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themareverine · 12 days ago

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hello!! have never tried asking yet so hope this is fine with you, but old man logan! oh my days, domestic life with old man logan makes me so weak in my knees

oh absolutely, I could write domestic Old Man all DAY. ✧˚ · . ˚

A King & His Castle | Under Daylight | oldman!Logan x fem!wife!reader drabble

series summary: Breadwinner. Bring-Home-the-Bacon. King of the Castle. He's heard it all before, but it's never been true of the Wolverine. Until her. Coming home to her is the only thing to live for, the only thing keeping the heart behind his ribs spinning.

synopsis: Logan's wasted too much time — and that's right, wasted. Alive a century without purpose, floating in and out of perceived "callings," looking for meaning and direction that only really ever came years before this moment, this heartbeat. Logan — the Wolverine — had found everything he'd never truly been looking for. Wrapped up in bows and curls, swaddling clothes and blood.

warnings: drabble series, day-in-the-life, dad!Logan, mutantwife!reader, angst, domesticity, pregnancy, babies, children, Logan is a boy dad because I said so, reader has curls, slight ⚠︎

navigation | series masterlist | previous let me know if you want added to my tags! ♡！

Fuck daylight savings.

Sun begins to slip away the same time it always does, these days — too early before he arrives home, he misses that glorious little span when it gets cool. The sun sinks, sunlight more like ethereal gold as it stains the sky colors bold enough to make God blush. Years before, fading sunlight would kiss his face, taking him by the hand to say goodbye as hours tick closer and closer to the witching hour, to nightmares.

Countless hours he'd spent under the fading light of the sky, magnificent canopies of colors. All of them spent with her, mostly smiling. Always radiant. In years before the poison slipping through his veins stole more than he'd be willing to admit, they'd walked hours in the genesis of stars, the cool air of coming darkness. He'd held her hand, she'd whispered sweet everythings. They'd danced, fought — made a spectacular kind of love that was as wild as the earth, as free as the sky.

Today they did little of that. Such conveniences lost in the modern world of the concrete jungle, the age of social media. A plague not soon to die, if you asked Logan. Nobody did. A rotten cancer eating away at humanity's finest qualities, it demanded more than creation was ever designed to give. Relationships more anorexic than ever. Pressure of the grind was a mere diagnosis of a time bomb counting down years, eras, to explode. Logan saw the writing on the wall, it wouldn't be long.

He doesn't dwell there, in that hell of thoughts, often, though.

It's enough to kill a man, adamantium bones aside. A poison of another kind, he staves off the wolves of the world beyond his four walls at arm's length, away from the things that matter — what has become, for the first time since his youth, his home. His life. An unspoken, largely undeserved reward for a life under God, chasing graves and death that never arrives. Of spilling blood and cursing air in his lungs. Those things he cherishes, holds as close as a paralyzed, shell of a man with boneless, spineless fingers, can.

Logan's wasted too much time — and that's right, wasted. Alive a century without purpose, floating in and out of perceived "callings," looking for meaning and direction that only really ever came years before this moment, this heartbeat. Logan — the Wolverine — had found everything he'd never truly been looking for. Wrapped up in bows and curls, swaddling clothes and blood.

Their life together wasn't beautiful. Farthest thing from perfect — the kitchen floor was stained with refinery oils and grease, the linger scent of smelt and steel carved deep into the fibers holding the place together, old appliances hobbled together. Their windows were broken, spidering cracks taped over and draped with Look, Lo! This is perfect! tapestries discovered along the way. Stains on thrifted rugs, chipped plates. Bathroom facilities lacking everything to make it more than an industry standard, but somehow perfect for fucking her in the way he loved. Constantly on the alert for trespassers, prying eyes — wolves looking to steal away the "two Wolverines," the myths and logos had popularized.

She was like him in every physiological way, — right down to the bones they gave her. And that was a responsibility Logan had never taken lightly, would never stop fortressing. Stalking the lines like a snarling guard dog, slavering away at the world pressing into what is his, he'd never let her see the world for what it is, what it has become. What she fears in nightmares it will be, but already exists —

What, at some genetic and fearful level, Logan worries his child, in days coming soon, will enter.

Headlights cast milky beams of light against the chain link caging the front door, seven-odd foot sentinels that he knows she's already unlocked for him. It's the same routine every dusk — she unlocks the cage, the front door. Turns on the light above the doorway, waters the plant she's inevitable forgotten, but loves, potted beside the entry to their humble, dark castle.

He kills the lights on the Chrysler. Pops the shift into park a breath from the gate, Logan slips out, goods from his stop at the store under arm like the proud bring-home-the-bacon, breadwinner he isn't.

Slipping into his home with a practiced phantom years of peacetime can't quite shake, he shrugs off his suitcoat. Draps it over the makeshift foyer table and cracked mirror she took such pride in at that garage sale the first year they'd lived here. Bright, passionate roses give him pause, quaintly organized into a makeshift Campbell's soup can vase, giving the space a sort of color that makes the muscle in his jaw twitch with amusement.

If she didn't at least try to make this place theirs, a home, she'd be damned. He's sure of it as he makes his way in, groceries at hand, stepping into the low lights cutting across the kitchen floor. It smells good, like food — like bread. Meat. Protein. His gut spins at the thought, suddenly ravenous despite the junk he'd consumed on the road an hour ago.

Passing by the makeshift island, which is not ironically, a welding table, he spots dinner. Salad, warm bread. Chicken. Logan could chuckle at the bowl of Jell-o, if the idea of it being scratch-and-dent clearance didn't roil his blood. It's dinner, provisions — in some ways, better than they've had in beforeyears. They'd survived together on much less, much, much less.

But the idea doesn't quite land like he wishes it to — she deserves so much more. His child deserves a life out from the confines of hideaway secrecy and the stay-alive, a chance at life. To taste independence and experiences not those of the one's who gave it life.

Logan pops a crouton from the salad into the pocket of his cheek, the zing of dressing just enough to make his entire mouth salivate with hunger. Setting his wares on the table, his gaze cuts around the open floor — it's quiet. She isn't here.

The air doesn't move and crack like a whip with her presence, his entire body isn't on fire like it is when she's near. Weird.

But then, movement down the corridor, where their room is located, produces a nod from him. Of course. Naturally she'd be there, either room or bathroom, the two places she hadn't been able to stay out of since the start of this trimester. Throwing up or nesting, that's what the doc had called it, occupied most of her business hours. He was relegated to mere appointment appearances, sidebarred in her otherwise gestational state.

It's easy to slip into the room when she's not looking — one would think an impending child would heighten a mother's senses, but it doesn't. Not truly. Maybe for some people, maybe even for animals but not things. Creatures, like them. Science experiments clawing their way through freedom, a special kind of torture that doesn't land them in either camp. Forever limbo between fully human and fully thing, today she's more human than he ever remembers. And Christ alive, is she stunning.

Logan had never fully come to terms with the idea of being a father, of the responsibility of rearing another human being. If you'd have told him it was the best decision of his centuries of life, settling into fatherhood, breeding, he'd have laughed in your face. Drank away the idea, maybe. Drowned it in his own sorrows of survival and displacement. Lobotomized that idea right out of him, the labs had.

Hell no I don't want kids, it was a common question when courting the interests of the opposite sex. Earned him his fill of meaningless fucks and tit, that was fact. It was only ever until he'd met her that he'd high-tailed away from the idea of peace, of life not so unlike this one. There'd always be an element of danger, of suspect — even if he weren't what he was, if she weren't what she is.

And she'd come along and knifed him between the ribs, carved into him the idea of living that didn't hurt. Didn't rip apart his guts. She'd shown him what it meant to be alive, what it meant to be human — how being more than human was not the curse he'd made it to be. Loving the ugly parts of him, the raw and bleeding animal of the Wolverine, had stitched back together his soul. His purpose, his reason for walking under starlight.

She'd given him hope, faith. Purpose.

And now, a child.

Standing in the doorway of what is the farthest thing from a master suite, but suits him fine, he leans against the doorway. Watches the pretty of her across the room, rooting through opened bins on the floor for clothes.

Spiral curls pulled lazily into a clip, fallen pieces wild around her shoulders in a way that stirs fire in his belly that is so far from hunger it hurts, but produces a smile. And it isn't uncommon, seeing her this way — an oversized shirt and underwear small enough to be sinful. So few of her clothes fit, anymore. He'd never bothered to notice. Enjoyed look at her.

As natural as God designed, especially these days.

If she notices him, she doesn't say, but allows him to slip up behind her all the same. At one time, Logan trembles to think how this would've ended for him — on the floor, adamantium claws in his guts, blood on the floor. Pre-maternal her. Since Texas, since the swell of his seed filling her to a plump round that drove him within an inch of his composure, she'd become so much more docile. Content, at peace. Domesticity had changed her, a child had knit her back together.

What had once become a weapon had been reborn, became living, again. And that, Logan thinks, is the purpose of life — watching the ones you love become whole, again. Watching life restore purpose, rebirth that which once had died. Maybe not life in the general sense, but the purpose of his life.

His hands land at her hips, squeezing lovely the softness of her curve that feels so right, familiar in a way that should be frightening. And may she has been aware of him all along, because she doesn't jump. There's no spike of adrenaline in her blood, just a soft gasp of surprise. A giggle, as her hands find his on her hips, the little graze of her nails a kind of lovely he can't find words for.

"Logan," her airy laugh carries through the space brightly, lands right at home in his chest. "You're home," she leans back until her head rests against his chest, tucked securely in the frame of him. "Dinner is parked, if you're hungry. Chicken and salad."

He chuckles, lips twitching into a faint smile. Brushing a kiss to the shell of her ear, "Well stone the fuckin' crows," his taunt isn't genuine, but filled with mirth and sarcasm as he tuts over her ear, "What else is new?"

It's been chicken and salad every day for the last week, a craving he will never understand. "You're such an ass!" She swipes at his hand, trying not to laugh. It makes him smile against her skin, angling his head to gently suckle at the pulse in her neck, "I can't help it. I swear, if this kid doesn't come out feathered —"

Wrong kind of coat, Wolverines don't have feathers. The idea is, at its base, amusing. Lights him up in a way Logan isn't sure he can ever surrender. He's been enchanted with this entire journey since the moment she'd popped, and low parts of him haven't reconciled that he can't keep her this way, not forever. There will come a time she isn't swollen with his seed, fat and pumped fill of him.

Makes his cock ache in a way that will haunt him, probably forever. A high he'll only ever chase.

Tugging her back against him, his hands dip forward, fingers splayed over the curve of her belly. Warmth he can't describe slips from him, a yearning to feel snaking deep into his bones. He felt this child, his child, a dozen times. More, probably. Never had stopped feeling like the first time, he was high on it. Her scent, her heat, didn't help matters.

He could salivate just thinking about her wrapped around him, tight and so, so full.

Logan's not sure if it's the open-mouthed kiss to her neck or his hands lifting away weight of her belly that pulls a trembling, filthy grown from her chest. She falls back against his chest, slack like a doll, and his world spins for all of a heartbeat, accepting her weight. Her mewling little cry, the breathy gasp — her hands finding his, encouraging him not to let go. It all works together to take him apart in a way he isn't sure he wants to recover from.

"Oh my god, yes," he nuzzles his nose into her hair, that wild smell of peach and flowers so there, it makes him a little breathless. Adding a little more pressure into his hands, he lifts more, and the way she all but moans is just short of pornography. He wishes it was captured, somehow, for replay. "Logan, baby — oh, god." Hips bucking forward, her back arching so far, he feared she'd break.

His chuckle is low in chest, fingers gently kneading against her belly, probing. "Feel good, baby?" His hand grazes up her hip, knuckles kneading at the pulled muscle and heat absolutely buried into her softness, the curve of her.

"Mhmmmm," Nodding, Logan doesn't miss the sparkle of relieved tears behind her lashes, brow knit together in a ball of tension that makes him almost break. "Feels incredible," her nails dig into his hands, encouraging more, "shit, I could almost —" laced with wonder, it falls away under a shaky breath. "Oh, Logan —"

"I know, darlin'," he smiles against her skin, pressing a desperate kiss to her cheek, "I know." It's only a few more weeks, he knows. By their guess, by gut instinct from everything he knows about babies. It can't come soon enough, but it could be farther away.

If she never stopped loving him like this, it would be too soon.

Relishing in her warmth, in the tremble of her muscle, Logan finally releases, slowly. Hands on her shoulders gently coax her to face him, lazily. Bliss on her face pinks up her cheeks, has her eyes hung to half mast, and she almost glows as her hands find his face.

Fingers tease through his beard, encouraging him into a deliberate, slow kiss.

He lowers his forehead to hers, his lips brushing against hers in a tender, unhurried way. She asks him if he's hungry, and truthfully, he could eat. Food, of her, of this — he's a starving man for anything she'll provide, forever well fed but also never enough.

"Okay," her whisper is soft, a hand lowering to cradle their child. "It's conditional, though," she chastises, pulling back to quirk a brow at him. "Entirely dependent on what you're about to say, Lo."

He'd pull the moon from orbit, if she asked. "What's that?"

"We talk about what you're actually hungry for, after supper."

He doesn't need told twice.

taglist: @sidkneeeee @thevoicefromanotherworld @misscrissfemmefatale @eternallyfrustratedwriter @permanentlyexhaustedpigeon88 @laaadygisbooornex3 @itsafullmoon

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ch0llies · 13 days ago

Text

REVIVAL | CHRIS STURNIOLO

A story in which a messy breakup lands you in your best friend’s Boston apartment a year after high school, and you find yourself face-to-face again with Christopher Sturniolo—your first love. As your paths cross again, the bitterness of how you left him still lingers, fueling every hated glance. But with your best friend dating his brother, you know is there’s no escaping Chris—or the tension that refuses to die. Is this revival destined to reignite, or will it crumble under the weight of your unresolved past?

story warning: filthy smut, angst, swearing, underage drinking, underage drug use, abusive behavior, morally skewed choices, toxic relationships, and overall mature themes. if any of this upsets you... don't read!

word count: 9k

CHAPTER FOUR:

The next morning, sunlight streamed through your blinds, and you groaned, pulling the blanket over your head. Your body ached from the chaos of the night before, and your head felt foggy from the alcohol. You had no idea what time it was, but the silence in the apartment told you one thing—everyone else was already gone.

Your door creaked open, and you heard Ava’s voice, light and teasing. “Rise and shine, sleepyhead.”

You peeked out from under the blanket, squinting at her. “What time is it?”

“Almost noon,” she said, leaning against the doorframe. “Matt, Nick, and Chris left a couple of hours ago. They had some stuff to do today.”

Your stomach twisted slightly at the mention of Chris, but you shoved the thought aside. “And you didn’t wake me up?” you grumbled, sitting up and running a hand through your messy hair.

Ava rolled her eyes. “You looked dead to the world. Plus, I ordered breakfast for us, so you can’t be mad.”

At the mention of food, your stomach growled, and you sighed. “Fine. You’re forgiven.”

She smirked and turned on her heel. “Come on. It should be here any minute.”

You dragged yourself out of bed, pulling on a hoodie and sweats before heading downstairs. The smell of coffee hit you first, followed by the sight of Ava unpacking a delivery bag on the kitchen counter. She’d ordered pancakes, eggs, and bacon, along with a large iced coffee that she handed to you as soon as you walked in.

“Here,” she said, sliding the coffee across the counter. “Figured you’d need this.”

“Thanks,” you mumbled, taking a sip and sighing in relief. “So, what’s the plan for today?”

Ava grinned, sitting down with her plate. “Well, there’s another party tonight at the campus. Same crowd as last time, but it’s supposed to be bigger. Figured we could go and, you know, network.” She wiggled her eyebrows.

“Network?” you repeated, raising an eyebrow as you sat across from her. “Is that what we’re calling it now?”

She laughed, taking a bite of her pancake. “I mean, it’s technically true. We wanna go to that school, right? Think of it as research.”

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t help smiling. “Right. Research.”

“Seriously, though,” Ava said, her tone shifting slightly. “It’s a good chance to check out the vibe, meet people, and maybe get your mind off certain… distractions.”

You didn’t need her to elaborate. The events of the night before—Chris’s hands on your waist, his lips leaving trails of heat along your skin—flashed through your mind, and you quickly shoved the thought away.

“Yeah, maybe,” you said, focusing on your plate. “We’ll see.”

Ava narrowed her eyes at you, but she didn’t press further. Instead, she took another sip of her coffee and started scrolling through her phone. “Party starts around nine. We’ll leave around nine, sound good?”

You nodded, trying to act casual even as your mind raced. The idea of running into Chris again—after everything—left you both nervous and excited, though you’d never admit it out loud. Whatever had happened between you last night felt like the beginning of something… dangerous. But as much as you wanted to avoid it, a part of you couldn’t help but feel drawn to him.

“Alright,” Ava said, snapping you out of your thoughts. “Finish your coffee, and let’s figure out what the hell we’re wearing tonight.”

You groaned, already dreading the hours of outfit planning ahead. But deep down, you couldn’t shake the anticipation building in your chest. Tonight could either be a fresh start—or the beginning of something you weren’t sure you were ready for.

