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grimmweepers · 3 days ago

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— ★ 𝐔𝐍𝐖𝐑𝐀𝐏𝐏𝐄𝐃

𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬: after waiting for so long, alhaitham finally loses his virginity to you on his birthday

𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐬: VIRGIN!alhaitham x FEM!reader, established relationship, there is some fluff sprinkled onto all this smut i promise, p0rn with plot, virginity loss (m), slightly more experienced reader, pet names ‘baby’ ‘love’, reader wears a skirt & dress, alcohol mention, handjob, masturbation (f), deepthroat, rough fucking, no protection, creampie, cowgirl, might be a little ooc. 5.7k wc (idk what happened) MDNI. 18+ only. | masterlist

𝐚/𝐧: a birthday piece! happy birthday alhaitham! 🎁

reblogs and interactions are always appreciated ˚ʚ♡ɞ˚

Your boyfriend was a virgin.

And for most people, virginity was often a touchy subject. Still, when you started dating Alhaitham, you weren’t surprised by his indifference towards the topic. He never danced around it or became flustered when the subject of sex came up. During your first conversation about it, he didn’t fidget, didn’t sugarcoat, he simply took a sip of his coffee and stated, “I’ve never had sex before.” Then after finishing his cup, he added, “Not for lack of opportunity. I just never prioritised it.”

There was no shame or awkwardness, just a fact laid bare between you. And, really, why would there be?

Sex wasn’t something he’d avoided out of fear or insecurity. To him, it was nothing but a passing thought.

At the time, you grazed over his humble boast because, of course, Alhaitham had opportunities. He was, by all objective measures, incredibly handsome and you told him this very often as his girlfriend.

The scribe might’ve been notorious for being difficult to converse with but people were still drawn to his appearance, whether he wanted them to be or not.

That conversation weighed more to you now. Not because of what he said but because of what it implied. Despite the passing interest others had in him and the potential experiences he could have had, he had waited. Not intentionally nor with some frivolous romantic ideal in mind, but simply because no one before you had ever made him want to.

As your relationship progressed, you discovered that contrary to popular belief, Alhaitham was still human (really, it’s a shock to some) and like any other human, he had needs that were managed with usual discretion (his hands). So while he had no qualms admitting he was a virgin, he also never pretended to be entirely unaffected by the curse of morning wood or the challenge of dating someone who was totally his type and much more vivacious than he.

But when you turned him on (which wasn’t difficult), no matter how heated things got, they never went past a certain point. It wasn’t hesitation on his part, nor was it uncertainty on yours.

It might’ve been because he’d never done it before, or maybe because it felt too significant to rush into. Either way, whenever things teetered on the edge of no return, one of you would always pull back. Every time it happened, it left you a little more restless than before.

It had started slow, as most things did.

Your first kiss with Alhaitham had been more curious than anything else. He always paid attention to detail so he was careful in how he studied you. The more he kissed you, the more he adjusted to the newness of it. You could even taste the hesitance on him but that had been months ago. Now, he’d memorise the way the shape of your lips fit against his, and kissing him felt as natural as breathing.

In the beginning, your make-out sessions had been tame. Nothing more than lazy, unhurried exchanges between reading breaks or in the fleeting moments before you parted from him. Uncaring for any responsibility he had prior, he would hold you close in his burly arms and take you in.

However, in time, those kisses evolved into something you had to be broken apart from.

His hands had also grown bolder. They would slide up your sides, paw at the curve of your spine, and settle on your hips to pull you closer. He noted the way you reacted to him—the way you tossed your head back when his fingers mapped your sensitive skin, the way your grip made home in his hair when his tongue delved deeper.

And you learned things about him, too.

You learned that even though the Alhaitham you first met had an air of mystery to him, there was something far more desperate laying dormant beneath that imaginary veil… lest his control slip. If you sucked on his lower lip, a groan would softly erupt from his mouth. If you allowed him to bury his face into the crook of your neck, the love bites he’d give you would feel much more erotic.

Then his touches became scandalous over time. Alhaitham seemed to explore you more.

He started to kiss—no, lick along your jaw, then down your neck, sucking lightly at your pulse just to hear your breath stuttering. His hands, no longer satisfied with resting at your waist, began to push under your shirt time and time again, ghosting over your ribs, tracing the dip of your back, just to gauge a reaction to his touch.

Your body continued to hum with need long after you had settled on opposite sides of the sofa, swollen lips and skin warm.

Each encounter left you both embarrassingly sticky by the end of it so you never bothered to admit you’d touched yourself to the thought of him long after he’d gone home. And neither did he.

An invisible string was about to snap, and the most recent time was the hardest to walk away from.

On that particular day, while you were nestled on his lap, Alhaitham had been kissing you with extra urgency—as if the taste of you wasn’t enough and every movement of your lips was drawing him into a slow-burning fire.

Each kiss was another spark, every touch a flicker of heat that spread and throbbed in the most wicked parts of you.

His hands traveled all over you, fingers that normally stayed at your ribs and waist started drifting lower so you sluggishly rolled your hips to match his rhythm, losing it at how hard he was growing beneath you.

Maybe it was because you’d worn a skirt that day but you felt closer to him than ever. Having your legs sprawled across his lap and feeling what you assumed was the head of his cock prod your sweet spot made your body scream even more for him. So it didn’t help your case at all when he suddenly stilled his fingers under your skirt and gingerly kneaded the back of your clothed pussy. The touch was petal soft but enough to make you whine without permission.

“Holy shit,” your words came out in plumes.

You half-expected it to escalate then but instead, he pulled away. A familiar pang settled in your chest. He didn’t do it out of regret—you knew that much, but all that racing intention now became idly slow.

“I’m sorry,” he said a little too quickly, it almost sounded awkward but you were too busy trying to figure out what he was apologising for. It wasn’t like he’d done anything wrong.

“For what exactly?” You asked.

Alhaitham took a moment to think.

“For not having more restraint,” his glossy eyes searched you, uncertain of what he wanted. “That felt impulsive.”

It was unintentional but you’d never seen him look so innocent. Or vulnerable.

Tilting your head, you said with a chuckle, “If I’m ever caught complaining about my boyfriend not being able to keep his hands off me, alert the authorities because that’s not me.”

“You know that’s not what I mean.”

None of this was your fault either, of course. Stopping was as much of a crime to him as it was to you, but he quietly returned your laughter, and timidly squeezed your hips as if to ground himself. “I just don’t want this to be something that happened because we couldn’t control ourselves.”

In other words, he wanted something planned. Maybe he had envisioned it unfolding differently.

Which was reasonable, you thought. It was his first time, not yours. And it wasn’t discouraging at all—that solid bulge pressing between your legs revealed enough about the effect you had on him. No part of him didn’t want to flip you over and fuck you senseless on that sofa but perhaps an impulsive make-out shouldn’t steer the wheel for something he held off for so long.

So despite how badly you wanted him, you stopped. You waited. You told yourself the anticipation was half the fun. “You’re right. You’re right. Must you always be right?”

“Just a gift bestowed from the Archon.” Sarcasm, even when all the blood that should’ve been in his head had rushed to his cock. He watched you sigh, “It seems you don’t agree?”

“Well if say I don’t, you could always ravish me until I do.” You smiled from ear to ear, satisfied when a pale shade of pink immediately dusted his cheeks.

“Stop that.”

Alhiatham was thankful when you rolled off his lap and collapsed beside him with a buoyant giggle.

Even then, he already missed the weight of you on his groin and the phantom tingle from when he allowed himself to touch you over your underwear was still fresh on his fingers. He didn’t dare look at you right away, afraid that one glance at your pretty face, kiss-swollen lips, and the tremble in your thighs would set his skin alight all over again.

— — —

Remnants of Alhaitham’s birthday were scattered around your home. Half-finished slices of cake on abandoned plates. Few too many empty glasses littering the coffee table. The lingering scent of candles recently blown out.

Looking at the mess, you felt a wave of gratitude that the last batch of your friends had already come and gone.

Honestly, it was a good thing he chose to celebrate at your place. If he’d done it at his, there would’ve been an inevitable crowd, and he and Kaveh would’ve probably found themselves locked in a debate over something trivial like the spelling of a single word. The only thing to break it up would be the arrival of dawn.

Here, it was just the two of you. While you’d both enjoyed the company earlier, ending the night like this felt right.

As the street lamps outside flickered on to welcome the evening, Alhaitham lounged beside you. This was the most relaxed he’d looked all day, with one arm draped lazily over the back of the sofa, and the other resting on his thigh with a new tome balanced loosely between his fingers. The dim light softened the sharp lines of his face, making him appear boyish as his sea-green eyes read the pages.

But he wasn’t really reading.

It was obvious by how his eyes were fixed on the same spot. His pupils were slightly dilated and maybe he had the wine to blame. Or something else altogether.

You finally broke the silence, leaning on the armrest to reach for your own glass. “It’s still your birthday, you know?”

Alhaitham returned his attention to you, closing the tome you bought for him without marking his place. “Is there a statute of limitations on celebrating?”

Huffing a laugh, “Not exactly,” you said, swirling the wine in your glass before taking a sip. “But I’ve been thinking about your birthday gift.”

“Hm?” He replied, slightly confused. He’d thought you’d already given him everything earlier in the day.

“Just wondering if there’s anything else you might want,” you set your glass down and watched the dark liquid ripple. This was the perfect opportunity to bring up what had been on both of your minds.

“Oh?” He blinked at you. “Well, this book you sought was quite a rare find, I’m aware there are only two other copies. For that alone, I needn’t ask for more.”

“And if I told you that was only the appetiser?”

Alhaitham adamantly shook his head, “I’m not following.”

But you both knew that was false. The entire conversation was laced with implications and this was a Haravatat genius you were speaking to. Nothing needed to be spelled out for him because you saw his throat bob with a subtle swallow. That alone told you he was already waging war with his thoughts.

Tonight felt different.

Aside from it being his literal birthday, ever since the morning you’d caught him eyeing your body on numerous counts.

One instance was when you conveniently sat across from him while your friends mingled, positioned so perfectly that he could see the triangle of underwear between your legs. It left little to the imagination and when images flashed of him running his sticky tongue over your panties—he bit the inside of his cheeks in shame.

Another time was not too long ago when you adjusted the strap of your dress—he was sitting where he was now and you had noticed his fixation on the exposed skin of your shoulder. When the flimsy strap irritatingly fell again, you pretended not to see him shifting his shorts by the crotch.

Something other than enticement was festering behind his gaze. It wasn’t out-right staring but you had an inkling you were being carefully watched.

Maybe assessed was the better word.

There was only so much pretend-reading he could do before it became obvious that your boyfriend was undressing you in his mind and using his tome as a silly cover. All of that told you he was ready.

He just needed a little nudge. A precious courtesy.

“Haitham, you’ve been thinking about it. Haven’t you?”

Alhaitham’s lips parted like he was about to deny it. But he didn’t. He wasn’t even sure he could. Between a sigh and a too-long pause, you were surprised when he admitted, “Of course I have. I’m not immune to… well, you.”

An intentional smile formed at the drop of that last word and your cheeks immediately grew hot. “You look beautiful,” he continued, but then his tone dipped into something far more audacious. “I might be convinced you were trying to steal my thunder today.”

The sincerity behind his delivery of it made your heart pound like a drumline beneath your ribs.

When you dared slip your hand to his knee, his muscles reflexively twitched. He didn’t try to stop you as you slowly traced the outline of his leg.

“That honesty is going to get you in a lot of trouble, birthday boy.”

“Trouble?” He said with a knowing smirk. “I think I’m already in enough trouble for tonight, don’t you?” You let him take your wrist to his mouth and he suckled above your pulse, soft and slow.

Goosebumps danced across your arm before you stood up.

Alhaitham tracked every step you made and his burning hands instinctively moved to your waist when you stopped between his legs. As you leaned down, he almost shut his eyes, expecting a kiss. “What do you mean? I’m terribly innocent.”

The heat of his touch seared through your dress and you didn’t falter when he started bunching up the fabric.

Alhaitham, he was different.

Unlike the temporary touches of almost-lovers, every place his hands explored left a trail of fire in their wake. He always held you like the space between you was something he could not tolerate. Everything had to be met. Tongue. Hands. Body. Mind.

Alhaitham loved you. Deeply. Utterly. In ways that contradicted his nature. It was neither measured nor composed, only barbaric and all-encompassing.

And credit must be due to you for being the most patient person in the world.

“So,” you said quietly, brushing away those unruly greys that tickled his forehead. “Do you feel like this time is rushed?”

His long fingers tightened around you, answering your question before he spoke. Whatever hesitation he felt had apparently already passed. “No, this is perfect.”

As he looked up at you through those curtain of long lashes, an indulgent question had accidentally slipped out of your mouth: “How often do you picture yourself having your way with me?”

A muscle in his jaw ticked. Clearly defeated by your feathery voice, he exhaled through his nose, almost jaded, “Constantly."

For some reason, you were still caught by surprise. Even if it lasted for a sliver of a second, when his admiration for you felt too good to be true, sometimes you thought it all a farce. But you were wrong.

"In fact, I’m thinking about it right now," he continued.

Without needing any more reassurance than that, you closed the distance. “Do you mind?” You asked over his lips.

“Not at all,” he said like he was granting you a wish.

One tender kiss bled into another, then another, until his tongue started rolling over yours, swallowing your gasps in between. Then it turned into something wet and visceral. Your body wilted each time they collided but when his teeth sunk into your bottom lip, a riot of sensations gathered between your thighs.

Fuck, you swore internally.

Alhaitham may be a virgin but he sure didn’t kiss like one.

Still standing, you snaked your arms around his neck and combed at the ends of his hair. No matter how often you’d done this, the sound of his grunts always drowned out the rest of the world.

Your lips broke apart for only a moment when you were forced to find air. There were too many annoying layers between the two of you so the cycle of kissing and never crossing that line was forever broken when you pulled on his shirt, “Take this off.”

Letting you go, even for a second, was unbearable so when he lifted his arms to rid himself of the barrier, he greedily chased another kiss. The fabric dragged over his torso, revealing inch by inch of warm, silky skin stretched taut over muscle, and as soon as the shirt was gone, you traced the broad plane of his chest.

From this view, you wonder if he was thinking about how many times he had imagined this moment. How many nights he had stared at the ceiling, picturing your hands on him just like this?

“Nervous?” You asked, following your palm over the firm ridges of his abdomen as you connected lips again, pecking them softly this time like a butterfly kissing the edge of a blooming flower.

“Impossible,” Alhaitham relaxed his shoulders and pulled blindly at your waist. You looked so pretty—if anything, he was excited to fuck you. “I’m in good hands.”

Your lips trailed downward, over his jaw, his throat, ghosting his uncharted collarbones before moving even lower. Cushions collapsed to the floor as he began to fray beneath you, his body keening toward your open-mouth kisses no matter how much he tried to hold himself together.

“Baby—” he rasped. Your knees wobbled at his sweet call. The quietest groan escaped his mouth and you felt it reverberate against your lips where they hovered just above his navel. His scent was richer here—clean but muskier, and engulfing your senses to the point of dizziness.

Sinking to your knees, your tongue followed the dark path of hair that disappeared beneath his shorts while your hands nimbly pushed at his growing tent, “—Fuck,” he sighed, screwing his eyes shut. It pulsed involuntarily against the restraint and already, a bead of sweat rolled down his temple. Your heart was racing, the size of it felt even bigger in your hand.

You toyed at the waistband, “Haitham, tell me if you want to stop, okay?”

He nodded, slumping back into the sofa. Sure, but he doesn’t think he will. His lack of words made you wonder if he’d actually heard you.

You palmed his bulge one last time before pulling everything down and immediately, his cock sprung against his stomach, giving it a good slapping sound while you ogled at the sheer size. And weight.

It was so much prettier than you’d imagine—not too veiny, plump and pink at the tip, slightly curved, and already glistening with precum under the hues of evening light. A handful of beauty marks dotted the underside of his shaft which would only help you out in the future when you had to decide which parts of him you wanted to kiss first. It might’ve been the prettiest thing you’d ever seen.

Rubbing your thumb over the tip, you peered up at him, and as expected, “Oh…” he rolled his eyes back, lulling himself in the immediate pleasure. At that moment, he knew fucking his fist in the dead of night would never feel the same again. Not when they can be hugged by your soft, velvety hands.

Alhaitham’s body jittered under you with each small stroke along his length. Another fat ball of precum dribbled over your knuckles and made it extra slippery—he was so hard, he could barely look at you through his drowsy eyes.

“Do you like how this feels, baby?”

His feelings wavered between bucking for more friction or letting you dictate his ruin. “I- ah- love it. Keep going… Please…” Either way, by the time this was over, Alhaitham was going to walk away a new man.

His cock was so heavy, so wide in your hand that you briefly imagined it training your hole open. You desperately clenched around nothing—suddenly it was your turn to feel needy and as a result, your strokes became even faster as you thought about him stuffing you with it instead.

Each languid pump chipped away at his resolve but it was you who was beginning to lose control. Your free hand couldn’t hold still for any longer so they snaked to the throbbing heat that had been building between your legs for too long. The first roll of circles over your clit sent a sharp jolt up your spine. “Mmmm,” you were already so wet, your slick drenched your fingers within seconds.

Alhaitham's thighs twitched at the sound of you. That was a moan. A real fucking moan. A multitude of things could turn him on but watching his girlfriend play with herself and moaning above his cock made him spasm in his spot. He was begging for more, even if he couldn’t form the words.

“Ahh, Haitham…” you mewled his name softly as you slid two fingers inside your sopping entrance. Without waiting any longer, you spat on the leaking tip as a courtesy warning before taking the entire length in your mouth all at once.

“God…” Alhaitham groaned, drawn out like the sensation alone could tear him apart. He could’ve jumped out of his seat if not for the vice grip he had on the sofa, his knuckles white from holding onto it like a lifeline. The inside of your mouth was so warm, your tongue so blissfully foreign and you felt him stiffen up even more when you sloppily sucked and popped off with a messy slurp.

“This definitely... isn't your first time,” His voice was rough with lust.

Every tantalising lick was written off as proof of your experience.

The praise, while indirect, made your cunt clamp around your moving fingers. You hummed, dragging your tongue along the underside of his cock before pulling back with another lewd pop, “No,” you casually admitted, licking a stray tear of precum from your lips. “But it’s my first time taking something so big.”

“No need to flatter me,” he murmured softly, lifting your dripping chin with a single finger, “You’re already doing enough.”

But damn, he thought. If that were true, he’d be the one to stretch you further than anyone else.

After returning your lips around him, he unexpectedly brought his hand to the back of your head.

This time, he didn’t want to sit back. “Slowly…” he sucked in a breath. “I… want to try something.”

Alhaitham apparently grew some confidence of his own which made your fingers work even faster inside yourself. Your lips sank lower and lower. Throat tightening as his thick cock tunneled its way through—

“Mmph—!!” Your sudden yelp was muffled when his mushroom tip nudged the back of your throat. The vibration of it made him buckle his knees beside you.

Oh, he was weak for you. And he knew it.

“Ugh— Look at you…” he groaned through gritted teeth. Still, despite the newfound confidence, he was losing the battle fast. He had buckled so hard, he was worried he’d already cum but he was relieved when you gagged and withdrew, leaving only strings of saliva connecting to his fat length.

That was enough to tell him he couldn’t hold it off anymore.

Alhaitham could barely think straight. His cock was twitching, aching, still glossy from your mouth, and somehow standing taller than when all of this started.

“Come here,” he pleaded and now his heart pounded because it was finally happening.

His eyes were hazy when he hoisted you up, catching you in his lap to taste himself on your tongue. The kiss was feral and teeth-clashing and the curl of your name kept being whispered again and again between breaths.

His hands wasted no time, sliding down your body, comfortably hiking up your dress while he met his cock with your entrance. Even with your underwear in the way, you felt just how girthy he was and squeezed around the head as much as your flimsy panties allowed.

“Haitham~” you whimpered, continuing to grind on him.

Between his own rolling of his hips, he eagerly helped you tug your dress over your head. Then you hurriedly removed your underwear and returned to his lap.

For a brief moment, he just stared.

His jaw went slack. His chest rose and fell slowly.

It was a showcase of your bare body, your soft tummy, your sweat-stricken tits, and your exposed pussy.

Suddenly, you felt shy, but he reached out with surprising gentleness, smoothing his palm over your waist, then up to your chest.

“I know I keep repeating myself but seriously,” he hushed, his thumbs brushing over your nipples, making you shiver. “You’re beautiful.”

He looked at you like you were something divine and overcome, your lips crashed against his.

A guttural sound escaped his throat as he kissed you back with just as much hunger.

