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heavysighing-dreamyeyes · 4 months ago

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Claws and Curses

Werewolf!Jason and Vampire!Reader. They’re best friends, your honor, even when Gotham gets weird. ~1.6k words

Being a vampire is hard. Seriously, five days of trying to adjust to sharpened fangs and claws has not been fun. You’re hungry almost constantly, and you can only take eating raw meat and draining the blood bags the GCPD has been giving out for so much longer.

On top of all that, you broke your bedroom door just by opening it. It hangs limply by its hinges now, and you haven’t gotten around to fixing it. You have no idea how metas with super strength deal with it.

You didn’t even get turned into a vampire the fun way. No, it wasn’t a bite that has you treating everything like it's made of glass but a curse. A witch with some sort of vendetta against Gotham cast a spell, and it left civilians, rouges, and heroes alike running around as monsters.

At first, it was funny, a day off of work wasn’t so bad, and you figured if Batman, who apparently got turned into some kind of wraith, couldn’t fix it, Red Hood would.

But by day three? You hadn’t heard from Jason once, and your boss was insistent that you could come back to work.

Day four, you still had radio silence from Jason, and Gotham was carrying on like Vicki Vale wasn’t delivering the morning news with snakes instead of hair and thick, heavy sunglasses hiding her eyes.

Day five, you were growing increasingly worried about Jason, and you were starting to wonder if you were gonna be stuck as a vampire forever.

Yeah, you had gotten used to opening doors without breaking them, but you had spent almost your entire shift trying to help one of your coworkers, who had been unlucky enough to transform into a yeti, try to deal with shedding. You were still trying to get tufts of white fur off your coat, even on your walk home.

You were so wrapped up in wondering if it was possible to curse a witch back, that you fail to notice the flock of harpies starting to box you in, eagerly trying to corral you into an alley.

They snap their talons at you, and it’s only then your attention focuses on the four bird-like creatures leering at you. “This is our territory,” one of them croons at you, sharp teeth glinting in the street lights, “and there’s a price to be here.”

Your mouth works before your brain does, and you tell them exactly what you think of their little power play, “That’s stupid.”

If they’re put out by your lack of fear, none of them show it. One of them inches forward, gesturing for your pockets, “Wallet and phone, unless you’d like for things to get ugly?”

Your lips curl into a frown. It would be smart to just hand over your things. You’re not exactly a seasoned fighter, and you’re not completely sure how durable vampires are in the face of other monsters.

A part of you wants to find out, to test how capable your strength and fangs and claws can really be.

You don’t get the opportunity to decide. A threatening growl fills the air, and as you whip your head towards the noise, as a large, intimidating werewolf stalks out of the alley behind you.

The harpies didn’t scare you. Most of the monsters you’ve seen haven't shaken you. But this one? He’s terrifying. Teeth and nails meant for shredding skin. Dark, matted fur, and eyes that seemed to glow. Just the sight of him is enough to have all your nerves on edge.

The flock behind you seems to feel the same way, and the air almost crackles with tension.

You’re not sure who moves first, if the wolf takes a step forward, or if the harpies turn to run from a clear apex predator, but someone moves, and your would-be assailants make themselves scarce before you’ve even registered they’re gone.

You half expect the werewolf to pounce, to hunt down the harpies, but he does neither. He sits himself down in front of you and gives you the most disappointed look you’ve ever seen, You didn’t even know wolves could make that face.

It’s then that you notice the clothes he’s wearing, the red bat emblem, the distinctive hooded vest. “No way,” you breathe out, unable to fight the grin spreading across your face, “Jason?”

He rolls his eyes at you, letting out a huff as if to say ‘Duh’.

“You’re a dog,” You point out, trying to keep the laughter out of your voice. Relief spreads over your body when he glares at your words. It really is good to see him alive, and just as expressive, even under the curse.

You reach out to scratch his ears, and he leans into your touch. They’re surprisingly soft under your fingers. “Shouldn’t we be fighting, or something?”

He blinks once, then twice. Jason lets out another low, almost indignant huff at your question. He lifts his head, questioning eyes locking onto yours as he waits for you to elaborate.

Your grin wider at him, almost teasing as you run your hand lazily over the fur on his head, “It’s just, aren’t werewolves and vampires sworn enemies? Shouldn’t you be trying to bite my fingers instead of going all lapdog on me?”

Jason’s ears flatten slightly, and he lets out a quiet, frustrated growl. It's clear that he doesn't appreciate the implication that he would harm you.

You laugh, moving to scratch under his chin, “Yeah, I know. Who cares about centuries of fighting and stereotypes when we have trash TV to watch together.”

His ears perk up at your words, and his tail starts to wag. He offers your hand a slobbery lick, which you make a face at. He grins at the offended noise you make, all teeth and mischief.

You pull your hand away, wiping the drool onto your clothes, tone accusing and playful all at once, “Now, I know the curse didn’t take your manners.”

He shrugs at you, at least as much as a werewolf can shrug, and starts walking towards your building. He glances over his shoulder expectantly, like he expects you to follow.

“Shouldn’t you be looking for that witch? Instead of walking me home,” you ask curiously, quickly catching up to him.

He leans into you a little, huffing in a way that’s so familiar you know he finds your question ridiculous.

You delight in how warm he is against your side, you’ve been running cold since the curse turned you. “I’m just saying,” you murmur, going quiet as you take in the fact that he’s really here. Your next confession slips out thoughtlessly, “I missed talking to you.”

His steps falter, and he turns his head to look at like you’ve said something important.

“Plus, I need you to fix my door,” you say quickly, embarrassed by your slip up, “Broke it with my vampire powers.” You waggle your pointed nails at him, voice light and teasing as you try to mask how much you actually have missed him.

You’re not sure if you’ve managed to convince him, but he keeps walking all the same. You make a note to look into jinxes to curse the witch when you get home.

You really do miss his voice, and the easy conversation that usually flows between you. You find it almost cruel that it’s been taken from you.

It’s that feeling that drives you to keep talking as you near your apartment, “You know you could come over, right? Even if we’re all still cursed? I can turn on that show we’re watching and help you with your fur.”

He has the audacity to look offended, tongue lolling out of his mouth as he stares you down with faux hurt.

You have a stifle a giggle at his face, “C’mon, have you even had a bath since this whole thing started? At least let me brush it out if you’re still furry tomorrow. Deal?”

He’s reluctant about it, you tell by the way his ears flick back, but he nods anyway.

“Knew you’d see it my way,” you say happily, and reach out to pet his head. His eyes close when you do, and you bite back a fond noise at how his tail starts to wag contently.

You begrudgingly drop your hand from his fur, and you almost start scratching him again when he actually whines over it. You don’t know how he does it, but he gives you perfect puppy dog eyes that almost melt your heart.

“Don’t give me that look,” you whine right back, “Don’t you have to go save Gotham or something?”

He seems to contemplate your words for a moment, then gives in, nudging your side as if to say goodbye.

He nuzzles your side, almost long enough that you start to say something, before he pulls away to leave. It almost reminds you of how animals mark their territory with their scent, but you brush away that thought as quickly as it forms.

“Hey,” you call out, stopping him before he gets too far, “Make sure you come over, okay? Even if you still smell like dog.”

He grins at you and yips before disappearing into the Gotham night. You take it for the promise it is, and, as you head inside your apartment building, you wonder if he’ll be interested in the dog treats you keep around for Haley and Ace.

The idea makes you laugh, and for the first time since the curse took its hold on Gotham, you almost want to wake up as a vampire tomorrow, if only for the chance to tease your best friend.

#jason todd x reader #werewolf!jason #vampire!reader #jason todd #x reader #jason todd x y/n #jason todd x you #au

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nayaesworld · 10 days ago

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Deliver us from Eva

Pairing:Terry Richmond x Eva

Warnings: Drug use (cocaine), smut, love bombing

Summary: In a rush to stake her claim in the bedroom, Eva unknowingly signs a deal with the devil…

A/N: This will be strictly a one shot.(telling myself this bc ik how I am😗)

—

“Stuck up boujie bitch that thought she ran the office”. That’s what they all thought about Eva, but if she didn’t…who would? They were all dunces and lacked the overall beauty and intelligence that she held and quite frankly she wouldn’t apologize for it. Just a bunch of losers who couldn’t kiss her ass if it was engulfed in flames. She was just a young hot babe that overly excelled on the job yet they dwelled on the fact that she used work as a fashion show and the hallway as her runway..they simply couldn’t take her. But the newest work tea had her interested heavily…somebody had a crush on her. Well that explained all the little gifts being left on her desks, the bouquet of lilies, the little letters that explained how much they loved her work ethic and especially her radiant beauty. Well at least someone admired her hard work…and she had a feeling who that someone was.

She had noticed his affections…but everyone knelt down for her and kissed the ground she walked on. How was she supposed to know the difference? Terry Richmond was exactly Eva’s type. Tall and pretty with brains and strong arms that looked like they lifted twice her weight on a daily. His hypnotic puppy dog eyes would flick towards hers during group meetings, cheeks high and mouth upturned with a smile and she’d get suspicious of him and turn away with a roll of her eyes. He could try working that spell on another woman in the office, they were easier than her anyways. The fawning and gossiping made her gag on a daily, he was only ever cordial with the other women in the office and yet they acted as if he’d offered up his face as a seat. Pathetic.

But Eva still had an itch inside that needed to be scratched. She wouldn’t deny herself pleasure for one second. She wanted to ride that pony right off into the sunset, and she hated him for making her feel that way. If she only had to snag him and use him to get herself off then so be it..men did it all the time. A nice plan was settling in real fine in her head, the brainstorming room was Terry's playground it seemed, he spent more time in there than anyone and it showed. His business proposals for companies looking to work with theirs and diagrams were exceptionally detailed and straight forward. A man about his work. She knew where to find him and reapplied her dark brown lip liner to her plump lips. She sealed it with a clear gloss before puckering her lips and stuffing her compact mirror back into her purse, time to work some magic.

Terry had heard her coming before he saw her. Heels clicking to a beat so familiar to him that he could hunt her down in a building full of people. He had a thing for snobby pretty bitches, knocking them off their high horses and filling them with dick was his speciality and little miss Eva was his newest obsession…how fun. His matte black MacBook sat in front of him and he read through important work emails meticulously, a little bit of work before the play. She was getting closer now, just outside the door. Forcing his eyes to stay glued on his laptop screen, he tried to ignore her presence as she sat directly next to him. Notes of raspberry and saffron wafting into his nose. His ears began to ring and his foot tapped quickly underneath the table and she made it all worse by speaking to him in that sultry tone.

“I know your little secret Terry.” He paused his scrolling and arched a brow at her. Ahh so she had been receiving his gifts. Good.

“You have a crush on me, though I couldn’t really blame you.” There it was again, that air of arrogance. He liked that shit.

“Do I now..what makes you so sure?” He turned to her, giving her his full attention now.

Her full lips sat slightly open and her dark silk pressed hair fell around the cleavage that peeked from her blouse. Almond shaped eyes zeroed in on him suspiciously as she let his question sit with her. Fresh gel manicure tapping gently against the table brought his eyes downward where he watched the pretty manicured hand move to its own beat.

“Because I like you too. Believe me that was hard enough to say so don’t give me that look.”

“And just what do you like about me, Miss Eva…you ignore every other man’s advances so why me?”

“Because you’re smart and pretty..and I wanna fuck you.” Hmm a bit bolder than he’d expected but he’d bite.

“You wanna fuck me or do you wanna get fucked, there’s a difference mama choose wisely.”

The chair she sat in rolled closer and he was practically breathing in her whole existence. Her minty breath warm on his forearm as she dropped her hand onto his bicep, stroking against it like a sweet pampered house cat.

“I don’t discriminate, I’ll take whatever you’re offering and double it.” She was overconfident in her ability to overtake him and that stirred something deep inside him. Women didn’t usually challenge him this way and he was teetering on the edge of showing his hand…in due time.

Terry knew her type. Overly confident and arrogant to compensate for what she was actually lacking, he had clocked her months ago. Simply watching for an entry point into her head..to infiltrate her mind and body like a parasite. To control her. She had the workings of a good little sex slave…something to own and degrade. Something to tear down and build back up in his image.

“What if I’m not offering anything, what if I just wanna take. You willing to give lil mama?”

And willing she was. She had no idea what she was agreeing to..what she’d have to do to be down with him. The dark sinister side of him loved the art of ambush. The ability to play it up and source information about his prey while they stood in front of him. She craved something that he could only feign to give her, and he saw that present in her mind.

Terry didn’t know the true extent to his abilities or the origin of them. He assumed that they had been passed down through his bloodline..generation to generation. He knew things about people before they ever told him, he felt those things. Felt their turmoil and longing all around them, how it oozed from their pores like perspiration. And Eva was no different. She was desperate to feel any inkling of what she thought was love from people, underneath the facade she was heavily distraught by the lack of sympathy and kindness in her life. No one truly looked under her hard exterior and analyzed why she acted the way she did, said the things she said. But Terry would give her some justice tonight even if he was the only one that benefited from it.

Rushed lip locking and the sound of ripped garments filled his bedroom. There was no time to slow down. Not when her aura glowed blue with need and despair and not when his most carnal desires were coming to the forefront. There was wickedness at play there in the room, the lights turned down casting a warm glow over heated melanated skin and a tango of bodies that would frighten the gods. Terry withdrew his hand from her hair, the thick tresses so tightly bound that his knuckles rubbed against her scalp. And like a moth drawn to a flame, his brawny body carried itself to his dresser drawer. His guilty pleasure and the only white bitch that he had ever craved like air in his lungs —coke. It rushed through his senses like a dream, centering him and abusing him all at once.

The mini ziplock rested on the dresser as he snorted his first line of the night. Head thrown back in pure bliss as he felt the instant euphoric rush to his bloodstream. His back was to his dresser as he beckoned her to come to him.

“Do you partake?” A question so simple and yet she stared at him like he had two heads before shaking her head no.

“You do now… you’ll love it. It’s everything you’ve been missing I promise.” Her compliance meant little to him as he held the line up to her nose.

“Nice and slow, there you go.” He swept a thumb under her nose, gripping her chin gently in his hand. He wanted her fluttering around his space like a butterfly fresh from a chrysalis.

Her bare body twirled and wiggled in front of him like his favorite after hours show. Notes of Australian sandalwood and Haitian vetiver filled the space in his room, that intoxicating perfume that relayed signals to his olfactory bulb everyday. When she turned her back to him, hands thrown in the arm, he noticed the tramp stamp on her lower back. Heaven is what it read, but he had plans to take her someplace a little hotter, someplace she couldn’t come back from. A great satisfaction it would bring him to take her down so low he would be the only thing grounding her when he was finished with her.

He pulled her buzzing body to his. Naked chest to naked chest. His hands focused her whipping head forcing her to stare into his barren eyes, blown out pupils barely leaving room for the pretty brown he saw on a regular. He wanted all the signs of her snuffed out…aura slowly changing from blue to red. She placed her arms around his waist, lacing them together before she pressed her lips to his. A green light. An ok to wreck this helpless soul.

His mouth drooled and leaked for what seemed like the thousandth time already. Mustache and goatee drenched with pussy juice, he was getting his protein for the week and then some. Tongue curling around her clit to suckle it roughly while two of his fingers dig into her clenching hole. Her thighs had begun to bruise from his hold on them and the pain she felt from it made her moan and cry out loud. Euphoria wasn’t the word to explain what this was. This was splitting her mind in two, throwing her out and stuffing Terry inside. Did he love her? He had too, that’s what he had told her just minutes ago wasn't it? She wasn’t hearing things, couldn’t be.

“Fuck I love you too. Take it.. it won’t matter without you.” She was crying out those words to him, giving him something to hold over her. But what was she offering..,her own life perhaps?

Wild colors burst behind her eyes as she orgasmed again. Legs shaking and quivering in his tight hold, while she let him wipe tears into her hairline. He stood over her hand gripping her throat so tightly that her heart raced in fear that he wouldn’t let go.

“Love?That’s what you need right..what you’re missing? That’s what I’m giving you right…that feeling you feel right now, that’s the kind of love I offer Eva.”