As you sat across from Ava, finishing your breakfast, she glanced up from her phone, a sly grin tugging at her lips. “Oh, by the way,” she said, her tone casual in a way that immediately made you suspicious, “Matt wants to come to the party tonight.”

You raised an eyebrow, already piecing together where this was going. “Okay, and?”

“And,” she continued, drawing the word out as she took another sip of her coffee, “I already asked Chris if he wanted to come, too.”

You nearly choked on your iced coffee, setting it down with a loud clink. “What the fuck, Ava? Why would you do that?”

She shrugged, entirely unbothered. “Because I know the way your mind works.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” you snapped, though your cheeks were already burning.

Ava leaned forward, propping her chin on her hand as she fixed you with a knowing look. “It means I can tell he wants you bad, Y/N.”

Your stomach twisted, and you glared at her. “No, he doesn’t. Not like that.” you said, your voice sharper than you intended. “I fucked him over. He’s still pissed at me. He literally said it.”

Ava rolled her eyes, leaning back in her chair. “Please. He might be pissed, but trust me—he’ll get over it. You saw the way he was looking at you last night. He was insane when you kissed Matt and had crazy jealous eyes all night!”

You crossed your arms, your irritation growing. “That doesn’t mean anything. Chris looks at everyone like that. He’s become a whore! Was that not already obvious?”

“Sure,” Ava said, her smirk widening. “But he doesn’t pull everyone into his lap and suck on their tits for five minutes straight.”

You groaned, covering your face with your hands. “Oh my God, Ava.”

She laughed, clearly enjoying your embarrassment. “What? I’m just stating the obvious. You two have some serious tension, and this party is the perfect opportunity to, I don’t know, work it out.”

You peeked at her through your fingers, your voice dripping with sarcasm. “Yeah, because a college party is definitely the place to resolve years of awkwardness and bad decisions.”

“Better than nothing,” Ava said with a shrug. “Look, all I’m saying is, he wouldn’t have let things get as far as they did last night if he didn’t want you. And judging by the way you’re acting, I’m guessing you want him, too.”

Your face burned as you stood, grabbing your empty plate and coffee cup. “I’m done having this conversation.”

“Suit yourself,” Ava said, still grinning as you walked to the sink. “But don’t say I didn’t warn you when he shows up tonight and makes it very obvious how he feels.”

You didn’t reply, your thoughts too jumbled to form a coherent response.

An hour later, the familiar sound of a car horn echoed outside your apartment. You and Ava were lounging on the couch, scrolling aimlessly through your phones when she suddenly jumped up. “That’s Matt!” she said, grabbing her purse.

“Why is he honking like we’re in a middle school carpool?” you muttered, but you stood up anyway, slipping into your sneakers and grabbing your jacket.

“Because he’s Matt,” Ava said with a shrug, as if that explained everything.

When you stepped outside, Matt was leaning halfway out of the driver’s seat window, grinning like a maniac. “Come on, ladies! We’ve got groceries to buy, and I’m not spending all day waiting for your asses!”

“Matt. Shut the fuck up.” you called, rolling your eyes as you slid into the backseat.

“Yeah fuck you. What are you, someone’s dad?” Ava teased as she got into the passenger seat.

Matt smirked, pushing his sunglasses up onto his head. “No, but I am someone’s boyfriend. And I’ve got a say in what goes into your fridge if I’m spending half my life here.”

“Oh, you’ve got a say now?” Ava asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Damn right I do,” Matt shot back, turning the car out of your driveway. “Last time I opened your fridge, the only thing in there was a bag of shredded cheese and half a bottle of ketchup. That’s a crime.” He faked gagging at the ketchup.

“That’s survival,” Ava corrected, crossing her arms.

“Survival for a raccoon,” you chimed in from the backseat, laughing when Ava flipped you off over her shoulder.

“See? Y/N agrees with me,” Matt said smugly.

The bickering continued all the way to Market Basket, with Ava teasing Matt about his questionable eating habits and Matt firing back about how she always stole his leftovers. By the time you all parked and made your way into the store, the three of you were already laughing like idiots.

Inside the store, the chaos continued. Ava grabbed a cart, but Matt insisted on pushing it, claiming it was “a man’s job.”

“You’re so full of shit,” Ava said, smirking as Matt dramatically flexed his arms.

“Gotta make myself useful,” he said with a wink, steering the cart toward the produce section. “Alright, what’s first on the list?”

“We need veggies,” you said, pulling out your phone to check the list Ava had scribbled down earlier.

“Boring,” Matt said, wrinkling his nose. “Let’s skip that and go straight to frozen pizza.”

“No way,” Ava said, grabbing a head of lettuce and tossing it into the cart. “You eat like a toddler, Matt. We’re getting real food.”

“You say that like frozen pizza isn’t real food,” he argued, but Ava ignored him, reaching for a bag of carrots.

You grabbed a cucumber and held it up, grinning. “Matt, does this count as real food?”

“Depends,” Matt said, smirking. “Are you eating it or using it to fuck yourself?”

“Both,” you replied, making Ava laugh so hard she nearly dropped the carrots.

The three of you weaved through the aisles, picking out snacks, debating over cereal brands, and occasionally tossing random items into the cart just to annoy each other. At one point, Matt grabbed a jumbo box of Pop-Tarts and held it up like it was a trophy.

“Ava,” he said seriously, “this is essential.”

Ava stared at him, deadpan. “Put it back.”

“But it’s essential,” he whined, clutching the box dramatically.

“No,” she said firmly, trying not to smile.

You snatched the box from him and put it in the cart. “She’s no fun, Matt. I got you.”

“You’re my favorite,” he said, grinning as Ava rolled her eyes.

When you got to the candy aisle, Ava and Matt’s playful dynamic was on full display. Ava grabbed a bag of Sour Patch Kids, and Matt immediately grabbed it out of her hand, holding it high above her head.

“Matt!” she shrieked, jumping to grab it.

“Say please,” he said smugly, holding it just out of reach.

“Matt, I swear to God—”

“Say it!”

“Fine!” Ava huffed, crossing her arms and looking up at him with her big eyes that she knew got him every time. “Please.”

Matt handed her the bag with a smirk, and she smacked him on the arm. “You’re so annoying.”

“Yeah but you’re still gonna let me tap that later,” he said, wrapping an arm around her shoulders and kissing the top of her head.

You watched the two of them with a mix of amusement and affection. Their dynamic was chaotic but sweet, and it was impossible not to smile at the way they teased each other.

By the time you reached the checkout line, the cart was overflowing with a mix of essentials, junk food, and impulse buys. Matt grabbed a pack of gum from the rack and tossed it into the cart, smirking when Ava glared at him.

“You don’t even chew gum,” she said.

“Maybe I’m starting a new habit,” he replied, grinning and as the final products crossed the checkout he didn’t hesitate to swipe his card, paying for it all despite Ava’s protest.

As you helped unload the cart, Matt turned to you with a playful grin. “You know, Y/N, you’re like my honorary sister in law at this point.”

“Oh, great,” you said, rolling your eyes. “Another sibling to annoy me.”

“Exactly,” he said, ruffling your hair like you were a kid.

Ava laughed, handing you a bag of groceries. “Does that mean you’re gonna put a ring on it soon?”

“If I told you it would ruin the surprise, sweetheart,” Matt said, wrapping an arm around her waist as the three of you headed back to the car.

The drive back to the apartment was just as chaotic as the rest of the trip, with Matt singing off-key to the radio and Ava threatening to throw him out of the car. By the time you got home and started unloading the groceries, you couldn’t remember the last time you’d laughed so much.

Back at the apartment, the three of you stumbled through the door, arms loaded with grocery bags. Ava dropped hers onto the counter with a dramatic groan. “Why do we always buy so much stuff? My arms are going to fall off.”

“Maybe because someone insisted on five kinds of cereal,” Matt quipped, setting his bags down with ease. “And let’s not forget your ‘essential’ lettuce.”

You smirked, grabbing a bag of chips from one of the bags. “And the Pop-Tarts Matt definitely didn’t need.”

“Hey, those are fuel,” Matt said, pointing at you with mock seriousness. “Athlete’s food.”

“For what sport?” Ava teased, unpacking a carton of eggs. “Competitive snacking?”

Matt tossed a bag of apples at her, which she caught with a laugh. “Keep talking, Ava. I’ll remember this when you’re asking me to touch you later.

“What’s the plan? Who’s driving?” you chimed in, setting a loaf of bread on the counter.

“Not me,” Ava said immediately, grabbing a tub of ice cream and sticking it in the freezer. “I want to drink.”

“Same,” you added, popping open a bag of chips. “So… Matt?”

Matt groaned. “Why do I have to do it? I want to drink too.”

“Because you’re responsible,” Ava said, fluttering her lashes dramatically.

Matt rolled his eyes. “Nah, no way.”

“You’re already unloading,” you pointed out, grinning. “Might as well keep the streak alive.”

“Y/N’s got a point,” Ava added with a smirk. “You’re doing great, babe.”

Matt muttered something under his breath about “ungrateful freeloaders,” but he kept unpacking. When he pulled out his phone and glanced at it, Ava tilted her head. “What’re you doing?”

“Calling Chris,” Matt said, holding the phone to his ear. “I always drive. I wanna have drunk sex tonight so Chris can pick up this one for once.”

You and Ava exchanged a look as Matt walked toward the living room, the phone pressed to his ear. After a moment, you heard him start talking.

“Hey, Chris. If you’re coming to the party tonight, you’re driving.”

You heard the faint sound of Chris groaning through the phone.

“You owe me for the last time you accidentally—- Yeah that’s what I thought.” Matt said.

There was a pause, then a muffled, sarcastic response from Chris.

“Perfect,” Matt said, ignoring the tone. “See you soon. And don’t even think about bailing—Y/N and Ava are counting on you.”

He hung up and turned back to the kitchen, a triumphant smirk on his face. “He’s on his way. Under protest, but he’s coming.”

“Shocking,” you muttered, grabbing a drink from the fridge.

As you finished putting the groceries away, Ava turned to Matt with a grin. “Okay, new plan. Skincare.”

Matt frowned. “What? Why?”

“Because,” Ava said. “Your skin needs help, and you’re not going to this party looking like you just rolled out of bed.”

“Come on, Matt,” you added, smirking. “Don’t you want to look glowy and fresh?”

He groaned. “You two are ridiculous.”

But ten minutes later, Matt was sitting on a stool in the bathroom, a headband pushing his hair back as Ava slathered a cleanser onto his face. You sat on the counter, watching the scene unfold with barely contained laughter.

“You look so cute, Matt,” Ava teased and you took out your phone, snapping a picture with.

“Delete that,” he grumbled, though he didn’t move.

“No way. This is gold.”

Ava finished the cleanser and grabbed a serum, patting it onto Matt’s cheeks with exaggerated care. “You’re going to be the it girl tonight,” she teased.

“Yeah, because nothing screams ‘party animal’ like dewy skin,” he muttered, though a faint smile tugged at his lips.

You grabbed a face mask from the counter and held it up. “Ooh, should we do this next?”

Ava grinned. “Yes. Matt, you’re getting the full treatment.”

As Frank Ocean’s American Wedding started playing from Ava’s phone, you and Ava worked together to apply the mask, laughing at Matt’s exaggerated groans of protest. By the time you moved on to moisturizer, the three of you were laughing so hard your sides hurt.

“This is stupid,” Matt said, though he was grinning now.

“Shut up,” Ava said, pressing a kiss to his cheek as she wiped the excess product off her hands.

You leaned over, pretending to inspect Matt’s face. “Wow. A new man. Chris is going to be jealous.”

Matt groaned, pushing your hand away. “If he gives me any shit, I’m blaming you two.”

“Deal,” Ava said, laughing as she started cleaning up.

As Matt sat in the bathroom mirror after finishing his skincare routine, you and Ava stood nearby, wiping your hands with a towel and grinning at his reflection. His skin was glowing, and he looked genuinely refreshed, even if he pretended otherwise.

“You feel good, don’t you?” Ava teased, crossing her arms as she leaned against the sink.

Matt rolled his eyes but couldn’t hide the small smile tugging at his lips. “I mean… yeah, I guess it feels kinda nice,” he admitted.

“Knew it,” you said, laughing. “You’re one serum away from becoming a skincare influencer.”

Matt groaned, standing up and shaking his head. “Alright, that’s enough. I’m going to get dressed before you two come up with more ideas to torture me.”

He headed toward Ava’s closet, where he pulled out a few pieces from his designated section. You watched him grab a black fitted t-shirt and a pair of baggy wide legged jeans.

“Your own section in Ava’s closet?” you teased, following him out of the bathroom.

“Don’t judge,” he said, pulling the shirt over his head. “I spend so much time here, she made me clear a drawer. Then it turned into a whole section.”

Ava laughed as she rummaged through her closet for her own outfit. “You’re here more than your own house. It was either this or let you wear your flannels to parties.”

“Hey, my flannels get you wet, don't lie,” Matt muttered, grabbing a pair of sneakers from the bottom of the closet.

“He’s got a point,” you chimed in, dodging a pillow Ava tossed in your direction.

Once Matt was dressed and heading to the kitchen for a drink, you and Ava turned your attention to your own outfits. Ava pulled out a black lace shirt and paired it with a sleek leather mini-skirt and boots. She looked effortlessly cool, as always, her dark makeup and gold jewelry adding the perfect touch.

You opted for a mini cheetah-print skirt and red boots, pairing it with a cropped fitted black tank top that hugged your curves. Your makeup was bold, with a red lip to match your boots, and you styled your hair into loose waves that framed your face perfectly.

“Okay, we look hot,” Ava declared, spinning in front of the mirror and fluffing her hair.

“We really do,” you agreed, checking your reflection one last time as you finished curling the ends of your hair.

Just as Ava was spritzing perfume, the doorbell rang, followed by the sound of the door opening. “I’m here,” Chris’s voice called out, his tone already laced with annoyance.

Ava groaned. “Could he ever just walk in normally?”

You rolled your eyes as you turned back to the mirror to touch up your lipstick. But when Chris walked into the room, his expression shifted immediately. His eyes landed on you, narrowing as he took in your outfit.

“What the hell are you wearing?” he snapped, his tone sharp and angry.

You turned to him, startled by the hostility in his voice. “What do you mean?”

Chris’s jaw clenched as he gestured toward your outfit. “That. You’re dressed like a—” He stopped himself, his face twisting with frustration before continuing. “You look like a goddamn hooker, Y/N.”

Your stomach dropped as the words hit you, and Ava immediately stepped forward, her face a mix of shock and anger. “Chris, what the fuck?” she snapped.

“You’re asking for it,” Chris continued, ignoring her. “Walking around in that, at some party full of drunk assholes? Do you want something to happen to you?”

Your shock turned to rage as you stepped toward him, your hands balled into fists. “Excuse me?” you said, your voice shaking with fury. “What the fuck did you just say to me?”

Chris didn’t back down, his eyes blazing. “You heard me. You’re dressed like a slut, Y/N. Don’t act surprised when people treat you like one.”

Without thinking, you raised your hand and slapped him across the face, the sound echoing through the room. Chris stumbled back slightly, his hand going to his cheek as he glared at you, his jaw tightening.

“Fuck you, Chris,” you spat, your voice trembling with anger. “You don’t get to talk to me like that.”

Before he could say anything else, Matt stormed into the room, his expression dark. “Chris, that’s enough,” he said firmly, stepping between you.

“Matt, stay out of this,” Chris snapped, but Matt grabbed his arm, dragging him toward the door.

“No,” Matt said sharply, his tone leaving no room for argument. “You’re done. Go cool off, and don’t come back in here until you’re ready to shut the fuck up.”

Chris hesitated, his gaze flicking between you and Matt. Finally, he let out a frustrated sigh, wrenching his arm out of Matt’s grip and storming out of the room.

Matt turned to you, his face softening. “You okay?”

You nodded, though your chest was still tight with anger. “Yeah,” you said quietly.

Ava came up beside you, placing a hand on your arm. “Don’t listen to him,” she said, her voice gentle but firm. “You look amazing.”

You took a deep breath, trying to calm the storm in your chest. “Thanks,” you muttered, glancing toward the door where Chris had disappeared.

Matt sighed, running a hand through his hair. “I’ll go check on him in a minute,” he said. “But seriously, don’t let him ruin your night. You’re killing it, Y/N.”

After the tense moment with Chris, you and Ava worked to shake it off, determined not to let his mood ruin the night. You both finished your makeup and touched up your hair, the energy between you lightening as Ava turned the music louder.

“Alright,” Ava said, twirling in front of the mirror. “We look hot as hell. Time for photos before we go.”

You grinned, grabbing your digital camera from your dresser. Ava struck a pose in the mirror, her black lace shirt and leather mini-skirt looking flawless under the warm lighting.

“Okay, okay, one of you now!” Ava grabbed the camera and pointed it at you.

You stood against the wall, popping one hip and adjusting your cheetah-print skirt. With a quick flash, Ava snapped a few shots.

“Alright,” she said, handing the camera back. “These are going on the fridge. Let’s go.”

When you walked outside, Matt was already leaning against his car, scrolling on his phone. He looked up as Ava approached, immediately straightening and jogging around the car to open her door.

“Your chariot awaits, my lady,” he said with a mock bow, making Ava laugh as she climbed in.