“I love you,” you whispered to him. Another twist of your tongue. I love you. Another hand tangled in his hair. I love you. Another peek at your loving boyfriend, eyes shut and kissing you so tenderly like it’s the only thing he knew. I love you.

His hand slipped between your legs, fingers parting the opening where you were dripping for him. If you hadn’t known him at all, you would’ve never guessed this was his first time. Perhaps preparing for this really paid off in the end.

Your legs trembled around his hand, but it wasn’t enough. You wanted more. The need clawed at you.

His hand gripped your putty thighs, forcing them open as he stared at the pretty mess.

Alhaitham flicked his gaze back to yours, “I love you, too,” his voice was hoarse. “And I need to be inside you.” It was then you understood why puppy eyes worked on people. No argument could ever shield him away when he pleaded for you like that. It would be like kicking a puppy in the most literal sense.

You gave him a nod of approval. It’s okay.

He exhaled as he positioned himself. The downright weight of it jerking against your clit made you whimper. You couldn’t help but rock into it, circling his shaft with your juices while he was on the cusp of shattering.

Finally, he lined the swollen head at your entrance and a sharp gasp left you as he slowly pushed in, stretching you apart like all those times you fantasised in the privacy of your bedroom but this was much, much better.

Inch by inch, your walls latched onto him and—

“Shit—” Alhaitham cursed under his breath.

Nothing has ever felt so warm or soft. Or all-consuming. His entire vision was a blur. There was no doubt he was already painting a clear, sticky mess on your walls.

Your nails sank into his meaty arms, his name tumbled from your lips as he gradually slotted himself completely inside you. His groan was so deep and wrecked, that it made you tremble around him even more.

Your legs tightened at his side, urging him deeper. “T-Thoughts?” You asked, barely. It remained a mystery how you stayed teasing even as pleasure threatened to steal your words away.

“You’re so… tight,” he managed to breathe, thrusting up experimentally. His head dropped to your shoulder as he relished in the wet heat of you wrapped around him. “Better than my hands."

"Better than I ever imagined, actually." A strained chuckle left him, “And I imagined a lot.”

Another slow thrust. His fingers embedded themselves around your waist, possessive, obsessive, and he buried his face in your neck, breathing you in.

You smiled even though you knew he couldn’t see, “You don’t have to hold back.”

Your cute encouragement made him snap.

He lifted you slightly before slamming you down on his hips, plunging as far as he could. Right as he did, you arched your back and struggled to find your bearings. The sound of your jutted cries echoed freely in the living room, only for it to be swallowed by his muttering against your skin—

“You’re perfect.”

A deep thrust, much harder this time.

“I can’t believe you’re mine.”

His teeth scraped against your neck.

And then he really started fucking you.

Every bounce punctured all the right spots and you could only whine while rivers of sweat glued your bodies together. You tried to keep up with him but he was so fervent with his hips, your mind went cloudy.

More often than not, you tend to forget how strong your boyfriend was but you’ll never need a reminder after this. Not with how easily his large hands guided you up and down his throbbing cock. You were helpless against the feverish way he moved you.

Plap. Plap. Plap. Each wet slap of your fleshy ass against his thighs sent a violent shudder through him, decorating his skin with flushed, red marks where you landed.

Who knew Alhaitham could be so obscene and filthy?

“I can see why—people—enjoy this,” was all he could muster you as deliciously gripped him. Every word punched out of him from the force of your tight cunt.

However, as good as it felt, most of his enjoyment came from looking at you.

“Mhm…!” you babbled, brain foggy and hands abandoning his shoulders to roll your sensitive nipples between your fingers, twisting and tugging and arching your back so your tits were right in his face. “But are you—?” You tried to ask between ragged moans but he cut you off with a snap of his hips.

He’d never seen you in such a messy state, “Are you fucking kidding me?” He was nearly offended at the implication that he wasn’t. How could he not be? He was buried to the hilt and drinking in every filthy little sound that spilled from your lips.

He wanted to engrave the image of this memory into his mind forever.

The creak of the sofa legs as they scraped back and forth on your floor; the squelch of your soaking pussy; your arousal smearing the base of his shaft, running down his legs with every feverish roll.

Even like this, even while he was losing every last shred of innocence, his mind was already latching onto something else—

“I’m already looking forward to doing this again…”

Alhaitham, who fucking loved you, was also going to love fucking you.

Oh, and the toe-curling sensation of his balls smacking the back of your pussy intensified.

For each erratic push, your battered clit rubbed even more against his pubic bone. Your eyes were starting to drop and your voice only came in erotic moans. “Baby, please…” You’ve adjusted to the stretch by now but you’ll never get used to how you can feel every curve or ridge mind-meltingly dragging inside you. “Don’t stop—”

He wishes he could just record the way you coo at him like that, because your honeyed tone damn near made him bust on the spot.

“F-Fuckk-Ngh… Love, I’m close,” he groaned, forehead falling against yours as his hips stuttered. His hungry, feral eyes—wild, desperate, blown back with lust, searched yours, now certain of what he wanted.

“Inside,” you panted, cradling the back of his head with your arms. “I bought a contraceptive tonic… You can cum inside.”

Alhaitham froze, for just a second.

But with your permission, he lost whatever fragile thread of control he had left. Using the last of his strength, he clumsily wrapped himself around your waist and attacked your g-spot over and over.

“Quickly,” you urged him, “Because I’m gonna—!” A feeling in your stomach coiled before you could finish your sentence. With his hips rolling at an angle, everything you were holding together finally broke apart. Your ears abruptly rang and your vision went entirely white, as if months’ worth of pent-up energy was gushing out of you.

You pushed through the untangling in your gut, feeling everything all at once as your orgasm obliterated your senses. The downpour left you mewling, writhing, and spasming around him like a tightening knot. You've cummed to the thought of him but you always felt like something was missing.

Nothing but desperate moaning and the crying of his name met his ears while you blissfully rode him out.

A harsh thrust later did it for him, too.

His merciless rhythm shattered as he rutted inside one last time, a guttural groan ripping from his throat like all the air was being punched from his lungs. “Hah—I’m cumming!” His cock pulsed violently as he came, hot ropes of ivory spilling deep inside you, with him losing focus after each shudder of his hips.

So much of it was already oozing out of you despite how tight you still were and you saw the ruin it brought on him. He was beautiful with his brows pinched tight and strands of damp silver sticking to his forehead. Every flex of his toned arms and chest showcased the primal strength beneath his elegance.

Alhaitham whimpered—it was barely audible as slumped against your chest. He clung to you, panting, hot breath fanning your shoulder as he pumped out the last tremors of his release. His balls tightened for the final time as they emptied inside you.

Neither of you moved. Just sticky heat, layers upon layers of sweat, and the aftershocks pulsing through your trembling bodies.

Then, slowly, his hands fell to his sides.

“…That was…” he started, feeling like his mind was still trying to piece itself together. His body practically surrendered against the sofa.

You swiped a thumb over his jaw, smiling. “Yeah.”

A beat passed.

When Alhaitham lifted his head, blinking at you, completely softened by the afterglow, it hit you.

Your boyfriend wasn’t a virgin anymore.

divider: @/adornedwithlight

#☾ grimmweepers #genshin impact smut #alhaitham smut #al-haitham smut #alhaitham x reader #al-haitham x reader #genshin x reader #gi smut #alhaitham x you #al-haitham x you #genshin x you #alhaitham x y/n #alhaitham x female reader #genshin impact x reader #gi x reader #genshin oneshots

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seongwars · 23 hours ago

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mornings

I managed to pull TWO of the 5 star Caleb cards from the new banner in one go, so here's some smut to celebrate

Word Count: 1075 Warnings: SMUT, yandere dad caleb, period tracking, unprotected sex, p in v, unproofread, mentions of impregnation, caleb malewifing manipulating, manhandling part of the lads!dadverse

Caleb’s day started at 5 AM, as it always did.

He stretched his arms over his head, rolling out the tension in his muscles before pressing a kiss to your cheek. He took a moment to admire your sleeping face before moving through the motions of the morning: starting a pot of coffee, pulling out ingredients for breakfast, and prepping lunch boxes.

By 6:30, the first stirrings of life began.

Ciel prided himself on being the oldest at six and got himself ready without any help. Archer, however, was still wrapped in his blanket, clutching his dinosaur plush and groaning in protest when Caleb nudged him awake.

As for the twins, transitioning them to toddler beds had been your idea and Caleb was starting to question it. Eden had turned the mattresses into his personal trampoline, while Stella lay sprawled on the floor, too lazy to get up. With a resigned sigh, Caleb scooped them both up and carried them to the kitchen, where their older brothers were already waiting patiently for breakfast.

By 7:30, the house was empty. The car was loaded, and everyone was buckled in for school and daycare drop off.

Caleb's day started at 5 AM, just as it always did. He made sure everything was taken care of just the way you liked it. There was no reason for you to lift a finger.

Because when you woke up, he wanted your focus to be on him.

You felt it the moment you opened your eyes. Every hormone in your system seemed dead set on one thing: getting absolutely wrecked by the man who had just finished the school run.

Somehow, Caleb always timed it perfectly, as if he had mapped out every fluctuation, every shift in your body like clockwork. As if he had studied you. Tracked you. Controlled you in ways you hadn’t even realized.

You padded sleepily toward the kitchen, drawn to the smell of coffee and there he was, standing menacingly by the fridge, fresh from the shower wearing those damn gray sweatpants.

It wasn’t fair. No man should look that good after wrangling four kids, doing the laundry and cleaning the house from top to bottom. His hair was still damp with droplets clinging to his skin and his muscles flexed as he reached for a glass of water. And those sweatpants? They clung just right, taunting you to pull them down and wrap your lips around his cock.

Caleb turned at the sound of your footsteps, a slow, knowing smile creeping across his lips.

"Morning, baby," he murmured, like he’d been waiting for you.

And just like that, you forgot everything else.

Your body reacted before your brain could catch up, every nerve screaming at you to jump his bones—to shove him against the counter, to drag him back to bed, the counter, the floor, any surface to hold you up as he fucked your brains out.

And your husband happily obliged.

“How’re you still so tight after four kids?” he grunted, slamming his hips into you from behind.

You didn't respond, too fucked out on his cock as his balls slapped against your swollen pussy. Instead, you pushed your ass against him, the couch shaking as you gasped into the cushions.

How many times had you cum? You didn’t know—you’d been too preoccupied with begging him to fill you up, as you were faced down and ass up.

“You’re so slutty, mommy.”

He growled and leaned forward, pressing his chest into your back, all while continuing his brutal pace, hitting that spot that had your eyes rolling into the back of your head.

Your body jerked forward with each thrust and there was nothing you could do to stop it, to stop him. He was relentless in his need to plant his seed in you, and it left you helpless to do anything but take it.

His large hand slid from your hip up to your tits, squeezing roughly, before rolling a nipple between his calloused fingers. The sound of your squelching pussy spurred him on, urging him to fill your empty womb to the brim. You didn’t think it was possible, but he somehow managed to fit in another inch.

“Gonna put another baby in you. You’d like that, huh?”

“Hnng I love it. Please, please baby, I want it. Cum in me,” you begged, tears pricking the corner of your eyes from the pleasure.

Caleb's fingers reached down to your clit, circling your sensitive bundle of nerves that brought you over the edge. As pleasure wracked your body, your mouth dropped open in a silent scream. It didn't help that he continued pumping his hips into you as he rode out his orgasm.

His hand lingered on your stomach, fingers pressing lightly as if he were mapping out his territory. You sighed, sinking into his embrace, completely missing the way his eyes darkened as he flipped you on to your back.

“Caleb!”

“That’s not my name.”

His lips found your breast, latching onto one of your nipples as his tongue flicked over the hardened peak. His other hand cupped and kneaded your other tit, pinching and fondling just enough to make you arch into him.

“Baby!”

“That’s more like it.”

He smirked against your skin, the warmth of his breath sending another wave of sensation through you. His lips moved from your chest to your neck, your jaw, your cheek, peppering kisses that made you giggle.

But there was nothing soft about the way he held you.

You didn’t the way he had meticulously designed your life to keep you tethered to him.

The kids, your beautiful babies, were his strongest hold over you. He knew you would never abandon them, and in turn, you would never abandon him. The chores, the cooking, the late nights when they were sick? He took it all upon himself, so you never had to worry.

So you’d never have to imagine what life could be like without him.

He made himself indispensable, carving himself into every aspect of your life until the mere thought of doing anything alone felt impossible.

All you saw was the perfect husband. The devoted father. The man who did everything for you, who loved you so much it was almost overwhelming.

Caleb’s lips curled into a slow, satisfied smile as the sharp chime of his phone interrupted the moment.

It was time to pick up the kids.

#love and deepspace #caleb smut #love and deepspace caleb #caleb lads #lads caleb #caleb love and deepspace #lnds caleb #caleb #caleb drabble #lads drabble #lnds drabble #caleb x reader

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kissingmilfs · 2 days ago

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˚☽˚.⋆ 𝒘𝒉𝒆𝒏 𝒉𝒆’𝒔 𝒏𝒐𝒕 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒆 | 𝒄𝒉𝒆𝒂𝒕𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒘𝒊𝒕𝒉 𝒔𝒆𝒗𝒊𝒌𝒂

18+ minors please dni. this is all purely fictional and no i do not condone cheating.

content warnings: cheating, douchebag boyfriend, fingering, masturbation, slight internalized homophobia (addressed more in later parts)

˚｡⋆୨ ʚɞ ୧⋆ ˚｡⋆ ˚｡⋆୨ ʚɞ ୧⋆ ˚｡⋆ ˚｡⋆୨ ʚɞ ୧⋆ ˚｡⋆ ˚｡⋆୨ ʚɞ ୧⋆

⋆. 𐙚 ̊ you met sevika at a night out with all your friends at a nightclub you had no business being at. you and your boyfriend were on another “break.” break entailing he says something really mean to you and you storm out and crash with someone until he apologizes.

⋆. 𐙚 ̊ you were leaned against the bar, looking rather bored and out of place when sevika approached. she did not necessarily come up to talk to you but you happened to have the only open seat left. and when she approached you cautiously stepped back and she quickly extended her prosthetic arm around your waist to keep you from colliding with the bar stool.

⋆. 𐙚 ̊ sevika didn’t even end up sitting in the stool. after her chivalry you insisted on buying her drink then leaving her alone. but now sevika was intrigued. you didn’t look like you came here often. she knew you didn’t. this was sevika’s favorite nightclub for a reason. mainly populated with lesbians; single, taken and everything between.

⋆. 𐙚 ̊ you were nothing of the sort. least not at first glance sevika thought. you wore a mini skirt and far too tight crop top. it looked like you were wearing someone else’s clothes. (you were).

⋆. 𐙚 ̊ sevika did accept your drink. then she easily coaxed you into shots. it only took one time asking and sevika calling you, doll, for you to oblige. then one shot turned to three.

⋆. 𐙚 ̊ then she was unexpectedly sweet. sevika made you drink a whole glass of water and ordered a plate of fries for you. you had insisted sevika have some between bites but she just shrugged and said she ate already.

⋆. 𐙚 ̊ somehow you both found yourselves on the dance floor. both your arms draped over sevika’s shoulder and bodies pressed firmly together as you sensually danced against her. you hadn’t felt so free in ages. and when you felt sevika’s hand on your ass—you hadn’t flinched or protested.

⋆. 𐙚 ̊ next thing you knew—sevika had you atop the bathroom sink with your lacy thong pooled around your ankles and two fingers deep within you. and she made these filthy animalistic noises in your ear. her hips thrusted with each stroke of her fingers. your head was tipped back against the mirror and you swore you saw heaven in that bathroom.

⋆. 𐙚 ̊ you never told anyone about what happened that night or where you ended up. your friends hadn’t bothered asking which you assumed they either knew and didn’t care. or they figured you were a wallflower most of the night.

⋆. 𐙚 ̊ you, like always, returned to your boyfriend. you spent two more nights with your friend then he came knocking on their door with a large bouquet of flowers and a puppy dog look in his eyes. so you forgave him and went home. and when he uncoordinatedly jerked off inside of you and grunted in your ear — you found yourself imagining it was sevika.

⋆. 𐙚 ̊ sevika hadn’t forgotten about you or that night either. she couldn’t. not when she took your pink thong in her back pocket. not when she rubbed herself with it almost every night while she held. she couldn’t get the noises of your mewls, or pathetic attempts to quiet down out of her head. if she thought hard enough—she could still feel how unbelievably wet and warm you were on her fingers.

⋆. 𐙚 ̊ sevika went back to the club every night in hopes you’d show up. she fucked some random girl in the alley the first night looking for you but was so disgusted with herself—she threw up after the girl went back inside.

⋆. 𐙚 ̊ on the second week of looking for you—sevika stumbled in line for street tacos and somehow saw you. you were there. with…a man? with his arm around your shoulder. and whispering in your ear. but the look on your face was distant and glazed over. and not in a good way.

⋆. 𐙚 ̊ something had told you to look up. it gnawed at the front of your head. when you lifted your eyes finally—you immediately locked eyes with those intense grey eyes.

⋆. 𐙚 ̊ you had made up some excuse to leave the table which your boyfriend didn’t even second guess. sevika cornered you behind the food truck—somehow towering over you more than she had that night. and when you opened your mouth to explain sevika simply didn’t care. you could’ve had two kids with a husband and she wouldn’t have cared.

⋆. 𐙚 ̊ her lips swallow any explanation and pour out the two weeks of searching and missing you. sevika tasted like tobacco and whiskey. you tasted like salsa verde and pineapple jaritos. she knew you missed her too because you whimpered into the kiss and immediately latched your arms around her neck.

⋆. 𐙚 ̊ sevika left that night with your number and three of each taco on the menu.

#sevika x reader #sevika x you #sevika x y/n #arcane #sevika #when he’s not there!au

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numinousher · 3 days ago

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AROUND ME ── zayne.

SUMMARY… let him say a few words before you go out

AUTHOR’S NOTE… was listening to darte un beso by prince royce and so here it is

CONTAINS… dirty talk (kinda), zayne down bad he wants to devour you

Zayne was a gentleman through and through.

He loved relishing in the fact that he had manners and he could exceed expectations, that he knew he could treat his lover with gentleness they needed in their chaotic life, and he loved knowing that despite his flaws, he could love with his entire being without it being an issue.

But he had his needs like anyone else. Especially when he sees you wrapped in a pretty tight dress that you bought with his card—he insisted on you doing so.

It was snug, it was tight, it was short, though not too short. You could still bend down and not be exposed, which you had tested out to tease him and so he could see. After all, your comfortability was the top priority.

“Does it look pretty?” You asked, staring at yourself in the mirror you had installed in the corner of your shared room. You looked at him through the mirror once you heard nothing but silence from him.

He was leaning back on the palms of his hands, his tie undone, the first few buttons of his dress shirt undone, and his glasses perched on the bridge of his nose. He looked so delicious manspreading on the edge of the bed looking at you as if he could devour you.

As always though, he contained himself as best as he could. You had him wrapped around your pretty little finger, he wasn’t sure how long he could contain himself.

He lifted his lips a little, adjusting himself, as he cleared his throat. “You look beautiful.”

“Not me, silly,” you lightly giggled. You fixed the sleeves of your dress and the neckline of it since it was an off-shoulder dress. “I feel like it would look better with a necklace, right?”

He tilted his head back to look at you. He eyed your figure up and down, eyeing the way your thighs just called to him. God, he was such a gentleman but the things he wanted to do to you in front of the mirror was anything but. He wanted to bend you over the bed, to have you, take you, devour you, taste you, and fill you up until you could feel him for days. He felt himself shudder in need at the sensation.

You turned to face him once he stayed quiet again.

“Zayne?” You called out, catching his attention. He hummed in response, still staring at you. “I’m asking you a question.”

At your little whine, a small chuckle escaped his lips. He patted his lap. “Come here,” he muttered. You happily obliged and did so. He wrapped an arm around your waist and the other stayed perched on your soft legs draped over his thighs. “You look beautiful.”

“Really?”

“Of course, angel,” he whispered, placing kisses on your bare shoulder.

“It’s not too much?”

“No, never,” he continued to speak in a low tone. “Nothing’s ever too much. It’s perfect. God…” he picked your hand up and placed kisses on your knuckles and trailed them up to your shoulder. He then left them on the nape of your neck, your scent invading his nose. “So beautiful. Just beautiful.”

“Zayne.”

“You make me lose my patience,” he lowly spoke into your ear as he softly moaned at feeling your flesh. You were so warm and soft. “I want you in a way I didn’t know I could want somebody. Your face, your body… you truly are a vision.”

“Ugh, marry me already,” you huffed, rather amused at his reaction.

He moved you so you could straddle him and placed his rather soft palms on your thighs that were resting on either side of his hips. He ran them up and down.