Love? This newfound love made her heart race and beat rapidly in her chest, it squeezed and rattled against her ribcage begging for reprieve from his hold..the hold she felt all over her body. She wanted it tho, people never made her feel anymore, just made her realize how much she wasn’t. And when his body came to lay over hers, dick positioned just above her entrance she began to truly see.

“I own you from here on out. Forget your family..they never loved you. Forget your friends..they never offered you any solace. I can bring you that and so much more. If you just let me in.”

Her verbal consent unleashed something. And before she could protest in fear he sank deeply into her, and her mouth was caught in a permanent ‘o’ as he pistoned into her quickly. She cried quietly in his ear as the walls bled around them, her eyes wide in horror. It gushed all around them and she wiped her forehead feeling a drop splash there.

“Shh shh, there’s nothing there. It’s the drugs playing tricks on you I swear.” His deep voice cooed into her ear. His reassurance didn’t go far.

Her nails sank deep into his back as he bottomed out in her pussy. The lewd notices that came from between them were not even enough to pull her focus from the wall behind them. A pair of yellow reptilian eyes stared at them through the blood and she shrieked in terror pointing at the wall.

“He won’t bother us baby..he just likes a little show. You don’t mind now do you?” The unsettling grin on his face chilled her bones, but the fucking never stopped. He never stopped. Not when the headboard snapped in two, and not when she screamed bloody murder as another orgasm ripped through her body.

She made the mistake of shutting her eyes and when she opened them again she was watching herself and Terry on the bed. Her body stuck to the ceiling in a sort of lucid dream. She saw it all, the way he lifted her body and continued fucking her as he stood facing the wall now and how the Eva on the ground stared right up at her. Terry followed her line of sight and blew kisses up at you… the real you. Or maybe that was the real you, but how could you be sure. When you raised your hand hers raised too, and when you subconsciously asked her to wink at you she did.

Then came his voice, the lightest whisper in your loud mind. Softly pulling you back into your own body, and when your wet eyes fluttered open again viridian eyes met yours. Your body smelled fresh and clean like you had been bathed and your silky tresses sat wrapped securely under a scarf. Confusion set deep in your features and a pounding migraine to make matters worse, yet answers were all you needed. And like your mind was being read he provided one.

“Deals with the devil are best made sober…shall we try again later?”

@luvrsluxe @slvt4her @rawflwrs @thabiddie23 @blyffe @notapradagurl7 @sk1121-blog1 @dimepiece09 @playgurlxoxo @zillasvilla @23jammy @pocketsizedpanther @kenshisluvrgirl @brattyfics @nahimjustfeelingit-writes @melosliving @bimbosnbutterflies2026 @kirayuki22 @alyssawritcs @becauseimswagman1 @ranikyani @keehendrixx @ovohanna24 @venusincleo @grlsbstshot @yassbishimvintage @avoidthings @simplyzeeka @blowmymbackout @kimuzostar @kumkaniudaku @megamindsecretlair @theereina @keyaho @hotgrlcece @miyuhpapayuh @uzumaki-rebellion

#Spotify #aaron pierre #terry richmond #black women #rebel ridge #nayaesworld #dividers by fawndollie

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marvelfanfn2187a113 · 7 months ago

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Hey Jude

Sam and Dean Winchester & little sister!reader

Requested by Anonymous

Synopsis: based off of 12x11, but you lose your memory instead of Dean.

You cried out in pain and surprise as the witch blew a strange dark powder into your face and you staggered back into the wall.

“Hey!” Dean turned suddenly when he heard your distress, and he lifted his gun and fired off three rounds of witch-killing bullets into the woman that hurt his little sister.

“You ok?” Sam asked, helping you straighten up and glancing down at the witch to make sure she was dead.

“Fine.” You shook yourself and did a once over—no extra limbs, no pain, nothing. “I’m fine. The witch is dead, so whatever she threw at me won’t work.”

“We should get going,” Dean said. “If you’re sure you’re ok.”

“I’m sure.”

…

“This place isn’t half bad,” you spoke up as the Impala pulled into a motel. Your brows drew together in confusion as Dean pulled up in front of a room. “Don’t we need to check in?”

“We’ve…been here for two days,” Sam said, turning in his seat and frowning at you. “What are you talking about?”

“Oh…nothing,” you mumbled shyly, suddenly both confused and embarrassed. Why didn’t you remember? “Never mind.”

“I’m gonna give Rowena a call,” Sam said as the three of you entered your motel room. “She said there was a whole coven here, but we’ve only taken out two witches—maybe she can help us track down the rest.”

“Who?” You asked, trying to wrap your brain around the name, familiar yet somehow foreign—was it another hunter?

“Rowena…” Dean said, seemingly baffled by your question. “Red head witch? Irish, or Scottish, or whatever?” Dean goggled at you, but you just stared back blankly. “Seriously, are you joking?”

“No…” you were confused. Clearly your brothers couldn’t know this “Rowena” too well, otherwise you would remember her. So why did Dean care so much if you did? “Am I supposed to know her?”

“We saw her just last week,” Sam said, watching you carefully. “You know, Crowley’s mother?”

“Crowley?” This name felt more familiar to you, but still you couldn’t quite grasp it. “Crowley…” you mumbled again, as if repeating it would somehow bring a face to mind.

“Now I know you’re kidding,” Dean scoffed, although he didn’t look convinced.

“I don’t understand,” you said, looking from Sam to Dean and back again.

“You know Crowley,” Sam said. “You know Rowena, too. Why can’t—“ Sam’s eyes widened suddenly in horror. “That…that stuff the witch threw at you.”

“You mean Rowena?” You remembered that Sam—or was it Dean?—has just said that Rowena was a witch.

“What? No,” Dean said to you before turning to Sam. “What about it? You think maybe it messed with her memory? Made her forget about witches, or something?”

“That doesn’t explain why she forgot Crowley,” Sam countered. “Maybe it’s made her forget the supernatural world.”

“Supernatural,” you spoke up, desperate to prove that you hadn’t forgotten. “Like ghosts. We hunt ghosts. I haven’t forgotten, see?”

Dean’s brows crinkled in confusion.

“Then I don’t understand…”

“Let’s call Rowena,” Sam suggested. “She’ll know what this is.”

…

“Oh dear,” Rowena’s sigh of disappointment got the attention of the Winchester brothers; however, you were distracted playing with Dean’s gun on his bed.

“What is it?” Dean demanded.

“It’s definitely a memory spell.” Rowena sighed again. “This spell…it will make her memory fade piece by piece, until she can’t remember anything.”

“Anything?” Sam asked.

“Anything. Not you, not even herself. Soon enough she’ll forget how to eat, how to…how to breathe. And then…” Rowena let her voice trail off, her point having been made.

“Ok, then fix it,” Dean insisted.

“It’s not that simple. I need the grimoire—the spell book used to make that powder—if I’m going to be able to undo it.”

“And how are we supposed to find that?” Dean growled.

“It’ll be with the rest of the coven,” Rowena said confidently. “You said you only got two witches, right? A coven must be at least three. Any remaining will have the grimoire.”

“Is this thing loaded?” Dean whirled around to see you pointing his gun straight up at your own eye.

“Hey, hey!” He yelled, rushing to you and yanking the gun from your hands. “That is not a toy!”

“I’m sorry,” you mumbled, your gaze going from Dean to Rowena. “You’re our witch friend, right?”

“I…suppose,” Rowena said slowly.

“Cool!” You exclaimed, jumping off Dean’s bed and going straight for Rowena’s bag. “Is this your witch bag? Do you have cool stuff in here?”

“Hey now!” Rowena grabbed your arms and pulled them out of her bag. “Stay out of that, you’ll set off a curse or something!” Rowena took one look at your pouting face and sighed, reaching into her bag. “Here,” she said, coming out with a voodoo doll. “Play with this.”

“Wait, is that gonna hurt someone?” Dean spoke up.

“She’s fine,” Rowena insisted, waving her hand dismissively as you returned to Dean’s bed, examining the doll with a grin. “Now, we need to find that coven.”

…

“We can’t just leave her here alone,” Sam hissed as Dean packed his bag for the hunt.

“Well we’re not going to take her with us,” Dean countered.

“Are you going somewhere?” You spoke up suddenly.

“We’ve gotta take out that witch,” Dean said.

“What witch?” You asked. The brothers ignored you.

“Look, she’ll be fine for just a few hours,” Dean told Sam. “And when we’re back, Rowena can break the curse.”

“Whose curse?” You asked. “Are you cursed?”

“Alright. Let’s go.” Sam sighed.

He and Dean headed for the door, but both stopped when you grabbed onto Sam’s arm.

“We’ll be back soon,” he promised.

“Don’t,” you pleaded. “Please don’t. I’m—I’m forgetting everything…and I don’t want to forget you. If you go, I’ll forget.”

“Hey, that’s not gonna happen,” Dean spoke up. “We’re gonna break this curse, and you’ll be ok.”

You still looked scared and unconvinced, so Dean continued.

“I want you to do something for me. Just keep repeating the most important things to yourself—it’ll help.”

“Ok…” you said slowly, then froze as you wondered where to start.

“Start small,” Dean instructed.

“My…my name is Y/N.” You glanced at Dean, then Sam. “Sam and Dean are my brothers. Rowena…is our witch friend. Castiel is our angel friend. My dad is John Winchester.”

“You’re doing great,” Sam insisted. “If you keep doing that, you won’t forget us.”

You didn’t think that that was how the curse worked, but you couldn’t honestly remember. You would have to take De—no, Sam’s—word for it.

“Are you sure?” Your voice faded to a whisper as Sam and Dean walked out the door before you had even started the question. You took a deep breathe, steeling yourself. “Ok. My name…my name is Y/N Winchester…”

…

“Well that was a bust,” Dean groaned as he pulled the Impala back into the motel. “Are you sure we shouldn’t just head to the next possible location?”

“I want to check on her,” Sam insisted. “I don’t want her to be scared.”

Dean didn’t respond, he just parked the Impala and led the way into the room. The boys hadn’t taken two steps into the room before Sam caught sight of you ducking into the bathroom and slamming the door behind you.

“Y/N?” Dean called out. “Sweetheart, are you ok?”

Silence greeted his question.

“Y/N?” Sam knocked on the door. “Please answer me.”

“Go away!” Your voice was tight and squeaky, even through the door.

“Kiddo it’s us,” Sam assured you.

“How-how do you know my name?” There was more confusion in your voice than fear now.

“Y/N—“ Dean’s voice stuck, and he cleared his throat. “It’s us, it’s your brothers. You know us, remember?”

The lock clicked on the bathroom door, and Dean could see half of your face as you peered up at him. After a moment, you swung the door open all the way, but you remained in the doorway hesitantly.

“I know you,” you mumbled. Dean held his breath as you stared first at him, then Sam. “My…brothers…” you were rubbing your arm now, anxiously glancing at your brothers as you wracked your brain for more information. “You’re…you’re S-S…D…” you were breathing hard now, terrified that you couldn’t remember their names. “I-I know it, I know who you are, I know it!”

“Hey, it’s ok, it’s ok,” Sam soothed. “Do you want me to tell you?”

“No, no, I know it,” you insisted. “I know this, I-I have to know this.”

“It’s…it’s ok if you don’t remember,” Dean spoke up. “We’re here, we can help you.”

“No, it’s not ok!” Your outburst startled the boys, but they didn’t show it. “It’s not ok, I have to know this! You-you’re my big brothers, and I have to remember you!”

“Commere.” Sam couldn’t stand to see you start to cry, so he pulled you into his arms. “It’s gonna be ok…we’re going to fix this, we are.”

“I-I have to…I remember, I have to…” you were babbling almost incoherently. Sam looked at Dean over your shoulder, and they shared a moment of painful panic before Dean spoke.

“I’m gonna get us some food.” And he rushed out the door.

Sam stayed with you for several minutes before you slowly disentangled yourself from him.

“I can’t remember,” you whimpered.

“I…I know.” Sam sighed. He was about to speak again when he spotted the Impala out of the corner of his eye through the window—Dean was sitting inside, not moving; he hadn’t left. “Um…I’m gonna go talk to him.” Sam started for the door, but you stopped him.

“Let me,” you said. “I…I want to.”

So Sam stood back as you went to comfort your brother whose name you couldn’t remember.

…

He just needed a minute. He would go out, get food, come back, and be ready to help you again but he just needed a minute.

He turned on the radio, cursing himself for it a moment later when Hey Jude started playing. He reached up to turn it off—it was just too painful to hear this, your favorite song—but he stopped when your favorite part started playing.

“And any time you feel the pain,

Hey Jude, refrain

Don’t carry the world upon your shoulder.”

The words brought back a thousand memories, a thousand little moments between you and Dean that he knew he would remember forever. A few precious moments stood out above the rest—

…

“Hey little sister.” The first words Dean ever said to you. You were just a toddler, crying in the doorway of a filthy motel room while you watched your mother—some random hookup of John’s who’d gotten sick of taking care of a kid—drive away. She’d stayed long enough to hear that Dean was John’s son, then she’d snapped, “This is for him,” and shoved her daughter forward before rushing to her car.

You were utterly inconsolable, sobbing until your face was bright red and you could barely breathe. If Dean didn’t calm you down quickly, you might pass out, crying yourself into exhaustion.

“Hey Jude…” Dean had barely even made the decision to start singing before Hey Jude came to his head—the song his mother used to calm him down. “Don’t make it bad

Take a sad song and make it better…”

…

Dean would’ve done anything—anything—to undo the last ten minutes. He wanted to go back and change it all, to tell you a different story, to say “monsters aren’t real, they’re just stories, and of course dad doesn’t fight monsters, of course he’s not in danger, of course he’ll come home.”

But he couldn’t.

You were scared now. Maybe you always would be, in some capacity. You would always carry that little voice inside that said—“there are monsters out there, and they want you dead.”

Dean hadn’t wanted to tell you. Why did you have to be so curious? Why did you have so many questions, questions that you demanded answers for?

You were crying now; sitting by the motel window, waiting for dad to show up, and you were crying. Dean had done this—he’d made you so scared that you cried by the window, hoping that dad was coming home.

You flinched when the wind banged a tree against the window, and Dean decided he couldn’t take it anymore. He sat beside you, and you latched onto his arm instantly, leaning on him for support. Dean did the only thing he could think of—

“Hey Jude, don’t be afraid…”

…

Dean’s memories retreated to the back of his mind when the Impala door opened and you climbed in. He stopped his gentle singing—he hadn’t even realized he was doing it—when you turned to look at him. He looked from your eyes to the radio, almost as if he were begging you to remember—not just the song, but everything it meant to both of you. You just blinked up at him with that blank expression that had been haunting Dean since you started to forget.

“I don’t want you to be sad,” you whispered. Dean smiled painfully.

“You don’t even know my name.”

“But I know that I care about you.”

Dean’s breath hitched.

“You shouldn’t worry about me, little sister. I’m gonna fix you, I promise.”

“But what if you can’t? I still don’t want you to be sad.”

Dean was struggling to hold onto his resolve—to his strength.

“Don’t worry about that. I’m not gonna let anything bad happen to you.”

The both of you lapsed into silence, the closing notes of Hey Jude still playing.

“I like this song,” you said quietly. “It sounds nice.”

Dean clenched his jaw tightly to keep his lips from quivering.

“Kid, please go back to Sammy.”

“Sammy,” you mumbled to yourself, as if trying to put a face to the name. Dean’s fists clenched as he blinked rapidly.

“That room-“ he pointed- “go knock. Sam is in there, he’ll take care of you while I get us some food.”

You stared at Dean for a long moment; he knew that you were worried about him, but the blank expression on your face hurt more than he could take.

“Sweetheart, go. I need you to…please. Please go.”

You left without another word.

…

“I found it.” Rowena’s outburst came just after you swallowed the last of your fries—Sam and Dean had barely picked at their food, but you had forgotten so much that you were no longer sure what they were worried about, so you felt fine.

“Found what?” Dean demanded.