You raised an eyebrow, crossing your arms as Chris leaned against the passenger door, clearly waiting for you to get in.

“You just gonna stand there?” he muttered, his tone sharp.

You smirked, refusing to move. “Well, Matt got Ava’s door. Where’s my gentlemanly treatment?”

Chris rolled his eyes but pushed off the car and yanked the door open for you. “Get in,” he growled, stepping back.

You gave him a sugary sweet smile, climbing in slowly. He slammed the door shut a little harder than necessary, stalking around to the driver’s seat and muttering something under his breath. When he got in, the car roared to life, and he pulled out of the driveway faster than usual, his jaw tight with frustration.

As the car sped toward the party, you and Ava were already giggling, snapping pictures with your digital camera. Ava struck a few playful poses before grabbing your hands and pulling them over her chest.

“Here, cup my boobs for this one,” she said with a laugh.

“Wait, wait,” you said, adjusting your hands. “Let me make them look good.”

Ava threw her head back in laughter as you snapped a picture, both of you dissolving into fits of giggles.

“You’re ridiculous,” you said, handing her the camera as she grabbed your hands again and adjusted them over her chest.

“Do me now,” she said, snapping a few provocative shots of you with your hands on your own chest, pouting at the camera dramatically.

Chris’s sharp voice cut through the laughter. “Can you two stop?”

You looked up, catching his glare through the rearview mirror. His knuckles were white as he gripped the steering wheel, his jaw tight.

“What’s the matter, Chris?” Ava teased, smirking. “Jealous?”

“Not even close,” he snapped, but his eyes flicked to you for a split second before returning to the road.

You leaned back, smirking to yourself. His irritation only made you push further, holding the camera up to snap another photo of Ava adjusting her top.

Matt groaned, glancing back at the two of you. “You guys are insane,” he muttered, though the corner of his mouth twitched in amusement.

By the time you arrived, the tension in the car had reached its peak. Chris parked sharply, and before he could say anything, you and Ava were already out, linking arms as you headed toward the party.

The music was thumping, the bass reverberating through the house as you stepped inside. The place was packed, bodies swaying and people laughing as the party was already in full swing.

“Drinks first,” Ava said, dragging you toward the makeshift bar in the corner.

You grabbed cups of whatever punch was available, clinking them together before downing half in one go. It was sweet and strong, and you felt the warmth hit your chest immediately.

“Let’s dance!” Ava said, pulling you toward the crowded living room where people were already moving to the beat of the music.

The two of you joined the crowd, letting the music take over as you swayed and laughed together. The punch had loosened you up, and it wasn’t long before you were lost in the rhythm, the stress of the day melting away.

A while later, Matt appeared, weaving through the crowd until he reached you and Ava. “Found you!” he said, smiling as he grabbed Ava’s hand and spun her into him.

Ava laughed, wrapping her arms around his neck as they danced. You couldn’t help but smile at how effortlessly they moved together, their connection undeniable.

When Ava eventually left to grab another drink, Matt turned to you, holding out his hand. “C’mon, let’s keep dancing.”

You laughed, taking his hand. “Matt, you’re such a softie.”

“Shut up,” he said, grinning as he spun you playfully.

The two of you danced in a goofy, carefree way, your movements more about having fun than keeping rhythm. It felt easy, like dancing with an older brother, and you couldn’t help but laugh when Matt twirled you again, nearly sending you spinning into the crowd.

When Ava returned, she wasted no time stealing Matt back. You stepped aside, watching as they moved together, their bodies pressed close as they kissed and laughed, completely lost in each other.

The sight made you smile, but it also reminded you of the tension lingering between you and Chris. The thought made your chest tighten, and you decided to slip away, weaving through the crowd toward the quieter side of the party.

The party was buzzing, the energy intoxicating as you wandered through the house. With Ava and Matt lost in their own little world on the dance floor, you decided to entertain yourself, leaning into the freedom the night provided. It wasn’t long before the attention started coming your way—guys approaching you left and right, their flirtation dripping with confidence and curiosity.

The first was a tall, broad-shouldered guy who introduced himself as Landon. He had a dimpled smile and a cocky demeanor, leaning against the wall as he asked where you were from. You bantered back easily, his smirk widening with every clever reply you threw his way. But before the conversation could deepen, someone else swooped in—Jordan, a shaggy-haired skater who offered you a drink and made you laugh with his over-the-top party stories.

The attention felt good, and you basked in it, letting the night carry you from one flirtatious exchange to the next. There was Ryan, who complimented your boots and offered to teach you a dance move, and then Alex, who was a little too drunk but charming in his clumsy attempts to keep your attention.

But then, Cam approached.

He was tall with dark eyes and a sharp jawline, his confidence radiating as he leaned against the doorframe and locked eyes with you from across the room. His smile was slow, deliberate, and devastatingly attractive.

“Hey,” he said smoothly, stepping closer. “I couldn’t help but notice you’ve been lighting up this whole room tonight.”

You laughed, a little taken aback by his boldness but not entirely opposed to it. “Oh yeah? Is that your go-to line?”

“Nope,” he replied, grinning. “You’re the first person I’ve used it on. So, what’s your name?”

You told him, and the two of you fell into easy conversation. Cam was funny, quick-witted, and knew exactly how to keep your attention. His flirtation was bold but not overbearing, and you found yourself matching his energy effortlessly.

At one point, his hand brushed against your arm, and you didn’t pull away. His touch was light, almost teasing, as he leaned in closer. “You’re trouble, aren’t you?” he murmured, his voice low.

“You have no idea,” you shot back, your lips curving into a sly smile.

Before you knew it, Cam’s hand was on your waist, pulling you closer as his lips found yours. The kiss was hot and electric, his hands roaming as he pressed you against the wall. You didn’t care who was watching or what anyone thought—you were lost in the moment, letting the buzz of the party and the heat of his touch take over.

But just as his hand slid down to grip your ass, he was yanked backward, nearly stumbling as someone shoved him hard.

“What the fuck?” Cam snapped, glaring at whoever had interrupted.

Chris.

His eyes were blazing, his jaw tight as he stepped between you and Cam, his body practically vibrating with anger. “Back off,” Chris growled, his voice low and dangerous.

“Who the hell are you?” Cam asked, straightening up and stepping closer to Chris, his tone challenging.

Chris didn’t flinch, his gaze unwavering. “Doesn’t matter. You’re done here.”

Cam scoffed, looking between you and Chris like he couldn’t believe what was happening. “Dude, she’s into it. Why don’t you mind your own business?”

Chris didn’t say anything. Instead, he shoved Cam again, harder this time, sending him stumbling back into the crowd. The music seemed to fade as people started to notice the commotion, a circle forming around the two of them.

“Chris, stop!” you yelled, grabbing his arm, but he shook you off without even glancing your way.

“You need to leave,” Chris said to Cam, his voice cold and firm.

Cam raised his hands in mock surrender, his expression twisted with frustration and amusement. “Alright, man. Fuck you. She’s not worth the trouble.” He shot you a glare before disappearing into the crowd.

The tension hung in the air as Chris turned to you, his expression unreadable. “What the fuck was that?” you demanded, your voice shaking with anger and embarrassment.

Chris didn’t answer. Instead, he grabbed your arm, his grip firm but not painful, and started dragging you toward the front door.

“Chris, let me go!” you yelled, trying to pull free. “What the hell are you doing?”

He didn’t respond, his jaw set as he continued pulling you through the house. Once outside, you tried again to wrench your arm from his grip, but he was too strong.

“Let me go!” you shouted, your voice rising. “You can’t just—”

Before you could finish, Chris bent down and slung you over his shoulder like you weighed nothing. You gasped, your fists pounding against his back as he carried you toward the car.

“Chris, put me down! This is insane!”

But he didn’t listen. His hand pressed firmly over your ass, covering you protectively as he moved through the crowd of lingering partygoers. When he reached the car, he opened the back door and practically threw you inside, his movements controlled but rough enough to make a point.

“Are you out of your goddamn mind?” you yelled, scrambling upright as he slammed the door shut behind you.

Chris didn’t respond. He climbed into the driver’s seat, locked the doors, and started the engine, his face stony and unreadable.

“Chris, where are you taking me?” you demanded, your voice rising in frustration.

Still, he said nothing. The car sped off into the night, leaving the party behind as you sat in the backseat, fuming and confused. You didn’t know what his problem was, but the intensity in his eyes and the set of his jaw made it clear he wasn’t about to explain himself anytime soon.

The silence in the car was suffocating as Chris drove, his knuckles white as he gripped the steering wheel. You glared at the back of his head, the anger boiling inside you making it impossible to stay quiet.

“Chris, what the fuck is your problem?” you demanded, leaning forward in your seat. “You can’t just manhandle me like that and drag me out of a party!”

He didn’t respond. His jaw was tight, his eyes locked on the road ahead like he was trying to block out your voice.

“Seriously?” you snapped, leaning even closer. “You’re just not going to say anything? After all of that?”

Nothing.

Your frustration hit a breaking point. Without thinking, you climbed up onto your knees and leaned into the front seat, reaching for his arm. “Chris—”

“Sit down,” he growled, his voice low and commanding.

When you didn’t listen, he shot his arm out and pushed you back into your seat, his grip firm but not rough. “I said sit down.”

You stared at him, stunned for a moment, before letting out an exasperated huff. “You’re unbelievable,” you muttered, crossing your arms and slumping back into your seat.

The rest of the drive passed in tense silence, your mind racing as you tried to make sense of what had just happened. When Chris finally pulled up to your apartment, he got out without a word, walking around to your side of the car.

As he opened your door, you jumped out before he could touch you. “Don’t,” you snapped, holding up a hand. “I can walk myself.”

He said nothing, just stepped back and waited as you stormed toward the stairs. You could feel his presence behind you as you climbed, his silence heavy and imposing. When you reached your apartment, you fumbled with your keys, the anger and adrenaline making your hands shake.

As soon as you stepped inside, Chris followed, closing the door behind him.

“What the hell is your problem?” you yelled, spinning around to face him.

Chris leaned against the door, his arms crossed and his expression unreadable. “My problem?” he said finally, his voice sharp. “What the fuck were you doing with that guy?”

“Oh, here we go,” you snapped, throwing your hands in the air. “I was having fun, Chris. You know, something you clearly wouldn’t understand.”

“Having fun?” he repeated, stepping closer. “Letting some random asshole put his hands all over you is your idea of fun?”

“What the fuck does it matter to you?” you shot back, jabbing a finger into his chest. “You don’t get to police what I do or who I do it with.”

Chris’s eyes darkened as he stepped closer, towering over you. “It matters because you’re too fucking stupid to see when someone’s taking advantage of you.”

“Stupid?” you hissed, shoving him hard against his chest. “You’re the one who started a fucking fight like a goddamn caveman.”

Chris didn’t budge, his body solid as you shoved him again. “You’re out of control,” you said, your voice trembling with rage. “You don’t get to act like you care all of a sudden. Not after everything.”

“I don’t care,” he snapped, though his voice wavered slightly. “I just don’t want to watch you throw yourself at someone who doesn’t give a shit about you.”

“Like you care about me?” you countered, shoving him harder this time, your hands slamming against his chest. “Fuck you, Chris.”

“Enough,” he growled, grabbing your wrists before you could push him again. His grip was strong, his hands practically burning against your skin as he forced you back against the wall.

You gasped, your back hitting the cold surface as Chris loomed over you, his face inches from yours. His breath was heavy, his eyes blazing with something between anger and… something else.

“You don’t get it, do you?” he hissed, his voice low and dangerous. “You never fucking get it.”

The words hung in the air, the tension between you crackling like electricity. For a moment, neither of you moved, the only sound in the room, your ragged breathing.

Then, as if something inside you snapped, you surged forward, your lips crashing against his. Chris didn’t hesitate, his hands releasing your wrists to grab your waist, pulling you flush against him. The kiss was frantic, messy, and fueled by all the anger and frustration that had been simmering between you.

Your hands fisted in his shirt, pulling him closer as his lips moved against yours with an intensity that left you breathless. His grip on your waist tightened, his fingers digging into your skin as he pressed you harder against the wall.

Chris’s teeth grazed your bottom lip, and you gasped, giving him the opening he needed to deepen the kiss. His tongue slid against yours, the heat between you growing impossibly hotter as the tension that had been building for so long finally exploded.

It was intense, and overwhelming—and you couldn’t stop. You didn’t want to. All the anger, the hurt, the unresolved feelings—it was all spilling out in this moment, in the way his hands gripped your body like he couldn’t get enough, in the way your lips collided like they were meant to.

Chris’s lips moved against yours with an intensity that made your head spin. His hands were everywhere—on your waist, your back, sliding up your sides like he couldn’t decide where to touch you first. The aggression in his movements only added to the heat building between you, and you clung to him like he was the only thing keeping you upright.

He pressed you harder against the wall, his body flush against yours. One hand gripped your hip tightly, while the other slid up to tangle in your hair, tugging just hard enough to make you gasp into his mouth. The sound seemed to spur him on, his kisses growing rougher, deeper, as if he was trying to devour every inch of you.

“Chris,” you murmured against his lips, though it came out more like a plea than anything else.

“What?” he growled, his voice low and rough as he broke the kiss just enough to look at you. His forehead pressed against yours, his breath hot against your lips. “What do you want, Y/N?”

You didn’t answer with words. Instead, you pulled him back down to you, your lips crashing against his with renewed fervor. His hand slid down from your hip to your thigh, gripping it firmly as he hitched your leg up around his waist. The movement pressed him closer, and you couldn’t stop the gasp that escaped you when you felt just how hard he was against you.

Chris smirked against your lips, his voice a low rasp. “You like that, huh?”

“Shut up,” you muttered, but the way your nails raked down his back gave you away.

His lips moved to your neck, trailing hot, open-mouthed kisses down the curve of your throat. He bit down gently at a particularly sensitive spot, and you arched against him, your hands threading into his hair as a soft whimper escaped you. His name slipped from your lips like a prayer, and it only seemed to fuel him further.

His hand slid up your thigh, squeezing as his lips continued their assault on your neck. When his hand skimmed under the hem of your skirt, you shivered, the roughness of his touch sending sparks through your entire body.

“You drive me fucking insane,” he muttered against your skin, his voice rough and breathless.

“You’re one to talk,” you shot back, though your voice wavered as his hand inched higher.

Chris pulled back just enough to meet your gaze, his eyes dark and filled with something primal. His lips were red and swollen, and the sight of him looking so wrecked only made you want him more.

His lips moved against yours, bruising and demanding, leaving you breathless and desperate. His fingers trailed higher under your skirt, gripping your thigh like he owned you, and your body arched into him, craving more.

But then, suddenly, he stopped.

His hands left your body entirely, and the cold air against your skin made you shiver. You let out an involuntary whine, reaching for him instinctively, but he stepped back, his jaw tight and his eyes blazing with fury.

“What’s wrong?” he asked, his voice sharp and laced with venom. “Not getting enough attention now?”

You blinked up at him, your chest heaving as you tried to catch your breath. “Chris, don’t stop,” you murmured, the words tumbling out before you could think.

He let out a dark, humorless laugh, shaking his head. “Oh, now you want me to keep going?” He stepped closer, his presence suffocating as he stared you down. “Should’ve thought about that before you started acting like a slut at the party.”

His words hit you like a slap, and your cheeks burned with a mixture of anger and embarrassment. “I wasn’t—”

“Don’t lie to me,” he interrupted, his voice cold and cutting. He leaned down, his face inches from yours, his breath hot against your skin. “You were all over him, weren’t you? Letting him put his hands on you like it was nothing.”

You swallowed hard, the lump in your throat making it difficult to speak. “It wasn’t like that.”

“Wasn’t it?” he shot back, his voice rising slightly. “Because it sure as hell looked like it.”

You reached for him again, desperate to close the distance, but he grabbed your wrists and pinned them to the wall beside your head. His grip was firm, his fingers digging into your skin just enough to make you squirm.

“You don’t get it, do you?” he hissed, his voice low and dangerous. “You don’t get how fucking infuriating you are.”

Your breath hitched. “Chris, please,” you whispered, your voice trembling.

“Please what?” he growled, his grip on your wrists tightening. “What do you want from me, Y/N? You think I’m just going to forget everything you’ve done? Forget the way you’ve been acting all night?”

Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes, but you refused to let them fall. “I just—”

“Stop,” he snapped, cutting you off. He released your wrists abruptly, stepping back as if the distance would somehow extinguish the fire burning between you. His chest was heaving, his jaw clenched so tightly you thought it might snap.

You stayed pressed against the wall, your hands still hovering where he’d pinned them, your body aching from the absence of his touch.

Chris stepped back more, breaking the heated tension in the air. His sharp eyes bore into yours, his expression unreadable yet burning with intensity. The absence of his touch left your body humming with frustration, and you clenched your fists to keep yourself grounded.

He reached out, his fingers brushing under your chin before patting your cheek twice, condescendingly light. The motion made your cheeks flush with a mixture of humiliation and anger, but the faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth told you he knew exactly what he was doing.

Chris’s gaze raked over you slowly, his eyes traveling from your disheveled hair to your bare legs, still trembling slightly. “Go upstairs,” he said, his voice calm but commanding, leaving no room for argument. “Fix yourself.”