“You want a pretty ring?” He softly asked, his fingers moving up to bring down the dress that was rising on your shoulder. You nodded. “You know I’ll give you the moon if you ask me to, I’ll get you that pretty ring, okay? I’ll give it to you because you want it and because I want it.”

His lips went to your cheek, softly kissing you there and the corner of your lip. “Be my beautiful bride. Mine. Share my last name and have me because I’m yours aren’t I?” You placed a hand on your jawline, tilting your head up so you could make direct eye contact with him. “Aren’t I?”

You nodded. “Yes,” you said in a hushed voice, almost as if you were sharing a secret.

“And I will gladly give myself to you,” he continued to spew in a tone so gentle a shiver ran down your spine. “I already do but, the thought of being your husband…” he inhaled and exhaled as if the new title excited him. And it did. “Not even Heaven itself can take me away from you. I’m yours forever you hear me?”

You nodded as he looked into your eyes, his nose gently bumping itself onto yours. His breath fanned over your lips as he spoke.

“Say it. Say I’m yours forever.”

“You’re mine forever,” you whispered.

“And I love you, with my entire being,” he hummed. He softly pecked your lips before taking off his glasses in a hurry and placing them on the nightstand. He grabbed your face and kissed you deeply. “I’ll give you anything. Anything you want.”

You giggled into the kiss. “I’m just gonna go out with friends.”

”Go and have some fun,” he said, kissing you. “Go and eat, laugh, and enjoy your time. I’ll be home waiting until you’re back in my arms and I can take you, I can be inside you…” his chest heaved up and down rapidly, his breath picking up. “I can make you cum until your legs are quivering and trembling and the only word you know how to utter out of those pretty lips is my name.”

You let out a small gasp at his choice of words.

“Zayne—”

“You’re so beautiful,” he said in between kisses. “Let me savor you before you have fun.”

You let him do so and the two of you continue making out until Tara calls you. Even when she does so, though, Zayne continues kissing your neck, leaving behind some marks here and there. It’s not a lot, but if you flipped your hair over your shoulder, the marks would be visible.

“I’m here!” Tara exclaimed rather excitedly.

“Okay, okay, just give me 5 minutes to put on my heels,” you smiled as you stood up.

Zayne followed after, grabbing your heels and kneeling down in front of you. You continued to speak to Tara about the restaurant you were heading with your other friends as Zayne fixed the straps of your heels. He kissed your ankles before standing up.

“You’re good to go, beautiful,” he whispered, leading you towards the front door as you hung up. You grabbed your purse and watched as he took out his card. “Remember, if your friends are drinking, let me know and I’ll pick you guys up, okay?” You nodded and he leaned down to kiss you. “I’ll miss you.”

“I’ll miss you,” you smiled. “I love you.”

“I love you.” As you began to walk towards Tara’s car waiting by the front gate, he grabbed your forearm and brought you closer to him. He leaned down to whisper in your ear. “Don’t drink too much. I want you sober so you can feel my tongue tasting you. Maybe if you’re good, I’ll allow you to cum.”

He gave you one last kiss on the forehead before he let you go. You gulped and walked away, your body heating up with desire.

Tara waved at him. “Bye, Zayne! I’ll take care of her!”

He briefly waved, leaning against the doorway as he watched you. He smiled to himself before walking inside.

You cleared your throat and got inside the car, fixing your dress.

“Girl, you okay?”

“Fine.”

#lads zayne #love and deepspace imagines #love and deepspace zayne #love and deepspace #lads mc #lads #lads x reader #love and deepspace x reader

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zanarkandss · 3 days ago

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the perks of having a teleslate

phainon/reader: 656 words; established relationship; mentions of rough sex; phainon is whipped but also very down to ruin you; gn reader; nsfw (minors dni)

part of the reason i wrote this was bc i kept making jokes about how the hell they were gonna deal w phones in ancient greece. well turns out they did and also gave a guy a gun. so what do i know.

Phainon’s wallpaper is you. You’re pretty sure he had you as his teleslate screen before you got together - ‘It’s what best friends do!’ he’d told you, grin plastered on his face. He even rotates the image out on a weekly basis, wanting to make sure he captures every moment of your life.

It’s a sweet sentiment, really. You’re just…slightly concerned for his storage space. Surely it’s getting full by now? You’ll ask to go through his phone and he’ll hand you his teleslate no questions asked, and you can’t help but put your head in your hands at how many photos he’s got of you. Some of these, you have no idea when he’s managed to take them, or how he’s managed to convince your friends to send him photos of you when you’re not with him.

(‘What did you bribe them with?’

‘Who?’ You glare at him. ‘Ahem. Aglaea gets to go through my wardrobe and sort through it. She said she’d keep what you bought me, though, and said it was a blessing you had—‘

‘No more, please. I can't fault her for that.’)

Oh, and Titan’s forbid you try to delete any. He’d swiftly pull the device up and away out of reach, using his height against you. Only when you provide him with the number of kisses he wants (a lot) will he let you go through them again. If you want to delete them, he’ll allow you, though, not without going on about what the photo means to him. Losing to him is an inevitability; you end up way too flustered to let him continue to harp on about how much he loved you in this single moment. That he can do that for each of the photos he has is…a bit too much for your heart.

Well, at least he has the other ones of you hidden. They’re behind another app, something benign that no one would go on. And even then there’s a passcode. He’d whined about wanting to get some photos of the two of you having sex so that he could have something to use while he was away from you.

You found it hard to say no. After all, he’s so earnest, and a hero to boot. Who else could reward him with something like this?

Now, whenever he feels it right, he’ll take a photo. Maybe a quick video too, if he’s daring, though he’d much rather tend to you. These photos you don’t really realise he takes at that moment. You tend to be too fucked out, malleable to his whims as he grips your cheeks with one hand to get you to look into the camera, eyes bleary and body covered with bites. There are others as well. Some, where your face is pressed into the pillows and he pushes you down so hard you can see the veins in his arms. Others, where he’s got you laying on his chest, too tired to sit up to ride him properly, make-up streaked down your face. They’re always followed up with pictures where he’ll be stroking your hair, gentle, placating, as if he didn’t put you in this situation in the first place.

Not that you’ve got room to complain. He tends to you well. Maybe you’re more annoyed at the fact he calls it ‘making love’ like some young pining maiden instead of a man who can fold you in half and ruin you until morning comes, only stopping because he has duties to attend to instead of being left drained of all energy.

Still, you love him. And he loves you too. You’re the only one he’d ever dream of being with like this, the one he wants to see the future of Amphoreus with. And if anything comes between him and that dream? Well, he’s enough strength to protect your honour. He is not a Chrysos Heir for nothing, after all.

#honkai star rail x reader #hsr x reader #phainon x reader #phainon #hsr smut #bb. works #bb. nsft #i firmly believe he is more of a freak than mydei #idk i need to dissect his brain

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bewaryofpity · 2 days ago

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hello lovely, can i get angst with fluffy end #9 with jack Hughes

thank you for requesting ! 🫶🏻

9. “You're in love with me?!” “You just found out?”

The night had gone from bad to worse. You were hopeful in the beginning, your date seemed actually interested in getting to know you, but it soon turned into a one-sided cconversation as he kept talking about himself and only himself. You couldn’t wait for him to stop talking, to finally get the check, pay your part – because you knew he wouldn’t pay himself – and leave.

And so you used the good old excuse. You texted Jack to come pick you up, to call you and make it seem like there was an emergency. The guy in front of you seemed too absorbed in himself to notice your relieved expression as he rolled his eyes at you while telling you not to worry about the bill and to leave already. You were left sitting outside the restaurant, arms crossed, irritation simmering under your skin as you waited for Jack to pick you up.

Jack’s car pulled up to the curb, headlights sweeping over you and when he stopped, you yanked open the passenger door and slid in, slamming it harder than necessary.

“That bad, huh?” He asked, glancing at you before pulling back into traffic.

“You have no idea.” You muttered, staring out the window. Jack was quiet for a moment, looking over at you before speaking up again.

“I told you he wasn't worth your time.”

You turned to him, brow furrowing. “That’s exactly what I need to hear right now. Thank you, Jack”

“I’m just saying,” he continued, gripping the steering wheel a little tighter, “you always go for the wrong guys. It’s like you’re determined to set yourself up for disappointment.”

You scoffed, crossing your arms and focusing on the blurred city lights passing by through the window. His words hung in the air, all the frustration in your chest turning into fear, uncertainty, dread – it was uncomfortable. He wasn’t really wrong, you were chasing after something that could replace Jack, something that could make you forget how being in love with your best friend was a bad idea, and that was probably the reason why all your dates failed. Because nothing, no one could replace Jack. You let out a slow breath, your reflection staring back at you from the glass.

Jack sighed. “Look, I’m just trying to look out for you.”

“Well, maybe I don’t need you to.”

Silence stretched between you again. The car rumbled softly as he drove, his fingers tapping against the steering wheel. After what felt like an eternity, he spoke, voice quieter now. “Do you really not see it?”

“See what?” You turned to face him, eyebrows raised.

His knuckles turned white from the tense grip he had on the steering wheel, eyes fixed on the road as he exhaled sharply through his nose. “You’re always looking for something that’s been right in front of you this whole time.”

You frowned. “What are you talking about?”

He pulled the car into your driveway and turned off the engine, hands falling on his lap. He shifted in his seat to look at you with an unreadable expression.

“I’m talking about me.” He said, voice steady despite the stiffness his body.

“What?”

Jack let out a humorless laugh, shaking his head. “You’re in love with me?!” You blurted out before you could stop yourself.

“You just found out?” He shot back, a wry smile playing on his lips, though his eyes held something deeper, something vulnerable.

Your heart pounded against your ribs as his words settled over you. Jack. Your best friend. The one who had always been there, the one who knew you better than anyone else. He was in love with you.

You searched his face, trying to process the weight of his confession. And he was doing the same, searching your face for hesitation or regret. But there was none. He knew you better than anyone, the rapid realization that maybe, just maybe, everything you’d been searching for had been beside you all along finally appeared in your eyes.

The corner of his mouth lifted. “So… what now?”

“Take me on a date.”

#v day special !#jack hughes blurb #jack hughes x reader #jack hughes one shot #jack hughes x y/n #jack hughes #jack hughes x you #jack hughes fluff #jack hughes fic #nhl x reader #nhl one shot #nhl x you #nhl fic

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bump1nthen1ght · 3 days ago

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The Family Jewels (Pt. 3/4)

Pairing: M!Vampire!Father-In-Law x F!Reader x M!Vampire!Husband

Genre: Regency, Gothic, Dark, Yandere, Pining

Chapter Summary: You didn't think your new home could become any stranger. Shadows have started to follow you, the night no longer the safe haven it once was. It leads you to the one person who may be able to help.

Series Warnings: Obsessive + Controlling Behavior, Fucked up Family Dynamics, Confinement, Misogyny, Future Non-Con, Degradation, Angst, Jealousy

Chapter Warnings: Stalking, Isolation, Slight Infantilization of Reader

A/N: The penultimate chapter 👀. Had a lot of fun with this series and I hope y'all have too! Last Chapter should be coming out sometime later this week/early this week. It's gonna be quite a doozy 😈

Part 1 Part 2

You think someone is watching you.

You didn’t think the eeriness of your home could be more uncomfortable, but the unmistakable feeling of attention has made it so. Only worsened by the fact you have no understanding of whose attention it is. Your first thought was perhaps the staff, but you can’t imagine months of your droll day-to-day life would suddenly gain their attention. Not when they skirt around you, ignoring all attempts to make conversations or eye contact, just as they’ve always done.

You’d learned to enjoy the solitude of your home, to be content with your own company. Reading, wandering the grounds, pondering the sky was now your beloved routine, not a prison of listlessness. But now you whip your head around at the slightest shadow. Something prickles on the back of your neck at odd moments, uneasy shivers coming down your spine when you turn the corner, your fight-or-flight instincts expecting something there.

The only other two options would be your father-in-law and your husband. The prior is an obvious no, well aware he confines himself to his study during the day so he may work in peace. The latter is absent during the daytime, supposedly sticking to his habit of sleeping with the sun, so you’re left with no clues.

To make it all worse is the fact that your husband has been present for dinner lately; Every night for the past week, to be precise. It seems to be the one meal he deems worthy of being awake for. But you figured that this was another kink to get used too, surely a momentary lapse before he returned to the routine.

But then he started talking to you.

—

“Was your day enjoyable?”

Your husband opened with, as if this was a normal dinner and you were in a normal marriage.

You hesitate to respond, convincing yourself that you had misheard one of the servants. Caleb isn’t even looking you in the eye, focused instead on cutting his steak.

“Well?” He juts in, right before taking a large bite. It's only then you realize it was in fact him speaking and in fact you who he was speaking to.

“I suppose so.” You finally deign as a well enough response. A suitably polite answer. “It was nothing remarkable.”

“Hmm.” He says, chewing on his wad of meat as he takes a sip of that curious wine of his. You return to your food, figuring that is the end of that. One of your husband's many irregularities, that was all. “What did you partake in?”

That brings you pause, halting your fork, currently being used to awkwardly move around fingerling potatoes. Your appetite starts to leave you.

“...Some of the books from the library.” Your stab at a potato, wishing you could dissent from proprietary like he could and eat through this conversation. “The estate has quite a robust collection. Especially the astronomy section.”

The sound of cutlery scraping against porcelain makes you wince, draws your full attention to your husband. For a second, you swear his eyebrow twitches.

“I see.” He stabs his steak like it’s a vicious enemy, and rips away another piece. “Anything else?”

Why are you doing this?

You desperately want to ask. You swallow that urge down.

“I began a new cross stitch today.” You swallow. “My skills are unfortunately unrefined, but I found some beautiful thread I forgot my sister had packed away when-” I was shipped off “-when I first moved in. I’m planning to embroider a Mourning Dove.”

It had been more comforting than you expected, cross-stitching. Forever it had been a habit your mother forced upon you, imploring that good embroidery was only right for a proper lady to know. Now, all alone and homesick, it felt nice to create something that could fly away.

“Hmm.” Caleb says, and that is the end of it. What follows is uncomfortable minutes of silence. Too uncomfortable to eat, you gently push your plate away and stand up, another informal curtsy and a “good night”, hoping that would be the end.

It unfortunately was not.

Edric had let you know the night prior that he’d be busier these upcoming weeks, several meetings with important men or something of that matter keeping him away for the nights as well as the days. You told him it was no issue, even though your heart had tugged at the idea of spending those dark hours alone.

To your great shock, upon arriving at your favorite spot in the garden, your husband is there. Not lounging as he did before, but sitting on the bench. Your bench.

“I did not know you had finished dinner.” You remark, trying to act less flustered than you were. Months ago you would have rejoiced at this change of pace, so bored and listless. But now it left you feeling more than a little aggravated.

“I did shortly after you.” He says, actually acknowledging you with a look over his shoulder. Weirdly, a bottle does not accompany his side. “Thought I’d go for a walk. It is quite a big garden.”

I’m not here for you. He seemed to scream with every word, his very soul. You don’t why know he’s being so insistent, he’s made that opinion very clear in every other interaction so far.

“I see.” You parrot, a surge of obstinance making you bolder than normal, sitting down next to him. This was your favorite spot, you refuse to give it up to him on a whim.

It brings great satisfaction when he scoots away, his body jerking, clearly surprised by you being so close. You’re sure he thought you all figured out, some girl he could walk over whenever he pleased.

You don’t bother speaking first, figuring his stint during dinner was a temporary lapse in judgement. His sheer disinterest made it clear it was from a source of boredom, not genuine curiosity, which spurred this change. Surely, that was the end-

“That’s Cassiopeia.” Caleb says, his long hand, usually adorned with a bottle, points at the night sky. When you don’t respond immediately, he goes to lengths of drawing the ‘W’ shape with his finger.

“..Ah, yes it is.” You say, surprised that he has continued talking to you and that he knows any constellation. “She is quite beautiful. Though, I suppose that is part of why she is in the sky in the first place.” You chuckle at the joke, the mood quickly souring when Caleb doesn’t, looking at you like a strange sort of insect.

Edric would’ve laughed.

“And from her,” Caleb traces his hands away from Cassiopeia to another, “-You can find her daughter, Andromache.”

“Andromeda.” The words whip out immediately, before you can think better of it, although your tone is gentle. Caleb turns to look at you, wordlessly once more. For a second, you wonder if he’ll snap at your correction. “Her daughter is Andromeda, not Andromache. Andromache was Hector’s wife.”

Caleb pauses for a moment, retracting his hand.

“Hm.” He hums and turns away.

The awkward atmosphere lingers afterwards, and you almost feel bad for correcting him. You hadn't meant it as a criticism, just as a reminder.

But that just makes you more upset. Why should you care how Caleb feels about your words, unintentional or not? He has made no such consideration for your feelings during your time here, nor does he seem to intend to anytime in the future. He’s a cad, a rake, he could stand to be knocked down a peg or too.

Luckily, the rest of the night is blissfully quiet. You try your best to bat away any lingering feelings of anxiety or awkwardness, simply savoring what you could.

—

Caleb isn’t sure what he is doing.

It was bad enough foregoing his rest and haunting you like a phantom, chasing this incessant new urge of his. Like picking at a scab you know would be healed if left alone, he can’t seem to resist. His body follows you naturally now, using his more inhuman qualities to blend in the shadows, avoiding the poisonous daylight and lingering on your every move. You make it too easy with your rhythmic movements, keeping regular in your entertainment about the house. If not in the library, you were in the garden having tea. If not in the garden having tea, you were embroidering on the lounge. What should be so dreadfully boring is now enrapturing, although it is wounding it feels too good to stop.

Look at him now, bumbling around like a fool, words falling out his mouth like hail against your soft skin. Even when he does catch your attention and get a genuine response, he loses himself in the memories of said moments, reimagining it as vividly as he saw it from the shadows. He remembers the jump of excitement when you found a new book on Greek Mythology on the shelf, having thought you had already read them all. He remembers the look you made when you had made a mistake in your embroidery, your brow furrowed as you undid your stitches. When focused on your work, a tiny sliver of your tongue would sit out at your mouth, something he’s sure your mother scolded you for time and time again. By the time his mind got back to him you were leaving, the same curt response and rigid curtsy as before.

Desperate for a fix, he even ambushed you at your stargazing spot. He could barely look you in the eye, too nervous you would see through his ruse, point and laugh at his boyishness. It was made even worse when you sat near him, tantalizing him with your blood and the beating of your heart, which sang to his very ears.

“That’s Cassiopeia.” Caleb attempts, wondering if this will have greater success. Given your silence, he wondered if perhaps his maker hadn’t pointed it out to you yet. Pride fills his chest as he traces out her shape, wondering what look you have in your eyes.

“..Ah, yes it is.” You reply, and Caleb’s monstrous heart skips a beat. “She is quite beautiful. Though, I suppose that is part of why she is in the sky in the first place.”

Caleb freezes, caught off his rhythm, you giggle making him realize that he isn’t understanding something. The disappointed look on your face feels like a blade in his stomach.

He should be angry, furious even. It had been years since anyone had made him feel this way, this inferiority. He had outgrown that, had ripped it out with his own bleeding heart and tossed it outside.

“And from her,” Caleb pivots, hoping the skills of aloofness can work in favor “-You can find her daughter, Andromache.”

“Andromeda.” Caleb’s stomach turns. Frozen in his best laid plans, this windstorm of his wife has blown them away. “Her daughter is Andromeda, not Andromache. Andromache was Hector’s wife.”

It’s all he can do to not scream at that moment. But he fears that too will be as awkward and foolish as the rest of his words, choosing instead to say nothing. To his consternation and relief, you follow suit and do not speak as well, returning to your own stargazing.

When you eventually retire, Caleb should go out. He should find the nearest beast and rip their throat, soak in their blood and be reminded that he was the fearsome beast. He was not the stupid farm boy, he was an unholy abomination built to feast and terrorize.

Instead he paces around his room, wondering what he should say. He looks in the mirror at his facade self, the beautiful face that makes ladies of all classes swoon, and wonders what would catch your eye.

You were smart, clearly, smarter than he anticipated. He thinks you might be catching onto his voyeur-tendencies, once or twice hiding around a corner and popping out, as if to confront your own shadow. Once, when he had left your book an inch or two over from where you had left it, you returned to the room with a quirk in your eyebrow. You had searched the room up and down, even flagged down a servant to ask if anyone had cleaned the library recently.

He had assumed your quietness came from a dull demeanor, just as boring as one would expect from the “wife.” But you had good humor. He saw you joking around with his creator, possibly the stodgiest vampire to ever roam the world, and even make jests of your own. You had tried with him tonight, although it seemed to fly over his head. And you seemed to enjoy dancing, like most ladies, if the way you hummed and swayed down the halls when you thought you were alone was enough indication. These were all things he was used to; Wining and dining ladies with his good charm and superb dancing skills, yet he found himself at a standstill.

