, standing in front of them. Slowly, you reached for the zipper of your dress, letting the straps slip down your shoulders with deliberate care. Every movement was intentional, slow and teasing, as you drew the fabric down over your body. Their eyes were glued to you, neither daring to speak as the tension thickened in the air, the anticipation palpable with every second.

When your dress finally pooled at your feet, you stood before them in nothing but the delicate lingerie you’d chosen earlier—an ensemble designed to accentuate every curve, every detail meant to entice. The way their jaws tightened, the way their gazes roamed your figure, drinking you in, was all the confirmation you needed.

Their eyes tracked your every movement as if they couldn’t look away, taking in the way the soft fabric slid from your body and the confident way you climbed onto the bed. Positioned at its center, you gave them both a look that was equal parts commanding and inviting. They remained frozen, caught between anticipation and hesitation, until you broke the silence with a playful challenge.

“Are you going to keep me waiting?” you teased, your tone sultry yet light.

That was all it took. In an instant, both of them sprang into action, fumbling with buttons and pulling at their clothes. Their movements were uncoordinated at first—hands catching on shirt sleeves and belts—but as their layers peeled away, the uncertainty melted into something more primal. Even as they undressed, their eyes never left you, their hunger for you evident in every glance and the way their chests rose and fell with heavy breaths.

Nicholas was the first to make his move. He crossed the mattress with a deliberate pace, crawling toward you with a confidence that sent a shiver down your spine. The way his back muscles rippled with each movement made your pulse quicken, a delicious ache building inside you as you watched him close the gap.

When he reached you, his large hands found your waist, his grip firm but reverent as he gently pulled you closer to him. His lips pressed soft, lingering kisses to your stomach, each touch sending waves of warmth and electricity through your body. The sensation of his breath on your skin, the way his fingers brushed against your sides, left you breathless.

“You’re so fucking beautiful,” he murmured against your skin, his voice low and almost reverent. His hands slid up to cradle your torso, his thumbs tracing lazy circles against your ribs as he kissed his way upward, pausing just below your sternum.

Behind him, Cooper hesitated for a moment, watching the scene unfold with a mixture of awe and determination. Then, as if spurred on by Nicholas’s lead, he climbed onto the bed, his movements slower and more deliberate, but no less intense.

Cooper reached out with a steady hand, his touch on your jaw both tender and possessive as he guided your face to his. His lips claimed yours in a kiss that was deep and consuming, filled with a need that made your breath hitch. His kiss wasn’t just a gesture—it was a declaration, a challenge to Nicholas as much as it was a promise to you.

As your lips moved together, you couldn’t ignore the way Nicholas’s hands continued their deliberate exploration, his mouth now dangerously close to your pantyline. His hot breath against your skin sent shivers racing up your spine, the contrast between his slow, teasing movements and Cooper’s demanding kiss leaving you feeling utterly undone.

Cooper’s grip on your waist tightened as though anchoring you to him, his thumb brushing over your cheek in a fleeting but intimate gesture. Before Nicholas could draw all your attention, Cooper broke the kiss just enough to press his forehead to yours, his breath mingling with yours as he whispered, “I’ve wanted this—wanted you—for so long.”

His words made your heart skip, but before you could respond, Cooper took your hand, guiding it deliberately to him, pressing it against the hardness straining against the fabric of his underwear. The heat of him, the way he swelled and grew under your touch, sent a flush spreading through your body.

Your lips trailed to his neck, tasting the salt of his skin, and you bit down lightly at the juncture of his collarbone. Cooper’s low groan vibrated against your lips, and the way his hips involuntarily bucked against your hand made you smile against his skin.

Nicholas, clearly unwilling to be ignored, let out a soft chuckle against your stomach. “Don’t forget about me,” he teased, his voice thick with heat and a hint of frustration. He pressed an open-mouthed kiss just above your hip bone before his fingers hooked into the waistband of your panties, tugging them down slightly.

In one smooth motion, Nicholas pulled your panties down and tossed them aside, his movements confident and deliberate. His hands immediately found your most sensitive spot, his thumbs massaging slow, tantalizing circles against your clit, sending sparks shooting through your body. A moan escaped your lips, muffled against the warmth of Cooper’s neck, but the tremble in your breath gave you away.