You stared at him, your chest tightening. His tone was infuriating, like he was dismissing you as nothing more than a problem to be solved.

When you didn’t move immediately, his smirk deepened, and he raised an eyebrow. “Now,” he added, his voice dropping lower.

The weight of his stare pushed you into action, and you turned, storming toward the stairs. You could feel his eyes on your back, that same patronizing smirk practically burning into your skin as you climbed, your frustration boiling over.

Upstairs, your body still buzzed with the aftermath of everything that had just happened. The tension, the way he’d touched you, the way he’d looked at you—it was maddening. You couldn’t stop replaying it in your head, every detail etched into your mind like a taunt.

Frustrated and desperate, you found yourself slipping under the covers, your hands wandering as your mind stayed locked on him. The anger you felt toward him was tangled with something else, something you didn’t want to admit. The way he commanded you, the way he took control—it left you aching, needing relief he hadn’t given you.

You spent the next hour trying to satisfy yourself, your mind unable to think of anything but his touch, his voice, the way he’d looked at you like he owned you. But no matter what you did, it wasn’t enough. The tension refused to leave your body, settling into your chest like a heavy weight.

Eventually, you gave up and took off your makeup, changed your clothes, and made your way downstairs, your body still buzzing with frustration. You found Chris sitting on the couch, his posture relaxed as if nothing had happened. He looked up when he heard your footsteps, his eyes softening slightly as they met yours.

“You look better,” he said, his voice unexpectedly kind. It threw you off, the sharp contrast to his earlier aggression making you hesitate.

You crossed your arms, wary of his tone. “What are you still doing here?”

Chris stood, moving toward you slowly. His hand found your waist, his touch light but deliberate. He looked down at you, his gaze softer now, almost tender, though something darker still lingered beneath the surface.

“You don’t need all that makeup,” he said, his fingers brushing a strand of hair away from your face. “You’re beautiful without it. And it’s better you’re here—safe. Not out there with people who don’t care about you.”

His words felt like a trap, laced with something you couldn’t quite place. You stepped back slightly, your eyes narrowing. “Chris, stop. You can’t keep acting like this.”

“Like what?” he asked, his voice calm, though his grip on your waist tightened slightly.

“Like you get to decide where I go or who I’m with,” you said firmly. “It’s not your job to control me.”

His jaw tightened, the softness in his eyes replaced by something harder. “I’m not controlling you,” he said, though his tone carried an edge. “I’m keeping you from making stupid decisions.”

You pulled away from his touch, your frustration bubbling to the surface again. “I’m not a child, Chris. If I want to go back and get Ava and Matt, I will.”

His expression darkened at your words, and he stepped closer, towering over you. “You’re not going anywhere,” he said firmly, his voice low and dangerous.

“Chris—”

“Stay here,” he snapped, his tone brooking no argument.

You glared up at him, your hands trembling at your sides. “You don’t get to tell me what to do.”

His eyes locked onto yours, his jaw tightening as he leaned down, his voice dropping even lower. “You’re not leaving, Y/N. End of discussion.”.

Your frustration boiled over as you squared up to Chris, shoving against his chest as hard as you could. “You don’t get to tell me what to do!” you snapped, your voice trembling with anger. “I’m going to get them whether you like it or not.”

Chris didn’t budge, his body solid and unmoving, his jaw tightening as he glared down at you. “No, you’re not,” he said, his voice dangerously low.

“Yes, I am!” you yelled, shoving him again.

In a split second, Chris grabbed your wrists, pulling you close until his face was mere inches from yours. His eyes blazed with something fierce and unrelenting, his voice steady but laced with a threatening edge. “No,” he growled. “You’re not going anywhere. You’re going to turn your beautiful ass around, sit your stubborn self back on that couch, and stay there. Do you understand me?”

The words hit you like a punch, the force behind them leaving you speechless. The way he looked at you—intense, commanding, and so sure of himself—made your knees weak despite your anger. He released your wrists, his hand brushing lightly against your cheek, and you hated how it made your chest tighten, how it made you want to obey him.

“And when I get back,” he added, his voice softening just enough to make it even more infuriating, “I better find you exactly where I left you. Don’t make me regret trusting you.”

You opened your mouth to argue, but the way his eyes bore into yours made the words catch in your throat. Your resolve crumbled as he stepped back, grabbing his keys off the counter. Without another word, he left, the sound of the door closing behind him echoing in the silence.

You stood there, your heart racing and your fists clenched at your sides. Against every instinct screaming at you to follow him, you turned back toward the couch, sinking into the cushions with a huff.

About twenty minutes later, the door swung open, and Chris stepped inside, his arm steadying Matt, who was grinning like an idiot. Ava stumbled in behind them, laughing loudly as she clung to Chris’s other arm.

“We’re back!” Matt declared, his voice loud and slurred. “And we are feeling amazing!”

“Clearly,” Chris muttered, his tone dry as he guided them into the apartment.

Ava giggled, her cheeks flushed as she looked up at Matt. “We should go upstairs,” she said. “You know, for… reasons.”

Matt grinned, nodding enthusiastically. “Absolutely. Drunk sex! Best idea you’ve had all night.”

They started toward the stairs, stumbling slightly, but Ava paused and turned to you, her brow furrowing slightly despite her drunken state. “Wait, Y/N—what happened? You okay?”

Before you could respond, Chris stepped in, his hand lightly gripping Ava’s shoulder. “She’ll explain when you’re in a better space,” he said smoothly, his voice calm and reassuring. “Right now, you need to get to bed.”

Ava blinked up at him, clearly too drunk to argue. “Okay,” she mumbled, letting Matt pull her up the stairs. The two of them disappeared into her room, their muffled laughter followed by the sound of the door closing.

Chris turned back to you, his expression unreadable as he stepped closer. His presence filled the room, the tension from earlier creeping back in like an unwelcome guest.

“You stayed,” he said, his voice low and almost… pleased.

You glared at him, crossing your arms. “Because you told me to.”

His lips twitched into a faint smirk, but he didn’t respond. Instead, he grabbed a glass of water from the kitchen and leaned against the counter, his eyes never leaving yours. The room felt too quiet, too charged, and you couldn’t tell if it was the aftermath of your earlier fight or the fact that Chris was still looking at you like he had all the control in the world.

And the worst part? You hated how much of it you were willing to give him.

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mandarinmoons · 7 months ago

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You bit your lip as you tried to hold your giggles back, tip toeing to Spencer as his back was turned to you and all of his attention was turned towards the hot stove.

You woke up to the sound of what seemed to be like a yelp of pain and rustling through the cupboards, an all familiar sound you recognised as Spencer probably cut into his finger again and was searching for a band aid. You chuckled to yourself as you muttered, “They’re in the bathroom counter” to yourself. Even with having an eidetic memory he never seemed to remember the exact place for the first aid kit.

Only a few steps away from your boyfriend, you took the last leap and lightly wrapped your arms around Spencer’s waist, making him jump.

“Someone’s jumpy this morning.”

“Yeah, I wonder why,” Spencer’s response was mumbled and you caught on to the annoyance in his tone and his lips in a light pout, which turned into a smile a second later as you kissed his cheek.

“I’m sorry. Did you find a bandaid?”

“How did you… I woke you up, didn’t I?”

You nodded and rested your chin on Spencer’s shoulder, your attention drawn to his hands as he quickly turned over the eggs and bacon on the frying pan, trying his best to cook each side evenly.

You felt your eyes get droopy again as the body heat radiating from Spencer felt like a warm blanket. Instinctively you felt yourself nuzzle into his neck and Spencer squirmed as your nose hit a well known sensitive spot on his neck.

“Are you trying to make me burn breakfast?”

“Hmm no, I just can’t help myself when you’re so warm.”

Spencer laughed as he felt your arms tighten around him, for someone not usually so keen on physical touch, he felt as though he’d rather die than go a whole day without your snuggles.

“Breakfast is ready.”

“Five more minutes.”

Spencer grinned and turned the stove off, moving to the side so he could wrap his arms around you too.

“Oh, I forgot something.”

“Yeah? What did you forget?”

Taking Spencer’s hand, you pressed your lips to the finger he had accidentally butchered, a light wince coming from his mouth before being replaced with a giggle.

“What was that for?”

“Love heals all wounds, especially if it’s my kisses.”

“They sure do love, they sure do.”

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inthedayswhenlandswerefew · 3 months ago

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In The Gloomy Depths [Chapter 6: Bloodstone]

Series summary: Five years ago, jewel mining tycoon Daemon Targaryen made a promise in order to win your hand in marriage. Now he has broken it and forced you into a voyage across the Atlantic, betraying you in increasingly horrifying ways and using your son as leverage to ensure your cooperation. You have no friends and no allies, except a destitute viola player you can’t seem to get away from…

Series warnings: Language, sexual content (18+ readers only), parenthood, dolphins, death and peril, violence (including domestic violence), drinking, smoking, freezing temperatures, murder, if you don’t like Titanic you won’t like this fic!!! 😉

Word count: 6.1k

💜 All my writing can be found HERE! 💜

Tagging: @nightvyre @mrs-starkgaryen @gemini-mama @ecstaticactus @chattylurker, more in comments 🥰

💎 Only 1 chapter left!!! 💎

You must not have heard him correctly. Down by the bow, third-class passengers are still laughing as they kick pieces of ice back and forth. Children who have been shaken awake are giggling as they dash around in their worn, patched coats. On the Promenade Deck, tycoons and aristocrats are flagging down stewards to fetch them fresh drinks. There is no more humming of the ship’s engines, although no one else seems to have noticed; they have quit and will never work again. In a few hours, they will be resting on the bottom of the North Atlantic Ocean. It’s just barely April 15th, and half the passengers aboard won’t live to see the sunrise.

Kill Daemon??

You’ve never even hit anybody, not unless they struck you first. “I can’t kill someone.”

“Yes you can,” Aegon insists. His tone is urgent; there isn’t much time left. “And you won’t have to do it alone. Like I said, I’ll help you.”

A drop in your stomach, a chill down your spine, wide-eyed primal fear like a prey animal’s. “Even if I wanted to, Daemon can’t be killed.”

“He’s not a monster. He’s just a man. He has blood and organs just like we do. I promise you, if we cut him he’ll bleed.”

“He’ll hurt me,” you whimper. “He’ll know what I’m trying to do and he’ll break my neck or push me overboard. You don’t know him, he’s…he’s…he’s relentless, he’s cunning—”

“We can have what we want,” Aegon says, grabbing your face with his hands, fingertips callused from years of playing viola on streets, in pubs, in small rented rooms, on the decks of ships. “We can leave Titanic together. We can stay with my family for a while in New York, and then we’ll go back to Ireland so you can be with yours, and when my father dies we’ll spend half the year in England and the other half with your parents, and you’ll get to keep Draco, and Daemon will never touch you again. You’ll be free, Petra. And you deserve that. But no one is going to give it to you. You have to fight for it.”

Is it possible? Is it really? You imagine having breakfast with your parents in Lough Cutra Castle, the table full: you, Aegon, Draco, Fern, everyone smiling over plates of fried eggs, bacon, beans, mushrooms, tomatoes, and white pudding, cups of tea breathing steam into the cool morning air. Are you willing to fight for that? Are you willing to murder? At last you say: “Daemon isn’t the only problem.”

“Who else?” Aegon asks, demanding, impatient, though his hands are gentle. “Rhaenyra? And the old woman, right? Draco’s governess. Dagmar.”

“And Daemon’s bodyguard Edward Rushton, we call him Rush. He carries a pistol.”

“Okay.” Aegon nods, his eyes distant, his thoughts whirling like Titanic’s colossal propellers once did and never will again. You know he’s devising a plan. We only have an hour or two.

“Aegon…I have to get Draco into a lifeboat first.”

“Right.” He kisses you, a quick brush across your cheek like a dusting of snow, and you think: I can’t lose him. “Over a thousand passengers are going to die tonight. Let’s make sure four of them are people who deserve it.” Then he takes your hand and together you descend the steps to B-Deck.

~~~~~~~~~~

Scarlet fever is named for the distinctive rash that marks its victims, tiny red dots like blood blisters, so itchy they are soon scratched raw, raised bumps of braille in the shape of ominous omens, corporal constellations of bad stars. Dagmar was reminded of them the first time she ever saw bloodstone, a dark green crystal freckled with red, a pendant that Dameon sent her from across the world where he was opening a new mine in Australia.

Valentin was the first one to get sick. He was the youngest, the only boy, and while perhaps mothers are not supposed to have favorites Dagmar knew in her bones that she did. She held him—three years old, white-blonde hair, loud and wild—as he grew quiet and weak and hot with fever, and then he was gone. After Valentin was Juni, and then Karin, and then Mikele, and finally Gunnar, a lumberman who worked hard and never complained, not even when he was dying of kidney failure. Dagmar was once a woman with four children and a husband, but then she was no one, untethered to the earth, unmoored from everything that had been, and people left adrift in the ocean are likely to drown and spend eternity in the crushing, sunless abyss.

She wandered for a while, too old to fathom a new life, too young to simply wait to die herself, and of course suicide is a sin. To keep from starving she took jobs as a governess; the only thing Dagmar knew how to do was raise children, and she was good at it. With each new household she found herself searching for Valentin’s eyes and hair and spirit, for a child that could make her believe he was alive again. But none of the temperate, blue-blooded little boys or girls of England—where Dagmar had fled to escape the memories of her homeland—came close to filling his footsteps, his handprints, the hemorrhaging puncture wound he left in her chest.

Then one brutally cold winter, Dagmar was referred to the 8th Duke of Beaufort Baelon Targaryen, deep in mourning for his wife Alyssa who had recently perished in childbirth and at a loss to handle his two sons. Viserys, the heir, was already eight years old and too set in his ways to ever see Dagmar as a mother. But Daemon, only four—so much like Val, Dagmar had thought as she lifted him from the floor—was sad and needy and vicious, furious at the world for stealing his mother from him, and this was something Dagmar could understand. She became his new mother. He became her reason for living.

Daemon grew up, as all children do if they are not preserved forever in youth by untimely deaths, and Dagmar drifted away to other castles and mansions, other families, other attempts to silence the ghosts that rattled doors and windows as she slept. But no one could replace Daemon, and each time she received a letter or a gift from him—photographs from his mining expeditions, bracelets and hair combs, taxidermied foreign beasts—Dagmar would write him a thank you note and always include the same postscript: Daemon my dear, my brave rogue prince, it would be the greatest joy of my life to one day help look after your own child. And at last, when Draco was born he summoned her, and little Valentin was alive once again.

Now unlike Daemon, Draco did have a mother, but she was young and easily managed, inexperienced with babies, eager to please her husband. Daemon was so sage and charismatic and renowned, and she faded into his shadow until all her colors were gone and she was black and white like a photograph, never knowing what to do or say, staring inanely from doorways. This was just fine as far as Dagmar was concerned. She could pretend that Daemon’s wife was dead like poor Alyssa Targaryen.

Here on Titanic, the baffling shockwave yanked Draco out of his dreams. He’s crying, soft disoriented whines, and Dagmar soothes him and reads him The Little Mermaid and tells Fern—also awakened by the shudder and now pacing restlessly around the staterooms—to make some tea. Just as Draco is finally dozing off again, there is a loud knock at the front door. Dagmar brings Draco out into the sitting room, leading him by one of his tiny pawlike hands, to find Fern speaking to a steward who will not come inside any farther than the doorway, as if he is in a hurry. Fern, puzzled, is clutching the white lifebelts he has given her.

The steward is explaining: “I’m sure it’s just a precaution, ma’am—”

“It’s not a precaution,” Daemon’s wife says as she sweeps into the room, and for some reason there is a man with her, a blonde man in a black wool coat. Immediately, Dagmar’s blood turns to dark viscid poison. What is she doing? Why can’t she disappear? “Thank you,” Daemon’s wife tells the steward briskly. “I’m sure you have other rooms to visit. You should be on your way.”

The steward is evidently too busy to be offended. He retreats into the hallway and vanishes, and the strange blonde man shuts the door behind him. Dagmar scrutinizes the intruder, and he glares back at her with eyes like deep water, a murky melancholy blue. He’s the same man she saw on the Boat Deck, the one who reminded her so much of Viserys when he was young, that solemn, grieving boy she could not coax into loving her.

Why can’t Daemon’s wife just die? Why should she live when so many have been lost? Why would God judge her more worthy than Valentin, Juni, Karin, Mikele, Gunnar?

“What’s going on?” Fern asks Daemon’s wife, her voice reedy and timid.

Instead of an answer, there is a question in return: “Is anyone else here?”

“No,” Fern says, perplexed. “Why? What’s happened?”

Daemon’s wife holds out an empty hand, not to Fern but to Draco, who Dagmar is still grasping with bony fingers gnarled by arthritis. She says: “Draco, please come with me.”

“Why?” he asks, but he has already taken a step towards her, tiny bare feet. Dagmar does not surrender him. She will not, she cannot. He stops when his arm is fully extended and then looks back to his governess, his surrogate mother, his pale eyes full of doubt.

“We have to go somewhere,” Daemon’s wife says. She is still reaching for him. “Draco, please. I need you to listen to me, we don’t have much time.”

“No,” Dagmar sneers. “You don’t know how to take care of him. You never have.”

“Can I go?” Draco asks softly, and Dagmar pretends she has not heard him.

“Draco,” Daemon’s brainless young wife pleads. Her eyes flick up to Dagmar’s, and there is a moment of terrible understanding between them, as if they are mirror images: neither can try to force him without driving him into the embrace of the other. He is not a child who is easily tamed; he is a wolf, he is a dragon.

“Dagmar?” Draco says, peering up at her, and he’s asking for permission but in another minute he might be stomping his feet and screeching loud enough for the entire hallway to hear.

Dagmar glances at the lifebelts Fern is gripping tightly. What’s wrong with the ship? Is it sinking? But no, Dagmar cannot believe this. Titanic is unsinkable; everybody in the world knows that. She tells the boy: “She’ll take you away from me. She’ll steal you. But she won’t keep you safe and warm and happy like I would.”

“I’m your mother,” Daemon’s wife tells Draco, and now her voice is choked and there are tears glittering in her desperate eyes. The blonde man looks at her like he would carry the weight of her anguish if he could, every last pound. Who is he? Why is he here? “I know it might not feel that way sometimes, but I am. And I love you more than anything. I would never hurt you. I’m trying to protect you. Draco, I need you to come with me right now.”

And horribly, unthinkably, he yanks his little hand out of Dagmar’s. She claws for him and he spins around to face her. “No!” Draco shouts. “I decide! Me! Not you!” She is stunned into silence. She watches him careen across the sitting room, and Daemon’s wife scoops him up as if he belongs to her. She holds him for a while, a minute or more, before she sets him down on the floor and quickly helps Draco get his socks and shoes on. The boy does not complain. Then she lifts him again and—with what appears to be great effort—passes him to Fern, who while bewildered accepts this task, now carrying both the boy and the lifebelts. Daemon’s wife grabs all the coats hanging from the coat rack and piles them into Fern’s already full arms.

“Fern, take him upstairs to the Boat Deck. Get to a lifeboat, do not wait. They will be launching them soon if they haven’t started already.”

“Lifeboats?” Fern repeats, blinking, stymied.

“Yes,” Daemon’s wife says, and she and the maid share a long, silent, meaningful look. Draco gazes worriedly around the room, gnawing on his fingernails. The blonde man watches Dagmar, his expression severe, hateful.

Fern asks: “How much time until Titanic…?”

“An hour or two. You won’t be in the lifeboat for long, a ship called Carpathia is en route. But she’s not close enough.”

“Oh,” the maid exhales numbly. “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph…”

“Stay with Draco. Don’t leave him for a second. Get into a lifeboat, keep him warm, wait for Carpathia. I’ll follow you as soon as I can, but…there are some things I have to do first.”

“Like what, ma’am? What could be so important? You shouldn’t wait either.”

Instead of answering, she says, low like a dire warning: “If you happen to see them, do not speak to Daemon, Rhaenyra, or Rush. Don’t tell them what’s going on.”

“Yes ma’am,” Fern replies quietly, and nods like she suddenly understands. She takes Draco and hurries out of the room. Now Dagmar is alone with them: Daemon’s idiotic little girl of a wife, her inexplicable companion.

“This ship can’t sink,” Dagmar says; but is the floor tilting? She has only just noticed it.

“Of course it can,” Daemon’s wife counters. “Any ship can. I kept telling everyone how terrified I was of the voyage and you all treated me like I was insane. But I was right. I wasn’t a coward and I wasn’t stupid. And you can’t make me believe that I am anymore.”

Dagmar is about to reply—something cutting, something cruel—but then her steely Scandinavian eyes snag on the stranger and all at once it hits her like a man’s knuckles. She gasps, shocked, ferocious. Aegon. Viserys’ son. A villain, a traitor, an unworthy beneficiary of a grand inheritance. “I know who you are. How the hell did you get here?”

The man grins menacingly. “Fortune brought me a ticket. Best luck I’ve ever had.”

Dagmar screams, hoping he will hear her: “Daemon?!”

Aegon lunges, catches her around her long thin waist, wrestles her towards the door to the private promenade deck. Dagmar isn’t strong, but she is fierce; she scratches at his eyes and bites his hands when they try to smother her howls. They stumble together through the doorway and out onto the pine planks, knocking over lightweight wicker furniture. When her teeth close around Aegon’s fingers, Dagmar tastes blood like warm copper.

“A window!” Aegon is telling Daemon’s wife, but she’s already there after slamming the door to the sitting room shut, franticly turning the hand crank under the nearest window. The glass opens, and freezing night air pours in.

They’re trying to kill me, Dagmar realizes. They’re going to throw me overboard.

She jabs a bony elbow into Aegon’s throat, and he collapses to the deck, wheezing and helpless.

“Daemon!” Dagmar shrieks again. If he hears me, he’ll save me. My savior, my son. “Help!”

But it’s his wife who arrives instead. She collides with Dagmar, strikes her with two open palms, shoves her through the window. Dagmar’s hipbone cracks against the windowsill, a dry brittle snap, and then she tumbles out into the darkness.

Her last thought as she sees the stars—before she hits the frigid water and is knocked unconscious, then dragged under by the merciless weight of gravity—is that if they were red they would look like the dots on the skin of a child with scarlet fever, like the crimson flecks in a bloodstone.