His head falls into his hands, a frustrated hunger stirring in his gut. He needs to feed. At least that was an aching he could satisfy.

—

A whole fortnight of this. No peace, no privacy, no respite from the dreadfulness of the estate. During the day you tremored, aware that someone followed in your footsteps but not who it was. During the night all sense of comfort was robbed by him, your husband who, after several months of blissful avoidance, could not leave your side.

The conversations had not gotten better since the first. Mostly one sided, your husband seemed to force himself through every word, barely listening when it was your turn to speak. You don’t know why he bothers with the painful effort, his head off in the clouds, clearly wishing he was somewhere else. It's worse than the silence by a landslide, and you find yourself begging for your husband to start ignoring you again.

But like every one before it, your wishes go unanswered. The pain of it all forces you to focus, to try and find the source of this newfound vigor for this falsehood of a marriage.

All your hypotheses lead you back to one person. One person whom, unlike your husband, could hopefully be reasoned with.

—

You make quick work to scurry out of the dining hall after another painful dinner, hoping the distraction of his meal will keep your husband from noticing your divergence from routine.

Striding deeper into the bowels of the estate reminds you of just how unsettling the rest of the house feels. Each hallway is cleaned too perfectly, each decoration too precisely placed. You never knew furniture could feel so cold, that the sterility of a cleanliness would be so unnerving. It felt as if no one had ever really walked these halls, not for a long, long time.

But you push on, too determined in your mission. You had finally been able to corner a maid during the day, making up a vague excuse for returning a book to have her point the way to the Earl’s office. You’re happy you had the forethought to write it down, sure the enticing darkness around each corner and the amount of turns would’ve befuddled you. But with your trusty papers, you're able to navigate yourself to a beautiful mahogany door, befit with a golden knob and intimidating presence.

Why must everything in this place feel so hostile?

You ponder, wondering if the architect of this place had a hatred of joy and fresh air. But you digress, rapping your knuckles onto the thick door frame. Through the wood you can faintly hear the scribbles of an ink pen and the focused voice of The Earl.

“You may enter.”

His tone lacks the familiarity you’ve grown used to. For a discomforting second it reminds you of Caleb, not of these past two weeks but the months before. You banish that thought away. They are father and son, it is only natural.

“Sir?” You default to polite terms, peaking your head past the grand entrance. Even now the study feels untouchable, makes you hesitant to walk inside so boldly.

The Earl quickly leans his head up, shoulders falling down and a smile gracing his lips. You smother your fluttering heart, reminding yourself of your mission.

“My dear, I was not expecting you.” Edric stands with a dramatic push of his chair, setting his ink pen into its pot. “I apologize, but I fear I cannot join you again tonight. There is still much work to be done.” Edric taps his fingers against his desk.

“Oh it is no issue, Si-Edric. I understand completely.” Finally comfortable enough, you enter the room completely and shut the door behind you. Though this does little to calm your nerves, both for the conversation you must have and the idea of being alone in a room with him. As silly as it is, the hesitance of being alone with a man who is not your husband lingers, even if it is someone proper like your father-in-law. “I actually wish-” You words catch, but you will the butterflies in your stomach away, “-I wish to talk to you about something else. If you are available to it.”

Edric’s brow quirks, a minor change in his usually flawless face. For the very first time, he looks caught off guard.

“Of course, my dear.” Edric pulls out a chair for you to sit, moving his own so the desk won’t block you from each other. You nod in thanks, knees knocking together. You were never great at confrontation, and after finally finding peace in your new home, you fear disturbing and ruining what you have.

But Caleb is doing a fine job of that all on his own.

Your hands fiddle with each other in your lap, forcefully distracting you from making eye contact with Edric. He sits now with his ankles crossed, his arms resting on the sides, looking all like a king receiving his subject. Given his authority and your desperation, he might as well be.

“Now, what would you like to speak about?”

“I-” You swallow the lump in your throat, “I would like to start with my appreciation for your kind intentions, as I know it is what most likely drove you to act in such a way.” Your finger bones ache with how tightly you clench them. “That I appreciate you taking the effort to…encourage Caleb to spend more time with me.” Encourage is probably the incorrect word. If you knew anything about your husband ‘bribed’ was most definitely more accurate. It is the only thing that would make sense given recent circumstances. “But while I understand why you would think such a move was for the best, I’d like to implore that it is not necessary.”

You can hear a pin drop, your father-in-law quiet as the dead. It urges you to keep speaking, to fill the uncomfortable silence with something. At the least to release the issues from your mind, to get them off your chest.

“I know you are a good and honorable man, and that from the outside I must look so pitiful to you. That my lonesome nature most likely urged you to aid in my companionship, but I have found much happiness in this place in these past months. I see it as my home, and I do not mind the quiet.” You’ve released the fabric of your dress, moving instead to the fascinating shapes of your palm lines. Still, you proceed. “As…uncouth as my husbands, they seem to make him happy. He does not seem to enjoy the quiet nights like you and I do.”

A heat decorates the apples of your cheeks, spreading all the way down your neck and up to the tips of your ears. It seems silly looking back on it, having more in common with a man no doubt twice your age than your own husband.

“So, if you could speak to him and let him know that he is free to live as he likes, that he should not feel responsible for me, I would most appreciate it. Please tell him that I am quite happy with the way things were before.”

With you.

Your twisting heart does not know if it wants Edric to understand that unspoken sentiment.

The tapping of Edric’s fingernails on the chair arm finally pulls you attention, sounding cacophonous in the void created. It draws your eyes to finally look Edric head on, to gauge his reaction. Unfortunately, his reserved face leaves it difficult for you to do so.

“I see.” Edric finally breaks it, his fingers speeding up in their rapping. Something squeezes in your chest, wondering if perhaps you’ve offended him with your presumptions.

“I did not-” You bluster, trying to explain before he assumes anything. But a wave of Edric hands stops you in your tracks.

“I am not offended, dear.” The Early gives a gentle smile, a nod to show the truth of his word. Relief washes over you. “I am simply…surprised.”

You swallow your response. As attentive and understanding as Edric is, he is still a man, still subject to misunderstandings of a woman’s true heart. While Caleb is quite handsome, it takes much more good looks and the bare minimum to curry your favor.

“I shall speak to him.” Edric finally commands, standing up from his seat and sending you scurrying to do so on your own. A bubbling feeling fills your chest, the relief of knowing things will finally return to normal. At least the nights.

“Thank you, Edric.”

“It is no problem.” Edric says with a wave of his hand. “I commend you for bringing it up with me promptly. I understand that can be a difficult feat, especially when I am such a recluse.”

That lightens your mood even more, giving you a gentle giggle.

“I think you presume too much of your intimidation, good sir.” You lie, as if you were not petrified of facing him not 10 minutes ago. That fear seems silly now. Of course Edric would listen, when hasn’t he?

You don’t notice the way Edric’s tongue flicks out to wet his lips, the way his eyes for only a second dip down to your collarbone.

“Perhaps I do.” Edric pats the back of his seat. “Well, while I do enjoy your company, I'm afraid I must get back to work. Shall I escort you to your room?”

“Oh that won’t be necessary. I wouldn’t want to disturb and I am quite confident I can find my way.” You weren’t really, but you also were not ready to admit that to him.

“Then I bid you goodnight, my dear.” Edric nods his head, quickly moving his chair back behind his desk, no doubt to resume his business. You drop into a small curtsy yourself, a new energy in your steps as you leave. Even with the labyrinthine task of returning to your room ahead of you, you can’t be despondent.

You have a feeling things are taking a change for the better.

—

It takes everything in Edric’s immortal power to not burst into laughter the second the door closes behind you. Even with the thick wood as a barrier and your inferior human hearing, Edric is sure his cackling could be heard from miles away.

He had planned to court you slowly. Push the boundaries of his affection with every visit, subtly make you dependent on his touch and his closeness. Then, he would pull away, make you truly long for him. It would make his return all the more dramatic, hopefully swell your emotions to such a size that you would not turn away more uncouth behavior. A hug, a kiss to the cheek, maybe even a peck to your soft lips.

But now his son had revealed his hand, clumsily so. Scrambling to hold on to the toy now that it was being swept away, every bit the petulant child. He had made his own desperate move for your affections and was failing miserably.

It's cruel how much glee that gives him, Edric thinks, chuckling into his hands. He needs to remind his son that such obvious peacocking is hardly a foolproof strategy, teach him subtler ways of luring and ensnaring prey, nonetheless a partner. The boy had been riding on his good looks and inhuman charm for too long.

Ahh yes, and you. Who came to him, who chose him. Who ran into his arms and pleaded for safety. How could he not give it to you? His sweet dearest, his darling future. Edric’s nails dig into his palms and he’s sure if his heart still beated, it’d be racing a mile a minute. A palpable thirst burns in the back of his throat, one Edric knows won't be satisfied by any half-thought meal.

This has all but confirmed it: plans are changing. It seems the timeline for his machinations are moving up, given your clear displeasure. Who is he to deny you?

#my writing #reader insert #monster x reader #monster romance #female reader insert #x reader #vampire x reader #vampires #regency #gothic #yandere #series #yandere x reader #monster fucker

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your-turn-to-role · 3 days ago

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okay so i haven't watched the episode and honestly i don't think i'm going to, there's a lot i've heard about what's happened with vm that i really don't know how i feel about yet

but it's been a long time since the cast were playing c1, huh

like i don't blame them if they've forgotten or moved on from the themes of it, it was a decade ago and sometimes this stuff changes

but as far as the characters go, like. yeah, loving people and losing them was keyleth's worst fear, and they all knew that from the start

vax let the choice to be in a relationship be hers because he didn't want to push her into something that would inevitably be traumatic for her

(and he even apologised when he died because "i've confirmed your worst fears and then some")

but loving vax was the start of her overcoming that! he's always had a huge heart despite the losses he's been through and he wears it on his sleeve. his entire philosophy is best summed up by his quote to vex in 72, when she's beating around the bush about admitting she likes percy, "what the fuck do we have in this world except moments with each other? that's all we've got. [...] you know what's awkward? a life not lived."

when the rest of vm tries to turn inwards and isolate themselves as protection vax drags them back together again because he knows the best remedy for a broken heart isn't to shut yourself off but to love even stronger in spite of it. and keyleth agreeing to be with him was proof some of that got through to her

and then there was kerrek, who saw that she was afraid of every step she took, because she knew she would live to see the consequences, she plotted out everything she did under the assumption she might come to regret it centuries from now. and he told her she had the soul of a gardener, and that was a good thing for a leader to have. but sometimes as a fighter, you need the soul of a blacksmith, who knows that when a project goes wrong you melt it down and try again. and he gave her a ring, as a reminder that even for a gardener, some seeds only flourish after they've been burned

and to the most important episode in keyleth's entire arc, her twisted mirror sprigg. sprigg terrified her because where everyone else looked at him and saw a kooky old man, she saw, in crystal clarity, her future. a retired adventurer who'd shirked his duty out of spite, who lived in utter isolation, all his friends dead so long ago he didn't even remember their names.

but (ignoring for now all the other potential consequences of that particular choice by bells hells) they helped him find himself again. they helped him find meaning in service to ioun, and in ioun's library, where nothing is ever forgotten. and once he was given a reason to remember, he realised none of their names had ever left him. a friendship that meaningful cannot be erased by time, and if you lose it, you can always find it again

she had all the coping mechanisms and support a narrative could provide. and while "how am i supposed to get over you if you keep sending ravens to me?" "i am imperfect, as are the gods" lives forever in my mind, i wonder how the vax of c1 would feel, seeing this

The thing that kills me about Keyleth getting Vax back is how anti character development it is for her.

Her horror at how her increased lifespan will inevitably result in her outliving people she loves is something introduced in campaign one, and losing Vax is the very first taste of that inevitability. Campaign three shows us Keyleth as a woman who has spent thirty years refusing to move on and develop a healthy relationship with grief, still terrified by the prospect of outliving those she loves. And then she gets her dead boyfriend back, and he's immortal now, so she'll never lose him again.

It's pathetic! It's sad! It's kicking the can down the road! What's she gonna do when Percy dies? Grog? Every friend she has besides her immortal dead bf? Is her social circle just gonna close up further and further till it's just her and Vax for a thousand years, because Keyleth never learned how to mourn people she loves while also forming new meaningful relationships, and was in fact rewarded by the narrative for refusing to do so?

#weirdly enough i think if vax had just been mortal again i'd have been fine with this #it's been long enough for it to still have meaning #and there's still interesting things to explore in regards to his character here #but half the reason im hesitant to watch this episode is i don't know if i trust the narrative to hold up against c1 #and yeah all this does seem a little like spitting on keyleth's character arc (even though i get why this is what marisha would want)#(it would be different if there hadn't been such a huge timeskip both in and out of game between the end of c1 and now)#(but every time keyleth's been dragged back into the spotlight it's been to twist the knife further on the vax thing)#(and also bc they haven't been rping all that time keyleth is essentially frozen how she was)#(so of course she wants an end to that! but it does make for a very stilted and weird story when you try to look at it objectively)#(honestly when you look at it from that angle it's kinda interesting how the form of the story turned against the narrative)#(without necessarily being any mistake on the casts' part)#cr1 #cr3 #keyleth #vax'ildan #cr thoughts #cr spoilers

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cherry-zip · 8 hours ago

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─ • CSC .ᐟ Tie a Cherry

› content ┆ Choi Seungcheol x fem reader ⊹ genre .ᐟ smut and cute ending ✎ word-count ┆ 2k. ⌁ summary ┆Choi Seungcheol comes home late from work, dressed in his suit and tie, to find his girlfriend waiting in pink pajamas. With a playful pull of his tie, she drags him to the sofa, ready to unwind with a sexy Valentine’s Day gift, filled with affection and desire. ⨯ content warning .ᐟ dry humping, making out, cheol is hot.

✧ happy valentine's day - here's my first even nsfw fic as a gift ✧ feedback & reblog are highly appreciated! this is my first even nsfw fic so bear with me.

› minor do not interact, you will be blocked

It’s nearly midnight when you hear the familiar sound of Seungcheol’s key turning in the lock. You’ve been waiting for him all night, watching the clock tick steadily past the hours he usually gets home. Though you know how busy he can get with work, it doesn’t stop the small knot of worry from forming in your stomach. Seungcheol had let you know beforehand that he was going to come home late today but that didn’t stop you from waiting.

Had it been any other day you would have already gone to bed, but, it was Valentine’s Day, and you felt the need to stay up for him tonight. You didn’t mind him not being home for this special day—you knew how important work was for him, and it was something that you were okay with.

He would make it up for you. He always did.

Finally, the door creaked open, and there he was —your tired, overworked boyfriend, standing in the doorway with his suit still on. You can practically feel the weight of the day hanging around him. He looked exhausted, his broad shoulders slumped, a deep sigh escaping his lips as he slipped his shoes off.

You watched him for a moment, taking in the sight of him, knowing just how much he’d been pushing himself lately. You can see the strain on his face, the last thing he needs is to be left alone with his thoughts. You wouldn’t let that happen, not tonight at least.

You approached him before he could get too comfortable, stepping softly toward him while wearing one of his shirts paired with pink shorts that left nothing to the imagination. The kind that made you feel both cozy and confident. You crossed your arms, raising an eyebrow playfully, but there was a hint of concern behind your teasing gaze.

"You’re late," you say, a gentle accusation in your voice.

Seungcheol looks at you, his lips curling into a tired but genuine smile. "I know, I’m sorry," he says, his voice low, but you can hear the weariness in it. "It’s been one of those days."

You know exactly what he meant. He said it all the time. But it never stopped you from worrying, especially when he’s gone all day, getting caught up in the never-ending cycle of meetings, deadlines, and calls.

"You’re always saying that," you tease, but it’s softer than it sounds. "You’re always working so hard. Are you ever going to let me take care of you?"

A brief pause follows, and you see the hint of guilt flash across his face. You hate when he feels guilty, even though you know he can’t help it.

"I promise I’ll make it up to you," he says, stepping closer as if trying to reassure you—and maybe himself, too.

And he will make it up to you, one way or another. But before he can say anything else, you act on impulse. You reach for his tie, grabbing hold of it with a sudden surge of energy.

"Hey!" Seungcheol laughs in surprise as you pull him toward the couch. He stumbles slightly, but you guide him down easily, tugging him until he’s sitting down.

“Stop laughing,” you say, smirking. “I’m trying to help you relax.”

You sat on his lap, straddling him as your hands worked on his tie, undoing it with practiced ease. His jacket was already slipping off his shoulders, but you weren’t done yet. You could feel the stiffness in his body, the tension clinging onto him even after the long day. You won’t let him stay like this. Not while you’re here. Not while he was under you.

“Let me take care of you,” you murmured, the words soft but firm. "You deserve a break."

He chuckled, but there was something softer behind his laughter. "You always know what I need," he says, his voice low, a little tired but somehow full of affection.

You look at him as you work, your fingers deftly loosening his shirt, watching the tension melt away from his face as you carefully help him strip off the layers of his workday. There was something soothing about this process, it felt grounding in a way, especially when he leaned into your touch. His warmth was comforting—like a weight you’ve come to rely on, something that was as familiar as your own heartbeat. And him, just him - looked so good.

You’re so in love with this man.

“You always look so serious in that suit,” you tease again, glancing up at him. "It’s good to see you out of it for once."

Seungcheol smiles, a little tired but appreciative. "I’m serious about work, you know that."

“And I’m serious about making you relax,” you reply, your tone playful but affectionate. You begin to unbutton his shirt, your fingers brushing against his skin as you move down each button, carefully peeling away the layers of his day. “Just let me do this for you."

He doesn't fight you. Not really. Instead, he lets you, letting out a slow breath as he sinks into the couch, his hands resting high on your thighs. He looks like he’s falling into a peaceful calm, his posture loosening, the weight of the day falling away.

“Are you cold?” he asks suddenly, his voice soft, as he looks down at your pajamas.

You shrug, not really caring.“I’m fine,” you say with a smile. "But you—" You pause, your eyes flickering to his half-unbuttoned shirt and the tiredness still clinging to him.. "You’re not fine. Let me take care of you, okay?"

He smiles again, the fatigue melting from his eyes as he watches you work. He’s always so serious, always the one taking care of everyone else.

But tonight?

Tonight, he was yours to take care of.

And you clearly had something in mind to make him feel better.

You lean down to kiss him. He hums into the kiss, bringing you even closer to him, arms holding onto your waist tightly. He felt himself growing addicted to feeling the comforting warmth of your body. His tongue softly bit at your bottom lip, making you open up, welcoming his tongue to lick into your mouth. Your hands glide up on his chest to find the nape of his hair. He loves when your hands are in his hair, tugging at it, making him growl loudly. The atmosphere gets hotter from the kisses he gives you, you can’t help but let soft whines escape your lips.

Your reactions made Seungcheol smirk while he kissed you, but that wasn’t going to last for long. Instinctively, you roll your hips down onto him, making him groan against you. All you’ve done so far is kiss, but you both got so worked up—and you loved it.

You keep rolling your hips, small whimpers escaping your mouth as you chase any kind of friction you can get. Your hands slid down onto his shoulders, needing more support as you grinded harder against him.

Seungcheol could feel himself getting hard from the way you were grinding on him and from the way you were whimpering in his mouth. He grabs your hips tightly, shifting you right on top of his clothed cock. You don’t seem to notice at first, but when his cock twitches against your thigh, you pull away from him, staring down.

“Don’t stop moving,” he groans out, you feel his mouth on your neck, slowly biting down as he starts giving you hickeys. “Fuck, I love your moans so much, you sound so good for me.”

He pulled back from your neck so he could see how good you looked, only for him. He curses silently when he sees how much of a mess you are; flushed face, parted mouth letting out moans, and your eyes rolling back in pleasure. You could feel his clothed cock twitch under you.

“Your body is so hot Cheol, so warm, so hard.”

You were desperate in your movement and will to make him cum hard, knowing the man under you felt just as good. You felt proud knowing that it was you who was making him feel that way. You felt the need to get yourself off with him, you needed him.

His hands wandered down, grasping at your ass. He was no better than you, letting out low grunts every single time his hips rolled to meet yours. He helped you roll your hips, grinding harshly down on him.

Seungcheol could easily flip you over and fuck you hard on the sofa but he doesn’t. You had this special moment for him in mind, to pleasure him and he was more than content with where you were now. He tilts his head back, a hiss of air escaping from his clenched teeth as his fingers dig into your hips. He can't stop the little laugh that follows the exhale because you're driving him crazy. Your lips attack his throat as your hips descend sinisterly on his.