Nicholas smirked, clearly pleased with your reaction. “You're so wet,” he murmured, his voice dripping with satisfaction. His words only made the fire in your belly burn hotter. “That’s my good, perfect girl.”

The praise sent a wave of heat rushing through you, and before you could catch your breath, Nicholas moved with purpose. He slid down the bed, lying flat on his back, and with a firm but gentle grip, he guided you over him. “Come here,” he commanded softly, his tone leaving no room for argument. His strong hands gripped your thighs, and he used his biceps to brace you down onto him, holding you firmly in place.

As soon as his mouth met your core, a shudder of pleasure rippled through you. Nicholas’s tongue moved with expert precision, lapping at you with a hunger that left you breathless. The flat of his tongue pressed against your most sensitive spot before he shifted to flick and swirl, his lips sealing around your clit to suck gently.

You tried to keep your composure, to maintain your focus on Cooper, but it was impossible. Your lips faltered against his skin, your head falling back as a strangled moan tore from your throat. Cooper chuckled softly, his hand coming up to steady you as your body trembled.

“Losing focus already?” Cooper teased, his voice low and warm against your ear.

You tried to respond, but Nicholas’s tongue was relentless, his hands gripping your hips to keep you steady as he worked. Your back arched involuntarily, and your hands flew out to brace yourself, one landing on Cooper’s chest while the other tangled in Nicholas’s hair.

Nicholas hummed against you, the vibrations making your thighs quiver. He tilted his head slightly, his tongue diving deeper to explore every inch of you, his pace never faltering. Your breath came in ragged gasps, and your head fell forward, resting on Cooper’s chest as the pleasure built to an unbearable peak.

Nicholas’s hum of approval sent shockwaves through your body, his tongue moving with precision as if he knew exactly how to unravel you. Cooper’s lips on your neck were hot and insistent, his teeth grazing your skin before he soothed the marks with his tongue. His large hands kneaded your breasts, his thumbs flicking over your hardened nipples, each motion sending sparks of pleasure shooting through your chest.

Your moans filled the room, their names tumbling from your lips in a desperate symphony that seemed to drive them further. Nicholas’s voice rumbled against you, low and commanding. “Good girl,” he praised, his hands tightening their grip on your thighs as he worked his tongue deeper, his nose brushing against your sensitive bud in a way that made your toes curl.

Cooper’s hands slid down your sides, grounding you in his touch as his kisses became hungrier, more possessive. “You’re so beautiful,” he whispered against your ear, his voice thick with admiration and arousal.

The idea of them putting their differences aside, silently agreeing to focus on your pleasure, sent a new wave of heat surging through you. The coordinated rhythm of their touches left you completely undone, your body trembling as they spurred you closer and closer to the edge.

Your fingers tangled in Cooper’s hair, pulling him closer as your other hand gripped the sheets beneath you. “I—I’m so close Cooper, I'm gonna cum” you gasped, your body teetering on the brink. Nicholas responded with another hum, his tongue circling your sensitive spot with precision, while Cooper pressed his lips to yours, swallowing your moans as you finally shattered.

Your release washed over you in waves, your body arching as you cried out, their names spilling from your lips like a mantra. Nicholas slowed his pace, helping you ride out the high, his hands rubbing soothing circles into your thighs. Cooper held you steady, his kisses softening as he murmured reassurances against your lips.

When the aftershocks subsided, you slumped against Cooper’s chest, your breathing ragged, your body tingling from head to toe. Nicholas looked up at you with a satisfied smirk, his lips glistening. “Told you I’d make you feel good,” he teased, his voice thick with pride. Before sauntering off to the bathroom, he leaned down, capturing your lips in a deep kiss that left you breathless. The taste of yourself lingered on his tongue, and when you bit his lip playfully, a low, guttural moan escaped him. He pulled away with a grin that promised more, leaving you flushed and wanting.

Cooper stayed close, his hands gently stroking your sides before he tilted your chin up and kissed you again. His lips were softer, slower, carrying a tenderness that made your heart flutter. As the kiss ended, he pulled back and reached for his jacket, retrieving a sleek Van Cleef bag.

“While he’s away,” Cooper said, his voice low and intimate, “I wanted to give you this.”

From the bag, he pulled out a delicate Alhambra butterfly necklace. The intricate design shimmered in the soft light, the wings adorned with mother-of-pearl framed by gleaming gold. The craftsmanship was exquisite, each detail reflecting thoughtfulness and care.