~~~~~~~~~~

“Oh my God, I…we…” You stare down into the black waves that swallowed her so effortlessly, a flash of her long silver hair as it came undone and then nothing. “She’s gone. She’s really gone. We killed her. We’re murderers.”

In reply, Aegon coughs and gasps for air, still crawling around on the deck. You run to him and help him stand up.

“Thanks,” he croaks.

“Are you alright? What can I do?”

“I’ll be fine,” he rasps. “Just need a minute.”

You look down to see blood dripping from his fingers, thick beads of crimson like teardrop-shaped rubies, like oil paint. You ache for him, you feel his pain as if it is your own. “Your hands, Aegon, your hands…”

“I’m okay,” Aegon assures you, smiling. “The bitch chewed me up, but I’ll live.”

“I want to save your paintings,” you say. “We can’t let them go down with the ship. We’ll take them to the Boat Deck and give Fern your portfolio, make sure she and Draco get safely into a lifeboat, and then…then we’ll…” We’ll finish what must be done. We’ll free you and me and Draco.

Aegon is nodding as he rubs his throat, already bruising. “Any idea where Rush might be? The guy with the gun?”

Before you can answer, you both hear it: the sound of a door swinging open and heavy footsteps inside.

~~~~~~~~~~

He likes that Daemon calls him Rush. It’s better than Eddie, which is who he was when he was a boy being kicked and backhanded by his stepfather, and laughed at by the other kids at school for not having shoes to wear. Now he is someone brand new, and that boy Eddie could be a character in a book or a song, vaguely familiar but not real.

Daemon has never hit Rush, never even threatened him. He has never stolen his laborers’ promised wages or cornered maids to violate them, impregnate them, ruin their lives. He goes into the mines he opens and periodically travels the world to inspect, descending into clouds of dust and chipping gemstones from the walls with his own tools. He is kind to his son Draco. He is brave, he is brilliant, he knows how to have a drink with working men and captivate them with his stories. Rush would do anything for Daemon, who saved him from a life of obscure, powerless poverty. He would overlook any number of sins.

Rush gusts into the bedroom and sets about gathering up valuables and stuffing them into a suitcase: business correspondence, jewelry, sketches of designs, bundles of cash from the safe. Daemon will regret having to leave the taxidermied tiger head, but it’s simply too large and heavy to bring with them. Rush hasn’t located Daemon and Rhaenyra yet, but this isn’t so unusual; they are always sneaking around, evading being found purely for the sake of it, the deception, the thrill, ravaging each other in ever more inventive places. God knows where they were when Titanic struck the iceberg, or if they are aware of the impending sinking. Rush is not panicking yet; there’s still time, though perhaps not too much of it. With each passing minute, the ship lists further towards the starboard side. He is just about to get Daemon’s dagger from the writing desk when he hears the door open to the private promenade deck. Rush turns to see Lady Targaryen peeking in from the threshold, pale blue dress, white coat.

He has never felt any loyalty to her. She is a thoughtless, mollycoddled girl, raised in a castle with parents who loved her, and what would she know of what the world was like for everyone else? Daemon only roughed her up when she deserved it, when there was no other way to make her listen, and never too badly: no split bones, no scars. In Rush’s opinion, it was just enough to give her a taste of adversity.

He sighs. “Well, unless you plan on drowning or freezing to death tonight, you might as well follow me up to the Boat Deck. I’m just here to collect some things. They’re only putting women and children in the lifeboats now, but I’m sure first-class men won’t be far behind.”

She says nothing, only watches him from the doorway. The old witch Dagmar isn’t here; she must have already taken the boy to the highest level of the ship, where affluent passengers are waiting impatiently and still in denial that Titanic will soon disappear beneath the waves, asking stewards to fetch them drinks and cigars, calling out song requests to the string quartet.

“You wouldn’t happen to have seen Daemon or Rhaenyra, I assume?”

“I thought they were with you.”

“No,” Rush says, smirking. “I seem to have lost track of them. They’re not in either of their staterooms. But don’t fear. Daemon is more than capable of looking after himself. He’ll turn up soon enough.” Perhaps I missed them up on the Boat Deck; it was crowded, it was chaos. Perhaps Daemon is already helping Rhaenyra into a lifeboat, his large rough hands steadying hers as she steps inside. He would save her first.

“I’ll help you pack the valuables,” Lady Targaryen says suddenly, and starts towards Daemon’s writing desk.

“Just keep out of the way,” Rush snaps; and then he sees something and stops dead.

A painter’s easel has slid halfway out from beneath the bed as the floor tilts. This is a peculiar enough item, but the paper clipped to it is stranger. The image is of Lady Targaryen, that is certain, but she isn’t alone; there is a man with her, and while nothing is shown below the collarbones, the activity in which they are partaking is unmistakable.

If she’s found a lover, Daemon really will kill her this time.

Rush gapes at the painting for several long seconds and then looks up at Lady Targaryen. “What the fuck is that?”

~~~~~~~~~~

Your hand hovers on the handle of the desk drawer. You can’t open it and take the dagger while Rush is watching. You know that beneath his coat he wears a shoulder holster containing a Colt 1911. Even with a blade, you are outmatched.

Aegon appears in the doorway to the private deck with a wicker chair. He hurls it at Rush as hard as he can, and as Rush curses and fumbles for his pistol, you seize Daemon’s dagger from the drawer and plunge it into Rush’s back, once, twice, three times, many more. You can’t help but scream as you stab him, because it’s horrible beyond description: the resistance of gristle, the muffled popping of organs, kidneys or a liver or a spleen, and Rush is groaning and contorting, dark blood spilling across the slanting floor. Aegon struggles with him for the gun, ultimately wrenching it out of Rush’s weakening, shaking hands. He’s dying, and while you harbor no affection for him and never have, you remember the children your parents lost. Life is not something to take carelessly. It is already so fragile, and each death creates mourners like heads springing from a hydra.

Over a thousand people will die tonight. Is that really possible?

Rush has stopped moving. You are kneeling with the gold hilt of the dagger in your fist. The gemstones are splattered with blood: amethyst, tiger’s eye, black opal, emerald, ruby, bloodstone, sapphire.

“Here,” Aegon says, trying to give you the pistol.

You recoil. “I don’t know how to use that.”

He laughs, a half-hysterical little cackle. There is a smudge of Rush’s blood across his cheek like a stain of lipstick. “I don’t either!”

“Keep the gun. I trust you.” You turn to the easel that has slid out from beneath the ruffled bed skirt—once white, now speckled with red—and realize that stray blooddrops have been flung across the painting, dots of red turning tacky on the thin layer of oil paint. “I ruined it,” you say, soft and mournful.

“No,” Aegon disagrees, smiling. “You just added some more color.”

You use the bedsheets to wipe the worst of the blood off your hands and the dagger. Then you pull Aegon’s leather portfolio out from underneath the bed, open it, and store the new painting safely inside. In the meantime, Aegon rolls Rush’s body into the closet and entombs him in a heap of gowns you’ll never wear again. You stand, pick up the dagger, and catch a glimpse of yourself in the oval-shaped mirror…and instead of looking away, you stay there for a while. The woman in the glass—like silver, like moonlight—has frightened eyes but a glinting blade as well. There are massive maroon splotches on the belly of your ice-blue dress; you button your coat to conceal them. Through the open door to the private deck, frigid night air floods in like the seawater slowly filling Titanic.

What does water that cold feel like? Like knives, like fangs? A thousand people will soon find out.

“Ready?” Aegon asks. He puts the pistol in the pocket of his stolen black coat.

“Almost.” You find your handbag from yesterday, green to match the emerald-colored dress you wore before Aegon painted you, before he uncovered you like a rare gemstone. Within is Aegon’s small aluminum lighter; you tuck the dagger inside as well. You yank out a handkerchief and clean the blood from Aegon’s cheek with it, then peer down at his swollen, bloodied fingers and knuckles, ravaged by Dagmar’s bitemarks. They are trembling. “Are your hands—?”

“I’m fine, I’m fine,” he whispers, pulling you in and kissing you, touching your face and your hair, his lips warm and soft in a haze of copper-scented glacial air. Would you do this again for him? For Draco, for yourself? Yes. I’d do it a hundred times. “We’re halfway done.”

Up on the Boat Deck, people are finally realizing that the ship is in mortal peril. First-class women, shimmering in their gowns and their jewels, are being hastily loaded into lifeboats along with their maids and their children. You spot Fern in one vessel; she is wearing two coats herself, and has bundled Draco in at least four from what you can tell. She holds him on her lap, and Draco is uncharacteristically hushed, compliant, fearful, gawping with startled blue eyes beneath disorderly white-blonde hair. They are seated beside Benjamin Guggenheim’s elegant French mistress, Léontine Aubart. Ben himself is striding back and forth on the deck with a number of companions, all in pristine black suits and puffing on pipes or cigars, assisting the weeping women as they flee to the lifeboats.

“We are prepared to go down as gentlemen!” Ben is trumpeting. Nearby, a string quartet is playing not an Irish song that you have known since childhood but the mellow, merry, please-don’t-panic melody of Samson and Delilah by Camille Saint-Saëns.

“I guess my viola is long gone, huh?” Aegon tells you. “Oh well. I hope the fish enjoy it.”

Ben Guggenheim continues: “Let it be known for all time that we stayed until the end to save the lives of the innocent, our beloved women and children, and that they survived because of us. Our bodies may fail, but our Christian good deeds will last eternally.”

“Hear hear!” other men are shouting drunkenly, raising glasses of brandy. Stewards and officers cast them brief, rather impatient glances. You wonder if any of the aforementioned gentlemen have considered the women and children of the third class, many of whom must have already predeceased them as they were drowned below deck, ignoble, invisible.

You think for the first time: Are they going to let Aegon into a lifeboat?

“Mam!” Draco shouts when he sees you, reaching out with both arms. You sprint to where he is still secured in Fern’s lap and lean over the side of the lifeboat, clasping his cold little hands and kissing the top of his head. Then you give Aegon’s portfolio to Fern.

“Take this with you. Try to make sure it doesn’t get wet.”

“Are you climbing in now, ma’am?” Fern asks hopefully. “There’s room for one more if we squeeze together.” Her eyes dart to Aegon. “Perhaps two.”

“I can’t,” you reply. “Not quite yet. But I’ll be back soon.”

“No, you have to come with us,” Draco says. The ship’s officers are signaling for the vessel to be lowered into the water. You spy other familiar faces aboard: young pregnant Madeleine Astor, the glamorous Countess of Rothes, the newly-wealthy Margaret Brown. Being a first-class passenger will save her life tonight.

“I’ll get in another boat. I promise.”

“No,” Draco says, and now he’s sobbing. He can’t understand the scale of it, but he knows something is terribly wrong. “Mam, we can’t leave without you. There’s room in the boat. Please get in. Please.” And you think: Maybe he does need me after all. Maybe he always did.

“You can go with them,” Aegon murmurs through your hair. “I’ll finish this. I’ll take care of Daemon and Rhaenyra.”

But he might need your help…and you cannot leave him here alone to freeze or drown or be murdered when Daemon discovers his lethal intentions. “You’re safe,” you tell Draco, one last touch of your palm to his hair, one last reassuring smile you hope isn’t a lie. “Stay with Fern. I’ll be in another lifeboat and I’ll see you again when this is over.”

“No, no, no!” Draco cries, still grasping futilely for you; but the lifeboat is lurching down towards the water and he is soon beyond your reach. High above, a flare explodes in the inky night sky, gleaming silver rain to tell any passing ships that Titanic is doomed. The North Atlantic is like black glass, smooth and reflective. Distant constellations are mirrored there, and you remember a passage from a book you gifted Daemon for your second anniversary when you still believed he might one day love you, an ancient tale from India about the beauty of the ocean: Its huge white waves looked like clouds; its gems looked like stars; its crystals looked like the moon; and its long bright serpents bearing gems in their hoods looked like comets, and thus the whole sea looked like the sky.

“Lady Targaryen,” Ben Guggenheim says as he marches over. He is swaying like he might be drunk. If he is, you can’t blame him. The truth is cold, and poison is warm: alcohol, smoke, a lover’s hands, a gush of blood. “Do you require any assistance, my darling?”