“Fuck...” he wanted to get all those clothes off but at the same time, the way you were rubbing against him felt too good. He couldn't even think about telling you what he wanted. He felt like he was going to cum like that.

“You're so hard for me Cheol.”

You hear his low laugh against your jaw before Seungcheol bites the flesh there. You were a fucking tease. He revels in the sound of your breath catching as he wiggles against your own arousal. Your trousers were soaking wet from wanting him so badly.

“You're trying to make me come like this”, Seungcheol's hand tangles in the hair on the back of your head, making you moan his name, as he pulls to look into your eyes. He laughs at the smile on your lips at his words and the feel of your hips rolling against his bulge.

“Will you Cheol? Cum with me just by doing this?” Your head fell on top of his shoulder, licking and biting the available skin.

His hands grip your hips, setting a pace for you as he grinds you harder against him. It doesn’t take long for you to cum, not when he’s holding you and letting out groans of your name. Watching you restlessly chasing your climax pushes him over the edge.

You enjoy the silence only the sound of you both breathing heavily can be heard, slowly coming down from your high. Seungcheol holds you regardless of how hot you two feel.

“Can we just stay like this for a while?” he murmurs, his voice almost barely above a whisper. "I haven’t been able to relax properly in so long."

Your heart swells, and without saying a word, you shift closer to him, resting your head against his chest. You love the feeling of his strong arms holding you; you would never refuse him. The familiar rhythm of his breathing, the warmth of his skin — that was all you needed to know that everything was okay.

"Yeah," you reply softly, your voice barely audible. “We can stay like this as long as you need.”

The world outside falls silent, and all that’s left is the sound of his heartbeat and your own, in your quiet home. You cherished these moments.

“I don’t deserve you,” he whispers after a long while.

You raise your head to look at him, your fingers gently brushing across his jaw. "You do," you reply simply, your voice full of affection. "You just need to remember how to breathe sometimes."

He smiles, a slow, genuine curve of his lips. "I’ll try to remember. Happy Valentine’s Day my love, I’ll make it up for you."

You know he will make it up eventually. It’s during moments like these—when his arms tighten around you— that you realize nothing else matters. Work, deadlines, all the pressures—those things can wait. What matters now is the peacefulness between you and the way you fit together in this small, quiet space.

For tonight, home isn’t a place. It was just the two of you, tangled together on the couch, wrapped in each other’s warmth, the world outside forgotten.

✧ feedback & reblog are highly appreciated! › anonymous review form & join my taglist

@ credits┆big thanks to @kyeomofhearts for beta & proof reading the hell outta this fic ☆彡 honestly can't thank you enough, even if i have to bully you into writing more @ credits┆also gonna thank @shinysobi, @tusswrites and even the crazy @hisnowbie2 for helping me out coming up with a title ☆彡

❀ a/n┆ yes, this is real. My first ever NSFW fic is officially out

☘︎ taglist: @zozojella, @shinysobi, @kyeomofhearts

‧₊ ᵎᵎ “CHERRY.zip" 🍒 ⋅ ˚✮

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meadowfics · 2 days ago

Text

declined invite

the salesman / recruiter x gn!reader

the mysterious man pays you a visit after you do not call the card number

warnings: threats. manipulation. salesman takes a special interest to you. no gender for reader specified.

you had never been one for public transportation.

its been a rough week...rent overdue, your job barely covering expenses, and an argument with your sister kim about your financial irresponsibility.

tonight, you found yourself sitting at the edge of a subway platform, the fluorescent lights overhead flickering like they, too, were barely holding on.

a sigh left your lips as you rubbed your temples, trying to push away the headache forming behind your eyes. that’s when you sensed someone sitting down next to you.

at first, you did not mind. its the subway after all, you cannot tell anyone to move somewhere else.

however, you started to feel eyes on you.. then,

"excuse me."

you looked up, blinking in confusion at the well-dressed man sitting beside you. a sleek suit, a warm but eerily calculated smile.

he held up a briefcase, setting it on the seat beside him with an effortless grace.

"would you like to play a game?"

you frowned.

"excuse me?"

you didn't have time for salesman workers who frequent the streets to cheat on their wives at home. you've heard about those situations.

however, the man pulled out a stack of folded papers.before you could question it, he flipped them open, revealing two neat stacks of blue and red ddakji tiles.

"i'll make it simple," he said smoothly, tilting his head.

"we take turns throwing these, trying to flip the other player's tile. if you win, you get a hundred thousand won. if i win… well, you owe me your body. nothing vulgar, just a slap on the cheek."

you scoffed, shaking your head.

"i'm not interested."

"are you sure?"

the salesman’s eyes twinkled.

"it’s free money. surely, you have nothing to lose."

your arms crossed instinctively.

“i don’t play games with strangers.”

he chuckled, shuffling the tiles between his fingers before setting them down neatly.

"oh, but you do play games. just not ones you win."

your body stiffened.

"what the hell is that supposed to mean?"

"you gamble. not with money...because you don't have any...but with your chances in life. you take risks constantly, trusting people you shouldn't, spending time in places you shouldn't."

he tapped his knee, mockingly thoughtful.

"like the shady bar down the street. the one you frequent when you’re avoiding your older sister's lectures. whiskey neat, always."

your breath hitched.

"or that friend you loaned money to last year. the one who promised to pay you back but never did. how much was it? a million won?"

your heart pounded.

“who the hell are you?”

he ignored your question, his smile unwavering.

"you’re not a very lucky person, are you?"

your throat went dry.

"i don't want to play your stupid game."

he exhaled dramatically.

"what a shame."

he began packing up the tiles with deliberate slowness, but then he pulled out a sleek brown card, sliding it toward you.

"but if you ever change your mind, call this number."

you stared at it, hesitating before picking it up. embossed in the center was a symbol of three shapes.

a circle, a triangle, and a square.

no name. no details. just a number.

you swallowed thickly, then shoved the card into your pocket.

you needed to get out of here.

now.

you spent the next few days holed up at your older sister's house, avoiding anything that felt remotely like a coincidence.

you didn’t leave, didn’t touch your phone unless absolutely necessary.

kim, of course, noticed.

"y/n," she called from the kitchen, hands on her hips.

"what’s going on with you?"

you forced a laugh.

"what do you mean?"

"you’ve been acting paranoid ever since you got here. jumping at noises, locking the door twice. are you in trouble?"

"no,"

you lied, avoiding her gaze.

"i just… needed a break from everything."

kim studied you with a skeptical look, but before she could press further, her phone buzzed.

"well, i have to run some errands,"

she said, still eyeing you.

"please don’t burn the house down while i’m gone."

"yeah, yeah,"

you muttered, waving her off.

the moment the door shut, silence settled over the house.

you exhaled, rubbing your temples. maybe you were overreacting.

maybe that man was just a really creepy con artist.

then came the knock.

you stilled.

it was soft at first. then a second knock, louder.

probably a neighbor, you thought. they were always borrowing something from your sister. you rose from the couch and walked to the door, fingers curling around the knob.

the second you opened it...your blood ran cold.

the salesman.

his smile widened.

"hello again, y/n."

panic seized your chest. you moved to slam the door, but he caught it with an iron grip, slipping inside before you could react.

"whoa there," he chuckled.

"no need to be rude."

"get the hell out of my house!"

you hissed, backing away.

he took a step forward, hands slipping into his pockets.

"i was just wondering why you never called the number."

you gawked at him.

"because i don’t have a death wish?!"

his grin didn’t falter.

"you think calling the number means death?"

"yes!"

your voice rose.

"look, i don’t know what you are or who you work for, but i’m not interested in being kidnapped, sold off, or whatever the hell this is!"

he hummed, amusement glinting in his eyes.

"funny. most people say that before they change their minds."

"i won’t."

he tilted his head.

"are you sure?"

silence stretched between you. the air felt suffocating.

then, he leaned in slightly.

"you have no job. you have no savings. you owe money to people you don’t even remember. lets not get started on your sister? well…"

he smirked.

"you’re getting a little too comfortable depending on her, aren’t you?"

you swallowed hard.

"there’s a way out, y/n,"

he said, voice smooth as silk.

"no more struggling. no more scraping by. just one game. and if you win… you’ll never have to worry again."

you shook your head, but doubt wormed into your mind.

"is this prostitution?"

he shook his head no.

"its not. but y/n, you wouldn’t be here if you weren’t considering it,"

he continued.

"you wouldn't be so afraid if you didn’t believe...deep down...that this might be your only chance."

your hands trembled.

"why are you telling me all this?"

his smirk widened.

"because i need all 456 players."

your pulse thundered in your ears.

he stepped back, as if giving you space to breathe.

"think about it," he said simply, turning toward the door.

"but don't take too long. opportunities like this don’t come twice."

with that, he walked out, shutting the door behind him as if he had never been there at all.

your legs nearly gave out.

for a long time, you stood frozen, staring at the door.

slowly, shakily, you pulled out the card from your pocket, your fingers hovering over the numbers.

you inhaled sharply.

then you called.

masterlist

#gong yoo #the salesman squid game #squid game #squid game s2 #squid game fanfic #squid game season 2 #squid game x reader #squid game x y/n #squid game x you #the salesman

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godmadeaterribleerror · 1 day ago

Text

Chapter 8 - Keep Us Far Apart

Series Masterlist - Main Masterlist

Author's Note: This one’s for all my homies who’ve been sure she’s a demon blood kid. I’m sorry.

Chapter title from Tiffany Blews by Fall Out Boy

Word Count: 16.9k

Chapter Summary/Warnings: You get benched by Bobby, and Sam gives you a call. Usual warnings.

Tags: Dean Winchester/Female Reader, enemies to friends to lovers, canon divergence, slow burn, big angst, light fluff, pining

Chapter 7 - Chapter 9

Read on A03!

You’re warm when you wake up.

Not a sticky, heavy warm that stings on your skin, but a soft, easy heat that settles in your bones. And everything feels Silver, but Dean’s not here. There’s nobody in the room but you.

You don’t have to open your eyes to know that. There’s only a static hum of a fan, that soft warmth, and the smell of grass and spice. A little faded but still obvious. Covering your senses and easing your brain down into peace.

Dean was here.

He’s gone now, but he was here. There’s no other reason for everything to smell like him. No other reason for the world to be blurred to Silver, because that’s something that still only happens with Dean. You know he’s gone because you feel bigger than you and you can’t feel him, but you can feel where he’d been. It’s like an imprint on everything around you, something stained gold that you can recognize even half asleep.

It's new.

You’d be more worried about it if it was painful. But it’s really not. You can feel everything like you always have, and it’s all Silver and easy like when Dean’s by your side.

He’s left marks all around you. You can feel the comfort of the mattress under your body, and there’s a weight on it that’s Dean. There’s something sturdy right next to you, and it has the same feeling wrapped over and around it. The floor feels worn but settled, and Dean seems to have trekked gold all over it. Left himself everywhere, even as he fades by the second.

Because he’s also gone.

He left you again. You can’t blame him. You’d leave you to, if you could, and you only lie to yourself a little less than you lie to Dean.

At least your lies to Dean have been justified. In the name of survival, but still setting scars on your throat because—apparently—the only thing worse than letting John Winchester kill you and driving Bobby to madness is lying to Dean.

Fuck.

Bobby.

You’re home. It took you a little too long to fully register it—you’ve never felt home like this, vast and unconstrained, but in no way that’s painful—but you’re back in your room. Which means Sam and Dean got you to Bobby’s.

Which means Bobby knows you’ve been hunting with Dean, and the brothers probably asked questions, and then they left. You don’t know if Bobby told them to leave—to give you space while your body recovered or simply get out of your life all together—but they’re gone all the same.

Bobby wouldn’t tell Sam and Dean to leave forever. He likely didn’t tell the full truth, but he also liked Sam and Dean. He wouldn’t just kicked them out.

So they left because they wanted to leave. Because something—or nothing at all—was more important than you and they didn’t really care to get your answers. To hear you try to justify how you’d lied about Bobby because you had to. Because you’ve been so sick, and they already had enough to worry about, and it wasn’t all that important but you had wanted to tell them.

You might have told them now. If you had woken up and felt Dean in more than just an intangible depression on the world around you, you may have told him the truth. You’re too tired to filter yourself, and you’re so warm, and everything is so easy, so you could’ve told Dean.

Not the careful half-truth you’ll spend the day crafting, but everything. About the Darkness and the White, and how he makes both of them better but also sets them off at a level nobody else seems capable of. How you’re not quite human and that demon had been far from the first. How you hate him, but you can’t hate him, and all he needs to say is sorry and you’ll crash into him until you’re both drowning in nothing at all.

But he’d left. And you don’t know if he’ll be coming back.

You could’ve sworn you heard a strong, certain voice tell you I don’t want to leave.

I like you, Princess. I’ll stick around.

But you’ve dreamt of him before. And—even if this feeling of Dean is the last piece of him you ever get—you’ll dream of him again.

Not tonight, sleep no longer lingering in your head, but again. For now, you’re hungry and sore and lonely—the stains of Dean beginning to fade—and you don’t really want to lie in bed being useless anymore.

When you open your eyes, the room is dim and a chair has been dragged right up to the edge of the your mattress.

That was the sturdy thing.

Dean had been sitting there.

And you can’t know that, but you’re certain. Even as the world comes into full focus and the strange marks of Dean around you start to dissipate, you’d bet more than your life that Dean really was here. That he’d sat on the chair for at least a little while, maybe speaking to you, maybe apologizing, maybe saying goodbye.

But he hasn’t been here in a while. And dwelling—overthinking and picking something apart until it’s raw and bare and you still don’t care for the truth—has never done you any favors before. It’s never made you forget or forgive Dean any faster. And you need to start moving.

So you don’t let it go. It’s Dean. You can’t let anything go with Dean. But you know how to compartmentalize, how to take he was here in a death grip and strangle it until it means nothing at all, and never allow your brain to drift to is he gone. Is Dean gone for real this time.

Did he leave you. Did Dean leave without saying goodbye, again. Did you let the Darkness slip out and didn’t even know, did you say something when everything had started to get hazy, something you don’t remember but he heard and now he gone.

Does he know what you are, does he hate you, he has no right to hate you, you’re the one who’s supposed to hate him-

You don’t hate him. You’ve forgotten how. If you need to, you’ll teach yourself again—beat it down and deep into your body until it sticks enough for you to feel it more than the pull—but until you know he’s gone, you still don’t hate Dean.

But knowing has never helped. And Dean is gone.

So you’ll get through this. You always get through this.

You just have to fucking move.

It takes a minute to get your bearings. To look around you, twist your palms to press on the mattress, and push yourself upright-

Fuck.

You have to choke down a scream. Your body shifts, just the slightly use of muscle and limb, and everything explodes with pain. Festering deep in your stomach and untenable, shooting from your gut into your blood like fire and eating at your head as it begins to pound and spin. The Silver rips itself apart as the pain escalates—stabbing behind your eyes as you squeeze them shut and scratching over your skin—and all you can do is curl into yourself and try to rip the darkness back down into your body.

Nails dig into your palm, teeth grit as breathing becomes labored, and you can feel everything. Too much. It all fucking hurts and it’s too much, and the sky is falling but you won’t catch it, not when the sky is made of crumbling and tired paint over your head, and cracked glass on the bathroom wall, and a massive, lonely weight over your chest-

The weight is new. You’ve been more than yourself in this room a million times, and there’s always an odd comfort of knowing what pain you’ll get. The White will bellow and riot around in search of peace and always find none, but the Darkness with settle and fall down faster. The cracked thing is the mirror you’d shattered when you were twelve. There’s a rotting feeling on the carpet from when you’d spilled coffee, and a long, dull ache on the wall from when you’d embedded a nail in it on accident, and the suffocation of the drawers is from all your clothing.

But the weight is new. It’s right about you, it feels almost forlorn, and it’s the last thing to still be stained with quickly fading Dean.

When you find enough willpower to bite your cheek until it bleeds and move your hand to grab it, it’s not a blanket. It’s a little rough and cool under your fingers, all the heat seemingly trapped in favor of your body rather than the fabric.

You drag your eyes open through sheer force of will, and it’s a jacket. Your jacket, that you’d left with Dean years ago.

You’d always assumed he’d thrown it out. That you’d never see it again, because it was ash in a junkyard or tatters in a dumpster. But it was back on your body, and that sensation of Dean seems almost embedded into it. Not fleeting like his presence on the room around you. Woven right into the fabric just as much as cotton and polyester.

It was never your favorite jacket.

It might be now.

You hope it can be. That this is Dean’s silent apology, instead of a goodbye. You really don’t want it to be goodbye, if only because you need to know why he’d kept it. It wouldn’t have fit him, and it was the exact style he often made fun of you for wearing—yeah, it’s nice, Princess, but it’s not good for hunting—so he’d had every reason to just dispose of it.

He has every reason to just dispose of you. And you know he’s aware of them, because he’d told you as much. But he hasn’t.

Not yet.

You can’t dwell. You can’t sit here as the Darkness bucks and twists over your organs, trying to make sense of Dean and why he does things. Understanding Dean Winchester is a game you’ll never win, because he’s a pretty, adorable, rouge-ish asshole who can’t just make anything easy. And there’s always something about him that fogs your usually measured and rational judgement. You’re not a picture of sanity—the blinds on your windows are rattling because they can feel how your ribs are trying to rip out of your chest—but you’re never dumb.

And Dean makes you dumb.

The asshole.

He leaves your jacket on your bed and now you want nothing more than to see him. He marks himself all over your room in a way that calls the Darkness and makes the White sing, all while your body shrieks with pain. He pulls a chair next to you while you sleep and you can hear his voice in your head saying I’m just gonna stay a while.

And he leaves. He walks away and you can’t find it in you to be truly angry because it’s Dean.

It’s not rational. It’s not logical, or careful, or reasonable. It fucking stupid. It’s against everything you carved yourself so carefully to be, because that’s how you survive. And then Dean shatters you, and lets you mend more colorfully than before, and shatters you again.

You’ll get yourself killed, if you keep ignoring your mind telling you just give it up. Stop following him around like a lost, feral dog, stop giving him grace he doesn’t offer you, stop entertaining the White when it calls for him. He doesn’t feel the pull, he can’t, he won’t, and you’re already in danger so you might as well give it up.

But it’s the pull that forgives him, every time. An instinct that melds the Darkness and White together and whimpers but it’s Dean.

And if it was Dean who had twisted that same knife into your gut—the one that’s still scarred over your stomach and burning just a layer under your skin—you don’t really know if you wouldn’t have forgiven him.

You’d like to say it would’ve been done there. That Dean would’ve stabbed you where people could see it and sent you toppling down alone, and you’d be done with him forever.

You’re not sure that’s the truth.

And it’s more terrifying than any demon or monster has been. Ever could be.

But you can’t dwell.

You move slowly. Rolling onto your side and lowering your legs to the floor so carefully, strangling the sheets for a grip and taking slow, careful breaths every time you risk another movement. It fucking hurts. You don’t know what that demon got you with, but it’s killing you. Twisting and rotting you for the inside, making your eyes unfocused and your head feel like a suffocating weight that drips venom into your lungs and gut. You aren’t going to be able to stand up. Your knees buckle when you’re fucking sitting. Standing sounds like trying to balance on a tightrope of ice.

Your palm presses to the wound, and you wince when the pain becomes electric through your body. You need to stop just sitting here, need to do something—anything—besides being alone, but you can taste bile in your throat and it all just fucking hurts.

It takes you a moment to realize that you’re clenching the jacket like a flimsy tether, and it’s helping. Everything still hurts, but when you bow your head you can smell grass and spice and it makes the Darkness flow with a lighter ease. Everything is still too big, but you’re you.

And you can hover a hand over your stomach, bite your tongue until you taste metallic blood, and let the Darkness flow into the wound. You’d fixed Dean before, and he hadn’t gotten infected with whatever you are. And you’ve been you—sick and rampant—your whole life, so the worst thing that could happen here is you injure yourself.

And you don’t count.

When you feel the darkness spread into itself and push against the boils, it takes everything in you not to scream and to just push on. You can push on. The White is in an off-key harmony with the Darkness, and you might leave little indents of the jacket in your hand, but you can keep pushing.

Until eventually, you break out the other side.

It’s gone. All the additional pain from the wound has seemed to turn to thin air, and all that’s left is the usual. The pain that’s always there just a little because you’re you, and that’s the price you must pay.

You don’t know how you did that. You don’t know if you’ll be able to do it again, or if it’s something you’ll have to learn to control later, but in the split second before the Darkness and White fall back out of time in your body, nothing about you is wrong. You fixed something again. Mended instead of destroyed.

It hadn’t killed you, or hurt anyone at all.

And you feel okay.

When you walk downstairs with slow steps, you try to be quiet. You’ll maybe get some food, curl up in the library, start rehearsing what you’re going to tell-

Bobby snaps your name from the living room, and you wince.