“The coven. I’m sure of it. It’s the perfect place for a witch to hide. You take the last remaining in the coven out and get me their grimoire, and that curse will be gone before we know it.”

“What about her?” Sam’s eyes darted to you before looking back at Dean. “I don’t think she should be alone, she’s forgetting more and more.”

You glanced behind you to make sure he had looked at you, and not someone else. Dean noticed this and sighed.

“We don’t have much choice.” Dean stepped over to the tv and switched it on. “Commere Y/N.” He had to stare at you for several seconds before you realized that that was your name.

You jumped up off the chair and went to sit on Dean’s bed so you could get a good view of the tv.

“Ok, sit here and watch this,” Dean instructed, gesturing to the cartoon playing. “Don’t move, don’t leave, ok?”

“Why can’t I go?” You wondered.

“Do you know what we’re doing?” Dean asked. You pondered this.

“Witches…covens…your lumberjack outfits…a Halloween party?” You guessed.

Dean glanced down at his red flannel, seemingly offended, before he waved it off in annoyance.

“Yeah, you’re definitely staying here.”

“Well can I play with this then?” All three turned to see you with a—quite possibly cursed—dagger that you had somehow gotten from Rowena’s bag, along with a—definitely cursed—witches’ spell book.

“Hey now!” Rowena cried out, snatching both items from you. “How many times do I have to tell you, my things are not toys!”

You ignored this loud outburst and instead stared at Rowena as if you had never seen her.

“I like your dress,” you said suddenly. “It’s so…it’s like a queen’s dress.”

“Why…thank you,” she said with a sudden smile. “I think I like you better this way.”

“Rowena.” Dean grumbled.

“Yes yes alright,” she huffed. “Let’s go.”

…

The witches were surprisingly easy to kill, but when Rowena went to use their grimoire, Sam stopped her.

“How long will this spell take?” He asked.

“Maybe an hour.”

“I want to do it back at the hotel,” Sam insisted.

“It’s faster to—“ Dean began, but Sam interrupted.

“She’s gotta be terrified right now, with how much she’s forgetting so quickly. I want to be there for her, I want her to know that we’re fixing this.”

“It’s not far,” Rowena said, taking Sam’s side. “Let’s go.”

…

You were much harder to coax out of the bathroom this time, and even when you were sitting on Dean’s bed with a brother on either side of you while Rowena worked on the spell, you looked unconvinced.

Sam was trying to calm your nerves by showing you pictures and telling you names and facts.

“And this, this is Bobby—“ he’d shown you Bobby’s picture at least three times, but your short term memory kept getting worse, so you didn’t notice.

“Um…” Sam stopped talking when you started, but you didn’t get far before your face screwed up, and Sam knew you were trying to remember his name.

“Sam,” he supplied, hating to see you in distress.

“Sam,” you said with a breath of relief. “I just…I for-I forgot, what’s…what’s my name?”

Sam barely heard Dean’s sharp intake of breath over his own shattering heart.

“It’s…you’re—“

“Y/N.”

Sam was confused when you answered your own question, until he looked from you to Rowena, who wore a triumphant smile.

“Did you—does she—“

“Sam.” The wide grin on your face was unmistakable, as was the spark in your eye. “Dean.”

“Oh kid,” Dean breathed, wrapping you in his arms a split second before Sam could. Sam didn’t care though—he grabbed both his siblings in a group hug that had Rowena rolling her eyes, although the smile never left her face.

“You’re back.” Sam grinned.

“Did you ever doubt it?” You questioned with a laugh.

“I admit, a few moments gave me pause,” Sam chuckled.

“Didn’t doubt it for a second,” Dean insisted. “I knew you’d come back to us.”

“Well I’m sure that that would’ve comforted me—if I coulda remembered your name.”

You knew Dean was gonna throw that pillow at you before he’d even grabbed it—you didn’t need your memories to tell you that.

Taglist:

@nyotamalfoy @mrvlxgrl @chocorade @aestheticdaisies @inlovewhithafairytale @that-wannabe-vangoghgurl @casmustdiee @987coley

#the winchesters #dean winchester #dean and sam #supernatural dean #sam winchester #winchesters x sister #dean winchester x reader #dean winchester x you #winchesters x reader #sam winchester x reader #sam winchester x little sister #sam winchester x y/n #sam winchester x sister!reader #dean winchester x little sister #dean winchester x sister #dean winchester x sister!reader #supernatural #dean winchester spn

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scoutofmymind · 1 month ago

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fratboy!Luigi x i-dont-wanna-be-here!Reader just randomly had the thought of Lu being a rowdy frat boy and got kinda Tingly

Divine Timing Bullshit { Luigi x Reader }

Content: pretty much SFW (if you read about an alleged assassin at work), kissing, existential crisis, Fratboy Lu is actually a sweetie

W.c: 2,485

Notes; Yeah he’s an aggro-frat boy, but he’s also a stoned philosopher, and you appreciate that, because you’re kind of losing it.

Ohh, oh, oh. Yes, yes, yes. Frat boy with a brain and heart, reader is lowkey Going Through It.

Second-year frat parties had lost their theoretical allure. Gone was that first-year thrill of living the quintessential college experience, of checking off every box in the collegiate party manual.

This year, though. This year felt different.

"Who's going to be there?" You mumble through a mouthful of scone, eyes fixed on your screen. The pastry, a hasty purchase between classes, sits half-forgotten in your cheek.

"Since when do you care?" Your roommate swivels from her desk—a chaos of textbooks, scattered lip glosses, an open laptop, and uncapped mascaras. She brandishes her lip pencil like an accusatory finger, eyebrows arched. "You're turning into such a second-year hermit."

You flinch at the accusation, phone dropping to your chest as you stop mid-chew. "Fuck," you mutter, brushing pastry debris from your hoodie — the same one you've been living in for... three nights? Four?

She doesn't need to spell it out. You've become a ghost haunting the same tired circuit: dorm room, library, labs, class. Any moment of freedom dissolves into endless study sessions or mindless TikTok scrolling until you drift off to the white noise of ASMR or satisfying slime crafts.

"Don't make me go alone." Her voice cracks with a plea you can't dismiss. "We're supposed to be doing college together. We promised."

The pact.

The fucking pact.

You'd both sworn, hands clasped under string lights in your shared room during orientation week, that you wouldn't let each other miss out on anything. Not the midnight donut runs, not the questionable decisions, not the memories that were supposed to make these years matter.

And so, it was settled.

•

The house loomed before you, nothing like the usual frat dungeons. This was old money — a sprawling estate with an infinity pool that cut into the manicured lawn like a slice of sky, and a home theater visible through floor-to-ceiling windows.

Bodies pressed past, each collision a reminder that you'd rather be elsewhere.

"Whose fuckin' house is this?" The words barely leave your mouth before your roommate's giggle floats up, her shoulder bumping yours as she shrugs.

The question evaporates into the thrum of bass and chatter.

You knew the drill by now.

She'd disappear into the crowd, hunting for tonight's conquest, while you'd drift through rooms like a wandering spirit in limbo — observing the drama unfold, helping yourself to whatever expensive snacks rich kids kept in their pantries, and sometimes, when the night got boring enough, investigating medicine cabinets.

Eventually, your travels lead you toward clusters of laughing girls, some familiar faces from lecture halls, others newly christened friends after thirty seconds of slurred introductions.

The living room couch has become your sanctuary, a perfect vantage point for the night's theater.

"God, he's fucking hot." Liz's whisper cuts through the ambient chatter, her eyes fixed on the kitchen where the imported marble island has devolved into a battlefield of red cups and spilled beer.

A tall figure commands the space, radiating the particular brand of arrogance that comes with being undefeated at beer pong for the past hour.

"Who?" Your eyebrows knit together before shooting upward in realization. She can't possibly mean -

"His name's Luigi." Her voice takes on that dreamy quality, like a third-grader confessing her first crush behind the jungle gym. "He's studying Computer Science."

Your face contorts into an expression somewhere between horror and disbelief.

"I know," Liz breathes, mirroring your shock. Luigi wasn't unattractive — that was the problem. The universe had already dealt him the unfair hand of conventional beauty; the revelation of actual intelligence felt like cosmic overkill. "Wouldn't think he was aiming any higher than a business degree, huh?"

You watch him slam another cup, arms raised in victory, and try to reconcile this frat god with the same person who probably spent hours debugging code.

The image doesn't compute.

Every other CS major you knew was either passed out in the engineering building or mainlining caffeine in their dorm, not holding court over a beer pong empire.

"Just gives typical aggro frat vibes," you mutter, unable to tear your eyes away from the spectacle. He's exchanging those elaborate, ritualistic handshakes with his bros, throwing back shots like water. Your body instinctively recoils, but there's something magnetic about the train wreck unfolding before you — like watching a perfectly coded program crash in spectacular fashion.

He's performing, you realize — a master of his craft, painting broad strokes of the perfect college experience. Creating stories he'll tell at reunions and job interviews, memories that look better through the lens of a camera than they feel in real time.

You study Luigi's practiced grin, the way he looms over his temporary kingdom, and something shifts.

Does he have someone to call at 3 AM when the world caves in? Or are these connections as deep as the beer puddles on the marble counter — evaporating by morning?

The room tilts slightly, your earlier drinks and that passed joint finally catching up, making everything sharper and softer all at once.

Your gaze drifts over your own circle, these girls laughing and sharing secrets like best friends, some of which you'd only learned most of their names moments ago.

The thought hits you like cold water: who among them would you trust with your real stories? Who would pick up your call at 3 AM? Are you any different from Luigi — just playing your own part in this performance?

The night air slaps you awake before you even realize you've fled, your feet carrying you to a hidden corner of the garden where a stone fountain whispers secrets to itself. Here, the party exists only in echoes — distant laughter, scattered arguments, and drunken declarations of love or war floating across the manicured lawn.

You tilt your head skyward, searching for anchor points among the stars and the world narrows to just this: the cool stone beneath you, the rhythm of water, the infinite above -

"Hey."

Your body jolts to attention, the peaceful moment shattering like glass. Your eyes drop from the constellations to find a different kind of celestial body standing before you — broad shoulders blocking out stars, dark features caught in shadow, curls tumbling across his forehead.

Your mind scrambles for a name, like trying to catch smoke.

Luis? Lucas?

Luigi.

The beer pong champion himself, somehow materialized from your earlier observations like a summoned entity.

"Hey." Your body performs an awkward dance on the bench, caught between making room and trying to collapse into nothingness.

"What are you doing out here?"

The question, though innocent enough, triggers your defenses. Your response comes with teeth: "I could ask you the same thing." It's a warning label, bright and clear: Approach With Caution.

The garden's twinkle lights catch him in their amber web, transforming the beer pong champion into something softer — sweat-sheened skin, features gentled by shadow.

His posture reads like an open book written in a language you can't quite translate, neither defensive nor inviting.

Just curious.

"Well, you could." The words roll out with the same casual grace as the shoulder he shrugs, a yet-unlit joint dancing between his lips as his thumbs tap out a message on his phone's glow. "And I'd just say I live here."

The universe, it seems, has a sense of humor.

A groan slips past your defenses as mortification sets in. Of all the backyards in New York, you had to stake your claim in this one, then challenge its owner about his right to be there.

"To answer your question though-“ The words come filtered through the joint until flame meets paper. He exhales, and his next words ride out on a cloud of smoke: "I came out here to call my mom." His phone screen glows with evidence — his mother's contact photo, her name bookended by heart emojis and a simple Mama.

Something about Luigi — maybe the lingering beer pong bravado, maybe the way he wears this vulnerability so casually — still begs to be challenged. "Gotta make sure she doesn't suspect you have about one hundred NYU students in her home, hm?"

He shakes his head, the sound he makes sliding down the scale like lazy jazz. "Nah, she doesn't care about that shit." His thumb hovers over the keyboard, apparently deciding a text will suffice for tonight's check-in. "And there's definitely not a hundred people in there right now."

You study his posture — the way confidence and caution occupy the same space in his frame, like watercolors bleeding into each other. "Where's she?"

Luigi's eyes lift from his screen to find yours. "Seychelles." The message swooshes into the digital void before his phone disappears into his pocket. "Your turn."

The garden's ambient soundtrack fills the space between you, water music from the fountain where a bronze boy — who bears a suspicious resemblance to a younger Luigi — plays eternal lifeguard to the trickling streams.

Your eyes lock across the dim space, neither yielding.

"My turn to what?" The question is a stalling tactic, and you both know it.

"Your turn to tell me what you're doing out here."

Your gaze wanders the curated wilderness around you — the fairy-lit canopy, the fountain's eternal performance, the swimming pool framed by trees sculpted into shapes that belong in a vintage Playboy spread.

Everything here speaks of a life so different from yours, yet something about the engineering student standing before you, texting his mom from his own party, suggests a truth you hadn’t expected; the distance between your worlds might be shorter than it appears.

"Just needed some air." The lie falls flat, each word a domino tipping toward the truth you're trying to outrun—that existential spiral triggered by watching him earlier, wondering about the depth of his connections, only to find your own relationships reflecting back just as shallow.

Luigi claims his spot beside you, the bench suddenly alive with shared warmth. His knowing smirk and raised eyebrows speak volumes while his lips stay sealed, the silence between you stretching like taffy until -

"What the fuck are you doing?"

"Getting some air." He mirrors your words back to you, a perfect echo with an undertone of challenge.

Your hands scrub across your face as if trying to erase something, and when you turn to face him, he's already there, matching your position like a choreographed dance. His eyes lock onto yours — steady, focused — as you stare back with the wild gaze of someone about to jump off a cliff.

"Do you ever think maybe you're just kinda... existing?"

There it is — your midnight confession spilling out into his garden, raw and unfiltered as the joint smoke curling between you.

Luigi catalogs you with the quiet satisfaction of someone who's just solved a puzzle — noting the timbre of your voice (hoarse from shouting over beer pong champions and top-40 hits), the way moonlight catches in your hair, how your eyes betray every thought. "I know that's what I'm doing," he nods, conviction steady as a heartbeat. "And that's enough."

"But what about the connections? What about true and real bonds?" The words tumble out as you watch him draw from the joint. He offers it your way — a bridge between strangers — but you wave it off, earning a laugh that somehow makes your existential crisis feel less like drowning.

"What about them?"

"Don't you miss having them?"

His shoulder grazes yours as he makes a face that suggests you're missing something obvious. "Existing doesn't mean I cease to create bonds or connections." His voice intensifies beside you, taking on the weight of someone that had something to convince you of. "They happen everyday."

The stare between you holds with magnetic force, compelling you to consider his truth: maybe you're the one who's been building walls instead of bridges, hiding in recycled hoodies and social media scrolls while real connections knock at your door.

"You think?" Your vision shifts, the aggressive frat facade dissolving to reveal something unexpectedly gentle around the edges.

"Well, what do you call this." His finger traces an invisible line between you, the gesture casual but weighted. "I think there's reason for everything, besides, like, cancer, or something." The statement perfectly gift-wraps his essence:

A walking contradiction — the frat boy who steps away from his own party to text his mom, a beer pong champion who philosophizes between 'likes,' an engineering major who can turn existential crisis into comfortable conversation.

"Well, it's interesting, to say the least." You're not sure if you mean this moment, this revelation, or Luigi himself. All you know is that Liz will either lecture you about garden rendezvous with her biggest crush, or demand a word-for-word replay.

Probably both.

"You think there's a reason we're both out here, then?" The question follows him as he leans forward, stubbing out his joint in a tray by the fountain. "Some sort of divine-timing bullshit?"

"I do." His conviction stands unwavering against your skepticism. "That's exactly what I think."

The sigh that escapes you carries the weight of self-awareness — maybe you're the one standing in your own way.

"Give me your phone." His shoulder nudges yours again, and you find yourself digging through your purse without hesitation, unlocking it before passing it over.

No questions asked — maybe you're already buying into this divine timing thing.

He returns your phone with a smile that seems to know something you don't. His own phone lights up with urgent news about a friend's overindulgence, likely greening out on the front lawn. "Gotta split."

You straighten your back, body still glued firmly to the bench beneath you, “Wait,” the request comes out steady, but hurried, afraid he might evaporate somewhere into the midnight air. “How - how do you do it, then?”