“No, thank you,” you reply swiftly before he can inquire further, and Aegon’s arm circles your waist as you hurry towards the entrance of the Grand Staircase together. You clutch your green handbag close to your chest. Where are Daemon and Rhaenyra? When will this be over?

From back by the lifeboats you can hear Ben Guggenheim shouting: “Tell my wife and daughters in New York that I love them! Tell them that I died a hero, and that I shall see them again when one day we are reunited in heaven…pray for my soul…tell the newspapers of our courage tonight…”

You and Aegon escape into the very top level of the Grand Staircase, the dome of glass and wrought iron above, the English oak wood steps winding below. As you enter, a frenzied crowd passes you on their way out to the Boat Deck: shipbuilder Thomas Andrews, J. Bruce Ismay, a number of others. And then, just as you and Aegon are beginning your descent, you see her on the landing below, frozen in place where she gapes up at you from beside the clock. Soon its ticking will fall silent forever. It will live on only in the memories of the survivors.

Rhaenyra is alone on the staircase. She is wearing a red and black gown and a white lifebelt; she is on her way to evacuate the sinking ship. You have intercepted her not a moment too soon. But she is not looking at you. Her Targaryen-blue eyes are fixed on Aegon, incredulous. It is the first time she has truly noticed him since she came aboard, and she remembers his face from photographs, from portraits, from awkward, frosty visits when they were both children.

“Aegon?” she says. “What are you doing here?”

In response, he removes the pistol from his coat pocket. Rhaenyra screams and bolts down the staircase, Aegon right behind her, flying like a phantom, like a shadow in his stolen black wool coat.

You try to follow, but they are faster. You slip on the steps, one of your blue shoes clattering away as you grip the banister to keep from falling. You reclaim your shoe where the staircase meets A-Deck; outside the illustrious Promenade Deck encircles the perimeter of the ship. You steady yourself against the bronze cherub statue as you slide your shoe back on, then resume the chase…but you don’t know where Aegon and Rhaenyra have gone.

Farther down the Grand Staircase? Out onto the Promenade Deck? Into the maze of hallways?

You try to listen for them, but the turmoil outside is growing louder. You hear a gunshot, but you cannot tell from which direction; the sound reverberates through the steel of the ship and melds with the chorus of failing machinery: groaning joints, snapping beams, steam vented from the massive funnels. You pause in the doorway that leads out to the Promenade Deck, black freezing air drawn into your heaving lungs.

Which way?

Now there are footsteps on the Grand Staircase coming up from B-Deck. You race back to the bronze cherub, but it is not Aegon or Rhaenyra who meets you there. It is Daemon, appearing on the landing like a fogbank or a thunderstorm, black suit, glinting deep-set eyes, towering over you; and once again you are a seventeen-year-old girl climbing into the marriage bed with him and hoping he’ll like you, once again you feel yourself to be entirely at his mercy, in terror of him, in awe of him.

Daemon grabs you by your coat and pushes you against the bronze cherub statue, its edges prodding at your spine. You yelp and he chuckles, and he asks, so casually he must know nothing about Aegon or his pursuit of Rhaenyra like a hound after a fox: “And what are your plans for this evening, dear? Dinner and dancing? Or perhaps a nice brisk swim? Good for one’s health, I hear.”

You can’t find your words. Your fingers that grasp your handbag are numb and useless. Daemon is inside you again, not your body this time but your mind, snipping threads and dissolving mirages. How did I ever believe I could kill him?

Slowly, Daemon’s grin dies. He releases you, and then for some reason—a trick?? a trap??—offers you his empty hand. “Come on,” he says, as if relenting. “I’ll help you get to a lifeboat.”

You stare up at him, and the shock must show on your face, the disbelief, the cautious wonder.

“I can’t take you away from Draco,” Daemon says, answering a question you don’t need to ask. He owns all of you; you have no secrets. “He’s so young. And I know what it’s like to lose a mother.”

Draco, you think with abrupt glass-sharp clarity. I’m doing this for him, and Aegon, and me.

You don’t take Daemon’s hand. Instead, you open your handbag and rip out the dagger. You slash at Daemon’s throat, and you almost cut him deep enough, a fraction of an inch from the carotid or the jugular or the windpipe. But Daemon pulls away at the last second and you only wound him, scarlet rivulets spilling down his neck and staining the white shirt beneath his suit jacket, melting rubies, hard soulless gemstones in the sockets of his eyes.

Daemon throws you down the staircase and you hit the oak steps hard, bruising, twisting, rolling, the thoughts jolted out of your skull. The dagger is knocked from your hand and is lost. You fumble blindly for it where you are sprawled on the next landing, halfway to B-Deck. Your vision is blurred by stars like those in the mirror image on the North Atlantic Ocean.

But I need the dagger, I need it, I need it, I can’t kill him without it.

And as you lift your head you see Daemon coming down to meet you, a gemcutter here to break you over and over again, until there is nothing left but glimmering dust, until you have never existed at all.

#aegon ii targaryen #aegon ii #aegon targaryen ii #aegon targaryen x reader #aegon x reader #aegon targaryen #aegon ii targaryen x reader #aegon ii x you #aegon ii x y/n #aegon ii x reader #aegon ii fanfic #aegon x y/n #aegon x you

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percyluvr · 5 months ago

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sam winchester x fem!witch!reader summary: you're unaware of your witchy heritage, or even the existence of the supernatural, until two hunters come waltzing into your life claiming that you and your mother are witches wc: 9802 warning: pre-bunker era supernatural, violence (not a lot but enough to warrant a warning, i think), not proofread dedicated to my only (i think) pjo + spn moot, skye

“You’re up early, Sammy,” Dean says, looking into the doorway at his brother wiping sweat off his forehead. “And sweaty.”

“Yeah, I went for a jog. You should try it, it’s good for you. Plus, it’s nice outside.”

“Right, no thank you. Sleep is essential to keep looking this good.”

“Alright, man, if you say so,” Sam replies, disgust apparent on his face.

“Whatever. Listen to this,” Dean starts. “A middle-aged woman in Tupelo, Mississippi, was found dead last night with all of her teeth missing, and some freaky ass carving of some horned thing on her chest. Her husband came home and found her lying on the bathroom floor. Apparently she didn’t die until after she made it to the hospital, though, so whoever or whatever did this wanted it to be long and painful.”

“Huh. Sounds creepy.”

“Exactly. So what do you think? Our kind of gig?” Dean asks, fully knowing they were going to go find out either way.

“Yeah, definitely. Y’wanna head out now or get something to eat?”

“I’m hungry as hell. I need a burger before we deal with this.”

“I feel you. Well, not the burger part, but I’m definitely gonna need food before we head out.”

“Let’s hit the town then, see what there is to eat here,” Dean says, grabbing his jacket and shrugging it over his shoulders before walking out the door, Sam following after grabbing his laptop and jacket of his own.

****

After driving for a bit, they find a small, semi-trashy diner.

"I can't believe this is the only decent looking place in this whole town," Dean complains.

"I mean, what do you expect? We're in a town with a population below three thousand."

"Right. The food better be good or else I'll be pissed. Give me that menu," he grumpily demanded.

"Their salad looks good."

"Yeah, real funny. I'm gonna get that special edition deluxe baconator," Dean said excitedly, mood immediately improving at the sight of a greasy burger on the menu.

Sam makes a face, about to say something, but is interrupted by the waitress arriving at the table.

"You boys ready to order or do you need more time?" She asks, eyeing Dean.

"Oh, we're ready," Dean flirts.

Sam rolls his eyes. "I'll get the, uh, shake it up salad."

"Okay, and for you?" She asks Dean.

"I'll get that deluxe baconator."

"Got it, I'll be back in a sec."

She starts walking away, Dean eyeing her every step of the way.

"Seriously, dude?" Sam asks in disgust.

"Yeah, look at her, dude. Tell me you don't want a piece of that."

"Alright, man, enough. As soon as we finish we're getting right out of here, no flirting."

"Whatever. Don't be jealous you never get laid."

Sam rolls his eyes as the waitress walks over with a salad in one hand and Dean's burger in the other.

"Thank you," Dean says, giving her a wink. Sam sighs exasperatedly for what feels like the six hundredth time today.

"You've got to stop that."

"Stop what? I'm just appreciating the beauties of the world."

"Yeah, I'm ignoring you now. Eat your food so we can go."

"Who died and made you boss?" Dean mutters.

Sam ignores him, and proceeds to wolf down his salad.

"Little hungry there?" Dean asks.

"Last time I checked, I was the one that went for a three mile jog this morning, not you, so I'll eat all I want, thanks."

"Just asking, don't get your panties in a twist."

"Whatever, I'm done eating."

Dean wolfs down the rest of his greasy, and in Sam's opinion, disgusting burger, managing to nearly choke on it twice, then stands up and walks toward the counter. He turns around and mouths 'getting her number,' and raises his eyebrows twice at Sam, who just rolls his eyes in response.

Sam shakes his head and walks out to the Impala, assuming that Dean is flirting, with a side of paying for their breakfast.

He opens the shiny black door of his brother's 1967 Chevy Impala and sits down on the beige seat, looking out the window at the diner. Moments later, the door opens and Sam sees Dean’s smug smile and a small piece of paper being waved around in the air.

When Dean sits down in his car, he immediately looks at Sam. “And that is how it’s done by a true master of charm,” he boasts, putting the key in the ignition and shifting to reverse.

“Good for you. I can get girls’ numbers too, y’know. I’m not celibate, or whatever crap you call me.”

“Sure, Sammy. Whatever makes you feel better. But if you really think you can get a girl’s number instead of me, you’re mistaken. So, whoever gets the number of the hottest girl wins.”

“That’s stupid, I’m not doing that.”

“We’ll see.”

“No, we won’t see. I’m focusing on the case.”

Sam sees Dean smirk in response as they pull out of the parking lot. He clenches his jaw in annoyance.

****

Halfway on the way to Tupelo, Sam asks, “So what do you think we’re looking at here? ‘S not everyday we work a job like this.”

“Honestly? No idea. Not a big fan of the carving on the chest, either. Never seen a symbol like that before.”

"Great," Sam grumbles, and for the rest of the car ride his thoughts were full of possibilities of what they could be hunting.

****

Four hours later, the Impala rolls into Tupelo, and the first building they see is a fairly decent looking motel, which they decide to spend the night in. After checking into the motel, they carry their bags into the room, immediately grabbing out their fake FBI badges and cheap costume suits.

After quickly changing, they head out to the Impala. “Ready to see every dentist’s nightmare?” Dean jokes.

“Actually, pretty sure that would be you. I can’t remember a day where you didn’t eat some kind of candy or tooth rotting food,” Sam says. “Or even brushed your teeth for that matter.”

“Dude, I brush my teeth.” Sam raises his eyebrow. “Sometimes.”

Sam scoffs. “Yeah, right. Your breath smells like a dead person.”

****

Dean parks the Impala in front of a white two-story house in some, as Dean says, stuffy suburban neighborhood. They get out of the car and walk over to the house, Sam knocking on the front door.

A man, the woman's husband, Sam assumes, opens the door.

“Mr. Feezerman, we'd like to talk to you about your wife,” Sam says, flashing his fake badge.

“Thank God the FBI is involved. The cops here have no idea what's going on. Come in,” Mr Feezerman says, gesturing for them to come in.

Dean sits down on the couch, leaving Sam standing next to it.

“Mr. Feezerman, do you mind if I use your bathroom?” Sam asks.

“Go right ahead. It’s upstairs, the second door on the left.”

“Thanks,” Sam says with a little nod of his head.

Upstairs in the bathroom, Sam searches through the drawers for a hex bag, but comes up empty. He moves onto checking the cabinet below the sink, but still nothing. He finally looks in the medicine cabinet and finds a small brown cloth tied together by a leather string.

"Damn it," he grumbles.

He grabs the bag and heads back downstairs after putting it in his pocket.

He reaches the bottom of the stairs and sees Dean turn to look at him. Sam gives him a nod indicating his search was successful.

"Alright, that's all, thank you, Mr. Feezerman," Dean says.

****

"Alright, so what are we thinking?" Dean asks.

"Well, based on the hex bag I found, I'm thinking witch. And not some beginner level witchcraft, either, dude. I'm talking ancient witchcraft, warts, wrinkles, and all."

"Awesome," Dean groans.

"Yeah. And I'm thinking it's not just one witch, either. Witches this strong usually form covens to protect themselves."

"Awesome times two," Dean says, furrowing his eyebrows and grimacing.

"Well, what did you get? She have any enemies?"

"Her husband said that her and some of the other prissy ladies were in some sort of book club or whatever he said, I wasn’t really listening. I was thinking about that waitress from before,” Dean says dreamily.

“Dude, focus.”

“Right, anyways. Apparently, he found out through some lady she was friends with that she was cheating on her husband with one of the other lady’s husbands. Say that five times fast.”

“Sounds complicated, but also like we have some clear suspects.”

“Right. The book club or wine club or whatever it is these trophy wives do with their free time.”

“Dude, chill with the ‘I hate cookie-cutter families’ thing.”

“My bad.”

“You wanna head to the morgue or talk to suspects?”

“I’ll go to the morgue, you talk to suspects. I can’t handle any more of these people.”

“Alright. Did you get any names or addresses?”

“Obviously. This isn’t my first hunt,” Dean says, rolling his eyes.

“Alright, man. Take me to the first house.”

****

When they reach the first house, Sam gets out of the car.

“Meet back here in 30?” Sam asks.

“Uhh, y’know what? I think I’ll come with.”

“What happened to not being able to handle any more of these people today?”

“Well that is one cougar just begging to be tamed,” Dean says, eyeing up the woman sitting on the porch.

“Disgusting, seriously.”

“Don’t hate the player.”

“Shut up.”

They walk up the pathway and up the stairs. When they reach the porch, the blonde woman gets up from her spot on the swing.

“Hello, boys, how can I help you?” She asks.

“FBI, we have a few questions about Amelia Feezerman,” Dean says, holding up his fake badge.

“Oh, dear. Come inside, then,” she says, leading them inside to the living room.

“So, nice place you got here,” Sam says.

“Oh, thank you,” she says, and before she can continue, Sam hears the pitter-patter of feet on the floor. “Honey, the cookies look delicious. Hopefully you two like chocolate chocolate chip.”

“Oh, I’m not really a sugar pers-“ Sam starts to say, but when he sees the woman standing in front of him, he quickly changes his mind. “But it doesn’t hurt occasionally.”

“Good, it’d be a shame if these cookies went to waste,” you say, winking at him.

“Like mother like daughter, damn,” Dean says under his breath.

Sam elbows him. “Knock it off,” he hissed.

“Before you two leave, let me know how the cookies are,” you say, gaze lingering on Sam before you walk out of the living room and back into the kitchen.

“We will,” Sam says, making ‘goo-goo eyes’, as Dean later calls them, at you.

“Dude, go in there and talk to her, I’ll talk to the mom here,” Dean says lowly to Sam, who nods in response and follows you into the kitchen.

The unfamiliar sound of footsteps prompts you to turn around, surprised to see the, in your opinion, cuter agent following you into the kitchen.

“Hello, agent,” you say with a grin.

“Hey, I’m Sam,” he shyly responds.

“Well, Sam, what did you think of the cookies?” You ask eagerly.

“They were really good. I’m really a sweets type of person, but you surprised me,” he compliments, the crinkling of his eyes serving as an effect of the wide smile gracing his face. You think that his smile makes him at least five times cuter, but you decide to keep that to yourself, for now at least.

“Well, thank you. I’m glad to contribute to the conversion of you into a dessert lover,” you joke, earning another beautiful smile from him.

“So, I’m not exactly here to talk about your cookies, however delicious they may be,” he admits, albeit a bit nervously for someone in the FBI, you think.

You raise an eyebrow. “How can I help you, then?”

“Have you heard about the death of Amelia Feezerman?” Your eyes widen, and you nearly choke on the cookie you were eating.

“What? Oh my God, no, I had no idea.”

“Ah, so you wouldn’t happen to know anything about her death?” He questions.

“Um, no? Why would I know anything about that?” You wearily ask.

“We thought that maybe you would know if there was any reason that anyone would want to hurt her.”

“Well, I didn’t really know her all that well. I know that she was in some book club thing with my mom, but that’s about it,” you say, crossing your arms. “Actually, I did hear that she was getting it on with some of her friends’ husbands.”

“Yeah, we know that,” Sam begins, “wait, plural husbands?”

“Yep,” you say, popping the ‘p.’ “She’d get with anything that breathes.”

“I see. So do you think any of these women would want to get revenge on her for that?”

“Oh, definitely. Some of these women are vicious. Rich women are some of the craziest people I’ve ever met, so glad I’m only back for three months,” you snicker.

Sam laughs. “So, you in college, then?”

“Yeah, I’m in my third year, just home for the summer,” you explained.

“Yeah? You enjoying college?”

“Partially, I mean sometimes I miss my mom, but then I remember that visiting her means having to come back here, and I’m over it immediately,” you sheepishly admit.

“Really? It doesn’t seem too bad here, other than the death,” he says.

“Yeah, well, I guess you haven’t seen how people really are here.”

“How do you mean?”