Your breath caught in your throat as he stepped closer, holding the necklace carefully. “I know this isn’t a deciding factor,” he continued, his tone earnest, “but even if you end up with him, I know how much you wanted this. You deserve it.”

Speechless, you turned your back to him, your hair falling to one side as he clasped the necklace around your neck. His fingers brushed against your skin, sending a shiver down your spine. Crossing the room, you stopped in front of the vanity, your reflection glowing. The necklace sat perfectly against your collarbone, a symbol of Cooper’s thoughtfulness and affection.

You ran your fingers over the pendant, a soft smile spreading across your lips. The more you looked in the mirror, the more the reality of your situation sank in. Two incredible men, each devoted to your happiness in their own ways. Nicholas, with his passionate intensity and relentless focus on your pleasure. Cooper, with his tender gestures and unwavering desire to see you smile. How could anyone possibly ask for more?

Your fingers lingered at the base of your throat, tracing the butterfly before letting them trail lower, a coy smile tugging at your lips. “You know,” you said, glancing back at Cooper with a spark in your eye, “if you’re going to spoil me like this, I might just have to make it up to you.”

Cooper chuckled, his gaze darkening with desire as he closed the distance between you. “I think I like the sound of that,” he murmured, his hands sliding around your waist, pulling you flush against him.

[crimsntwlip]

seeker | theodore nott.

pairing: theodore nott x fem!slytherin!reader

warnings: short, readers status not mentioned, nothing really!!!

summary: based on this request <3

a/n: this is my first request so i hope this is what you wanted !! <3

| posted: 02/07/24 | masterlist |

“merlin ‘enzo, can’t believe you dragged me to this game” theodore complained as he and lorenzo sat down in the benches of the slytherin stand.

“just because you aren’t on the team anymore doesn’t mean we can’t support mattheo, arse!” lorenzo slapped the back of theodore’s back.

“plus i heard they replaced you.” enzo snickered as theodore sent enzo a glare before turning his attention back down where the team was located.

the grandstands were bathed in a warm, golden warmth as the sun fell over the quidditch field. there was a nervous air of anticipation as the slytherin team prepared for their match versus ravenclaw.

as the teams shot into the air, y/n caught theodore's eye as the slytherin’s new seeker. he didn’t know much of her despite being in the same house. he had bumped into her here and there and maybe exchange a couple of words but merlin he didn’t even think she was into quidditch.

y/n darted through the air, agile and swift, eyes focused on the golden snitch. her quidditch robes billowed behind her as she flew, the green and silver colors of slytherin contrasting beautifully against the darkening sky. theodore couldn't tear his gaze away, mesmerized by the grace with which y/n maneuvered her broom.

as the game progressed, y/n's skill on the field was clear as the game went on. she soared through the air, dodging bludgers and racing after the snitch with a fierce determination that left theodore breathless. the way she moved, the way she commanded her broom with such confidence and precision - it was nothing short of captivating.

“y/n l/n has caught the snitch! slytherin wins!”

the crowd erupted in cheers, celebrating slytherin's victory. theodore's heart raced with adrenaline as he watched y/n land gracefully on the pitch, a triumphant smile on their face. it was then that y/n caught sight of theodore in the stands, her eyes meeting for a brief moment before y/n’s teammates swooped in to congratulate her.

after the match, theodore and lorenzo made their way down to the pitch, his heart still pounding with excitement. they made their way towards mattheo,

“bloody hell mate, good job out there!” enzo congratulated mattheo, pulling him into a bro hug as theodore stood next to them, except his attention was fixated towards the slytherin girl surrounded by her friends.

y/n and her friends noticed theodore’s staring. she gave him a small smile while her friends giggled, teasing y/n as they nudged her as he felt embarrassed as he was caught staring. he approached y/n, a hint of awe in his gaze as he spoke, "you were incredible out there. i’ve never seen anyone fly like that before."

y/n smiled, a blush creeping onto her cheeks at theodore's praise. "thank you," she said, a shy smile playing on her lips. "i'm glad you enjoyed the game."

as they talked, a new relationship started to blossom between theodore and y/n. theodore couldn't help but feel a deep sense of admiration for y/n- not just for her incredible quidditch skills, but for the passion and determination that radiated from her.

it was clear to him that y/n was someone truly special, someone who he wanted to get to know better and spend more time with. and as they continued to bond over shared interests and experiences, theodore found himself falling deeper and deeper for y/n, grateful for the unexpected connection that had brought them together.