He settles back down, closer this time, “Do what?”

“Make it easier — connections, parties, being..” You gesture vaguely at all of him. “Present.”

Luigi considers this, his smile softening. "Maybe because I don't overthink it. Like right now — you're probably wondering if this is the right moment to ask the right question, when really..." He leans in slightly, voice dropping. "Sometimes you just have to let things happen."

The air shifts between you, heavy with possibility.

You're acutely aware of how close he is, how his eyes keep dropping to your lips as he speaks.

"Is that what you're doing?" Your voice comes out barely above a whisper. "Letting things happen?"

"I'm letting myself do what I've wanted to since I saw you having an existential crisis by my fountain."

And then he's kissing you — or maybe you're kissing him — the distinction lost in the warm press of lips and the lingering taste of smoke. It's gentle at first, questioning, until you lean into it and his hand finds your jaw, thumb brushing your cheek.

When he pulls back, that knowing smile returns. "See? Divine timing bullshit."

His phone buzzes again, more insistent this time. "Duty calls," he sighs, standing. "But text me. We'll work on your overthinking problem."

Read pt 2 Here ☁️

#req #luigi mangione fanfic #Luigi mangione x reader

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bambiesfics · 1 year ago

Text

⊹ Tag! you’re it. ⊹

(5k wc!)

| SNEAK PEEK: “Fuck me. Almost forgot about her.” The brunette unslung the rifle over her shoulder and head. She threw it a small distance away from you two. The black Nula rifle skidded amongst the twigs, then stopped. You breathed a small sigh of relief amidst your mounting panic. Releasing the terror that it could go off while she fucked herself into you.

⊹ SUMMARY: The concept was simple really. It’s quite literally in the title of this fic. I’m sure you’re smart, reader. So I’m also sure you can deduce what she’s going to make you do. But in the rare chance you’re not that bright, I’ll help and spell it out for you.

You…need…to…run.

⊹ WARNINGS: Predator/prey kink. Strap-on use (reader receiving). Outdoor sex, very rough sex, mean as fuck!Dom Ellie, dacryphilia, ass-smacking, black-out, use of “cock” and “dick” and is referred to as Ellie’s, and other things you’ll have to read to see.

⊹ AUTHOR’S NOTE: Minors & puritans this is not the fic for you. Everyone else: make sure you read this at home. This is genuinely, not safe for work (or school!)

The truck skidded to a stop.

The acridness of burnt rubber twisted its way up your nose, reflexively making you scrunch. The russet haired brunette pulled the keys out of the ignition and slammed the truck's door shut. Her black converses made imprints onto the soft earth.

They were just a few of the many tracks to come.

The slam of the GMC door was like a boom in your head, yelling ‘WAKE UP!’

Laid beyond the car window was a terrifying picture of nature. The forest seemed like rows of shark’s teeth; jagged and everlong. Up along the bank, a crowded family of dark green spruce trees were huddled. Mottled like flecks against the horizon. Nothing could be seen but the green overlaid on top of the clear sky. The trees circumferenced along the bank like a protective dome, surrounding the truck.

This was her idea.

The brunette circled the clearing, her bangs blew softly in the wind. She fixed the M-11 sniper across her back, pulling the dual tabs of her corset webbing to tighten it to her torso. The NULA sniper was heavy. A matte black gun with a wide eyed scope. It was Ellie’s favorite. For hunting; both people and game.

Your girlfriend had known for several years that she’d never be a fan of small firearms. She reveled in the kickback of a sniper.

Firearms.

Running.

Rifle.

Chasing.

Polaroids of memory flooded your thoughts. Snapshots of Ellie pleading relentlessly to convince you to let her use you. Use your adrenaline and terror to scratch a deep deep itch within her. Like a flea ridden dog, your girlfriend had a parasite. And the parasite was the chase. It was a primal itch. One that’d been there since she was a younger girl. It teased along the blurred edges of sociopathy and sexuality.

If you’d really paid attention, you would’ve noticed that Ellie was a little…off. There was an aggression that ran congruent with her boyish teasing and fighting. An intuitive itch at the back of your brain often concluded that Ellie had always wanted to bend your arm back a little bit deeper during play fights. Because she too often enjoyed how quickly your laugh crumpled into yelps.

She’d let out a sudden chuckle during really tense moments, but you were subtly aware that Ellie could, and slyly tried, to get a bit more intense with the floor pinning, with the wall traps, with her power plays. And you suspected she liked it.

Ellie was an awe-inspiring girlfriend, so caring and so sweet; so tender. But you still couldn’t gauge where that hidden characteristic in her temperament came from.

Just how far would she really want to take it?

The surface tension of those memories rippled into obscurity like disturbed water. Leaving you to face the bitter nip of the cool air, and the earthy pine notes that carried itself on the wind.

Ellie had been spending her time studying you from across the distance. Trying to pick apart your thoughts from your micro-expressions. She debated on if the little crease between your brow was tense fear, or if it was exhaustion. Common sense advised her that it was exhaustion; you two had only come out here just an hour after dawn, naturally you’d feel drowsy or irate.

And that pleased her.

Tired would work in her favor. Tired would make you sloppy.

Ellie stepped deeper into the clearing. From your position in the passenger seat, you could see her attempt to feel for the direction of the wind, noting which direction it was blowing her hair. She used the sweep of the wind’s blow on her hair to navigate the direction of which path, in the dense forest, would give her the least resistance.

She planned to avoid that path.

She didn’t want this to be easy.

She didn’t speak. She didn’t have too. Ellie turned around slowly and rooted her feet into the soil. In spite of the distance, her gaze was piercing. She didn’t need to shout, but it was finally time to remove yourself from the safety of the truck.

You steadied yourself on the inside of the door, and used the pane to brace your knees before you dropped from out of the truck.

The sun was a high, white gold. Planting an opalescent sheen on the forest underbrush. It grew brighter and warmer the further behind you left the truck.

Towering above the underbrush, were thick alpine trees; the young and the old. Some of them were beyond being old, and were solidly antiquated. Likely as old as the entire forest itself.

Those alpines were the type of old that’d existed in that forest longer than Jackson town. The type of trees that had seen things not a soul nor an eye would have witnessed. Things, no history book had dared to make a record of.

And today, they saw you.

The sun was shining in her eyes. And she returned back to it her own venomous gaze.

Ellie’s ink moth tattoo moved each time her fingers steadied themselves on the bony juts of her hips. Her evergreen eyes blinked back down to study you once more.

In your timid mannerisms she microdosed on the pleasure of the run to come.

Your back straightened at her voice.

“To set this off, I ran the path six times since last sunday. Shouldn’t take you no longer than ten minutes, fifteen at your slowest. You take twenty minutes, and I come looking for you. Got that?”

Her eyes thinned, then relaxed.

“We’ve done similar patrols around the west wing of Jackson.”

“Like the group patrols and stuff right?”

Your answer was less than stellar.

She itched to grin at your reply, but killed it. Schooling her features back into a placid poker face. “Yeah sure. Those’ll definitely prepare you for today.”

Ellie started stalking behind you now. Eyeing the shoes you chose, how you shifted your weight from leg to leg, how your sleeves were longer than your fingers, and how your fingers fidgeted with its hem.

She pulled back from you. She pressed herself deeper into the gray and dull overcast from the trees. Shadowed by their height and mass, she shouted.

“You get a 120 second head start!”

The air was electric, like power lines running above you. Your fingers twitched, and your stomach tightened. And like a firing gun shooting into the air, she growled.

“RUN!”

Your feet pounded at the earth as your skin braced the whipping wind. Jackson’s forest was miles upon piles of jade. It was a claustrophobic cornucopia of trees. The underbrush scraped your legs with each step you took on the illuminated path of the forest floor. Light speckled from the patterned leaves above you, it looked like a kaleidoscopic.

The earth beneath your shoes was beaten flat from the steps of hikers and runners long before you ever came sprinting down. You’d hiked this path, but hiking and sprinting were light years apart. And the staggering imbalance of the terrain was sending shock waves up your legs. You braced it, a mantra looping in your head like your very life depended on.

Just run.

Your breaths were starting to sound heavier and heavier. Worsened by the regret that was creeping up all the same. Jackson had a system of 5am running patrols that were outlined by Maria on the town’s bulletin. Patrols that you could’ve put your name down for. Ellie did them often, just a short lap around Jacksons gates. She always told you it was only “15 minutes tops”, yet you always regarded that time as an extra 15 minutes to sleep in. Realization dawned on you just as quick as your feet turned around a large spruce tree.

That 15 minutes of running truly did add up.

Just run.

A climbing crescendo of snapped twigs and rustling leaves was all that could be heard whipping about. Louder and louder. Heavier and heavier. An orchestra of sounds; of your heartbeat. Of a burning pain from a persons forceful sprint. Someone was panting, fighting, clawing their way out of Jackson’s forest. You were the someone, but your legs were growing tired.

Your calves were burning as your pace increased, the ache was clawing into the muscles in your lower legs like hot iron. The pain bloomed into your thighs and coiled itself into the pit of your lower belly. It left your breath wheezing and dry.

Sweat broke out on your hairline. Perspiration that would drip down to sting your eyes if you didn’t get home in time. You needed to get home fast. Just as long as you got there before her. Just as long as you beat Ellie to Jackson’s gates, you’d be fine.

All you could do was just run.

You slowed to a stop and cleared a log, you straddled it, holding the large body to steady yourself, before swinging your leg off and hopping back onto the ground. You weren’t nimble. Your girlfriend would’ve cleared the trunk with just the push of her left arm. But you were desperate, anything to not be her prey.

Just run.

Your ears picked up on it, before your brain could process it. The sound was unmistakable. Those were Ellie’s footsteps.

Clearing the log had closed the space between you. This chase was a burning thread. Growing shorter as the distance between you two also grew shorter. Ellies footsteps sounded heavier, more hurried. She could finally hear you too.

You pushed past the haze of pain and ran out of the forest, onto the rocky asphalt in front of the abandoned highway. You slid down the ditch, scraping your palms along before tumbling into a shaky sprint. The abandoned cars in the ditch were as much obstacles as they were protection. But up ahead, growing bigger with every step, were the gates; pillars of protection and strength.

The same voice whispered sharply into your concious, reminding you to

just run.

The only caveat was that Ellie’s conscience was telling her the

exact same thing.

She was behind you. But you couldn’t care where or how far Ellie was. You’d deduced that the strewn jagged pebbles had slowed her down. Converses didn’t work nearly as well on rocky terrain. The rhombus sole could tightly pack gravel and pebbles inside of it, which made for an uneven run.

Jackson’s steep wood gates appeared even larger. A good — no — a great thing. To be dwarfed by Jackson’s gates meant that you were near them. Nearer to the town than you had been a mere minute ago; yet again, still with no Ellie in tow.

You relaxed your sprint into a cursory jog. The relief that coursed through you was electrifying. A tired grin threatened to leap off your face. You were burning, but the chase wasn’t nearly as hard as you had suspected it to be, and for that your nervous system was flooded with relief.

You were so close. Just a few more steps and the lap would be cleared.

Ellie shouldn’t have given you that head start. Jesus, that girl could be so arrogant.

The dual gates were close enough to feel their shade. You took another deep breath, and stretched your arms out. The breeze cooled your skin. The relief from the concluded chase blew a spirit of new life into you. You were done! you had won Ellie’s sick little game of tag.

Now, what you would give to head down to the tavern and ask for a mug of sweet tea and some soft brea—

—Ellie slammed into you, crumpling you to the ground. A tiny yelp ripped out of you like a pathetic puppy. She dug her elbow into the small of your back to put you down, before switching tactics. She instead chose to slide her hand up and grip the back of your neck. She shoved your face into the ground. Holding you down in submission.

“Tag. you’re it.” She giggled.

Your shocked scream was muffled by the ground. Like some hunted doe, only your eyes could communicate. And they strained painfully to the right, hoping to see what the hunter was doing. The pain in the base of your spine ebbed as Ellie removed the puncture of her left knee from your back. She dropped into a crouch. But her hands slid down your back, then down your thighs, then to your knees where she gripped the sides of the joints and forcefully shoved them apart.

In the quiet of the dawn, you were more than a sight to see. You were a picture of desire to drink in, and a terrifying desperation possessed Ellie.

You should’ve ran faster.

Ellie inched all ten knuckles under the band of your jeans, she struggled to shove down your pants and underwear, grunting curses under her breath.

“No way in hell you were convinced you actually had a chance to win against me. I don’t think you realize how much I had to hold myself back. Couldn't let it be that easy for myself.”

Your breath came out ragged.

Ellie loved that.

She barely managed to shove the waist of your pants underneath the crease of your ass cheeks. But seeing as what she managed left her with just the necessary amount of space she needed to work with, it was certainly good enough.

“Honest question.” She paused for a moment and surveyed you. Her hand curled in the air “just to get this straight, were you jogging the entire lap or were you actually sprinting it? I just couldn’t tell.” She mocked.

The sneer her lips curled into was wicked.

But her violence even moreso.

Ellie slapped your ass harshly, intently drinking in the recoil. You yelped and jerked across the dirt. She lunged across to clamp the back of your neck, eyes piercing.

“Stay.”

The sound of a zipper being pulled down made you struggle in her grasp. Your head was scrambling from side to side to better see her. Picking up strewn leaves to tickle the bottom of your lips.

Ellie was having none of it. The fist on your neck squeezed tighter.

She tsk’d next to your ear, your first and now your final warning. She refused to repeat herself a second time.

If only you could’ve seen what she saw. Ass up, face down, bent like some bitch in heat. You were presenting yourself. Your left cheek was squished against the grass and leaves. And your ass was tempting and teasing itself in her face, globes split apart.

God, you didn’t know, but you’d looked so pathetic. Like you were just waiting to be topped. And if that was what you really wanted, then who was Ellie to deny you that?

A wicked grin bloomed onto her face, replacing the sneer.

One phrase boomed in her head.

…my bitch.

Ellie’s.

You were made to be Ellie’s bitch.

Ellie pulled out the harnessed cock, it had a real fat, girthy shaft. With a long vein running along the underside. She drooled at the fantasy of how it’d tug against your tight rim. She slid the dick atop the split of your ass cheeks. Rutting it up and down. Maybe it was a trick of the light, but she swore she saw you roll your hips onto it.

“Fuck me. Almost forgot about her.” The brunette unslung the rifle over her shoulder and head. She threw it a small distance away from you two. The black rifle skidded amongst the twigs, then stopped. You breathed a small sigh of relief amidst your mounting panic. Releasing the terror that it could go off while she fucked herself into you.

Holding her dick against your ass really let her hips take a break from the weight of it. You were such a good doe, letting her warm it between the globes of your ass cheeks. Taking her thumb and forefinger, Ellie angled her tip down, She gave shallow thrusts, reveling in the wet slide of her cock against your labia. She just needed a few more ruts against the slick, to get it as wet as she wanted.

Nimble as ever, the hunter slightly leaned back onto her calves. The bulbous tip of her cock inched back and dragged itself down the expanse of your labia, from clit to hole. Until it caught against the rim of your hole. It barely nudged inside. But the feeling of the tip pressing against it, reflexively made your hole clench a kiss on its head. Ellie whistled at the scene.

Heaven on earth is what this was to her.

“Would you look at that? You want it huh? Can tell by how you’re sucking it in.”

It turned Ellie on so much, seeing her dick just barely touch your hole, just prolonging what you both knew was to come. She was feeling a little violent again, so Ellie cracked another sharp slap on the meat of your ass. The heat and twinge from it, made your eyes widen. A blistering handprint was left where she slapped you. Tears started burning at the back of your eyes and you gasped in a panic. Your reactive jerk from her smack, involuntarily slipped the first inch of her cock into your hole. Your slick coated just the head. Wetness was slowly starting to slip down your walls. And it dripped past the seal of your vagina and coated the top of Ellie’s tip.

Not even pornography could compare; because to the eyes of anyone who could see, the scene between you and her was in every sense of the word: obscene.