“I guess I just mean that people here are petty and would do anything to get back at anyone for the smallest stuff,” you say sadly. “Especially some of my mom’s friends.”

You take the look on Sam’s face as an incentive to continue, “her friends are like, money obsessed, and if any other woman gets close to their husbands, somehow they’re mysteriously gone within the month. It’s kind of freaky, to be honest.”

Sam clenches his jaw as Dean walks into the kitchen.

"You ready to go?"

"Uh, yeah, give me a second.”

Dean gives him a look, but nods and leaves the kitchen.

“Give me a call if you can think of anything else that might be relevant to the case,” Sam says, handing a card with his FBI phone number on it to you.

“Will do,” you say, winking at him.

****

“Alright, so, what do you got?” Dean asks.

“Well, apparently this isn’t the first time this has happened here. According to her, multiple women go missing every year, all women that have gotten too close to the husbands of these book club ladies.”

“So we’re looking at a coven full of snotty rich women?” Dean complains, shoulders sagging.

“Guess so.”

“Doesn’t seem so bad for you though, Sammy. Don’t think I didn’t see you laying down the nerdy charm in there,” he jokes.

“I wasn’t flirting,” Sam defends. “I was just getting information and she happened to be pretty and conversational.”

“Sure, Sammy, sure.”

****

Before heading back to the motel room, Sam and Dean decide to stop by a restaurant for dinner.

“Dude, don’t tell me you’re gonna get another salad. You need some real food.”

“Like what? ‘Cause I’m pretty sure what you eat wouldn’t be classified as ‘real food’ either.”

“It’d be closer to real food than the shit you eat. You eat rabbit food, I eat manly food,” Dean argues.

“‘Manly food?’ How is it manly? It’s just greasy and disgusting. You’re gonna get a clogged artery in like 3 months because of it.”

“Whatever, I’m here for a good time, not a long time.”

Sam shakes his head and goes back to looking at the menu.

Sam’s menu browsing is interrupted by a familiar voice. “Can I get you two started with a drink?”

He looks up to find you looking somehow just as beautiful in a waitress uniform, looking at him with stars in your eyes and a grin gracing your features.

“Well, hello again, agent. If I didn’t know better I’d think you were stalking me,” you playfully say, earning a chuckle from Sam.

“Hey, again. And yeah, I’ll just have a water,” he says.

“Alright, but honestly, I’d get the strawberry lemonade. It’s way better.”

“If you say it’s good, then I’ll give it a try,” he says, smiling coyly.

“Good, so a strawberry lemonade for you,” you start, turning to Dean, “and for you?”

Dean orders his drink, and while they wait for you to return with their drinks, they look at the food on the menus, at least Sam does, until he realizes that Dean is looking at him over his menu with a smirk on his face.

“Dude, what’s up with you and the waitress?”

“Nothing,” Sam says hesitantly. “I mean, she’s pretty, but I don’t know.”

“What do you mean you don’t know? If a hot girl is hitting on you, take that as a blessing. How long has it been since you’ve gotten laid?” Dean reminds him, and for once Sam thinks he’s right, only a little bit, though. It had been a while since he even flirted with a girl, and it really couldn’t hurt, could it?

However, his train of thought is interrupted by your presence at the table again. You place each drink in front of them, being extra careful with Sam’s.

“So, are we ready to order?” You ask.

The boys order, and you jot it down on your notepad before walking away from their table. This time, Sam takes the time to watch the way your hips swing from side to side every time you take a step. All he can think is that you have the most graceful walk he has ever seen in his life, which he then thinks is a little weird, but it’s just like him to notice these small, weird, and typically brushed over details of people.

When you back out of the kitchen doors, a plate in each hand, Sam is still staring. He can’t help thinking how beautiful you are, and how cute the smirk you always seem to have on your face is.

You place the plates down on the table. “Let me know if I can get you anything else.” You give Sam a smile that could just as easily be for both him and Dean, but he chooses to believe it was just for him.

Dean smirks. “She’s one hell of a beauty. If you aren’t gonna do anything with that blessing, I will.”

Sam gives him a dramatic look of disgust, but otherwise ignores his comment in favor of eating his sandwich.

After they finish, Dean heads out to the car, insisting that Sam goes and talks to you.

He walks up to the counter, money in hand. “Hey.”

You give him a grin. “Hey, there. Enjoy the food?”

“Yeah, it was really good,” he says, sliding you a twenty dollar bill. “That enough?”

You nod. “So, I get off in two hours. If you care, that is.”

He smirks. “What makes you think that?”

“Well, if my charms are still working, I would assume that you care. I’m quite pretty, after all.”

“And humble,” he jokes, earning an, in his definitely not biased opinion, adorable giggle from you. “But, yeah. You’re right, I do care.”

“Good, then meet me at the bar across the street. And don’t be late, otherwise I might find another man willing to fall under my spell.” You lean on the counter and give his hand a pat.

“Well, we wouldn’t want that to happen, so I’ll be there.” He smiles and heads out the door, leaving you leaning your head into your palm, grinning like a teenage girl that just made plans with her first boyfriend.

****

When Dean sees Sam walking out the door with a smug smile on his face, he can’t help but don a smile of his own.

Sam opens the car door, greeted by Dean’s all-knowing grin. “So, you got a date tonight?”

“It’s not a date, we’re just going to the bar after she gets off work.”

“Well, whatever, we finally got you a lady. Make the most of it, but don’t have too much fun. Still have to get rid of these witches.” Sam finds Dean’s advice very out of character, because typically he would tell him to have the time of his life, but he’s too elated to make much out of it.

“I know, man.”

Dean pats him on the shoulder. “Let’s head to the bar, get you a head start to your night of fun. I’ll look into this witch coven.”

“Dude, since when do you want to do the research?” Sam questions.

“Ever since you started getting chicks instead of me.”

Sam rolls his eyes. “You were hitting on a waitress this morning.”

“Can’t do anything with her number now, so it doesn’t count.”

“You could call it.”

“Nah, not in the area. Not worth driving all the way back for a waitress.” Sam raises an eyebrow but decides not to say anything.

****

In the bar, Sam and Dean are sitting at a small round table. Sam is drinking a bottle of beer while sitting across from Dean, who for once for once is not trying to get laid, but is actually researching the case at hand.

“Alright, so get this. These moms meet up at your new girlfriend’s house every Tuesday and Thursday and are there until, like, four in the morning.”

“Where are you getting this information?” Sam asks, using his years of enduring Dean’s teasing to skilfully avoid giving into Dean’s provocation.

“Some noise complaints that have been filed over the past few years.”

“So these are for sure our witches, then,” Sam observes.

“Seems like it,” Dean agrees.

Sam finishes his second beer of the night and grabs one of the files in front of Dean.

“Alright, so there are four witches in this coven,” Sam reads from the file.

“Do you think the chick you’re meeting is also in it?” Dean asks.

Sam rests his chin on his palm, giving it some thought. He knew that some witches were born with their abilities, and since your mother was a witch, it was likely that you were born as one, but that didn’t necessarily mean that you were in on the killing, or that you even knew that you had powers. He hoped that you weren’t, but he thinks that he also wouldn’t mind it too much if you were. He would never admit it to Dean, but he thought that if you were a witch, it might be pretty cool.

“I don’t think so, she seemed really concerned about the killings and disappearances,” he defends.

“You’re just saying that because you’ve got the hots for her.”

Sam makes a face. “Yes, I like her, but I’m serious. I don’t think she is.”

“Alright.” Dean puts his hands up as if to say ‘Sorry, please don’t kill me now.’

Sam sees you walk in the door, heading straight for the bar. After taking a few more sips out of his new bottle of beer, he gets up out of his chair. Dean gives him a ‘go get ‘em tiger’ look, which he gracefully ignores in favor of sitting on the stool next to you.

“Hey there, stranger,” you say, batting your eyelashes at him.

“Hey,” he says giddily, causing you to come to the realization that he’s already at least a bit drunk.

“So you’re a happy drunk,” you observe.

“Whaaat? I’m not drunk,” he argues.

You give him a knowing smile, but indulge him anyway. “Alright, fine. How’s the case going?”

“‘S good, we have suspects now,” he boasts.

“Yeah? I assume that’s all thanks to your hard work here,” you tease.

He gives you a toothy grin. “You know it.”

The bartender comes over and you order some fruity drink that Sam doesn’t catch the name of. When you get it, Sam asks to try it, which you oblige, of course.

“Wow, that’s good. I want one, too.”

“It is, but is that really a good idea? How many beers have you had already?” You ask, furrowing your eyebrows.

“Two, but I started on my third.”

“Oh. Well, I guess you can have some more of mine, but don’t drink too much. It’s pretty strong, and we wouldn’t want your partner over there to have to deal with you being too drunk,” you tease.

He frowns. “Who cares what he thinks? He’s bossy,” he groans. “And annoying,” he adds for safe measures.

You give him a comforting smile and a pat on his arm, causing you to realize just how muscular it is, along with the rest of his body. You somehow didn’t notice before, but now that you have, it’s all that’s on your mind.

“Sounds like I’ll have to take you off his hands for the night then, huh?”

He notices that your hand is still on his arm, causing a light pink to dust his cheeks. “Sounds like a plan.”

“So, once you’re done with this case, how long until you leave?”

“It depends. Could be a week, could be the same day we finish the case. For you, though, I’m sure I can arrange staying around for a bit longer,” he suggests.

“That sounds nice,” you admit.

“Good, I’ll work it out then,” he states. “You look beautiful, sorry for not saying it earlier.”

“Well, thank you.” You grin, slightly shocked at how bluntly he says it, but you’re definitely not complaining. Looking over Sam’s outfit, you can’t help notice how good he looks in jeans and a flannel. The way the sleeves of his flannel tighten around his arms doesn’t go unnoticed by you. Now that you’ve seen how he looks in the basic combination, you don’t think you’ll ever be able to think another man looks good in it. “You don’t look half bad yourself. Casual is your look, agent. Not to mention that shirt is doing wonders for your arms,” you compliment, causing a dark blush to appear on his face for the second time tonight.

“Thanks,” he mumbles in embarrassment, clearly not expecting you to have flirted back, and if he did, he definitely didn’t expect you to flirt so blatantly. He’s flustered, and so, he decides to shift the conversation topic off of himself. “So, where do you go to college?”

“Last year I transferred to Stanford, but I went to an in-state college that was far enough away from here before.”

Sam raises his eyebrows, giving you a small smile. “I went to Stanford, too.”

“Really?” You ask.

“Yeah, I was studying to be a lawyer. Until my brother came to my apartment and told me he needed my help looking for our dad, at least” he admits.

“You didn’t finish school?”

“No, but it turned out to be a good thing,” he says, his voice sounding like he was trying to convince not only you, but himself as well. You raise an eyebrow, but in hopes of not upsetting the cute puppy-eyed boy you’d met only hours earlier, ultimately decide against saying anything to contradict his statement. Luckily, he doesn’t seem to notice your hesitance to accept his statement.

“I’m glad. Although, I’m sure you could still finish school if you ever wanted to. It wouldn’t hurt to have a back-up plan,” you suggest, laughing internally at the fact that being a Stanford educated lawyer would be his ‘back-up plan.’

“I guess. But I don’t think I could let Dean work all by himself.” The crestfallen expression he has on his face after imagining leaving Dean, paired with his puppy dog eyes is almost too much for you to handle.

You put your hand on his arm, rubbing your thumb across the flannel he was wearing. “You’re a good partner, Sam. He’s lucky to have you.”

A perplexed look flashes across his face until he realizes that you meant they were FBI partners, and he quickly recovers by giving you a small smile. You find yourself unable to think about anything but his gorgeous eyes, sweet smile, and silky hair, causing you to get that warm fuzzy feeling that all your friends describe when talking about their boyfriends, and you feel yourself returning a smile without even trying. It felt almost like a reflex, and you realized that you were developing a crush on the tall, sweet, doe-eyed man. This thought is even further confirmed after Sam puts his large hand over yours, curling his fingers around your significantly smaller ones, causing your heart-rate to pick up.

You don’t even notice the blush appear on your face until you hear Sam’s teasing voice. “Now who’s the one blushing?”

“It’s just the lighting, don’t get all cocky,” you try to defend, to no avail, though, since Sam’s mischievous grin does not falter after hearing your defense.

“If you say so,” Sam says, doing his best not to let a doubtful expression cross his face.

“I do,” you firmly state. A small lull of silence overcomes the conversation, and you search through your brain to search for a new topic to discuss. “You said you have a brother? What’s his name?”

“Uh, about that. Dean is my brother.” Your eyebrows lift slightly.

“No way. You guys are brothers and work together? That’s pretty cool,” you observe.

“Yeah, sometimes. Other times he’s a real dick, though.”

“I bet. But he seems pretty nice for the most part.”

“He’s a good guy, he just thinks he has to protect everyone, especially me. He doesn’t realize I can do things on my own. I mean I was in college without him and I did just fine.”

You nod sympathetically, understanding how complex family relationships can be. From there, the conversation flowed smoothly and you felt like you could tell Sam anything without any judgment, leading you to ask, “Would you, uh, want to come over to my house for the night? My mom isn’t going to be home tonight.” As you say it, you feel like you’re in high school all over again, and you start to regret the words as soon as your lips stop moving.

Sam’s eyes widen and he stays quiet, further fueling your regret. For those brief few seconds, your mind races and you worry if you came off too strong or if he simply isn’t interested in you past a drunk conversation and flirting. Luckily, he realizes the look on your face and saves you from any further anxiety.

“Sure, that sounds good.” Once again, the infamous smile graces his features, cheeks puffing up causing his eyes to crinkle and because not only is his face beautiful, of course his eyes have to be, too. You swear, even if no one else in the whole world agrees, his eyes are so beautiful in that moment that they glimmer.

You beam at him and slip off your stool, grabbing his hand and leading him off to the door. He looks back at Dean to find him already smirking at him. Dean gives him a wink, and for what is probably the millionth time in his life, Sam completely ignores him, focusing on the way you’re eagerly dragging him out of the place and to your car.

****

The next morning, Sam wakes up in a room that is far too nice to be the hotel that he and Dean were staying at, even though they always got the best room. He quickly remembers the events of last night and smiles. Although, his smile fades when he looks next to him to find you nowhere in sight. He rubs his eyes, looking around the room at the posters and decorations that let him peer into a tiny part of your life without worrying if he was overstepping any boundaries.

He gets out from under the blanket and slips off the side of the bed, walking over to your desk that holds a curious collection of trinkets and a book full of pictures. He’s in the middle of flipping through the book when he hears the creaking of a door opening, and his reflexes have him whipping his head to see where the noise came from. You let out a little giggle when you find his face looking like a little kid that just got caught doing something he wasn’t supposed to. He tilts his head as if asking what you were laughing at, but you just shrug, a cheeky grin still on your face.

“Whatcha doin’ there, Sam?”

For a moment, Sam is at a loss of words. “Uh, I was just….” He trails off.

“Don’t worry, I’m not mad. Just wondering what you’re looking at.” Your words clearly ease his mind, as he picks up the open photobook and points at the picture he was looking at. You smile as you look at a highschool version of you with some of your friends at a festival.

“It’s a cute picture. You dyed your hair, though. I almost didn’t realize you were in it at first.”

“Yeah, I figured since I was going to college I should switch it up a bit.”

You sit on the edge of the bed, watching as Sam continues to flip through the pages. You carefully watch his expression change as his eyes move around the pages looking at different moments of your life. He was glad to get even more of a glance into who you were.

Eventually, he reaches the end of the book and closes it, setting it back down on its rightful place on your desk. He joins you on the bed, sitting an awkward distance away from you, causing you to let out a small chuckle.

“What?” He questions, his puppy-dog eyes in full effect again.

“You can come closer, y’know. I don’t bite,” you tease. He blushes, as even more memories of last night flood into his brain. You definitely bit, but apparently only during certain hours of the day.

He scoots closer to you until your shoulders are comfortably pressed together. You take advantage of the proximity and lean your head on his shoulder.

“So, any plans for today?” You ask him.

“Not really. Just stuff for the case. I should probably check my phone.” You nod, and Sam thinks that the divine beauty of the slight raise at the corners of your mouth is unrivaled by any other sight Sam has ever seen, and he has seen almost too much in his short life.

He reaches over to the table next to your bed, trying his best not to move away from you and disturb your peaceful state of simple existence. He turns on his phone, seeing a few texts from Dean with more details on the case. He turns his phone off and decides that it wouldn’t hurt to stay here with you for another hour. You’re surprised by the weight of his head resting on top of yours, but who are you to complain?

****

Unfortunately, an hour can go by very fast when you’re, as they say, having fun. Watching Sam walk out of your house pulled on a part of your heart that you wish it hadn’t, knowing that Sam would soon be leaving your not so small town and you would more than likely never see him again. You don’t think you would be able to handle not seeing him again, even though the two of you have known each other for less than a mere day. With these thoughts swirling around in your brain, all you can do is give him a small wave when he turns around to look at you one last time before getting into his brother’s ‘67 Impala.

****

“Dude, tell me about your night. Was it the craziest sex you’ve ever had? Is she freaky? Waitresses always are, man.” Dean’s rambles fill Sam’s ears as soon as he closes the door to the old, black car.