Shit.

“You’re up sooner than I thought you’d be,” he says, and when you turn he’s sitting on the couch, watching you narrowed eyes. “How’r the stitches holdin’?”

“Um,” you glance down to your stomach and swallow. “I’m okay.”

When you look back up, Bobby’s followed your gaze, and his jaw is clenched.

“Before you say anything.” You tug at the hem of your shirt, trying to get ahead of as much as you can. “I really am okay. I great actually. Some might say I’m in perfect condition-“

Bobby grunts your name. “What’d you do.”

“Nothing! I’ve never done anything-“

“We both know that ain’t the truth, kiddo. You’re about as much an angel as I am, and you’re doin’ the nervous bounce-“

“I do not have a nervous bounce-“

“Yeah, ya do.” Bobby gives you a flat look. “You’re a good liar, but not that fuckin’ good. What’d you do.”

You sigh, and raise your shirt.

The stitches had gone with the pain. You don’t how where they’d went, or what the darkness had done with them, but they’re gone. It’s just perfectly mended skin—save for a bursting, star-like scar right below your ribs—and your close-lipped smile as you watch Bobby carefully.

“It doesn’t hurt.” You offer. “And I didn’t break anything-“

“You did that?” Bobby nods to your stomach. “With the… you’re freakin’ hoodoo shit?”

You nod, lowering your shirt, and Bobby lets out a long, slow breath, shaking his head.

“You know you were able to do that?”

“I-“ You glance down to your hands, running your thumb over your palm. “I’ve kind of done it before. Once.”

Bobby raises his brows, and you’re going to have to say it. You don’t want to say it. You don’t want to start that inevitable conversation, or hear the fallout you know it’ll have.

“I healed Dean.” You mumble, keeping your voice soft enough that—hopefully—it’ll make your words seem less important. “His hand was broken. I fixed it.”

“With the-“

“With the thing.”

Bobby grunts, and when you look up at him his face is stoic. Solemn. Deep in heavy thought and set with something you can’t read.

“Sit down, kiddo.”

You nod, shuffling to sit at Bobby’s side and picking at your nails until they’re a little numb. You didn’t get time to practice your explanation, or find a word for what Dean is to you, or figure out how you’re going to justify the past few years to Bobby when you can’t even justify them to yourself-

“They dropped you off here.” Bobby starts, and you nod, still staring at your hands. “Sam and Dean rolled up in that nice car John’s got and told me you got stabbed by a fuckin’ demon. Two idjits just kept sayin’ demon when I asked, and I don’t suppose you’d know what kinda demon-“

“Green eyes.” You say, folding one leg under your body. “I- I’ve seen the knives they use before, but I’ve never gotten hit with one. I’ve been careful, Bobby, I promise-“

“I know ya’ have.” He says. “You ain’t an idiot, and you know what you’re doin’ out there. Even if I wish you didn’t. What I need to know is what happened that got you stabbed.”

“It’s- It’s what it always is.”

“You haven’t told me what it always is.” You can feel Bobby’s glare in his words. You’d still rather not see it. “Ya just told me the demons were back, they weren’t goin’, and you needed to keep huntin’ alone. But,” Bobby’s words slow, his voice lowering slightly. “You weren’t huntin’ alone, were you. I hear you been huntin’ with Dean.”

“I didn’t- Who-“

“Sam spilled the beans.” He grunts. “Said you and Dean been best fuckin’ buddies for years.”

“Years is a bit dramatic-“

Bobby grunts your name, and you sigh. Again, there’s no way out of this but through.

“In 2003, Dean called you for advice about a hunt. Said there were a bunch of people going insane in North Texas. And then I got home a few weeks later and told you I’d dealt with a first century saint.”

There’s a long silence as Bobby ties the pieces together, and then, “Son of a bitch.”

“I, um- I realized what it was, and Dean took it out.”

“So for three years-“

“Yeah.” You sigh, and there’s a little blood coating your nails. “About once a month.”

“What had you planned on doing if John showed up?” Bobby’s question isn’t angry, but it’s strained, and you can picture his scowl. “If Ol’ Daddy Winchester tracked Dean down and realized what he’s been up to on his time off-“

“I was careful.” As careful as you could be, when it came to Dean. “And it’s- we’ve only hunted together twice since October-“

“Cause John went and fucked off! What if he’d come back, lookin’ for his boys and found you with them!”

“He wouldn’t have.”

“You can’t know that-“

“I can.” You snap, your head shooting up to hold Bobby’s gaze. He’s angry. You can see it all over his face. It’s better than nothing at all. “I didn’t sleep in the same motel room, I kept my own car, and Dean would always leave when John called. He wasn’t going to find me.”

Bobby groaned, shaking his head. “You don’t even like huntin’ with a partner, and we agreed that, ‘less it was me or Rufus, it ain’t safe to put yourself in that situation-“

“It was with-“ You cut yourself. You don’t want it to be safe with Dean. Only Dean. Only Dean had ever made everything feel right, only Dean knew when to listen to you and how to take over when you couldn’t do anything. “It was like this.”

“And all those moments where you ain’t in control?” Bobby challenged, raising his brows. “When glass starts shatterin’ and you make a river disappear?”

You swallow. “He never noticed.”

Bobby rolls his eyes. “Course he didn’t. Smitten fuckin’ dumbass.”

You frown at Bobby’s word, ready to ask what that means, but he pushes on.

“What about Sam, huh? He’s been noticin’. Asked me about your episodes, kid. If you been gettin’ panic attacks.”

“It’s- they were talking?” It would be nice if your voice didn’t sound so obviously nervous. “About me?”

“The hell else were they supposed to talk about? They come rollin’ in with you half-dead, laced up with Sam’s shit fuckin’ stitches and Dean clingin’ to you like a puppy dog, we supposed to talk about the weather?”

You use more effort than you’ll ever move on to not let your eyes widen, let your voice squeak Dean was doing what?

It doesn’t matter. He left.

“I-“

“And,” Bobby adds, leaning forwards. “You still ain’t explaining to me what happened. That wasn’t a normal fuckin’ stab wound, kiddo. I had to break out that fancy holy water you’d been cookin’ in the basement.”

That makes you sit up a little straighter. “Oh, did it work?”

You haven’t had a chance to test that stuff. Another random, strange dream in the middle of the night, another idea for something scribbled in a notebook by your bed, almost a week spent tracking down everything you needed until it was perfect. The wings of a heart-broken butterfly weren’t easy to find, but you’d managed, and sugar from a cane by the Nile sounded insane, so you’d settled for sugar bought in Grocery store in South Dakota and hoped you could offset the difference with wine made from Egypt, curtesy of a creepy old man in Chicago.

If it didn’t work, you’d have to figure out why. Maybe the priest you’d gotten to bless it hadn’t been lustful of the heart. You could find a more lustful priest. You could be a more lustful priest, because you’ve had very detailed dreams about pretty green eyes, scarred and tanned skin, and a cocky grin between your thighs-

Bobby snaps your name, and you blink at him.

“Stop thinking while we’re trying to have a conversation.” He snaps, and you flush. “And the water worked alright. Got you up and stopped that weird infection the knife left. I been lookin’ at the thing, no poison or curses on it-“

“It’s iron.” You mutter, and Bobby frowns at you.

“And why would that be-“

“Iron, it’s- It’s bad. It hurts.”

“Hurts.” Bobby repeats, words slow. “Who, you?”

You nod, and Bobby shakes his head.

“Kid, I seen you touch iron-“

“Pots and pans don’t count.” You mutter. “Not pure iron.”

“Pure-“ Bobby cuts himself off, narrowing his eyes. “How long you known that iron can do that,” he nods to your stomach. “To you.”

You raise your palm, scar up, in a silent answer, and Bobby understands.

“Shit.” Bobby sighs, scanning over your face. “Any reason you been keepin’ that from me?”

“Didn’t want to worry you,” you mumble, and Bobby scoffs.

“You ain’t half as smart as you seem if you think I’m not already worryin’ about you.” He snaps. “I see what you do to yourself, kid. Saw it when you came back, you’ve been-“

“I have to.” Your voice is almost a plea. You don’t want to talk about this, because you don’t have a choice. This is what you have to do to keep the Darkness down. “I- Nothing else works.”

“I know, but we don’t exactly live a pina colada and sunshine life,” Bobby grunts your name, and you think his gaze is going to sear into your skin. “You still haven’t told me what the hell happened, and just lookin’ at Dean’s little bitch sad face told me it wasn’t good.”

“I-“ You sigh, fully tucking your knees to your chest. “I don’t want to talk about Dean right now. Please.”

Bobby’s brows raise. “Anything I need to shoot him for?”

“No!” Your answer is too fast. Bobby hears it. “I- We just had a fight. Before the attack.”

“You two fight a lot?”

You shake your head, twisting the skin on your finger, and Bobby sighs.

“Fine then. What kinda fight we talkin’, then? I, uh, I ain’t sure how close you two got, and if it was a sorta spat-“

“Bobby?” You grimace, running your hands over your calves. “Please shut up.”

“Alright, just, if you’re doin’ that, be sure to use protection-“

“Bobby!” You gape at him, shaking your head. “He’s- we’re not-“

“I’m not judging you, kid, I mean, you’re young and I known that boy his whole life, he-“

“I- That’s not- You are judging! You were judging like, five minutes ago!”

“‘Bout the hunting. I’m no prissy uptight church gal, I know what people your age get up to, and if you’re, ya know, gettin’ up-“

“Jesus fucking Christ, Bobby,”You shake your head, scrunching your nose in disgust. “Please, shut up before I pour bleach in my ears. I’m not- That’s- Dean’s my partner. No room sharing, remember?”

“Don’t have to be in a room-“

“Bobby-“

“Alright,” Bobby relents, raising his hands, and you’re pretty sure the heat in your face could be felt across the room.

“Thank you.” You mumble, and Bobby just nods.

“See.” He gives you a close-lipped smile. “I worry about you.”

“Yeah, in all the wrong ways.” You return the smile, and take a long breath. “And it’s really not like that. I mean, I don’t- It’s complicated.”

There’s a pause, and Bobby frowns.

“You gonna say how it’s-“

“I- You know how it,” You gesture around yourself, then the air, and Bobby understands. “Has been getting worse?”

Bobby grunts in acknowledgement, and you take a long, deep breath.

“He makes it better.” You whisper, and Bobby’s jaw twitches.

“Dean?”

You nod, and Bobby huffs, shaking his head.

“What are we talking, better.”

“It’s- the pain. It’s not as bad when we don’t-“ You sigh. “When things are good.”

“And when they ain’t?”

“I think made a tree fall,” you mumble. “After the- that last fight.”

Bobby hums in a low agreement, raising his brows. “You gonna tell me what that one was about?”

You shake your head, and he sighs.

“Well, when they get back, don’t expect Sam to have that same grace. Kid was biting my ear off about gettin’ Dean to say somethin’ about it.”

You frown. “They’re coming back?”

Bobby shrugs. “Seems it. John called them to work another case on that asshole that got Mary, but from what I hear he doesn’t stick around long after. They’ll be heading back here after.”

Here. Dean didn’t leave forever. He’d come back here. Where you’d be.

Maybe.

If he didn’t see you be you.

“I-“ Your head shoots up, the thought only striking now. “Bobby, what did you tell them about me, and just my- the-“

“Nothing.” Bobby grunts, and something loosens around your throat. “But they’re gonna have questions. People don’t walk around getting attacked by demons every day-“

“Not every day.” You mumble. “And as far as they know it was just that one demon-“

“But it’s not.” Bobby snaps, his eyes darkening slight. “You’ve got demons rooting up your ass like the damn TSA, and knowin’ you it’s probably worse than you’ve been telling.”

“It’s’- not by much-“

Bobby says your name, his voice stern. “Any demons are too much. Hell, you got fuckin’ green demons that I ain’t ever even heard a whisper about-“

“I’m sorry-“

“No, you’re not. And I’m sayin’ nobody’s heard of a green-eyed demon.” Bobby rubs his jaw with a hand, shaking his head. “I worry about ya’, kid, cause I can’t find a damn soul who’s gonna be able to help that won’t also put a bullet in your temple.”

“They know.” Your fingers dig into your skin, and your eyes drop to the floor. “That last one, it said it knew what I was. And it’s- it’s really been getting worse, Bobby.” Your breath is shakier than you’d like it. “It’s just more. All of it is more, and I don’t understand it, and it still really hurts. Everything- it hurts.”

Bobby’s expression softens, and he must be able to see it on your face—how even when there’s no wound to heal or screams to choke on—it always just fucking hurts. When there’s noise it’s always too loud, and when there’s air it’s too heavy and sticky in your lungs, and every movement chokes you on this phantom, rootless pain that’s born only from you. There could be nothing in the world but you, and it would all be pain because that’s what you’re made of. Erosive and infectious pain.

It’s only better when you’re not alone in the world. When there’s a grinning, smug asshole next to you that somehow knows how to make all this just a little better, that never even has to do anything to be some kind of fucked up cure. One you’d never asked to take, one you’re addicted to, and one that doesn’t even know how the White has dictated that you simply need him—just Dean, as close as possible—to not be in this much fucking pain.

Bobby must somehow read that over your face, because he clears his throat.

“You said Deans been helpin’-“

“He has. But I- I don’t know why. He just does. But when it’s bad with him- It’s-“ You swallow, curling into yourself. “It’s like something sets off. I- I can’t control it, Bobby, I can’t ever control it, but with Dean it’s so much worse and I don’t know what I am-“

“Hey.” Bobby rises out of his seat, grabbing the blanket from the side table and draping it over your body before dropping at your side. “Breathe, kiddo. In and out.”

You do. And it gets better. Not good, but better. Bobby sitting next to you with his arms on his knees, steadily and firmly here. He hasn’t given up on you.

He’s still here.

“I-“ You choke on nothing, and force a small smile onto your lips. “I know how breathing works, Bobby.”

He chuckles. “Coulda fooled me. Amazed you managed that long without me telling you.”

You smile—and it’s small, but real—and silence settles over the room in a long, heavy moment.

There’s more you haven’t told him. Small details you’ll need to save for later, when this isn’t raw and you can think out everything you’ve been hiding. Exactly what you’ve been up to with Dean. Just how bad it’s all gotten. What the plan is now, when stupid, adorably oblivious Sam and Dean are going to tell John that you were raised by Bobby.

But you’ll work that out later.

And you think Bobby already understands most of it.

So all you can do is rub the scar on your hand and take a long breath, your words soft and measured.

“I don’t know what I am,” you whisper. “I don’t know what to do.”

Bobby sighs, patting you on the back. It’s half rub, half burping a baby, and it’s always awkward, but it’s always the same, and it always works.

Your body relaxes slightly, and you can hear Bobby’s words without any ringing in your ears.

“I know you ain’t gonna like it,” he mutters. “But listen to me, kiddo. You need to slow down ’till we figure this out. You’re a danger to yourself.“

You shake your head. “I haven’t hurt anyone-“

“Yourself.” Bobby repeats, shooting you a stern look. “It’s you that needs to not get hurt. And we’ll figure this out, but you gotta slow down. Stop running around and stretching yourself till you damn snap. Least until we’ve got the demons down.”

“I-“ You let out a long breath, and there doesn’t seem to be any skin left on your nails to pick at. “I’ll think about it.”

“Yeah, well, you’ll be thinkin’ about it on bedrest.” Bobby mutters, shutting down your sound of protest with a firm glare. “I don’t care what magic shit you pulled on yourself with that,” he nods to your stomach. “You still got fuckin’ stabbed.”

“But-“

“And,” he narrows his eyes. “You been runnin’ around with the one person I told ya’ not to. Consider it being’ grounded. No hunting for two weeks.”

You gape at him. “You can’t ground me, I’m not five-“

“You can still be dumb, and need a lockdown. No jackin’ one of my cars and running off, no getting newspapers and looking for something that’s gonna get you stabbed again-“

You scowl. “I wasn’t trying to get stabbed-“

“But you did,” Bobby snaps. “And now we’re sleeping it off.”

“It’s supposed to be walking it off.” You mutter, glaring at the floor. “You’re supposed to tell me I need to go on another hunt.”

“Well, that ain’t what’s happening here. No hunting. You can use the time to try and figure out what the hell is going on with all these fuckin’ demons popping out of the woodworks.”

Bobby grabs a random book off the side table, places it in your lap, and you frown at him.

“This is a cookbook, Bobby.” You raise your brows. “Should I try baking the demons into a pie?”

His mouth twitches, and you’re pretty sure he’s just trying to act like he’s still mad at you. “If that’s what works to sort this out, yeah. Get to work.”

“Can-“ You look down to the obviously useless cookbook in your hands, then back to Bobby. “Can we have dinner, please? Before I get stuck on book duty?”

He rolls his eyes. “Ya’ ain’t stuck on book duty-“

“You just told me to use my time to study the demons-“

“That don’t have to be books. Could be some of your fuckin’ dream shit. A ritual that pops into your head, tellin’ us exactly what these sons of bitches want.”

You shake your head. “That’s not how they work-“

“How am I supposed to know that.” Bobby mutters, pushing himself to his feet. “I dream about loosin’ my teeth and gettin’ chased by a vamp in a dress.”

You grin, shrugging as you uncoil your body to follow him. “Why is it in a dress?”

“Fuck me if I got a clue. What are ya’-“

“Pasta?”

He grunts. “I got stiff ass spaghetti.”

You nod, trailing after Bobby into the kitchen, forcing down every spiraling thought into focus on what you can see. What you feel can’t be everything right now, and later—when you go to bed, and it’s just you and the Darkness once more—you’ll have plenty of time to take your every thought and strangle them until you’re a little more sick and alone. But now you just need to sit in the kitchen and eat shitty spaghetti with Bobby.

And he isn’t angry with you. He’s not happy, but he’s not wrathful. He didn’t really yell, and he didn’t tell you that you were a disappointment or problem—he did call you dumb a few times, but you deserved it—so you’ll be alright. You can see Bobby. You can see that he’s not mad, and you can see that he’s here, and that’s more than you can say for other people.

Because the day does pass, and the Darkness is still weighted and painful in your body, but it’s not trying to be more than that. Nothing is easier, melted into Silver or in soft and simple harmony, but nothing is worse. The Darkness is rooted in the White, and the White is loud and lonely, and that’s everything.

It’s horrible.

And it’s tolerable.

Nothing breaks, you don’t explode, and when you shuffle off to bed that night with a mumbled promise to Bobby that he won’t wake up and find both you and one of his worse cars gone, that’s when it all gets bad.

Because now there’s nothing to hold you down or distract you. Through the day you could see things. Read a pointless, fun fantasy book and not think about the pain. Talk to Bobby about the latest random lady at a grocery store he won’t be asking out, and not think about Dean. Keep moving—even when you were curled in a chair—and not worry about what’s next, because you were home.

But now you’re alone, and all you can do is feel.

The pain isn’t worse. It really just is as it’s always been. And it’s probably not good that it’s always been like this—stabbing and pounding and biting at your organs and something deep in your body all the fucking time—but it’s better than before. It’s better than its worst. You can get through it. It’s only pain. It’s only twined with the Darkness, and it’s only as sick as you always are.

Because the Darkness is still growing. Not at the rapid pace that happens when everything is too much, but in the slow, steady, weed-like way that’s been happening over the years. You’ve really started to feel it. Feel how it seeps further and further into the White, and with every passing moment you grow sicker, and the Darkness becomes more feral. Every moment it’s leashed and muzzled in your body it seems to become furious, and it’s not sustainable. It’s choking the White. It’s choking you.

And you still really don’t know what you are. You know that this isn’t fixable, but you don’t even really care to try it right now.

You’d just really like to know what you are. What you’ve done or what you’ve become that makes these demons track and hunt you like you’re nothing more than a prized deer.

If there are others like you. If they’d know how to control this, to keep the Darkness down so nobody ever gets hurt but you. If there’s some new type of pain you haven’t tried that will keep you in check.

If they can also feel the White. If it’s glowing in them as well, or if that’s just another way that you’re something no one understands.

But if they do feel the White, they must feel the pull. Their White must have staked a claim on something without reason or right, they must have someone that the White whines and bucks until they touch, this can’t just be you, alone and wrong in the whole world.

You have too much time to pass. And you don’t want to be benched, but you’re tired of not knowing. Of being reckless and dumb and dangerous.

So—just until Bobby stop glowering at you every time you move to the door—you’ll use this time as you always have at home.

Reading.

You’ve been through every book in Bobby’s house at least twice. You’ve scoured every page for just a clue to what you are, why you’re like this, and always found nothing at all. But Bobby always finds you new books, and you always go in with the same blind determination for something. Even if it’s worse than what you imagined, you’d really just like something. Anything to point to and say that’s me.