You struggled against the grass again. Giving her a beautiful performance of a hunt gone well. Doe-eyed prey shaking fitfully against the grass. Ellie’s intimidating presence dwarfed everything in its path like a dark shadow.

She draped her chest over your back and laid her cheek to rest atop your planted head. Ellie slowly lined up her freckled lips with your ears. It could’ve almost looked like a caress; a sleepy embrace between two lovers. Where one whispered ‘good morning, you up honey?’, and the other grumbled lowly ‘mhm. Just 5 more minutes my love.’

But nothing that came out of her mouth was sweet.

Ellie whispered very lowly.

“I’m begging you—to try to fight me off.”

And with that, and a ghost of a kiss to the shell of your ear; Ellie thrusted the shaft inside, groaning her own pleasure over the shout you yelped into the ground. A sudden intrusion, as alarming as that was, could only be described as malice.

She slowly pumped in more inches of her cock until she felt a strong resistance. She kept testing it, pounding sharp pumps to see if there would be any further give. Each attempt pulled a muffled “n’moh it won’ fit phleese” out of you.

You dug into the grass.

Ellie’s beautiful features transformed into a quizzical frown. Her bushy eyebrows, her full pink lips, and her usually cherubic cheeks, wrinkled in to display a strong feeling of ... .disappointment. There were at least a few inches left of her hungry cock that weren’t warmed inside that slick tight pussy hole.

Why couldn’t you take all of it?

She furrowed her brows, dug her nails tightly into the fat of your hips, and hurriedly bullied her girthy cock into you. She couldn’t help but revel in the way each thrust pulled a yelp out of you like a kicked bitch.

Maybe those weren’t yelps from your lips, but instead muffled moans….

Ellie couldn’t really tell, and regardless, she definitely didn’t care.

Her thrusts were heavy, punchy. There was no space to spare inside of you. Her shaft was molding your hole to fit around its thickness. The cockhead squished against your cervix, pulling a new type of soreness with each pull of it.

“Uhn! Uhn! Uhn! Uhn!”

You drooled on the grass. You took the rhythmic pounding up your abused cunt. Your puffy cervix was leaving wet kisses on the tip of Ellie’s dick, which pulled even more slick from the tiny donut.

“That’s right. Uhn! Uhn! Uhnn! for me baby. Cry just like that. You like being tackled and fucked rough don’t you? Sloppy cunt.”

She mocked.

She was right, it was so sloppy. Your walls were practically drooling along her shaft; and trust her, she could feel it.

Ellie slowly pulled her cock out, only to marvel upon the gorgeous coating of slick that sparkled in the early sunlight. Your milk had pooled along the veins and ridges of her shaft.

There was a creamy mousse ring that wrapped around the base of her balls, frothing from the thrusts.

Ellie had a perverted temptation to taste a bit of that milky coating. The thing was, it wasn’t new to her, she’d gotten a taste of it many times before.

Chuckling to herself, she slid it back in. But with complete knowledge of how intensely full you’d feel, Ellie leaned down to drape her chest across your back once more.

She positioned her torso atop yours, digging her fingers into the dirt on either side of your head to get a solid grip. Dried leaves and grit collected under her fingernails and painted them specks of amber and brown. Her sweaty bangs were sticking to her face now. And they curved around her hairline as she barked a laugh at each rough pounding you took, like her sweet girl.

“So fucking—”

Thrust.

“Fun”

Thrust.

“Watc-hing you—”

Thrust.

Her voice cracked, pounding you was bumping her swollen clit just right.

“Run like.”

Thrust.

“Some weak little prey.”

She replaced her grip in the dirt with finding purchase on top of your hands. She slid her fingers in between yours and interlocked them. She squeezed your fingers between her own, you weakly squeezed hers back. The hunter above you, found just the right footing to put her full body weight into fucking you, and now you felt the stretch and fullness everywhere, everywhere.

No space inside of you was spared.

Who knew hunters could be so mean?

“You feel that? Is it stretching? I wanna know if it burns.” She gruffed.

Yes, yes, and yes. A weepy eyed ‘yes’ to all three.

All you could feel was her. Her cock was nudging past the sensitive swell of your g-spot, bruising the area with her pounding.

How could you not feel it?

Every ridge of her dick pulled muted squeals out of you. And despite how much your neglected clit cried for attention and touch from between its sloppy lips, there was a fiercely intense pleasure that radiated around your body. And the evidence was the strings of glossy slick drooled onto the grass patch below you two. The same slick ran down the underhaft of her cock as she pumped inside you, and collected at the base of her heavy balls. Balls that were building a bruise on your ass, with each stinging connect of her hips to your butt.

Ellie’s sighs and moans were pitching a variation of high and low tones. Huffing like a dog in heat because of how good it felt to be inside of you.

God, the strap was fucking her back. Her brain was growing fuzzy, heavy, needy.

Catching her prey to fuck it, had her mind unraveling.

Who was the bitch now?

“H-hey.” She breathed out

“Your sloppy hole feels s’good. Tiny, tiny pussy clamping on my cock. You making me work for it baby? Work hard to fu— fuck inside of you.”

She screwed her eyes shut. The intensity grew stronger.

“I’ll work as hard as I need to stu-stuff your sloppy holes” she slurred. Her green irises rolled to the back of her head.

Ellie’s grip on top of your hand considerably tightened, which had seemed almost impossible, given their already iron lock.

Ellie rolled her pale hips in shallow circles, grinding inside of you. The friction against your g-spot was dizzying, and from where your nose was shoved in the grass, you grew lightheaded.

As Ellie’s cock made your walls plump and swell, Your vision was slowly growing spotty. Little black dots were dancing across the expanse of your vision. It was unfortunate how little you could breathe, because the barks of pain and whimpers of pleasure that you wanted to release would’ve made Ellie cum on the spot right then.

“Love your pretty pussy. It’s pretty, it’s all mine. All for me. Tiny hole that I get to stuff full of dick—wanna chase and stuff you every day. I wanna be the only one in-inside you. Does my dick hurt your tummy? Want it to hurt you so good. Sorry, m’sorry, but I-I want it to hurt so good.”

Ellie was frantic and erratic. Fever brained and pussy drunk beyond the horizon. She sloppily slurred all her little fantasies in your ear.

The edges of your vision were graying out, your eyes glazed. If Ellie had noticed, she didn’t care.

Instead she obsessed herself with the way she was molding a home for her thick cock in your puffy walls. The same walls were puffy and deep pink inside.

Each thrust from her slender hips was like a zing that dragged pleasure down the ribbed walls. Pressure was building up severely in your tummy, and you were overcome with a strong urge to clamp.

You choked your last whimpering moan into the dirt, and finally let the tension go. Slick milky cum seeped from the seal of your sensitive hole and burst onto the base of her dick. It was frothing and glossy.

Your eyelids grew suddenly heavy. Your vision was tunneling, there was a gray and fuzzy halo around it that obstructed its clarity. You could only make out blurry shapes and colors, only the soft light of the day, just before you relaxed and sleepily went limp.

You had been fucked into a heavy slumber, yet your lower half was still being held up by the girl with the cock inside of you.

She didn’t let up.

Ellie kept fucking you. Frantic and greedy for her own orgasm in your pussy. She needed to be inside of it just a little longer.

She picked up her pace, relishing in the sweet feel of the cockbase smacking her clit. Ellie felt the same pressure in her own vagina rising. Her clit was just as swollen, just as puffy, just as wet and glossy as your hole was on the inside. And Ellie sought a few more angry thrusts to get her over the edge. She snapped her hips forward, and each time you jerked forward in the grass, with your lips forming an “o” and your eyes gently closed.

Thrust.

“Fuck!”

Thrust.

“Please please please.”

Thrust.

“—Prett-pretty my pretty pussy all mine.”

Thrust.

“Sososo tight.”

Thrust.

“Ughhhh!…”

A groan grizzled from her throat.

Ellie squirted spurts of her release down her thighs. Her eyeballs rolled backwards until they were white and veiny, and her hips stuttered with each squirt.

She came all over her skinny jeans.

Her chest rose and fell dramatically as she sucked in deep gulps of air. Ellie’s toned abs contracted with her breathing, clenching and relaxing. Over and over did the muscles dance until her breathing slowly steadied itself.

The hunter pulled out of you and tucked herself back inside her jeans. She barely zipped her pants up, leaving the slick base of her veiny dick still visible to the world’s eyes. She couldn't find it within herself to care, not even a tiny bit.

The NULA rifle was strewn amongst the grass, and its owner walked the short distance to pick it up from the grass. She picked it clean. Wiping the dirt off of it, and blowing off the stuck grass. She stationed the NULA by her hip again, and walked back towards your limp body.

Crescent moon sharpie doodles were scribbled onto the dirty toe box of her converses. The doodles you’d drawn for her one frigid October evening, an entire calendar year ago.

Ellie had found that so endearing, but even then she had been too shy to admit it at the time.

She surely wasn’t shy now.

Despite the fact that her preferred celestial body was still stars, she still held your insistence on decorating her shoes, near and dear to her heart. It had been one of those slow and scary, ‘I think I’m falling in love with you’ moments, that had pivoted the direction of your relationship, unbeknownst to either of you.

Ellie took those same converses and nudged your shoulder. Several times in fact.

In your deep slumber, your body had only moved with the motion of her foot.

A whistle twinkled from her pout.

“….And you’re out cold.”

She reached for your arm “okay come on—get up.” And slung you over her shoulder. It was awkward, it wasn’t easy. The sniper wanted about as much space on Ellie’s slender frame as you did. But she had to make it work. Better than patrollers finding you in the grass with your ass split wide open and your pussy dripping slick like a snail. So she dragged her feet as she carried you, and held the gun parallel to her body.

But she managed to make it work.

She managed all the way to the gates. where she slipped through the back. Your privacy was something she could never risk, no matter how much she reveled in this game.

She managed into Jackson town.

And then into her house, and then into her room, and then into her bed where she tucked you under the covers, so you could sleep the adrenaline and full body orgasm off.

The lull in her messy room was quiet.

It felt like no more than a warm hub, for you and your bold lover. Ellie was tired to her bones, but she worked on the keys of her guitar as you slept.

You’d mewled in your sleep from time to time. And she felt slightly guilty, slightly. She knew you’d wake up just fine. With a bad limp and maybe an attitude to last the day, but still mostly fine.

Ellie dropped her chin onto the guitar, and rolled herself back and forth in her chair.

She mulled over it in her mind, how it’d be kinder of her to just…pull back from time to time. Just so you weren’t wincing in your sleep from the ache. But then she pouted; unsure of herself.

Didn’t you like it when she was mean?

She plucked a key, F major, then B minor. A momentary pause, before her nails hesitantly strummed the strings. They still didn’t sound right. So she tuned them again.

She broke her gaze away from the strings to briefly check on you. You were a sniffling lump underneath her sky blue sheets.

Her chest squeezed at the image.

She knew it was sappy, it was lame. It was the feeling of impassioned affection; of love.

“I know you’ll love this one, whenever you decide to wake up…dork.” She teased.

Ellie strummed the string once again, meditating on the key. She cleared her throat, and whisper-sung her favorite part.

“Shall I stay? Would it be a sin, if I can’t help…” she sucked in a breath, and her cheeks dusted pink. Embarrassed even with no one to bare witness. But this song had best encompassed the ocean of her feelings.

“…Falling in love with you.”

She dropped her head against the body of her guitar.

And smiled into it.

-fin-

1K notes · View notes

honeyryewhiskey · 2 months ago

Text

december

or, it's christmas tiiiime, and now dean is getting bossed around by his cupid to prepare the bunker for the holiday. he's totally loving it, just don't tell anyone. cw!! fluff! fluff! holiday fluff and wait—you do what under a mistletoe? heated kissing, strong language, 18+ 6.3k words

You’re sitting crisscrossed on the living room floor, barely a foot away from the TV, eyes glued to the screen.

Dean had left early in the morning for supplies, leaving you to follow Sam around the bunker like a shadow. You peppered him with endless questions about hunting, lore books, and the monsters they hunted until his patience started to fray. A tough feat with the ever sympathetic Sam, but somehow you keep managing to push that boundary with both the Winchesters. When the topic turned to his love life—your innocent curiosity fully unhinged—Sam had finally cracked. To remedy the situation, he popped in a DVD, and it only took a few seconds for you to become completely absorbed into the grinch who stole christmas.

The sound of the bunker door opening and slamming shut breaks the movie’s spell for a moment. Dean’s heavy boots clamber down the stairs as he grumbles, “Unbelievable. Two other mouths this food is feedin’ and not a single hand to help unload the car.”

You don’t budge, the movie is far more compelling than whatever Dean’s annoyed about. What did not go unnoticed by the disgruntled man was your attention being on the screen, instead of on him. None of your usual circling around him asking what he got at the store like you usually do. The thought buzzed around in his brain as he put the groceries away. A pesky little feeling of wanting your attention setting him on edge. He couldn’t even help himself, peeking out of the kitchen a few times to look back at your hypnotized form.

The vibrant hues of the screen reflected in your pupils as you watched each grumpy humph and retort from the Grinch. You found the oddly green and fluffy thing endearing, his antics making you think of another huffing, grumbling, dramatic man.

Suddenly, a soft brown teddy bear appears in your line of sight. The stuffed animal disrupts your viewing, staring back at you with shiny black eyes and a stitched-in smile. You blink, eyes trailing up the arm holding it. Dean towers over you, wearing his usual grumpy scowl—an expression that contrasts so sharply with the stuffed bear in his hand that you almost laugh.

“Here,” he gruffs, shaking the bear slightly. “You wouldn’t shut up about wanting one on our last hunt, and the store had some, so…”

Your brows knit in confusion, raking your brain until you remember the bears at the gala. Cute and just begging for you to take home. Too much action of the night led to you leaving without a new plush friend, and you did bring it up to Dean at least once. Maybe twice, four or five times at most.

Realizing Dean was actually listening to your spiels—despite his expressions making you think otherwise—makes your face light up with a radiant smile. You take the bear gingerly, cradling it like something precious. It’s plump, soft, and better than the ones at the gala. Settling it into your lap, you resume your movie watching, tucking the bear snugly as if it’s watching the film with you.

Dean’s frown softens—just a little—as he watches.

You lift a finger to point at the screen, peering up at him with furrowed brows. “Dean, this movie says Christmas is a holiday in December. It’s December now, but you and Sam haven’t said anything about this Christmas stuff.”

Dean shifts uncomfortably, his eyes darting around the room like he’s hunting for an escape route. “It’s… made up,” he shrugs. “Not a real holiday.”

“Oh,” you murmur, frown tugging at your lips as you look back at the TV. Holidays are becoming one of your favorite things these days. You were aloofly aware that humans had traditions, but there were so many over the course of human history that you never bothered to keep track. Now that the Winchesters have clued you in on some of these celebrations, you find it hard to believe the boys can be so lax about participating. And although you try your damn hardest not to be overly excited over learning new things, the joy that holidays brought you was a Pandora's box you’ve decided to leave cracked open.

“Dean,” Sam’s voice cuts through the air as he walks into the room, a deep sigh trailing behind him. “Why are you lying to her about Christmas?”

“Lying?” You whip your head between the brothers, wide-eyed.

Sam shoots Dean a look—one that says fix it—while Dean smiles coolly back, clearly unbothered.

“I’m not—” Dean starts, but Sam raises a brow. Dean groans, rubbing a hand over his jaw. “Okay, fine. I lied. But we’re not—”

“We have to prepare!” you shout, leaping to your feet. Screw containing excitement. The movie showed you the wonderful intensity of this Christmas thing, and you’d be damned if you let Dean grumble his way out of this one.

The teddy bear tumbles to the floor, forgotten for the moment. “We need a tree, and presents, and cookies, and sweaters!” You list, recounting from the film. Your gaze falls back to the bear, and you scoop it up quickly, holding it close. Your eyes sparkle as you coo, “Grumpy Bear needs a sweater, too.”

Dean freezes. “Grumpy Bear?”

Sam’s brow furrows. “Wait—Grumpy Bear?”

“Uh-huh,” You nod eagerly, trying not to laugh at your own joke and ruin it. Jokes were hard and you’re still getting the hang of them. “I named him after Dean.”