[kalims]

ㅤhere is my husband

premise. just us casually staking a claim on our non-official husbands (for coupons)

featuring. all characters

content. alignment, fluff

ㅤthe flustered over thinkers

one who's unbearably confused because he doesn't recall a marriage taking place to wed the two of you at all, he's a little concerned though. he's sure he'd remember such an event? anything with the two of you is practically unforgettable to the fact that when he's in bed only thing he thinks about is you, and the lingering anticipation that he'll see you again in the morning.

besides this said... eventful morning. where you've both apparently upgraded in relationship without his knowledge he can say that he's struggling to hide his steaming ears, hoping you won't notice if he brings the cup of coffee to his face so the steam seems like it's from there.

confused? flustered? thanks for the input! here's your boyfriend husband. doesn't even ask you to explain even though he's twitching to ask you cause if he knows you then you're almost always up to no good, maybe this is one of your tricks but he won't try just for the thought that you're still 'married.' all marriage related things, even the color white is sending his mind into overwire :)

— | riddle, jack, deuce, azul, epel, silver

ㅤwe love flirts

ah yes, if we've got the flustered, confused husbands we also need to get our resident flirts who just gives you a side glance and plays along like he knows what game you're playing. absolutely no questions at all because you know he's gonna bring up the topic sooner or later with a tease, he just feels like he has to return the fluster you'd admittedly inflicted on him. (which is apparently by proclaiming you're both married now.)

don't be surprised if you're getting private messages online, or just random people coming up to you asking how you're married in... this golden age, was that even legal there? you're not sure but maybe because everyone was kind of casual about it.

doesn't matter whether you say you're just messing with him. oh, you're done? good for you but he isn't. he's calling you his spouse everywhere, a local restaurant, shop, stall. wherever you say, he claims he's just doing what you asked for the coupons but you've got an inkling he's just got a knack for calling you his lawfully wedded partner.

— | trey, cater, jade, rook, lilia, leona (partly), vil

ㅤlegally in denial

we have the awkward ones who partially accept their fates, the flirts who's living purpose is to get a rise of warmth in your face, and we have the legally in denial ones whom are trying so hard to deny everything you do. you guys are dating?! oh my god... you must be being threatened to do this, where's the culprit?! news flash, there isn't any but even when it's so clear they seem to find every single reason to convince themselves that there's something wrong.

like, please accept our love already. you already called them your husband in broad daylight, is that not enough of proof? what do you mean you're probably gonna divorce him... he doesn't mention the fact of you guys never marrying at all, just jumps in divorce...

sometimes you should punch a man for his self esteem, it must be a struggle trying to convince someone you like, that you indeed like them. crazy, right? he can't take this heart stopping gesture he's watched too many times but will gladly arrange a wedding in minecraft. just tell him you guys got married ever since he put his bed next to yours if he asks since when.

— | idia on his own

ㅤairheads who are simps

the classic group of guys, of which they all are just incredibly down bad for the lead who just so happens to be you! <4 in this case they're so in love that they wouldn't even question anything you say even if you mix up murder and a name in the same sentence! if you trip? oh no, no. it's clearly the fault of the ground, not to worry! he'll even get workers to reconstruct the entire thing.

and yes, he's either rich or has enough influence (if not through intimidation.) anyways, if they're mad because of a horrible day just walk in a room and then the dark cloud over their heads just floats away and is replaced by hearts in their eyes.

a prank? oh you're funny. what ever do you mean? you're both clearly married. he's got the papers right here *materializes one.* where did that even come from?! say it once, now you've planted something that won't go away in their heads and it's going to shift to reality one way or another :)

— | kalim, floyd, malleus, rook.