Any solid reason that will drive you away from Dean forever—just for his safety, if you learn you truly are just a monster—or offer you a chance to tell him. To say what you are—because you’ll know—and not have him leave you because there would be nothing to leave.

So you read. And read and read, and take notes and come up with nothing, and keep reading. At some point—after a few days and a phone call from Sam—Bobby officially demotes you to book duty, and when you’re not reading about strange myths and rare monsters, you’re helping Dean.

He doesn’t know you’re helping him, but you are. They’d asked Bobby for what he knows about demons, if he has any ideas about what got their mom, and Bobby asked you to help find answers. Sam had said they wouldn’t be back for another week or so, and Dean hasn’t called you, but that doesn’t stop you from really wanting to help. To be more than a wasteful, spoiled girl to him, to prove him wrong and give him one single reason to not hate you.

You really need to get a handle on this. Not now—when you’re stuck on half house-arrest and Dean needs your help—but after. You need to beat it into yourself that you cannot hinge your every action on making Dean Winchester not hate you. On convincing him to stay, when he’s made it clear he doesn’t really have an interest in staying for you.

It’s another thing you’ve decided to put off. It’s another thing you’ll work out later, when you have the time. Right now your whole life is sitting in your bedroom and trying to work out what you are, or sitting in the library and trying to help the Winchesters.

Specifically helping Sam and Dean. John can eat glass, and he’s lucky you don’t know how to not care about Dean, or you’d let that demon do whatever the hell it wants to the old fuck.

“You ever seen a red demon?” Bobby asks from across the table, and you frown up at him.

“I- maybe?” You glance back to your own book—covered in coffee stains to the point of being almost impossible to read—and chew on your tongue as you think. “This one doesn’t have anything about red demons, though-“

“That one’s all theoretical shit,” Bobby grunts, sliding his own book across the table. “I heard of red-eyes before, but ain’t ever seen one.”

“So why-“

“Winchester’s demon don’t sound like average black eyes. I’m lookin’ for alternatives.”

“Could it be the green-eyed demons?” You suggest, making another note about possession in the margins, next to a line that reads any living thing, bound to earth by a human soul, can be victim to demonic possession if unguarded. “The one from last week seemed to know Dean.”

“Don’t seem like it.” Bobby grunts. “Nothin’ to rule out, but this demon sounds like it’s got a vendetta.”

“My demons seem to have a vendetta.”

“You got demons.” Bobby gives you a pointed look. “Bunch of ‘em, all scouring for you. From what the boys have said, this seems like one sorry asshole.”

You shrug, grinning at your paper. “Maybe I’m just more important than the Winchesters. And they need more demon-power to track me.”

Bobby rolls his eyes. “That ain’t funny, kiddo.”

“I think it’s hilarious.”

“Course you do. Find anything on fire?”

You shake your head. “I mean, demons very famously like fire. I think that lead might be a dead end, at least until I can get a sulfur sample-“

“The hell you mean a sulfur sample?”

“I, uh-“ You swallow, giving him a sheepish look. “I had another idea.”

Bobby sighs, his voice dry. “You don’t say.”

“It’s a good one! I think I could track it, or summon it with the right ritual, I would just need some of the demon’s sulfur-“

“What’re you meanin’, the demon’s sulfur-“

“I mean I think their sulfur is like their fingerprint. And I could, uh…” You trail off for a second, and you hate when this happens. When all these theories and ritual that appear in your brain against your will make you sound downright insane. “Track it?”

Bobby pauses, scanning over your face with a frown. “You think it’d work on any demon?”

“I guess.” You shrug, tilting your head at him. “You believe me?”

“I’m past worryin’ about belief,” Bobby mutters your name, looking back to his book. “Next time I get a call from Sam, I’ll ask him to start lookin’ for sulfur.”

You nod, and look back to your book. There’s no guarantee your theory will work, but they almost always do. Like your brain is just wired to know this shit.

That’s another lead you have on yourself. Another route to chase that will likely come up at a dead end.

But you have time to chase it. Because when Sam does call again—you haven’t heard Dean voice in almost two weeks, and it would be amazing if the White would stop being a whiny little bitch about that—it’s to say that they’re in Iowa, looking for a gun, and that they need to know more about how to exorcise a demon.

Bobby tells them. He explains everything about demon traps, and vessels, and most of what you’ve found. He doesn’t mention the green-eyed demons. You’re thankful for that, because you don’t want the questions right now.

Sam says they’ll be gone a little while longer. That there’s another demon—Meg is a really fucking dumb name for a demon—who’s working the one John’s been hunting, and they just wanted to know how to deal with her when the situation arises.

You won’t be getting that sulfur sample.

And you’ll keep spending long nights alone in your room, trying to just find something on what you are, and coming up empty handed.

Night after night passes, and you have nothing. You sort through boxes in the basement, trying to find a book you haven’t read or that doesn’t have your notes already scribbled over the worn pages, but it’s useless. You’re not a demon, or an Alpha monster—whatever that is sounds worrying, but it will have to wait—or a Nephilim, or an angel.

You’re not even sure angels are real.

And you’re running out of ideas.

When Bobby unceremoniously drops a book on your lap, you blink at him. It’s leather-bound, with yellowed pages, and you’ve never seen it before.

Bobby doesn’t have any books you’ve never seen before. You’ve even seen the romance books he keeps in his room.

“What-“

“Went after a few witches last month with Rufus.” He grunts. “Nasty bitches, been usin’ animal bones to try and reanimate their kids. Found this in their attic.”

You wrinkle your nose. “You got me a dead witch book?”

“I got ya a dead witch book we ain’t ever seen before, smartass-“

“I’m joking.” You give Bobby a grateful smile, moving the book into a small pile to your left. “Thank you.”

Bobby grumbles something that’s probably a little rude but likely justified, and shuffles back to the kitchen.

It takes you another few nights to get to the dead witch book. You had other books to comb through, other notes that became dead ends, and barely enough sleep to properly function. But regardless—after a long night of failed attempts at sleep—you end up with the book in your lap under the covers, a flashlight one hand and a pencil in the other as you scan over the pages.

You don’t know how you developed that habit. You’re a grown woman who’s well within Her right to be reading at three in the morning, and it’s not exactly smart hunter instinct to hide under bedsheets, but you’ve never been that bothered by it. It feels safe, and warm, and helps you focus. You do it at home, and in motel rooms.

And it helps you pretend that nothing could ever be that worrying. You’re under the covers, reading about witches like it’s never been that important, underlining the pages like you’re studying for a test rather than trying to figure out if you’re human or not.

The book is long. And old. And complicated. Every sentence seems to double back and turn over on itself, and every spell and ritual is needlessly convoluted to the point that you don’t think half of them will work. There’s a whole chapter about familiars that you don’t make it through, a series of pages about forbidden magic that you only can skim, and a section devoted to ass-kissing a group called the grand coven.

It’s not useless. If your eyes weren’t itching with sleep and your head wasn’t heavy with how everything is a little fucked right now, you’d probably find it interesting. But now you flip between pages, mindlessly looking for anything at all that could point you where to go. There seems to be a witch government, and you don’t really care about their social civics. They have history that will be the same in a few months when you have the brain power to study it, and different magic classification, and different study classifications, and different witch classifications-

That makes you pause, doubling back over the index to find the exact words—witch classification, pg. 683—and flipping to the sections with your pencil between your teeth.

It’s mostly useless nonsense. Most witches learn magic via study, and others borrow it from demons. You only seem to learn magic against your will—and it doesn’t feel like just magic—and you certainly didn’t make any demon deals that would result in you being… you.

You seem to fall closest to the last kind. People born into magic, who have an affinity for it.

And that’s when you lean forward, chewing on the pencil as you read. As something starts to stir in the White, and every word feels important.

Natural witches have a predisposition to the practice of magical arts. They have an innate ability to harness the universe within the confines of their practice, and require less exertion to perform any spell, ritual, or curse.

You don’t require any exertion. Most of the time you’re suffocating yourself trying to not perform.

But it’s closer than anything you’ve found before. So you keep reading.

A weaker natural may have an affinity to certain form of magic. It is unknown why this may be-

Not helpful.

Curses are known to be disproportionally cast by naturals-

Useful to remember, but not what you need.

Many natural witches come from a bloodline in which the trait has appeared before. A longer, stronger bloodline will often be connected to a stronger natural. Most powerful witches date back to pre-first century, however there is only one bloodline that has survived since the beginning of witchcraft, often theorized have proceeded or created the very practice itself. However many scholars debate its existence, calling it a witch-tale to create reason for the beginning of the art. As such it is lost to history, whether there was ever even the existence of the-

You can read that word.

Sort of.

Not really.

It looks different than every other word on the page, but you can still understand what it says. Like a shifting mirage you know shouldn’t make sense, but does. And it seems to be one word, but your mind insists it’s four.

Women of the high.

You re-read the sentence. Once, twice, a third time. It still looks like one word. It still says women of the high.

Lost to history, whether there was ever even the existence of the women of the high.

You didn’t know there were witch scholars. You didn’t know witches had tales. And you scan over the whole book, but all you find is one last paragraph in the history section.

There is little known about these very first witches, often called-

There it is again. Women of the high.

They are said to be far more powerful than any other witch, their harmony with the universe extending beyond that of even the most powerful natural. However, there is little to no historical evidence of their true existence, and it is a more commonly held belief among scholars that witchcraft is and always has been an evolving discipline.

The page goes on.

You stop reading, caught like a scratching vinyl on that phrase. Women of the high.

Harmony with the universe.

That could be one thing to call it. A heavy, involuntary harmony with everything around you, whether you like it or not. But these women, whatever they are, don’t seem to be real.

It could explain why you’ve never had a lead.

It may be the reason for the scar on your hand.

It would make you human. It would make this truly just a thing of your blood, or affinity, or whatever, and you’d just be a strange human the universe likes more.

Really nothing more than a witch. It would be really nice if you were nothing more than a witch. Not a monster. Not sick.

But the Darkness has started to spread, the longer you think about it. Focusing on it makes everything worse, and you can feel how the flashlight is burning, and the sheets feel swollen with you presence, and the pencil in your mouth-

There’s a snap, and a heavy taste of graphite as you chew right through the pencil.

There’s nothing left to do here but make yourself more than you are, and spin around this thing that doesn’t have an answer. You could be this.

You could still be nothing.

And you still really do feel sick. So fucking sick. With every passing it feels like air is being ripped through your lungs, and every breath is too thin. Your body feels rotten. Your heart feels like it’s been seized and thrashed and shredded and sown with something thin and bright.

You can feel those pieces again. Those fractured things Dean left deep in your body that haven’t be splashed with anything but agony since that fight. They hit somewhere deeper. Not quite critical, but closer to it. And they’ve been like dull knives along your spine that you’d retaught yourself to tune out, simply because there was too much other pain to spare them a thought.

But they’re powerful. They’re covered in grime and still trying to grow over your body—reconnect and mend and crystallize—and they fucking hurt. All of this fucking hurts, if you’re whatever that women of the high shit is, if you’re supposed to be in harmony with the universe, why does this always fucking hurt. Why do theses strange pieces Dean scattered through your body unravel your heart more than any stain of the Darkness, why do they blister over your gut worse than the demon’s knife, why are they sunken and smoothed and washed out like they’d been drowned when you’ve become so practiced at ignoring them, and why does it fucking hurt-

Your phone rings, and it almost makes you jump out of your skin.

It’s four in the morning. Bobby’s a floor up and a room over, if he wanted to talk to you, he’d come downstairs. If Rufus wanted to speak to you, he’d yell at Bobby to make you visit him. If Dean wanted to talk to you-

That’s what makes you scramble for the phone. This is exactly what Dean would do if he wanted to talk to you. Call with no warning in the dead of night with nothing to say, just because he didn’t think past calling and you always pick up the phone.

But it’s not Dean that’s calling.

It’s Sam.

You pick up, because Sam never calls you when you’re not on a hunt. Even on those two hunts, he’d wait until Dean called you before yelling in the background.

But the little, robotic letters on your phone say Sam Winchester.

And you pick up.

“Hello?”

You could swear you hear a breath of relief. “Shit, good, you’re up. Sorry, I didn’t think you would be, but I figured better to try and call in the morning if you didn’t. But you- You picked up. So now I guess I, uh, I have to say it.”

“Say-“ You frown into the air, sitting a little straighter in bed. “Are- Sam, is everything okay?”

“Uh…” Sam swallows through the speaker. “No. It’s bad.”

“Sam-“

“It’s Dean. He’s really hurt.”

You don’t think you heard him right. You couldn’t have heard him right. The Darkness is suddenly and meaninglessly rocketing out of your body, and it’s making the blood pound in your ears, so there’s no reason for you to hear him right. Bobby’s house has shit reception, and your phone is basically a fancy brick, and you’re unbelievably tired, so you didn’t hear Sam right.

Sam says your name, and he sounds cautious. Like he’s worried you’ll explode from just his words. “Are you-“

“Yeah, I’m uh, I’m here.” Your voice is unsteady, and you’re not sure why. You misheard Sam, so nothing’s wrong. “I didn’t- I’m not sure I heard you right, so-“

“What did you hear?”

“I- I’m not sure.” You swallow. The room is suddenly far too dark, and the pain is back. You’re not sure how it hasn’t reduced you to nothing but a stature, frozen and cold from nothing at all. “Can you repeat it?”

You don’t want him to repeat it. You want Sam to say he called you because Dean broke his phone, or because he lost a bet, or because they’re hunting something strange and there’s no one help them but you.

But Sam says something, and this time you really don’t hear it. It’s just a numb sound your brain seems to tune out, and the White feels like it’s being burned and frozen all at once.

“Sam-“

“I- Dad doesn’t know I’m calling you,” Sam continues, and you don’t think he knows you didn’t hear him again. “But Dean would want you here, I think.” He pauses, his voice a little lower. “I’d like you here. I- I think you should be here. For him. Just in case.”

You can’t really breathe. You’re not sure what’s happening. “In case of what?”

“In- Just if-“ Sam pauses, and the static through the phone is like a toxin over your skull. “I- I don’t want to say it. You know, it’s-“ He lets out a dry, humorless laugh. “One of those things, right?”

“I-“ Your nails are drawing blood on your skin. You don’t really feel it. “Sam, I don’t-“

“If you don’t want to, I get it. I know you guys were fighting or something, but I- I really-“ You can hear Sam’s long, deep breath. “Please come. For me. I- I don’t really want Dad to be the only other person here. Please.”

“What- what was-“

“Demon.”

You didn’t mishear Sam.

You can’t really breathe.

“How bad?” You whisper, and anything would be better than this long silence before Sam answers.

“Bad.”

“Where-“

“Jefferson City.”

“That’s-“ You think you’re choking on nothing. Everything hurts. “Sam, that’s like eight hours-“

“He’ll hold.” Sam mumbles. “Please.”

You swallow, and glance around your room. You can pack fast.

You can drive faster.

“I’ll be there in seven.”

It’s faster to hang up without saying goodbye. You don’t really want to say the word goodbye at all right now.

Because it’s easier to move without thinking about why you’re moving. You’re getting out bed because that’s what you have to do. You’re grabbing your bag like you’re going for a hunt, because there’s really no difference. You don’t know how long you’ll be gone. You don’t know when you’ll come home again.

So you need a bag.

Your usual one is still filled with clothing from the kelpie hunt. Half dirtied and crumpled shirts and pants, as whichever Winchester packed your bag hadn’t really bothered with being neat.

You understand that.

You’re not really bothering with it either.

All you need is clothing—you don’t really bother with style, because that doesn’t really fucking matter right now—some toiletries that you don’t trust motels with, a notebook just in case, and your knife.

The knife Dean gave you. Perfectly weighted in your hand, proof that he at least thinks of you, and no better than any other weapon but soothing. Like a baby blanket that can stab someone and always grounds you in something a little stronger than gravity that reminds you of Dean. Silver, sharpened blade glinting in the low light of dawn, already starting to break through the sky.

You need to go.

You’ll allow yourself one last combing of your dresser for cleaner socks and bras, but if you can’t find any then you’ll just have to trust that wherever Sam and Dean are will have laundry. And that bra’s covered in blood, and those sock stains don’t really look like something you’d want to touch—again—and there’s something shiny at the bottom of the drawer-

That’s not a sock, or a bra.

It’s a ring. Dean’s ring. The one that your brain has never given note, because it’s always seemed like just as much a part of him as his hair or nose or amulet.

And it’s lying at the bottom of your sock and bra drawer.

He wouldn’t have just left it here. You’ve never even seen him take it off, let alone set it down. But there’s no reason to set it down in a dresser. No reason for him to leave it with you-

He’d left you your jacket. He’d kept your jacket, then left it for you to find. The same jacket you’d shrugged on only a second ago, and had understood to be a silent promise that he’d been here. That he wasn’t here now, but he hadn’t just turned to air and vanished into the margins of your life once more. That he was keeping himself written all over you insides in the way he always did, still never grasping how the marks he left over your spine and heart were more like tattoos than stains.

The ring felt like a promise as well. Dean would never just leave it. If it was goodbye, he would’ve just left the jacket.

But he left the ring.

He’d meant to come back.

You don’t have time indulged the sting behind your eyes or the lump in your throat. You shove the ring in your pocket, grab your bag, and go. You’ll call Bobby later, and explain why you’d left in the dead of night and stolen one of his better cars—you can’t afford to worry about breaking down on the side of the road right now—when you’re not choking on your own lungs. When the Darkness doesn’t feel wired, and those fractured pieces in your body aren’t shaking and sparking and neon.

The drive is eight hours. You’d told Sam you’d be there in seven.

You’re pulling into the hospital lot in six.

There’s a long moment where you just sit at the wheel, your hand threatening to strangle the metal and your eyes squeezed shut. You need to move. To climb out of the car and find Sam, because he’d asked for you to be here and you’re just sitting the parking lot.

But the Darkness doesn’t feel containable. It’s stretched over everything, you’re stretched over everything, and you feel like you’re about to split in two. The engine of the car is exhausted from the strain you put it through. The seat is tired of your taut weight. The pavement of the lot is distressed from wear, and the telephone wires over your head are strained and tensed.

You drag yourself back together with a firm bite of your hand, and it leaves a mark. You’ll have to keep your hand in your pocket.

Sam has enough to worry about.

You realize two things when you walk into hospital lobby. First, Sam isn’t expecting you for another forty minutes, so he’s not going to be waiting. You’d probably have to call him.

Second, you won’t need to call him. Because hunched over the front desk, hissing low words in the face of a poor receptionist with pinned-up hair, is John Winchester.

In the blurring numb of everything, you’d forgotten he’d be here. Sam had even mentioned it, but you hadn’t really registered it until this moment, when you’re staring at the man himself.

You should run. He’s going to kill you. You can make out the shape of a gun tucked in his pants, and he’s going to press it to your temple and fire. You’ll bleed out through your brow, and that will be the end.

But you don’t move. A force like gravity is trying to move you forward, and all your willpower is put into being rooted in place. Stiller than a statue to that—maybe when John turns and spots you—he’ll think you’re nothing more than an odd decoration. You’re so fucked.

The receptionist sees you first, and her eyes widen in relief, like you’re a savior from whatever John’s been hissing at her. Before you can shake your head or look away—pretending you’re just wandering or pacing, nothing to mind or speak to—she’d opening her mouth.

And you don’t run.

“Do you need any help, ma’am?”

You cringe a little—being called ma’am is weird—and shake your head. “No, I’m- It’s nothing, thank you.”

You’d made your voice soft, and an octave higher than usual. Like some docile creature John would never need to bother glancing at

But he still recognizes you. You can see his back tense and his hands curl into fists on the desk, and when he looks over his shoulder there’s already hatred in his eyes.

You wish you were more certain he wouldn’t actually shoot you in a hospital.

“It’s alright, ma’am, whatever you need I can take care of now.” The receptionist waves you forward with a sweet, almost hopeful smile, and all you can do is wander forward with small steps. “How can I help you?”

“Um…” You swallow, forcing your gaze not to move to John, right at your side. His eyes are searing into your skin, but not in the way Dean’s do. When Dean looks at you it’s like he can see under your skin, and he’s trying to work out what’s inside of you. It’s hot and branding because he seems to be seeing more than what you are.

John’s gaze is painful. He sees exactly what you are, and he hates it. He hates you.

“Ma’am-“

“Sorry, I’m-” you clear your throat, forcing your voice to steady. “I just- I’m here for- I-“

Words feel far away. Everything feels far away. All that you’re certain of is that you need to be here, and you have to leave. John won’t let you near Dean. If your brain had been processing things right when Sam called, you would’ve told him no. That John wouldn’t just not want you here, he’d loathe your presence. You’d be putting everyone in danger, because you can feel the exhaustion of the receptionist’s big, blocky computer and the tension of the scrubbed and sterilized walls, and it’s all too much-

When Sam shouts your name, everything doubles. It’s all too much. You’re everything and nothing and you’re going to die and you’ll never see Dean again and that shouldn’t be your biggest worry but you can see him all over this hospital in gold, just like in your room, and it’s all pain-

Big arms wrap around your shoulder, something tugs you forward, and Sam’s hugging you.