Dean groans, pinching the bridge of his nose as Sam fails to stifle his chuckle. “You’re killin’ me, lovebird,” Dean mutters under his breath.

“Alright, then,” Sam interjects, clapping his hands together before pointing at you and Dean, “you two go out and get us a tree and what-not. I’ll stay here and get the bunker ready.” He’s sporting a smug grin, clearly satisfied with his swift evasion of having to do any of the brunt work.

“What? Dude—no.” Dean shoots back, his head tilting as he sighs.

“That’s a perfect plan, Sam!” you chirp back, placing Grumpy Bear on the couch. You don’t give Dean the chance to protest further, darting to grab your shoes and jacket while the brothers bicker in the living room.

ˏˋ°•*⁀➷

The Impala hums steadily along the snowy road, but your focus is on the radio’s dial. Before you left the bunker, Sam had pulled you aside, helpfully informing you of the radio stations that play nonstop festive music this time of year. You memorized his quick instructions: Just turn the right dial, he’d said, until the static gives way to something jolly and christmas-y.

So far, though, all you’ve found is static—and the longer it drags on, the more Dean radiates a particular brand of agitation that’s starting to fill the car.

“Love,” he finally says, his voice tight with thinly veiled annoyance, “what are you doing?”

“Hang on, I just have to find—” You twist the dial a little more, and finally, success. The opening notes of have a holly jolly christmas crackle through the speakers, soft and cheerful. Satisfaction pools through you at the sound. A stark contrast to the usual sounds coming from the impala’s speakers: loud, crashing instruments with throaty vocals and a single song lasts for what feels like forever. Classic rock, he once told you, nothin’s better than the classics.

Dean groans like you’ve just personally offended him and immediately reaches over to change the station, but you’re faster. You swat his hand away with a firm pout.

“No way, Grinch.” You shake your head, crossing your arms triumphantly. “It’s Christmas time, and we’re getting into the spirit.”

Dean’s eyes flick between you and the road, and though his expression starts off sour, you can see the amusement tugging at the corner of his lips. Sam had warned you this would happen. He’d even told you exactly what to say when Dean inevitably tried to kill the Christmas cheer: Just say something about getting into the Christmas spirit, and be firm, Cupid. You know how he gets.

“Grinch, huh?” Dean mutters, throwing you a sidelong glance. “Alright, fine. I’ll let it slide this one time. But for the record,” his finger goes up in protest, “I am not the Grinch.”

“Oh, no?” You grin, eyes playfully scowling at him. “Mean, grumpy guy up on the mountain gets all gushy when someone’s nice to him for once? Sounds like someone I might know.”

Dean huffs out a laugh, finally giving in to the playful banter. “Grumpy, mean—fine. But I do not do gushy.”

Hearing his laugh makes your heart flutter, the sound feeling like a trophy when he’s usually at his wit ends with you. Dean was in general a pessimistic guy, that much you’ve noticed. And he was mean when he first met you, and wrongly assumed you’d be an annoying mouthpiece from heaven. But in the months you’ve spent following him around, you’ve started to figure out how to make that scowl melt into a big smile.

It was hit or miss most of the time, but you always were a bit of a boundary pusher.

“You do, too.” you press mockingly.

“Uh-huh,” he breathes, brows quirking, “Is that so? Well if I’m the grinch that makes you, what—my Cindy Lou Who?” His face squints with his words.

“Exactly,” you chirp, practically glowing with pride. Without thinking, you reach over, placing a small hand on his chest. “And I’m gonna make sure that heart grows three sizes, Winchester.”

Dean’s eyes flicker between you and your hand. His mouth twitching into a lopsided smile as he shakes his head. “I bet you will, lovebird,” he murmurs, voice softer now as you retract into your seat and he focuses on the road again. “I bet you will.”

The playful warmth lingers as the Impala rolls on, the car filling with soft holiday tunes and the quiet hum of the engine. You nod along to the music, sneaking glances at Dean as he drums his fingers against the wheel in time with the song.

The scenery outside begins to shift, and Dean slows the car, turning onto a gravel driveway. The worn out sign on the left side gate at the entrance reads, The Ginger Family Farm – Christmas Trees & Reindeer!

Your gaze sharpens as you sit up straighter, a large red barn sits on the hill, surrounded by neat lines of snowy pine trees. It’s an old and faded structure, but the chimney bellows smoke and the doors are propped open. From this distance all you can see are the twinkling lights inside and movement from the people within. But it’s the pasture near the entrance that really catches your attention. A herd of reindeer grazes lazily by a fence, their soft brown fur gleaming in the afternoon sun. Another faded sign beside them reads: Santa’s Helpers Live Here!

Dean hasn’t even fully parked when you unbuckle your seatbelt and lean over him, climbing into his lap to get a better look out of his window.

“Dean,” you whisper, eyes alight with wonder as your nose grazes against the glass, “are those… reindeer?”

He glances down at you, an amused smirk tugging at his lips. “Yep,” he replies, reaching over your frame to throw the car into park.

“They’re real?” you ask, turning to him with wide eyes, equal parts skeptical and fascinated. “I mean, I knew they were real, but I didn’t think I’d ever actually see them.”

Dean chuckles as he pops his door open, an arm going around your waist to stop you from tumbling out of the open door. “Real enough. But don’t get your hopes up—they don’t fly.”

You slide out after him, giving him a mildly exasperated look. “I know they don’t fly, Dean. Our universe has exactly three beings with wings: birds, bugs and angels. That much I am sure of.”

Dean snorts, shoving his hands into his jacket pockets as he watches you drift toward the fence, your curiosity written all over your face. The way your head starts to tilt, lips popping open as your eyes start to squint. Dean has witnessed this look more than a handful of times now, and it still has that same damn effect of making him want to watch you explore new things all day.

But it also makes his heart twist and strain as the pounding reverberates throughout his entire body. The kind of thing he does not want to think deeper about. You’re just cute, that’s all, and what kind of monster would say no to something so, damn, cute?

“You wanna go say hi?” Dean calls after you, his voice light and teasing.

You glance back at him, a shy smile finding your lips. “I can do that?”

“Sure, bet there’s some kid over there feeding them carrots. You can be next in line.” He teases.

The teasing goes over your head, as all you really heard was Dean agreeing to something. Without hesitation, you grab his hand, tugging him toward the pasture. “Fine by me, but you’re feeding them. I don’t do well with teeth.” you shutter.

Dean raises his brows, his expression caught somewhere between confusion and amusement. He tucks that comment away for later, adding it to the growing list of your quirks that simultaneously baffle and charm him. But you’re tugging him across the snowy field, all bright-eyed and—oh god—giggly, you’re giggling. He can’t bring himself to stop you.

And if his hand stays wrapped in yours a little longer than necessary—warm and steady against the cold air—well, that’s between him and his not-so-Grinch-sized heart.

As you approach the pasture, the reindeer lift their heads, their large, black eyes blinking lazily in your direction. One of them—a particularly curious-looking one with a slightly crooked antler—takes a few cautious steps closer to the fence.

You freeze mid-step, tucking yourself closer to Dean. “It’s coming over here,” you hiss, half-whisper, half-excited gasp. You weren’t used to animals of this size, a nervousness you’re still getting used to feeling creeps up your spine. With your hand still intertwined in his, you use your free hand to clutch his arm and merely peek at the animal from the safety of Dean’s side.

“Yeah, that’s kind of the idea,” Dean replies, deadpan, though the grin tugging at his lips betrays his amusement.

The reindeer stops a few feet away, eyeing you both with what you can only describe as mild suspicion. You tighten your grip on Dean’s hand and arm, big eyes peering up at him expectantly as you nudge him forward slightly. “Okay, go on, you first.”

Dean snorts, stepping forward to the fence. “It’s a reindeer, not a beast. Relax.” He leaves your side, the winter air hitting him a little harder without your warmth pressed against his side. Leaning against the wooden fence, he holds out a tentative hand like he’s done this a thousand times before.

To your surprise, the reindeer moves closer, sniffing at his fingers. You watch, wide-eyed, as it nudges Dean’s palm with its fuzzy pink nose.

“See? Not so bad,” Dean coos, glancing back at you with an infuriatingly smug expression.

You scoff, crossing your arms. “Sure, you’re the reindeer whisperer. But if I try that, it’s probably gonna bite me.”

“Doesn’t even have teeth to bite with,” he replies, rolling his eyes.

“You’re lying again, aren’t you?” you mutter, eyes sizing into slits from suspicion. Dean shrugs, but the smirk on his face instills your weariness.

Hesitantly, you shuffle closer. Keeping close to Dean, so that most of his body is between you and the animal, you tentatively reach out. Dean’s large hands contrast yours when they’re side by side like this, and he impatiently moves yours to touch the curious snout.

A quiet, nervous gasp escapes you, but the reindeer only leans into your touch. It’s nose is soft and velvety. The feel of it momentarily puts out your nervous flames. Dean gently maneuvers you in front of him to give you ample space for petting, leaning down to your ear he speaks softly, “There you go, little angel. Just be gentle, alright? Don’t wanna spook ‘em.”

The words spook ‘em makes you jump back, but there’s little space to move with Dean being so close. Making you become a stumbling mess between him and the fence. Your harsh movements scares the reindeer, as the nimble animal darts back to it’s herd. Leaving you huffing with your heart pounding.

With your hands now safely back at your sides, you feel Dean’s chest rumble with laughter as you whip around to shoot him a scowl. “Not funny, Dean.” you whine, watching as he struggled to pull himself out of the laughing fit.

A familiar sound, music like the kind you found in the car, turns your attention to the old barn. You take notice of the small cluster of families near the entrance, their arms full of freshly cut Christmas trees. The warm glow of string lights spills out from the open barn doors, illuminating the snow-dusted path leading up to it.

With one more flash of sharpened eyes at Dean, you march on towards the cosy atmosphere on the hill. Dean quickly falls in line, mumbling half-hearted apologies through the fading bubbles of laughter.

Stepping into the barn, the scent of fresh pine and hay wrap around you like a warm blanket. Inside, a few people mingle and look around the shop. A large wooden counter sits in the center, where an elderly man with kind eyes and a bushy white beard greets you with a wide smile.

Dean leans into your ear again as walks past, quickly murmuring, “That’s definitely Santa.” He pulls away with a glimmering smirk and shoots you a wink as he approaches the counter.

“Looking for a tree?” The man in a buffalo plaid jacket asks, his voice warm and welcoming. Your thoughts briefly wonder if he is Santa. But if a spirit actually went around invading people’s houses on the same night every year, surely Sam and Dean would have done something about it by now. You settle on a quiet suspicion that you would not be asking Dean about.

Dean glances at you, green eyes softening. “Yeah,” he says, his tone lighter than usual. “Somethin’ nice. She’s got high standards, this one.” He gestures to you with a big, charming smile. You nod back, not entirely sure what high standards for a tree would be, but you’re certain the bunker would need the best damn tree available.

Dean starts talking about height, type, and price with mr-may-or-may-not-be-Santa—a conversation that makes your brain wonder elsewhere. The barn was warm and something behind the counter mixed a chocolatey scent into the pine air. Wooden shelves lined the walls, stocked with syrup bottles, boxes of pastries, and Christmas themed trinkets. You moved towards them to get a closer look and search for anything pie-like for Dean.

As you muse around the small space, a basket of small, handwoven angel-dolls catches your eye. Curious, you step closer and pick one up, tilting your head as you inspect its delicate details. Each doll is unique, with different hair and skin tones, but they all share the same serene, closed-eyed expression. They look kind. Peaceful. So different from the angels you once knew in Heaven.

The quiet shuffle of boots behind you signals Dean’s approach. His jacket brushes the back of yours as he leans over your shoulder, his gaze following yours to the doll.

“That’s what we put on the top of the tree,” he says casually.

“Why?” you ask, tucking the angel back into its basket.

“Uh, not sure, really. Maybe—”

A gentle clink, clink, clink interrupts him. You both turn toward the sound to see the jolly man behind the counter holding a silver bell high over his head. His grin stretches wide over his rosy face as he announces, “You two are the first of the season!”

Dean’s brows furrow. “The first what?” he mutters under his breath, while your own confusion mirrors his.

The man gestures upward with a wink, then turns back to his work. Dean follows his motion, his head tilting back, he sees it. “Oh god,” he whispers with a quiet groan.

“What?” Your eyes trail up, finding a small sprig of green with red berries hanging over your heads.

“Mistletoe,” he answers flatly.

Your head tilts with curiosity, still staring at the small fixture, “and that means?”

Dean hesitates, glancing at you before clearing his throat. “You’re supposed to kiss whoever you’re caught underneath it with. And if you don’t, you get bad luck.”

Your lips twitch as you stifle a giggle. The thought of humans, for centuries, kissing beneath a little spring for the sake of good luck. Humans and their little quirks, never ceasing to entertain you. “How romantic.” you muse, that mischievous look, the one Dean has learned to recognize, is glowing in your eyes again.

He shifts uncomfortably, his hand rubbing the back of his neck, “It’s a stupid superstition we don’t—”

You’re not even paying attention to the words coming from his mouth. Instead, you lean onto your tiptoes, grabbing his wide shoulders for support as your lips place a soft kiss against his. He’s warm against your skin, his hands instinctively finding their place at your hips, causing goosebumps to ripple along your skin. Hot and dizzying. The sensation is so exciting that a light bulb clicks on inside your mind. This must be why humans kiss under a damn sprig.

It’s over just as quick, a fleeting touch, but enough to leave Dean frozen in place. When you pull back, his wide-eyed expression makes you bite your lip to suppress a laugh. You briefly wonder if kissing him when he’s grumpy would leave the same effect. A thought you’ll probably test, as it cements itself into the fabrics of your mind.

“You’re looking at me funny.” You say with a laugh. The innocence in your voice makes Dean’s head spin. Batting your lashes up at him like a kiss is as simple as a high five.

He blinks, green eyes raking your face as he processes what just happened, “You just kissed me.”

“Mhm,” you hum nonchalantly, thinking nothing of it.

“But you’re an angel—cupid or whatever.”

You arch a brow, tilting your head as if the thought hadn’t crossed your mind. “And?”

“I don’t know, I just…” Dean falters, gesturing vaguely. “I figured you’d be… you know, above that sort of thing.”

The corners of your lips twitch as you suppress a smile, your voice soft but teasing. “Did you think that means I’m some sort of prude, Dean Winchester?”

“Well, yeah,” he admits, still too caught off guard to filter his words. “Kinda.”

You shrug, your eyes alight with quiet amusement. “I’ve never been afraid of a little sin.”

Dean stares at you, utterly baffled, his mouth opening like he wants to say something but can’t quite find the words. His mind spins in circles, caught somewhere between disbelief and the faintest flicker of something he refuses to name.

Finally, he shakes his head and mutters, “Lovebird, you’re gonna be the death of me.”

You grin, the playful spark in your eye only growing. “Maybe. But at least you won’t have bad luck now.”

Dean groans, running a hand down his face as he turns toward the barn’s open doors. “C’mon, let’s just find a damn tree and get out of here before you decide to test any more sins on me.”

But as he walks ahead, his heart beats a little faster, and he doesn’t dare think too much about why he already misses the warmth of your lips.

ˏˋ°•*⁀➷

“Are you sure the Santa guy said you could do this?” You ask, your voice tinged with doubt as you glance between Dean and the awfully large axe slung over his shoulder.

Dean stands there, the very picture of confidence, one hand propped on his hip and the other gripping the axe like he’s posing for the cover of Lumberjack Monthly. His eyes rake over the tallest tree in the grove, a determined smirk playing on his lips. Somehow, he’d sweet-talked the man at the counter into letting him chop down the damn tree himself—a detail you’re still struggling to wrap your head around.

Your eyes timidly look over the rest of the trees. Some were already cut, bound in netting and propped against fences. Closer to the barn, a few families stand around men, dressed in matching plaid and denim, as they expertly axe down the pine—the way it’s supposed to go, a tradition you quickly picked up on.