“Really? You couldn’t even wait five seconds before you start with this?” Sam complains.

“You haven’t gotten laid in centuries, Sammy, excuse me if I want to know if my little brother had a good time.”

“Shut up.”

As usual, Dean completely ignores Sam’s protests and continues asking graphic questions about the ‘hot witch waitress’ until they arrive at the house of one of the witches in the coven.

****

Dean knocks on the door of the white two-story house, and within seconds is met with the face of a standard looking middle-aged woman.

“Hello, ma’am, FBI,” Dean says, flashing his fake badge, actions in sync with that of his younger brother.

The woman’s eyes widen slightly, but she schools her face back into neutrality quite quickly. “Come on in.” She motions for them to step into the house.

Dean sits down on the large couch in the living room, leaving Sam to remain standing next to it. “Do you mind if I use your bathroom?” Sam asks.

“Of course, go right ahead. Up the stairs and two doors to the right.”

Sam gives her a grateful smile before he walks out of the living room and heads up the stairs. When he began his search, he had expected to find one hex bag, or maybe even zero, but what he hadn’t expected was three. He raised an eyebrow, assuming that all the others in the coven would have at least coordinated this better, but here he was, looking at three different hex bags.

He quickly grabs them before flushing the toilet to avoid suspicion or potential disgust on the woman’s part if she realized that he hadn’t flushed the toilet.

Heading back down the stairs, he gives Dean a small nod to indicate his findings and to signal Dean to wrap up his investigation.

“You boys have a good day, good luck with your investigation,” the woman says, closing the door behind them as they walk down the stairs connected to the front porch.

“Dude, there were three hex bags in her bathroom,” Sam says, pulling the bags out of his pocket.

“I thought they only needed one? What’s the point of having more?” Dean inquired.

“I don’t know. Maybe it’s more powerful or something.”

Dean made a sound of acknowledgement but said nothing in return. Sam took it as a cue to continue talking.

“So, I was thinking we just wait until a night that they meet up and then ambush.”

“Sounds like a plan,” Dean agreed.

****

Back at the hotel room, Sam is researching more for the case, just to be safe, while Dean is out grabbing something for them to eat. Sam assumes that he’s gone back to the restaurant you work at so he can grab another glance at you.

Sam is deep into a passage on witchly powers when his phone rings, he assumes it’s Dean, but the small screen shows an unknown number. His eyebrows raise, but he answers the phone nonetheless.

“Hello? Sam?” A familiar, but shaky voice asks from the phone.

He says your name as if it were a question, to which you quickly say, “Yes, um, sorry to be calling this late but I think there’s someone in my house.”

Sam’s jaw clenches, his whole face tensing up before quickly relaxing again as he prepares to defend the woman that he now found lingering in every crevice of his mind.

“I’ll be there in 5 minutes. Just lock your door and stay in your room, alright?”

“Okay. Please stay on the phone with me, I’m really scared,” you admit.

“Yeah, yeah, you got it,” he says, rushing out the door of the hotel room before realizing that Dean was still out getting food. “Shit,” he breathed. However, now he could finally reap the benefits of his daily morning runs.

“What?”

“Nothing, just a slight change of plans. Just stay calm.” His voice was slightly strained and now sounded more like a moan than actual words, and if you weren’t so damn scared you might have found it sexy.

****

About seven minutes and lots of heavy breaths from Sam’s end of the phone later, Sam was at the front door of your house, gun full of witch-killing bullets ready in one hand, and his small phone in the other.

“I’m here, you’ll be good if I get off the phone?” He asks, fully ready to somehow manage to find a way to stay on the phone while fighting if you need him to.

“Yeah, I’m okay. Do what you need to do, please,” you say, but he hears the fear in your voice.

“I’ll be done and up there as soon as possible, alright? Don’t worry.”

He hears a small sound of acknowledgement from the other end of the phone before he finally ends the call and goes into the house. He heads straight for the door to the basement that, luckily, he had found when he made his journey to the bathroom the first time he was over at your house. He opens the door and grabs a second gun out of his pocket for safe measures, especially since Dean was nowhere to be found despite Sam’s multiple texts.

He slowly creeps down the stairs, doing his best not to let his weight cause the stairs to creek. Fortunately, he makes it down soundlessly, but is now stuck with the task of creeping through the abnormally large basement without getting cornered by witches.

It takes a few minutes before he finally hears the loud chanting start back up again, and while he knows that he’s probably free to walk as loudly as he wants to, he still keeps up the stealth.

The chanting slowly gets louder, and Sam steadies his arms to shoot both guns. As soon as he sees two figures in the door frame, he pulls the trigger on both, not wanting to risk the chances of them performing some spell on him before he gets a chance to get them first.

Unfortunately, he’d forgotten that there was still a third member of the coven, and as soon as he turns around, he’s met with the face of your mother, as well as a book harshly hitting his head and rendering him unconscious.

The next thing he knows, he’s tied up in the same room that he shot the two witches.

“You’re not FBI, you’re hunters,” your mother says, disgust obvious in her voice.

“Like you’re any better. You kill innocent people,” Sam grunts, starting to discreetly rub the rope he was tied up with against the chair to cut it.

“Innocent? Oh, please, no one in this world is innocent, especially not you, and even more so since you’ve involved yourself with my daughter,” she spat.

Sam grimaces. “Oh, yes, I know all about that.” She smirks.

Sam is about to speak, but is interrupted by your voice calling out for him. As your voice grows closer and closer, Sam realizes his progress on the rope is not as fast as he hoped, and if he didn’t hurry up, you’d be in the room before he was free.

However, to his dismay, you enter the room before he can free his arms, and all that he can think about is how awful it would be to watch you die, especially by the hands of your own mother. The nauseating thought is interrupted by a loud smashing sound that Sam immediately recognizes as a bat to the head. His head shoots up and he sees you, eyebrows furrowed with your eyes glazes over as you realize what you’ve done.

He finally manages to get the rope holding his hands behind his back cut as you sink down onto your knees and start sobbing. His first reaction is to run over and hold you, asking if you’re okay, but he isn’t sure if that’s what you would want, and there’s no way in hell that he would want to upset you even more.

He settles for walking over to you and kneeling down with one hand on your back rubbing what he hopes are soothing circles on it.

“It’s gonna be okay, I promise,” he comforts. “It’ll get better. Just know you had to do this, alright?”

“I know, Sam, but it doesn’t make it any easier. I didn’t even think about it, I just saw you tied up, and that was my first reaction. Am I insane?”

“Hey, hey, don’t say that. It’s fine, you’re fine.”

Finally, you turn towards him and collapse into his arms, and though he’s surprised, he catches you and holds you closely and firmly to his chest. The hand that was once on your back is now on your head, comfortingly playing with your hair, and the other is wrapped around your waist as you sob into his shoulder.

****

Hours later, you’ve finally calmed down, and you and Sam are in your living room sitting on your couch, along with Dean, the other FBI agent that had arrived while you were still sobbing, much to your later embarrassment. However, Sam had reassured you that it wasn’t embarrassing, and Dean definitely wouldn’t find it so.

After his reassurance, you could find no trace of embarrassment still lingering in your mind. It was surprising that someone you’d only met a few days ago was able to not only understand you like that, but also manage to diminish your insecurities so easily. You found yourself thinking about how much you and Sam seem to have in common and how easy it is to talk to him.

You lean your head on his shoulder, and out of the corner of your eye you see a small smile on his face. He wraps his arm around your shoulder and brings you closer to him.

“Oh, get a room,” Dean grumbles in annoyance, but Sam knows that he’s just faking it. He knows Dean too well to not realize that he really is happy for him.

****

When you wake up the next day you feel a warm presence next to you in your bed. You quickly recognize the presence as Sam, leading you to snuggle closer, resting your head on his chest.

“Good morning,” Sam says groggily, his voice breaking you out of the peaceful trance you were in.

“Good morning,” you reply.

Sam gives your arm a small squeeze before sitting up. You mirror his actions, ready to start a conversation, but are interrupted by the loud sound of his phone.

He gives you an apologetic look and grabs his phone to presumably read a text.

“It’s Dean. He has a lead on the case,” he states, to your annoyance.

“That’s good, I think. Would it be wrong for me to ask if I could come with?”

Sam’s eyebrows raise at your unexpected request. He stays quiet for a few seconds before replying, “I won’t say no, but I also don’t want you to get hurt. So, I have to be honest with you.”

You tilt your head, encouraging him to continue.

“My brother and I aren’t FBI, we’re hunters.”

You furrow your eyebrows. “What?”

Sam swallows as if to prepare for the words about to leave his mouth.

“Monsters are real. Vampires, ghosts, all of it. My brother and I hunt them.” As the words are leaving his mouth, Sam is suddenly hit with a wave of regret. What if you don’t believe him? What if you think he’s crazy and tell him to leave?

You, on the other hand, were thinking about how happy you were that Sam was comfortable enough with you to tell you about his real life. In the future, Sam would probably laugh about how vast the difference of what was going on in each of your minds, but now, he was taking your silence as negative.

When you saw the worry on Sam’s face, you immediately realized that you’d been sitting in complete silence since he’d admitted the truth about him and his brother.

“Really?” The one simple word brought Sam joy and relief like no other moment in his life.

“You actually believe me?” He asks in disbelief.

“Yeah, I mean what reason do I have not to? It does sound kind of insane, but I also bashed my mom’s head in with a bat yesterday, so…” You trail off, realizing that once again you’d been using humor as a coping mechanism instead of dealing with your problems.

Sam clears his throat, now feeling very awkward. “Right… About that, are you sure you want to come with? You’ve already been through a lot.”

“It would probably help to get my mind off of it, even if more traumatizing shit ends up happening, too.”

He pursed his lips, deep in thought. “Yeah, alright. If that’s what you want, I won’t stop you.”

You smile. “Yeah, it is.”

****

Half an hour later, you’re sitting in the back seat of the infamous black Impala with some old rock song that Dean picked playing.

“Sam, are you sure about bringing her?” Dean asks lowly, as if you couldn’t hear him from your spot right behind him.

“Yes, Dean. It’s not like we’re leaving her to fend for her own while we go together,” he says exasperatedly.

“If you say so.”

You clear your throat, prompting Sam to turn around and give you an apologetic smile. You return the smile, but the annoyance you feel towards Dean does not dissipate. If anything, you feel it even more so after Sam apologized instead of him.

You decide to ignore it and stay quiet for the rest of the drive.

A few minutes and one rock song later, the Impala pulls into a driveway that you recognize as one of your mom’s friend’s house. You furrow your eyebrows.

“Why are we here?”

Dean clicks his tongue. “You didn’t tell her?”

“Well, Dean, I’m sorry that I didn’t want to overwhelm her,” he sasses.

“It’s a little late for that, don’t you think? You brought her on a damn hunt.”

The air in the car suddenly felt awkward and you felt as though you shouldn’t be listening to their conversation.

“I’m just gonna get out and let you two finish your discussion,” you said quickly before opening the door and walking over to the porch of the house.

As you walked up the stairs, the front door opened, and the face of your old best friend from high school appeared in the doorway.

She called your name, a big smile adorning her face.

“Lily, hey!” You said, feigning excitement to see the girl after three years.

“It’s been so long! Come inside. My mom is downstairs,” she exclaims, ushering you into the house and nearly slamming the door shut once you’ve entered her house. As soon as you enter the house, a chill runs down your spine and you can’t help but feel nervous about what’s about to happen.

****

You’d been in the house for a few minutes before Sam and Dean had even realized you hadn’t been sitting on the porch the whole time they’d been arguing, and when Sam looked over to see what you were doing, a wave of panic rushed through his whole body.

“Dean, she’s gone.”

“What the hell? See, this is why we shouldn’t have even brought her with us.”

“Dude, whatever, it doesn’t matter, we gotta go find her right now.”

Sam quickly opened the passenger door and rushed out of the car and through the front door.

He opens the door, quickly checking the living room. Nothing. He checks the kitchen and the dining room. Nothing and nothing. He checks all the rooms on the first floor and the second floor, then goes back to the first floor to check again, when he hears Dean calling out to him.

“Sam? Come here, I found a door to a basement or somethin’,” he calls out.

Sam follows the sound of his brother’s gruff voice and finds a door he doesn’t know how he missed. He’s usually thorough about searching, but he finds himself extremely on-edge this time. He thinks it might somehow, maybe, have something to do with his not-so-subtle crush on you, and maybe the thought that losing you would be one of the worst things that has happened to him even though he’s barely known you for five days.

He quickly pushes the thought to the back of his mind, at least for now, in favor of pushing ahead of Dean and heading down the stairs into the basement.

His mind is now absent of any “lovey-dovey” thoughts of you, but chock full of thoughts about how you could be dead right now. He never should have let you get out of the car and go inside without him. If you were dead, it would be all his fault, and he would never be able to escape the guilt of having another death on his conscience.

However, with all of these thoughts, the thought that you could actually hold your own against the witches had somehow never crossed his mind. It definitely should have, though, because when he finally reaches you, you’re standing over two feminine figures that are lying still on the ground.

He sees your chest rising and falling as the iron tight grip you have on the knife in your hand begins to falter. The knife clatters onto the floor as you look over to see Sam.

“Sam,” you pant, and he immediately rushes over to you and takes your tired figure into his arms. He immediately feels blood that he isn’t sure of the origins beginning to soak into his jacket, but he can’t bring himself to care about that right now. The only thing he cares about is your safety, and preserving that safety for as long as he possibly can from here on out.

“Are you okay?” He whispers next to your ear.

“No, Sam, I killed my mom and then my best friend from high school and her mom in the span of not even twenty-four hours. I feel horrible.”

“You had to, okay? They were killing people. Maybe that doesn’t help you feel better right now, but eventually it will. Don’t beat yourself up over it, or you’ll end up hating yourself for the rest of your life. This is how it is to be a hunter, and I understand if after now you never want to do it again,” he rambles, trying to somehow make you feel better, which he knows is nearly impossible right now, but he can’t stop himself from trying. To him, it almost feels like someone is taking control of his body and making him do everything in his power to help you.

He realizes very quickly, though, that it’s not a person taking control of his body, but an emotion: love. The realization is scary for him, to say the least, especially because of his track record with girlfriends dying, but he thinks that he would be okay with overcoming this fear if it means you would be his.

A few seconds later, Dean walks into the room and finds himself met with the sight of your shorter figure being held, in his opinion, disgustingly lovingly by his brother. He’s happy that his brother has found someone that seems like a good person from what he can tell.

Dean whistles, eyebrows raising in approval at the sight of the two witches’ bodies behind your back. “Damn, and you didn’t even need my help. You’re getting better, Sammy.”

Sam shakes his head. “I didn’t do this. She did,” he replies, turning around and giving Dean a smug look. Dean gives him a look of annoyance at being proven wrong when it comes to your ability to fight, but ultimately decides to give it a rest, for today at least. He could tell you were shaken up, and he felt that he could sympathize, only a bit, though.

When he realizes that you had taken out the two witches on your own, he couldn’t help but feel impressed, and he confidently feels that you and Sam are right for each other. It’s funny that it isn’t your loving personality or quirky teasing that tells him that you’re right for Sam, but instead the fact that you can hold your own in a battle. That really is a more valuable asset in their lives than any regular person, so Dean is glad that his brother has been lucky enough to find someone like that.

****

Later that day, you’re all standing outside your house that now feels very empty without your mother. You never realized how much of a presence she really had until now, and admittedly, it makes you sad to think about, no matter how much you disliked her.

Unfortunately, it’s about to get a whole lot emptier with Sam and Dean ready to head out to their next case. However, Dean’s voice shakes you out of your thoughts, and his words shock you even more.

“Kid, how would you feel about joining us for a few more hunts, see how you feel? Who knows, maybe you’ll become a permanent member of our group here.”

Sam gives him a look of pure astonishment, but all he receives in return is a smug look and a little shrug.

“Well, I don’t know. I don’t want to be a burden to you guys with all the teaching me how to hunt and all that.”

“I don’t think we’d have to do too much teaching. You’re a natural,” Sam compliments, causing a deep blush to appear on your cheeks.

“Alright, Sammy. We’re gonna have to work on all that flirting,” Dean teases. “I’ll admit, I do agree, though. That was impressive. I probably couldn’t have done that on my first hunt,” he admits.

His unexpected words of praise make you smile, and your annoyance from earlier fades away. Dean could be a pain in the ass from what you’ve learned, but he could also be nice. You figured he was usually a pain in the ass, though, but you figured that you would be able to learn how to deal with it, or at least ignore it like Sam seems to be able to do.

“Alright. To be honest, it was kind of exhilarating, but also scary. I think it could be something I could learn to love, though.”

Sam gives you a warm smile, and gestures for you to go over there to give him a hug, which you excitedly accept, falling into his larger frame as his long arms wrap around you.

Dean grumbles. “Really? Again?”

All you and Sam do in response is laugh, much to Dean’s annoyance.

a/n: would yall be interested in this being a series or something ?? idk i feel like that would be fun to do

tags: @kozumesphone

#sam winchester #sam winchester x reader #spn #sam winchester fanfiction #supernatural #sam winchester x you #sam winchester fluff #sam winchester supernatural #supernatural x reader #supernatural x you #spn fanfic

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