ㅤchill mister tsunderes

takes a deep breath* screeches* yeah that's pretty much it. the people (possibly pertaining to just one person, cause he almost always needs his own category.) who try to refuse your existing even if you just cough. keyword: try because even if you're dating them they're still struggling to wrap their head around the fact that they are dating you so maybe their coping mechanism is just refusing to admit you make their hearts go boom boom??

is completely torn whether to screech again (preferably not in his mind to release that pent up... feeling. some type of fluster that makes him wonder if he should have brought a pillow to yell into.) or just reject what you just said. somehow his mouth just doesn't cooperate and he has to look away from you because he's actually struggling to keep his sanity together.

giving himself pep talk, the fortitude that 'he doesn't like you', trying to rebuild that wall back up again but he learns that he apparently can't take it when you're both referred to a life bounded vow. not as in he despises is, though he believes he is. but rather because he'll probably combust on the spot by the sheer claim being said out loud.

— | main: sebek, leona, ace

ㅤdem smug bastards

the ones who just can't resist to crack a smirk when you casually introduce him as your husband, no wonder you insisted he wore the promise ring you had given him.. just to show him off? consider him impressed! this might be just one of his favorite memento of your shenanigans. either he already knows what you're up do (leona) or he's just enjoying the remnants of your embarrassed face as he plummets you with endless grins and teases (floyd)

he's your husband...? I mean true but you're mainly his spouse :) should you even regret having done anything in the first place for the coupons? don't ever. anything should be done for the discounts, even if your supposed husband starts parading everywhere and uses every opportunity that appears in random conversations or situations to just casually announce your lawfully wedded marriage.

what do you mean you're not married? I mean he's got all the evidence in his phone, you didn't think he'd pass up the opportunity to record you saying that phrase for nothing did you? it's a great moment to remember, especially when it's in the middle of the night and he can't help but pull up that recording just to listen to it on loop like an idiot.

— | leona, floyd, ruggie, jade?, lilia (perhaps, vil (also questionable)

ㅤwho are you talking to rn?

those who look embarrassed but you're betting most on your money that he's just awfully flustered + doesn't like the feeling just guessing from him avoiding your eyes like you're the entity from bird box. does he really think his hood can cover the entirety of his red ears? they're fooling absolutely no one with that fake cough, only thing you heard was the quiet choke when they processed your words.

tries to play it off by 'composing' themselves in front of you, even though their back is turned to you. the straightening of their shoulder usually implies that they think they're ready but you can't help but note that several parts of their body, if not all, collectively flinch at the sight of you. they dont say anything but they give you this... look.

like, narrowed eyes, their jaw is slightly turned away from you, *judges whole existence with a side eye* they can't believe they even have you as a partner but besides that they can't wrap their heads around the fact that such a stupid notion such as that actually had him doing cartwheels inside his head.

— | jamil deserves this, ruggie, jack, azul

ㅤwym didn't we already get married?

YOUR HONOR ITS THIS ONE. you're probably making him more confused than you are. because?? cue confused face. didn't you guys already get married like, a month ago? do you not see the ring on your finger? the matching one on his own finger? did you really not notice anything when he just casually takes you to the most ethereal, sacred place of briar valley and hands you the box containing the ring...? has he done it too subtly? well, he's underestimated humans once again...

to fae culture that was probably the most obvious thing ever. he didn't outright just decide he wanted to marry you, but you've probably done something that borders on a 'let's get married' proposal in his culture so that just prompted him to get to work ASAP, get his workers find the most grandest ring there is in his family heirloom.

if you take it. that just meant you're both FOR LIFERSSSSS. HENCE WHY HES SO CONFUSED WHEN YOU'RE CONFUSED THAT HES ACTING LIKE ITS NORMAL. I mean he's happy that you finally decided to call him his rightful title after a month but why are you so flabbergasted, child of man? what do you mean you're not married? just look at said sacred, ethereal place in briar valley. both your names are engraved there together, that's enough proof isn't it?

— | malleus

bonus <4

ㅤthe actual partner in crime

want to take it up a notch? just call the resident creator of forged documents, this is totally legal and free! just get on his good side and he will remain there forever, unchanging cause he loves you now. unless you somehow wrong him... it's actually very beneficial because he can do nearly anything for you without trouble so... wow you're married? why didn't you invite him :( oh you're not but you want to be? oh that's totally fine!

oh you want his help? he can't go against the law because of his coding system but.. it also says to help friends whenever he can and you're his best friend so :)) *casually prints out paper* don't worry he'll talk to some friends and it will be legal before you know it!

knowing his brother he's probably authorized to break the law so he had to code it himself before he gets too far... anyways congrats on your actual marriage 😊

— | ortho

note. this is a commissioned piece, do not post this anywhere else