Dean doing it himself, when you assume he’s never taken down a tree before, does not feel like the right way to go about the tradition.

“Cupid,” Dean sighs dramatically, still appraising the tree, “I chop vamp heads for a living. I think I can handle a little tree.”

You eye the towering pine skeptically. “I wouldn’t exactly call this ‘little.’”

Dean turns to you, his smirk widening as a glint of mischief flashes in his eyes. “That’s what—” He stops mid-sentence, recoiling at himself as he shakes his head. “Nope. Nope. Not doin’ it.”

You blink at him, confused by his abrupt backpedaling, but before you can ask, he’s already stepping up to the tree and hefting the axe like it’s a wonky baseball bat.

With a hefty swing, the blade lodges into the trunk with a solid thud. Dean pauses, straightening to inspect his handiwork, though his furrowed brow suggests he’s less than impressed.

Letting out a frustrated huff, he shrugs off his jacket and shoves it into your hands. “Hold this,” he mutters, already focused on pulling the axe free for another attempt.

You dutifully clutch the jacket, taking a tentative step back as Dean lines up his next swing. The follow-through chips a small piece from the trunk, sending it flying through the air. Your gaze tracks it as it lands quietly in the snow.

“Dean,” you whine softly, glancing around at the other families in the field who seem to be having a much smoother time letting professionals handle the chopping. “Maybe we should—”

A sharp crack interrupts you, the sound startling as it echoes through the crisp air. Your breath catches as you snap your attention back to Dean, who’s now whistling under his breath, clearly pleased with himself.

“Alright!” he cheers, his grin wide and triumphant as he puts more force behind his swings. The tree trembles with each impact, the gap between trunk and stump widening until, at last, the entire pine groans and falls with a muffled thud into the snow.

Dean chucks the axe to the ground, throwing his arms up in victory. His breath puffing visibly in the cold air. “That’s what I’m talkin’ about, baby!”

For a moment, you’re frozen, staring at the tree in awe. It’s not just any tree, you realize—it’s your very first Christmas tree. The thought sinks in, filling you with a fizzy warmth that bubbles up into a grin so wide it makes your cheeks ache. Without thinking, you hop across the snow to where Dean is standing, your boots crunching beneath you.

“You did it!” you squeak, your voice breathless with excitement as you fling your arms around his neck.

The hug catches Dean off guard, but his hands instinctively settle at your waist, pulling you closer and lifting you just slightly off the ground. He’s sturdy, like an anchor, and for a moment, the world feels perfectly still despite the crisp air and the snow swirling gently around you.

You pull back a fraction, your arms still looped loosely around his neck, and Dean looks down at you, his own grin softening. His chest tightens unexpectedly at the sight of you—eyes wide and sparkling, cheeks flushed from the cold, or maybe from something else entirely. The joy radiating from you feels almost too much, too bright, too... vulnerable.

He swallows hard, his throat suddenly dry as the warmth of the moment wraps around him.

“Oh, lover,” he murmurs, the nickname tumbling out unbidden, his voice low and almost reverent. “you gotta stop lookin’ at me like that. For my own sake.”

Your grin falters for just a second, confusion flickering in your eyes. “Like what?” you ask softly, your voice almost unsure, as if the words themselves hold a weight you can’t quite grasp.

Dean chuckles, shaking his head like he’s trying to brush off the way his stomach twists at your innocent question. “Never mind,” he mutters, his hands lingering just a moment too long before gently setting you back on the snowy ground.

You don’t linger on his words, too focused on the tree, and how it doesn’t make you feel jittery and nervous like the way looking Dean in the eye is making you feel. “C’mon, Dean,” you say, your voice bright again, “let’s get this Christmas tree home!”

Dean watches you bounce toward the tree’s trunk, your laughter dancing in the air like the snowflakes falling around you. His chest feels tight again, but this time, he doesn’t fight it. The way your smile lingers in his mind feels dangerous, but he can’t seem to let it go.

Against his own better judgement, he lets himself soak it all in—the smile he puts on your face, the way your excitement feels like a kiss from the sun in the dead of winter.

He exhales slowly, his breath visible in the cold air, and picks up the axe with a quiet smile tugging at his lips. Watching you crouch to inspect the tree like it’s the most magical thing you’ve ever seen, he reels in the inexplicable warmth settling in his chest.

“Yeah,” he murmurs to himself, his voice soft. “Let’s get it home.”

ˏˋ°•*⁀➷

Back at the bunker…

The living room feels much more cozy with all of the festive decor priming the room. The scent of pine mingling with the usual smell of dust and old books. The tree is nearly perfect—twinkling lights casting a golden glow, red and green ornaments catching the light in sparkling bursts. But the top remains bare.

The three of you are finishing up the tree, clad in matching sweaters. Dean let you pick them out, each adorning little reindeer and ‘oh deer’ written across the image with sparkling jewels.

“You’re too far to the left, Sam!” you call out, hands on your hips as you stand beside Dean.

“It’s centered,” Sam retorts, utilizing his full height and wing span as he adjusts the angel at the top of the tree.

“No, she’s right,” Dean cuts in frankly, arms crossed. He squints up at the angel. “It’s a little crooked. Just tilt it—”

Sam groans. “You two are impossible.”

You nudge Dean with your elbow, grinning up at him. “Told you I have a good eye.”

Dean smirks, shaking his head. “You? A good eye?” He shakes his head, smirking. “Please.”

With an exaggerated huff, Sam adjusts the angel one more time, muttering something under his breath about “backseat decorators.” But when both you and Dean gasp in unison, he pauses to look down.

“Better?”

“Perfect!” you both chime at the same time, your voices overlapping in synchronicity.

You glance at Dean, giggling at the moment’s absurdity, only to find him already looking at you. His grin softens, the teasing edge replaced by something warmer, deeper.

“Told you teamwork makes the dream work,” he gloats, but his voice is quieter, almost teasing.

You look away quickly, that funny warmth spreading to your cheeks again. The way he keeps looking at you today, all that warmth in his pretty green eyes—it’s too much. There’s a warm gooey feeling stirring in your chest, the intensity of new emotions is always exhausting. But this? You’re not even sure how you’re still standing when your knees keep going weak.

Your hand brushes against the weight in your pocket, the mistletoe you had swiped earlier suddenly feeling heavier. The memory of the earlier kiss flashes in your mind, and your stomach flutters nervously. What if—no. You can’t just stand here thinking about it. God, no. You have a thought to chase down and explore.

“I, um… I’ll be right back!” you blurt out, spinning on your heel before either brother can question you.

Dean blinks, caught off guard. “What? Where are you—?”

But you’re already halfway down the hall, moving faster than you probably need to. Sam and Dean share confused looks, the younger brother shrugging before turning back to the tree to adjust some of the ornaments. Dean tries to let it go, but he’d actually enjoyed having you so close to him all day, he couldn’t just shake the annoyance he felt at your absence.

Meanwhile, your quickened pace comes to a harsh stop at your room, heart racing. Clumsily pulling the small spring from your pocket, you fasten it to the doorframe with a piece of tape. You step back to admire your handiwork, a sly grin spreading across your face despite the butterflies in your stomach.

“Dean!” you call out, your voice light and sing-songy, “can you come here for a sec?”

His boots are heavy against the floor as he approaches, stopping just short of the doorway. His eyes narrow as they take in your giddy grin and the way you’re practically bouncing in place.

“What’s going on?” he asks, suspicious.

You point upward, your smile widening as his gaze follows your gesture. The mistletoe dangles above him, and his expression shifts—part amusement, part exasperation.

“Seriously?” he drawls. “You stole that, didn’t you?”

You press your lips together, suppressing a giggle. “Borrowed,” you correct innocently.

Dean shakes his head, his lips pressing together in a way that barely hides his smile. “You’re somethin’ else, you know that?” but it’s so quiet, as if he’s only speaking to himself.

You shrug, your playful tone impossible to hide. “I’m a cupid,” you say sweetly, as if that explains everything. “And you’re under the mistletoe.” You remind him.

He sighs, leaning against the doorframe. His eyes take their time looking you up and down. Like he’s trying to measure you up, your mischievous nature making his head spin once again.

And Dean really hates getting his mind frazzled, especially by a little thing who’s so goddamn sugary sweet.

“Uh huh, you got me there.”

You nod, reeling in the way he’s giving into you. “Rules are rules, Dean.”

There are about a million and one reasons why he shouldn’t entertain this. Getting caught under the mistletoe at the barn was one thing—a moment of bad timing, easily brushed off. But this? This cheeky little stunt of yours, this deliberate invitation—it’s another story entirely. You’re an angel, literally, for God’s sake. There’s gotta be rules around this growing connection that he’s been so stubbornly ignoring. That much he’s sure of. Nevermind the fact that you’re pure, a true beacon of sweet curiosity and everything he is not.

Dean knows damn well his rough hands would quickly break something so delicate if put in his grasp.

But you’re excited, staring at him starry-eyed. And it’s just a kiss. Hardly a real one if there’s a mistletoe commanding it, right?

Surely, this sin can be forgiven… twice.

For once in his life, Dean lets go of the ever-tight grip he has on his better judgment. He silences the screaming voice in his head, loosens the chains on the flickering desire he’s tried so hard to bury. His body moves before his brain can catch up, his hand lifting to your face.

His thumb presses into the soft skin of your chin, his fingers firm but gentle as they tilt your head up toward him.

Your breath catches. He pauses, leaning in close enough that the peppermint-laced warmth of his breath fans over your lips. The hesitation lasts only a heartbeat, just long enough for that voice in the back of his mind to beg him to stop.

But he doesn’t.

Dean closes the distance, his lips pressing against yours. It’s firm but not harsh, sure yet somehow keeping a tenderness he’s finding harder to deny around you. Your world tilts, heart hammering so loudly you’re certain he can feel it in your chest. For a moment, the edges of everything blur—time, space, all of it—until there’s only him.

His hand slides to the back of your neck, pulling you closer. The other finds your hip, anchoring you to him in a way that feels as much like a need as a want. Your hands move instinctively, planting firmly on either side of his neck, fingers curling into his hair for stability.

The kiss deepens, unhurried yet consuming, his lips leading and yours eagerly following. The lingering scent of pine clings faintly to him, grounding you even as the dizzying heat of his touch threatens to sweep you away.

When he finally pulls back, his chest rises and falls heavily, breaths mingling with yours in the narrow space he leaves between you. His lips linger close to yours as he murmurs, voice low and rough, “Happy now?”

It takes a moment for you to find your voice, still lost in the haze of what just happened. Your cheeks burn, but the giddy smile spreading across your face is impossible to contain. “Oh, I don’t know,” you tease breathlessly, tilting your head. “Maybe. I think your Grinch heart might’ve grown at least one size today.”

Dean snorts, the tension breaking as the corner of his mouth lifts into the grin you’ve been pulling out of him all day. “You’re impossible,” he says, though there’s no real bite to it. Not this time.

Even as he steps back, as he forces himself to put distance between you, his eyes stay locked on yours. Jade green and conflicted, they linger for a beat too long, like he’s trying to figure out what on god’s green earth he’s just gotten himself into.

this was so long im sorry, i got a lil carried away

#dean winchester #dean winchester x fem!reader #dean winchester fluff #dean winchester fanfic #dean winchester x reader #dean winchester x cupid!reader

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horatiocomehome · 5 months ago

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"Blood magic" as it exists in most generic fantasy settings is so boring and stupid. "ohhhh it's so evil because it needs blooood they're sacrificing virgins it's so inherently evilllll" like okay what if the blood is ethically obtained? What's the problem? "ohh but the magic itself is tainted and makes you evil plus they're wearing black robes" yeah and so is every edgy teenage warlock so what

to ME blood magic should be taboo because it's the ultimate dangerous magic. The normal mage has to throw a fuckoff huge fireball costing 100 magic points to kill another mage in a duel and even then 90% of the time the other mage throws up a simple barrier spell and blocks it.

BLOOD MAGIC is dangerous because a blood mage can just cast "scab level 1" for 2 magic points and now you've got a blood clot in your brain and you have a stroke. BOOM you've lost consciousness. A few minutes later? Permanent brain damage or death.

You think you're the shit? Can block any spell? No you can't because level 1 blood mage apprentice over here can give you a stroke from across the battlefield. You never saw it coming. There was no mega laser blast to deflect. The spell cost them 3 magic points because they cast it from 500 feet away. Instant. Silent. Deadly.

Give me blood magic that's taboo because it's the ultimate magic weapon!! Give me mages that need to hunt down blood mages whenever there's a whisper of them because they're so dangerous!

well then you ask, if they're so dangerous can't they kill all the mage hunters with a thought?

And that's where the wards against blood magic come in! Everyone has at least simple ones, and higher level mages will customize theirs to make them harder to get through.

Of course, that starts an arms race so now blood mages have to get through your wards before they can cast Instant Death.

Now, as anyone who's watched lockpicking lawyer knows, any lock can be picked given enough effort. And no mage wants to block themselves off from magic entirely, because then they can't teleport or fly or heal or make their eyes glow. So of course, a blood mage can get through a ward if they try.

BUT. If a blood mage is trying to get through your ward, right, you can feel them doing it! And that gives you a precious few seconds to FUCK YOU MEGA BOLT them. And that levels the playing field, makes it about who can work faster.

THAT'S the level of thought I want to see for blood magic. Not this "ohhh but they're cultists so of course they're evil and their magic is evil" lazy stuff.

#reading eragon at a young age and the way mage duels work in that permanently effected my ideas on magic can you tell #worldbuilding #from my very own mouth

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ohmygodryan · 1 month ago

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Scars | Astarion x Dark Urge Reader

Summary: Astarion goes to comfort you after finding you’ve wandered from camp.

Pre-confession. Takes place in Act 1. Dark Urge trauma. Hurt/comfort.

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Two things constantly swarmed Astarion’s mind—fear and, of course, eternal hunger. The innate bloodlust that came with vampirism was manageable to a degree. His nightly hunt in the woods was enough to keep him sated, at least for a certain amount of time.

It was the fear that truly plagued him. He had been thrown from a life of enslavement to a life of uncertainty. Even with the newly found amenities the parasite had brought him, he felt he was doomed no matter what. He wanted to believe it could bring him salvation but around every corner, another danger seemed to emerge. He had never been accustomed to trusting others. Yet there was one person he felt himself growing more attached to every moment.

You, of all people, had shown him nothing but kindness. You, who clawed through bodies with a tantalizing ambition, always turned a soft gaze to him. It wasn’t your spells of primal violence that frightened him—that part was actually quite delightful, it was that through all of that, you still seemed to care.

You had let him feed on you, which was the first time he’d ever drank from something other than lowly vermin or unfortunate animals. You had protected him from the clutches of the monster hunter who Cazador had sent after him. You even allowed him to slaughter the Gir without question. You were understanding and even more so exciting. It almost made him feel bad for manipulating you so brazenly.

The thought was beginning to trouble him to such a degree he’d taken to hunting more frequently than usual. On tonight's menu was an unlucky deer. It had been fast, but he was always faster. Although this was a waste of his talents, he much preferred to feed on you. Usually, you were quick to offer. But there had been something troubling you for the last couple of days. More so than the usual brain fog.

He had settled to make his way back to camp for the night. As he stalked through the foliage back to the comfort of his tent, he noticed a familiar figure sulking next to the lake.

Nightfall had become a loathsome burden for you. Your companions welcomed the comfort of their bedrolls at the end of a long day of searching for a cure for your shared affliction. However, you had begun to dread the nightly ritual of tossing and turning.

You were plagued with growing visions and fantasies of your gory nature. The Urge inside you was growing more impatient by the day. There may have been a time when darkness was an exciting veil that created a playground for your violence to lavish in. Even if that was the case, reminiscing wasn’t a luxury you were afforded.

Ever since you had ruthlessly savaged that innocent Bard, Alfira, your urges had begun to fester like an open wound. The guilt was eating you away. You hadn’t wanted this. Sure, the occasional violence was necessary and you couldn’t deny that each foe you fell was like the pleasures of a healing spell. However, she wasn’t deserving of your blade. She had offered to join your cause, you had even helped her finish her song in honor of her dead teacher.

Yet it was not to be. Because you are a monster.

You gazed at your reflection in the water below. You had wandered from camp in hopes of distracting yourself from another wave of horrible thoughts. Although it was proving fruitless.

Your face was the only familiar thing about yourself. You didn’t know your own mind or your past. Now, even your reflection was growing foreign. You had been pondering the long scar that stretched from your chin across your cheek. The tissue was mangled, whatever wound you endured was deep. How you procured it was another mystery to you.

As you were about to look away, you saw another image appear next to yours. He had been the only one to notice you were gone. Or maybe you had somehow disturbed his nightly hunt.

“Darling, what are you doing away from your bedroll?” His flirtatious drawl snapped you out of your stupor.

You hesitated to answer. The last thing you wanted to do was burden him with your depravity. Although it was likely he didn’t want to listen to you prattle anyway.

“I couldn’t rest.” You responded simply, “I came out here to clear my thoughts.”

He was uncharacteristically quiet as he considered your slumped form. He had never seen you so dejected before. Usually, you carried yourself with an intimidating—if not a little unhinged form. But in the cover of darkness, you looked almost scared.

“Forgive me for pointing out the obvious, but it doesn’t seem very effective. You look a little, how do I say this…lost? A bit more desperate than usual.” He garnished his words with a little smirk.

You scoffed at his typical attitude. He never turned a nose to an opportunity to comment on you or your companions. Although, he seemed to enjoy a reaction from you in particular. However this time, you thought you could hear a tinge of concern, or perhaps curiosity, in his tone.

“I just have a lot on my mind.” You replied.

You knew Astarion all too well. He likely wanted something from you. He had his charms and usually you humored his antics. You couldn’t deny you were the most fond of him out of all your companions. Right now, however, you weren’t in the mood for any flirty banter.

To your surprise, he didn’t respond with any snarky remarks. Instead, he took a seat next to you on the grassy bank. You turned your head quizzically, regarding his pale form. His hair was tousled from the night's hunt, only slightly disturbed from its usually pristine form. The silver lighting framed the fang indents on his neck, a crude reminder of his vampiric curse.

“What troubles you, my dear?” He asked, eyeing you with his ruby gaze.

You surveyed him, trying to clock any deception on his features. You were all too aware of how practiced he was at enthralling others. He had an uncannily silver tongue.

He maintained his usual flirty smile, although there was a softness to his gaze. You shifted uneasily in your spot. You hated when he gave you that look. The Urge laced your consciousness with visions of his demise with every sweet feeling you perceived him with. You cast your gaze back to the lake, holding your tongue fast. Your throat ached to spill what had been ailing you, but your fear was a far greater master.

“Why do you care?” You questioned, distracting yourself with the steady ripples of the water.

He chuckled at your harshness. You weren’t usually so brash. It only served to further pique his curiosity.

“Well we can’t have our fearless leader out of commission, can we? Don’t tell me the worm is besting you now?” He pushed.

You gritted your teeth in hopes of killing the feeling sputtering inside you. He was right. With how you’ve been acting, the group would never make progress in removing the tadpoles.

“The parasite isn’t the one scrambling my brain. My head is a mess.” You confessed, refusing to make eye contact.

He paused, joining you in looking out at the landscape. He wasn’t a fool. He had noticed your episodes of flitting between selves. After all, you had executed a poor innocent squirrel unprovoked.

“You are referring to your mysterious past, correct?” He didn’t wait for you to reply, “It is quite obvious you’ve got something besides the tadpole swimming in that lovely little head of yours.”

You frowned at his words. What little of your memories remained could only be recalled in a painful fog. They were like mismatched puzzle pieces, entirely incomprehensible.

“If I could remember something, maybe I could figure out what is wrong with me.” You declared hopelessly.

Your mind raced across the weeks before. From crashing to invading goblin camps, you were still no closer to knowing who you were.

He took in your words with careful thought. He hadn’t entirely expected you to open up as it was.

“Well if there’s one thing I’ve learned from this peculiar adventure of ours is that anything can happen. If I can walk in the sun again, who’s to say you can’t you can figure out who you were?” He expressed, looking at you from the corner of his eye.

He wasn’t wrong. You knew his entire life changed from your group’s capture. Although, you hesitated to want to know the truth of who you were before the crash. It could be a horrific truth that you were a depraved being who deserved to die on that nautiloid.

“Sometimes I get a brief inkling of recalling something and then… nothing. Maybe if I could remember I would know how to stop these urges.” You thought out loud.

His attentive expression willed you to voice your confliction. You pressed on, uneasy at the prospect of being so honest.

“It’s like there's a sea of thrashing tides when they come over me. I can’t be sure what will set them off. Just when I think I will be able to resist them….” You trailed off, refusing to put into words what you’d done.

A grim silence surrounded you. For a moment, you feared you had shared too much. He may very well be considering his place in the party, probably debating whether or not it was worth being around such instability.

“I know what you did.” He said finally.

You tensed at his words. Images of the fiendish entity that claimed to be your butler pranced in your head. He had even given you a prize for your macabre achievement.

“I know it was no rabid boar that killed that bard from the grove. You may have convinced the others but I could see it in your eyes. I recognize the remnants of repressed savagery.” Astarion looked back at you, but instead of an accusatory gaze, you saw understanding.

“I do not blame you for it.”

You furrowed your eyebrows. He had knowingly slept in the same camp as you for all this time, even seeing how you gored Alfira beyond recognition. You felt your stomach swirl in unease.

“Why didn’t you tell everyone?” You questioned.

His expression hardened into one of bitter sympathy, “Because, I know better than anyone what it’s like to not have control over your own body. Whatever compulsion plagues you isn’t really who you are.”

Your face fell at the mention. You clenched your hands together, the memories of what he’d shared with you about his previous life flooding back. He was a vampire spawn, he wasn’t afforded such basic rights such as free will.

“Cazador…” You spoke the name of his old master hesitantly.

He nodded grimly, “It never mattered what I wanted. I had to bend to his every whim.”

You watched as his eyes danced with the painful memories. His delicate lips pulled into a deep frown as if the very thought filled his mouth with a foul taste.

“But I have been made anew. The tadpole gave me a chance to become more than just his slave.” He looked at you determinedly, “You too have been given an opportunity and I suggest you don’t let it slip away.”

You felt a flicker of optimism in your chest. But even so, it seemed your past was following you. You knew finding a cure for your parasite wouldn’t be the end of your problems

“Do you really think this will help me remember my past?” You said with uncertainty.

“Maybe. We’ve seen more things than I thought possible on our little misadventure. Even so, you at least have a chance to figure out what's causing these urges of yours. You said you have been able to recall a few memories, right?” He replied with a gentle conviction.

His words seemed to soothe you and you let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding. You looked back to your reflection as if examining your face would retrace your steps through the fog of your mind.

You scoffed as you stared at yourself, “It’s not like they are much help. I can’t even remember how I got this scar.”

You gestured to the obvious laceration on your face. He surveyed you thoughtfully, taking in your exhausted expression. The moonlight cast a serene glow on you, painting you in a haunting beauty. Whatever had done that to you hadn’t done much to tarnish your allure.

“It seems like both of us have scars we don’t know the meaning of.” He mused.

You held his gaze sorrowfully. You recalled him basking in the sunlight after the night you’d spent together. The strange marks carved into his back by Cazador sparked in your memory.

“I’m sure there’s someone out there who can tell you what they say.” You offered him a hesitant smile.

He returned it, his expression looking more genuine than you’d ever seen it before. He leaned back and rested his weight on his palms. He stared up at the stars, allowing himself to relish in the comfort of understanding.

“Perhaps you’re right.” He let out a peaceful breath, “‘We can figure it out together,’ I think you said that to me once?”

You nodded and he continued with a smile, “Well it’s true. We can solve our mysteries one step at a time.”

You joined him in looking up at the sky. For the first time in countless days, the urges didn’t tug at the back of your mind. It was just you and him in this moment. It was like you were invisibly bound together by what you had shared. Even in the silence, you savored in each other's company.

You didn’t care if his coming to comfort you had been sincere or not. He had given you hope, that’s all that mattered.

That night you would partake in something you hadn’t in quite some time. A tranquil rest.

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Let me know if anyone would be interested in more bg3 content or a full series. This game is my bread and butter.

#baulders gate 3 #baulders gate astarion #bg3 astarion #bg3 x you #astarion x durge #astarion x you #astarion x tav #astarion x reader #astarion imagine #bg3 imagine #baulders gate imagines #one shot #astarion one shot #hurt/comfort #astarion ancunin

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foli-vora · 25 days ago

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FOLI!!! CONGRATS!! you deserve the world and all the followers, you’re the one writer who has kept me reading on here!! i’m honored to be a part of your readers. thank you for sharing your talent and words with the world. i hope your inbox is full of prompts but i also love a good restful break for you haha. i would love a FLUFFY #16 (“You fainted…straight into my arms. You know, if you wanted my attention you didn’t have to go to such extremes.”) and i’ll let you pick with who! preferably frankie, din or ezra! or maybe frank or matt!

Hey sweet angel, thanks for your request! We're totally ignoring how long this took me, ok?? God I'm so sorry. Thank you so much for being here, I appreciate you! And I hope you enjoy your fluff-fest xo

attention seeker

frankie morales x f!reader

word count: 1.4k warnings: no use of y/n, swearing, alcohol consumption, brief fainting spell, fluff and sweet drunken declarations, i have missed this man

The night is comfortable and warm, the buzz of the occasional mosquito flying by your ear as you recline into the cheap camping chair Benny had unfolded for you.

It'd been a while since he had successfully pried you out of your weekly take-out and true crime routine, but as he sits next to you now, yelling some shit at his brother across the table and spilling half of his beer in the process, you realise how much you've missed his drunken shenanigans.

And his hot friend pilot friend that you've been crushing on for an embarrassing amount of time that you've also struggled to say more than a few words to all night.

Maybe that's why you keep accepting the shots of tequila Benny keeps pouring. Liquid courage and all that. Maybe tonight's the night you'll go further than 'so how have you been?'.

“You’re wrong. Angel, tell him he’s wrong.”

“Don’t drag me into this,” you grin around your beer, shrugging loosely when Benny throws you a playful glare.

“You’re supposed to be on my side.”

“Leave the poor girl alone and just admit you’re wrong, you piece of shit,” Fish pipes up from beside Will, grinning widely at the way the younger Miller turns his gaze of betrayal on him.

He turns that smile on you and you swear you feel it in your damn bones.

"No, fuck the lot of you."

"Oh, Benny boo."

"No. Pope, fuckin' Google it."

"Man, let it go."

The urge for more snacks brings you to your feet and you laugh as the argument continues as you leave the table, the warm familiar rush of alcohol running along your limbs as you all but stumble your way into the humid air of the kitchen.

You hunt through the treasure trove of sweet and savoury treats in the cupboard before reaching for a bag of Doritos, groaning softly when they slip through your loose fingers and land with a light slap at your feet.

Life is too hard sometimes.

Your head spins as you bend to reach them, and you’ve either had too much to drink, or you stand back up too fast, because the last thing you remember is the dizzy spell that assaults your brain and the sudden blackness taking over your vision.

Vaguely you hear someone call out to you through the ringing in your ears, and you don’t quite know whether the arms that suddenly cradle you are real or just a figment of your imagination until you come to.

Sure enough someone’s there, sprawled out on the floor with you and pressed up hard against your back.

“Hey, you good?” Fish asks, his voice tinged with concern rumbling into your ear.

Oh, God. Of course it had to be him. It couldn’t have been Benny, or one of the other guys that you felt comfortably at ease around, no. No, it had to be the one that managed to get your stomach flipping and twisting if he so much as glanced your way.

“I think so,” you mumble, raising a hand to rub along your forehead as the room swims in your vision before slowly coming into focus. “What happened?”

“You fainted—straight into my arms. You know, if you wanted my attention you didn’t have to go to such extremes.”

He’s teasing you. A heat bites at the tips of your ears as you smile, and you weakly slap at the arm curled around your waist. You swear it tightens for just the slightest second. Or maybe that's just the tequila swimming in your mind.

“Stop it. I’m so sorry—”

He chuckles, the jump of his chest against your back and your heart warms from the deepness of it. “Don’t be. I’m just glad I was here—don’t want you hitting your head.”

“You're my hero,” you sing quietly as he starts to untangle himself from you, backing away just enough to give you room to sit up on your own.

“Seriously though, are you okay?”

He’s frowning when you look at him over your shoulder, the concern back and twisting the edges of his features. He lifts a hand, the roughened pads of his finger tips dragging across your forehead and leaving butterflies in their wake.

“Do you need anything?”

“No, I’m good," you say, smiling as he pulls his hand away and gives you another grin. "Thank you for not letting me hit my head.”

"Happy to help," he shrugs, fixing the ever present hat on his head as he stands before offering you a hand. “You need help getting up?"

You take it gratefully, enjoying the slightest squeeze of his fingers around yours. "I think this might be my safest option."

The shots must be catching up on you all at once, because even with Frankie's hand holding yours, you struggle to stand steadily on two feet let alone find the strength to stand completely with the sudden knock of intoxication assaulting you from all angles.

“Maybe you should sit down for a few more minutes,” he laughs along with you quietly, both hands now steadying as you shakily sink back to the floor. You miss the heat of his hands as soon as they leave your skin.

Humming softly as you shuffle to lean against the kitchen cabinets, your head rolls and threatens to drop as the alcohol continues to swim through your bloodstream but you fight to blink up at him, smiling when you find him watching you with the shadow of concern lingering at the edges of his expression.

“You good?” he asks again, brows coming together.

“Yup,” you hiccup, grinning. “Can you keep me company, Frankie?”

He seems to soften at your question, the concern melting away the longer you manage to stay awake and upright where you’re propped up. He gives you a small smile, something softer, sweeter.

“I will if you want me to.”

You tap the floor next to you, watching through slightly blurry eyes as he slowly drops into the designated spot and stretches his legs out with a long tired sigh. He must feel you watching him, and he meets your gaze from the corner of his eyes with a slight shine of hesitancy.

“What?”

“This is nice,” you murmur softly, warming when his eyes meet yours fully. “I never get you all to myself—Benny’s always in the way.”

His smile returns, and he dips his head somewhat shyly. “Do you want me all to yourself?”

“Yeah, why wouldn’t I? You’re cute as hell.”

He chuckles, hands smoothing along his jeans as he makes himself more comfortable beside you. “You’ve had too much to drink.”

“Nope, I’ve had just enough. I needed the courage.”

His eyes find you again, this time swimming with obvious curiosity as he studies your expression. “What do you need courage for?”

“God, to just talk to you. You make me all nervous.”

“I don’t mean to.”

“I know—you’re a nice guy,” you breathe, cheeks aching from your tired smile. “You’re a really nice, really hot guy.”

“Cut it out.”

He laughs again, his shoulder softly bumping into your own and you can’t help the drunken giggle that the small show of playfulness pries from you.

“No, that’s why I have a bit of a crush on you.”

The alcohol has the little confession falling from your lips before your mind even knows what's happening. You don't have time to regret it, though. You don't even think about regretting it. You'll worry about it in the morning.

But he doesn't seem to take the news badly, and it doesn't seem to make him uncomfortable. He merely makes a low noise of thought, the smile now wide along his lips as his head rests back against the cabinet door.

“That’s good to know.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Why’s that?”

“Because I have a bit of a crush on you, too.”

The alcohol burns beneath your skin and you scoff in disbelief, unable to get rid of the smile still tugging away at your lips. Maybe you did hit your head on the way down.

“You do not.”

“I do. Just ask the guys, they give me shit about it all the time.”

“We need to address this in the morning when my brain isn’t so wobbly,” you murmur, your head finally giving in to the heaviness weighing it down as it settles softly on his shoulder.

The tell tale feel of lips press against your head before the soft reassuring warmth of his cheek follows.

“We can do that."

#foli's 3k #francisco morales x reader #frankie morales x reader #francisco morales x f!reader #frankie morales x f!reader #francisco morales x you #frankie morales x you #pedro pascal x reader

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