It takes you back down. It’s doesn’t make anything hurt less, and nothing is in the Silver harmony that Dean gives you, but you’re you again. The Darkness is a little more on edge than usual—it is Sam, and that just seems to be something he does—but you’re nothing more than you.

And you take a long breath, and hug Sam back.

“Thank you for coming,” he mutters in your ear, and you just nod. Of course you came. You didn’t really even think about it, you just did, because it’s Dean.

You don’t know how to not do something for Dean. You only know how to follow him down.

“Yeah.” You whisper. It’s all you can really think to say. “Is he-“

You don’t know how to finish that sentence. Sam seems to understand that.

“It’s-“ He pulls back, giving you a tight, close-lipped smile. “I think it’s better if you see.”

“There’s no chance in hell she’s goin’ in to see Dean.” John snaps from behind you, and you flinch. Visibly flinch, enough for Sam to notice and frown at you. “I don’t even know what the fuckin’ Christ you’re doing here, girl-“

“I called her, Dad.” Sam’s defending you. You’re not sure why. “She deserves to be here. Dean would want her here.”

John’s eyes narrow. “She doesn’t fuckin’ know Dean-“

“Yeah, she does. They’re friends, Dad, and Dean probably never told you because he knew you’d be an asshole about it-“

“Watch yourself, son.” John hisses, and you feel caught in the center of something. You’d like to run. You still can’t. “Dean knows that she,” John points to you. He still hasn’t actually said your name, like you’re nothing more than an object. “Isn’t the sort I want you boys associating with. And he doesn’t lie to me-“

“Apparently, he does.” Sam snaps. “They’re friends dad. We’re friends. I want her here.”

“You don’t know what you want-“

“I’m not seven, Dad. This isn’t a toy we can’t afford. She’s here for Dean, and she’s staying.” Sam raises his chin slightly, and he needs to stop talking. If John keeps pushing he’s going to reveal your relationship with Bobby, and how you and Dean are…whatever you and Dean are, and Dean might get in trouble for associating with your sort.

But your brain is too caught on the idea of John didn’t know. Dean didn’t just keep you separated, he fully lied. To his dad. To stay near you. And you’re Sam’s friend too. That’s two friends.

You’ve never had two friends.

And your friendship with Dean has always been more complicated. At least to you, it’s been confusing and consuming and a little dangerous. Like it sinks deeper into your body than where a friendship should stop, and you’ve thought about Dean in ways you don’t think friends should think about friends.

But being Sam’s friend sounds easier. The Darkness may find him to act as an odd, untraceable trigger, but the rest of you likes him. He’s sweet. He wants you here, and you believe him.

It gives you enough of a spark to clear your throat, and meet John’s glare with a neutral, passive gaze. You’re staying. And if John wants you gone, he’ll have to call you what you are—whatever he thinks that is—to your face, where Sam can hear it.

“Sam’s not lying.” You say, and your voice is stronger than before. You’ve always been in pain anyways. What’s a bullet to the brain on top of your own body tearing itself apart. “Dean’s my friend. I’m not going.”

You’ve never had someone look at you like that. Like they hate everything that you are, with no exception or ideas for your use. It’s unnerving.

You’ve survived worse.

“You and Dean are friends?” John’s voice is a vile and poisonous sneer. You force yourself not to flinch. “How long you been friends, girl?”

“Years.” You shrug. He doesn’t get the satisfaction of more.

“And she’s staying.” Sam adds, but John barely looks at him. He seems to be trapped in staring at you.

You think he can see everything inside of you. All the Darkness and pain and torture you inflict on your own body. That he can see exactly where Dean’s marked and shattered and dulled you, and he’s trying to pry those pieces away from you. You can see it all over his face, how he doesn’t think you’d deserve any piece of Dean, even if it was offered and not created or stolen.

You’re almost certain that, if he could, John would fashion his hatred of you into a blade, and drive it right into your body. Carving out the White so it can never call you to Dean again.

But he hasn’t killed you yet. So you stand your ground.

“Only way you’re getting in that room,” he hisses at you. “Is over my goddamn corpse.”

You hum, and nod. “Alright.”

John blinks, and before he can speak again, Sam’s grabbing your shoulder and looking at you with wide eyes.

“But you said-“

“I’m not leaving, Sam.” You give him a small, tight smile. “But I’m not going to fight in a hospital. Are you hungry?”

Sam nods slowly—his expression weary as he looks between you and John—and you loop your arms together

“You know where the cafeteria is?” You ask, and Sam blinks at you.

“I, uh- Yeah.”

“Then let’s go.” You shoot John a flat, passive smile as you walk away, and that’s it. He doesn’t get to see you fall or crumble. He doesn’t get to know that you’re torn between a desperation to find Dean and make sure he’s still real—do whatever you need to in order to fix this—and an overwhelming sense of relief that you don’t need to see Dean yet.

You can’t really stand the idea of him being in pain. You’re not ready to witnesses it, not when you can remember the horror of all the worst hunts. You’d be too tired to control yourself, if the Darkness got out of hand.

Right now eating lunch with Sam is all you can really do.

He doesn’t try to talk to you. You walk in silence through blue and white tile halls, Sam pays for two shitty sandwiches, you pay for coffee, and neither of you say a word until you’re sitting on a plastic bench, staring with slightly glazed attention at the cup of off-brand greek yogurt in front of you.

“He gave you back your jacket.” Sam breaks the silence, and when you look up his expression is unreadable.

“I-“ You glance down to your sleeves, and nod. “Yeah. You knew he had it?”

“I saw it in his bag.” Sam shrugs. “He said he kept forgetting to give it back. Glad he remembered.”

You nod slowly, unsure where this is supposed to be going. “Yeah. It’s- yeah.”

There’s another long stretch of silence, and Sam might be the only person you’ve met who chews as loud as Dean. It’s not as obviously obnoxious—with purposeful vulgar sounds and pouted lips that have always been incredibly distracting—but it’s still loud. You think he’s waiting for you to try and make conversation. That’s fair.

“Thank you,” you mumble, poking at the yogurt with your spoon. “For not… for defending me with your dad.”

“Don’t worry about it. Dad’s just… he’s paranoid.” Sam sighs, frowning at his plate. “It’s been a long few weeks.”

“I guessed that.” You mumble, and Sam gives you a tight smile.

“How’s your stomach?”

“Fine. Bobby patched me up.”

“Does he know you’re here?”

You grimace, and shake your head. “I’m gonna call him tonight.”

Sam nods, leaning back in his chair and running a hand through his hair. “It’s- Bobby told us most everything, by the way. So you don’t have to worry about it.”

“Most-“ You clear your throat, forcing your voice to remain even. Bobby had said they’d have questions. You’d been practicing what and what not to tell them. But Sam sounds like he just knows. “What do you mean?”

“That he found you when you were a kid. And that he had to keep you away from everyone, cause of the sick thing.” Sam gives you an odd look. “I’d guess there’s more, though.”

You give a small nod, your voice soft. “Yeah. Kind of.”

And Sam doesn’t push. He just nods, and goes back to his food.

More long silences, all suddenly scattered with small talk. Your drive was long. Sam read a good book he thinks you’d like. This food is shit, and the coffee is worse.

Sam misses the coffee at the country club.

You visibly sit up straighter.

“Did-“ Sam glances down at his plate—like he’s debating just taking another bite to shut himself up—then back to you. “Something happened, right? When you went to go get Dean?”

You only stare at him. And as Sam pushes on, his words are slower.

“It’s- You don’t have to tell me everything. But you vanished, and Dean was freaking out, and you- you know him. He doesn’t freak out.”

He doesn’t. Dean gets angry and bites hard enough to scar over your bones and muscles, but he doesn’t panic. His head is level, until it’s not, and even then there’s a white-hot rationally to it.

“I’ve tried to ask him,” Sam mumbles. “He doesn’t want to talk about it.”

“I- I don’t really want to talk about it either.” You whisper, giving Sam an apologetic look. You don’t even know how to talk about it. How to explain that nothing is ever more real than Dean, which means that no pain is ever stronger than when he inflicts it, and no anger is ever as loud when he hates you. You say that, you won’t make it obvious that it’s more than an addiction or additional sickness, how you fall into every beautiful and ugly part of Dean, never with any will or desire to drag yourself back up. He’s like a cure that thinks it’s the disease.

And you’d sound insane if you said that aloud.

“Okay.” Sam lets out a long breath. “Sorry.”

“No- It’s-“ You don’t really want to look at him, so you focus on peeling the skin around your nails as you speak. “We had a fight. That’s it.”

“I kinda worked that out.” Sam says your name, his voice soft. “I just- I’ve never see Dean lose it like that. I think he flipped a boulder.”

You flush slightly. “Oh.”

“You’re good for him, you know.”

You blink up at Sam, shaking your head. “I don’t-“

“I mean, everything’s been insane. And the kelpie hunt was- It was the easiest I’ve seen him, up until the end.”

You just stare at Sam, and he sighs.

“I just think you should hear it, you know? I- I get the feeling Dad’s going to be kind of a dick to you. So I’m saying it now.”

“Okay.” Your voice is quiet, but the small smile you give Sam is real. “Thank you.”

“No problem.” Sam returns your smile, his voice somehow more cautious as he continues. “Do- Are you ready? To go see him.”

You’re not. You won’t be.

But you nod anyway, and walk behind Sam in shuffled steps to clear your trays and leave the cafeteria.

Your breathing is shallow as you move back through the halls. It’s an effort to keep the Darkness in your body, an effort to let Sam bring you into the room without running away. You don’t want to see this. You want to believe that everything Sam says has been exaggerated, that you’ll walk through the chipped-paint blue door and Dean will be sitting up in his bed, shifting through the channels on the shitty hospital TV. That he’ll see you and say hey, Princess, didn’t think Sammy would be able to get a hold of you. That he’d wink at you or yell at you or tease you.

That he’d do anything but what’s so painfully and obviously before you.

Nothing.

He’s just lying there. He’s been stripped of whatever he was wearing during the attack, but damage isn’t just tattered and dirtied clothing in a pile on a chair. It’s bruises and gashes and swollen parts of his face, how even as he breathes through a tube it’s not a steady movement. How there are cuts on his knuckles and a line of stitches near his neck.

The White is screaming. It’s rioting inside of you as all you do is stare, and Dean just keeps lying there. Why won’t he move. He’s supposed to move. He’s supposed to be any annoying, bouncing ball of insufferable charm, bumping into you and saying every right and wrong thing every second. But the only sound you can hear is the beep of a machine, and where the White is supposed to be tugging to towards him, it’s tugging you slightly off to the side.

The Darkness is oddly docile. It seems to be cowering, scratching and clawing at your skin but not trying to break out, just shredding you apart from within. Those fractured pieces are freezing and breaking a little further, and when your legs start to carry you to the side of the bed, you’re too tired to fight them.

You manage to stop yourself from touching him. You don’t know if he would want you to touch him, and it feels wrong to do it without him knowing.

You wish he’d wake up to tell you, even if the answer was no. Even if he hissed that he wanted you to leave forever, even if he never apologized for your fight and even if said things worse than before, you’d really just like him to wake the fuck up. If he wakes up you can hear his voice, even if it’s laced with hatred. If he calls you a bitch and tells you to go, at least this time you’ll learn to hate him, and it will be justified.

Right now you can’t do anything but stand here and stare, your hand hovering at your side as you keep yourself from running fingers over his face. He’s sweating, and his hair is stiff and muddied, sticking his scalp, and if you ran your fingers through it maybe he’d let out one easy breath.

You don’t know why he would.

But the White is convinced that it’s what you need to do. And you can’t, you have to reign it in and keep it together, just for Dean’s sake, because he wouldn’t want you to-

Something grabs your hand and moves it forward, and before you can yank it back your nails are scraping Dean’s scalp with a feather-light touch, and there’s mud on your hands as you comb through Dean’s hair. It’s still soft, just wet and dried with something you know is dirt and another, darker thing you can’t bring yourself to say aloud.

You should pull your hand away. You can’t. It’s like a force really and truly outside of your control—not the White or the Darkness—is moving it for you, and whenever you try to move back it holds you here.

The White still isn’t calling you further down into Dean’s sleeping body. It’s trying to make you fall back into nothing but air.

And when you hear John clear his throat in the doorway, you still don’t move.

“Sammy, I told ya-“

“Dad, you make her leave, I leave.” Sam says from behind you, and there’s a long silence as John weighs his words.

You’re not sure what you did to earn Sam’s loyalty.

You’ll never be able to thank him enough for it.

When you finally drag your gaze away from Dean’s beaten face—your hand still held delicately on his head—John’s sitting in one of the hospital chairs. Holding a paper cup of coffee and glaring at you like he’d like to hack off your arm for daring to touch his son.

If you respected him more, you’d explain that you can’t stop touching him. The invisible force won’t allow it.

“You look like fuckin’ shit,” John grunts your name, scanning over you with a scowl. “You ever sleep when you’re runnin’ around, invading proper hunter’s work?”

“No.” You shrug, turning a little bit of Dean’s hair between your fingers. You could swear he makes a small sound of content. “Usually I don’t sleep because I’m doing proper hunters jobs for them.”

John’s eyes narrow, and Sam’s voice is nervous as he pipes up.

“Dean mentioned you guys went after a demon together, before the one in Colorado-“

John shoots Sam a sharp look. “What demon in Colorado-“

“Not him, Dad. I exorcised this one.”

You look between Sam and John with a frown. “Him?”

“The demon that killed our mom-“

“Samuel.” John hisses. “I don’t want you poking her into our fuckin’ business-“

The force on your hand tightens, and you raise your chin slightly.

“I’m not going to do or say anything.” You snap. You could say you already knew, but you don’t want to. Not when you think the backlash would fall on Dean. “And you don’t have to tell me-“

“We figured out a way to kill it.” Sam pushes on, ignoring John’s glare. “Have you heard of Samuel Colt?”

“Samuel Winchester-“

“Yeah.” You nod. “I’ve read about him.”

“He made a weapon that kills demons.” Sam says, looking back to John’s furious expression. “Dad, can you-“

“What the hell do you think you’re doin’-“

“She could help.” Sam’s voice is almost pleading. “Please, Dad, she’s a really good hunter-“

John lets out a loud, dry laugh, and it twists in your stomach. “Sammy, I don’t know how you’ve forgotten-“

“About my family?” You cut in, raising your brows and holding John’s shocked expression. “The one you figured me out with?”

“I did figure you out,” John sneers. “You’re nothing more than a spoiled brat, raised by a bunch of soft fuckin’ pussies-“

It’s your turn to laugh. “The same soft pussies who gave me this?” You raise your palm, your other hand remaining on Dean’s brow. “The one’s I haven’t seen since I was eight years old?”

John tenses, and you give him a sickly sweet smile, your voice growing cold.

“You don’t know me, John Winchester. You don’t know who I am.” You raise your chin, holding his gaze. “Don’t think for one second that you’ve figured me out.”

There’s a long moment of silence, and it’s like stone around your lungs. You’re almost sure that John is going to lunge out of his seat as rip your theory out, or stab you, or just shoot you and get it over with, because he may not have you figured out, but you remember his warning from the poltergeist. You haven’t forgotten that he knows you’re… whatever you are, and he well within his right to hate that-

“Show her the Colt, Dad.” Sam breaks the silence, his voice soft. “For Dean.”

John scowls, but reaches behind his body and pulls out a thin, well-detailed revolver, placing on the side table with careful hands.

You blink at it. “It’s a gun.”

“No shit, girl-“

“Dad.” Sam mumbles. “Please.”

John lets out a long, slow breath. “It’s a demon killin’ gun.” He mutters, his words pushed through his teeth. “And it’s fuckin’ ours, so don’t you even think about trying to take it.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” you drawl, ignoring John’s glare as you scan over the gun.

You wouldn’t dream of it. You don’t need a gun to kill a demon, that something your body seems to be able to do all on its own. That could be another women of the high thing. It could just be a you thing.

Because you still don’t feel fully human. And usually the Darkness balks and roars at threats. Lashing and spreading when there’s a monster that could hurt Dean on a hunt, when someone says something that it perceives as a threat, whenever John Winchester walks into a room.

It has no interest in this gun. It’s a gun, in John Winchester’s hands, and it feels like nothing more, and nothing less.

You’d like to hold it, to study it, but your hand is still trapped against Dean.

And you certain John wouldn’t take too kindly to you crossing the room and trying to pick it up. So you remain where you are, and only hum.

“Okay.”

You’re getting really sick of all these long silences. Sam keeps trying to make more small talk—and he hasn’t gotten better at it the last hour—as John refuses to acknowledge you any further, and you just stay next to Dean. You think the sky could fall and the earth could shake and you still wouldn’t be able to move. Not as that invisible force keeps you there, and you can’t feel anything wrong with it. It’s almost calming. Almost natural, keeping you where you’re supposed to be in spite of any fear or feral instinct to run from where John Winchester could decide that Sam’s pleading isn’t enough, and make good on his promise all those years ago.

But he never does. Eventually John—after a long, strange moment of just staring at Dean’s body—excuses himself with a mutter.

Sam gives you an odd look and shrugs it off, saying he’s going to get some more coffee, because you could all use it.

And you’re left alone with Dean. Dean’s body. Not Dean himself.

Dean would smile and tease and joke with you. Dean would be shoving away your hand with a grumble of I’m not a freakin’ dog, Princess, before teasing you about petting him at all.

Right now he’s just a shell. And it’s horrible. It’s mold in your body and over your eyes, and you don’t want to look at him but you can’t look away.

You pull his ring out of your jacket and place it on the side-table. It’s his. He deserves to have it back.

And when you swallow, you know this might be your only chance to tell him something, even if no one but you hears it. You have to tell him something.

“Dean- I-“ You’re choking on nothing. You have to be able to push through this. “I- Stop. Stop sleeping.”

He’s not sleeping. You know he’s not sleeping.

You can’t find it in you to say the truth.

“Just- Stop.” You take a shaking breath, bowing your head to stare at your hand, still tangled in his hair. “Please.”

Something feels like it’s squeezing your hand, a warm wind ghosting over your knuckles, and then the force is gone.

You move your hand away slowly, like you’re not sure you’re allowed to. And when you look at your palm, it’s tainted in gold.

In Dean.

Your head shoots up, your mouth opening to call his name, but the door swings open.

You stare at John Winchester. He stares at you.

“What-“

“Need that.” He grunts, pointing to the Colt, still on the table. “Shouldn’t have left it here with you.”

You roll your eyes. “Yeah, clearly a terrible choice, given it’s still here.”

John just scowls, grabbing the Colt and tucking it back into his pants. “Stay here until Sammy gets back, and have him call me if Dean starts to move. Got it?”

“Where are you going?”

“Not your-“

“And before you refuse to tell me,” you snap, standing a little taller. “Remember that I am not your kid, and I have no reason to do what you tell me to.”

John’s jaw ticks. “It ain’t telling you, girl, that’s-“

“An order?” You raise your brows. “I don’t take your orders. Where are you going.”

John scans over you with a scowl, his voice low when he answers, like he hopes you just won’t hear him. “I’m fixin’ this. Stay here.”

“Fixing-“ You pause, glancing at the gun. At the crumpled piece of paper in his pocket, right next to a stick of chalk. You can’t read the paper.

You recognize one of the symbols on it. You’d seen it just a few days ago, pouring over a book in Bobby’s kitchen.

“How?”

“Don’t worry about it-“

“I can help.”

John scoff. “I don’t need your help, girly-“

“John.” Your voice is flat, but it’s all you can bother with right now. “I know what you’re doing. And you don’t have to do it like that.”

You nod to his pocket, to the demon summoning ritual printed on torn paper, and his eyes narrow.

“I don’t know what the hell you think you’re getting at-“

“I can help.” You repeat. You will help. You don’t know what John’s plan is, but you know that if Dean doesn’t stop sleeping, you’ll…

You don’t know. All you do know is that the pain is drowning you, you’ll to anything to make it stop, and everything in you wants Dean. It’s all washed out and colorless without him.

And you can help.

“He’ll come for me.” You rub your thumb over your palm, shrugging like what you’re saying is nothing at all. “Demons always do.”

You don’t know exactly what about your words convinces John, but you don’t really care all that much. Because he glances at Dean, looks back to you, and nods.

And you follow him into the boiler room, hugging your body like you can hold the Darkness in your body as it starts to stretch once more.

John says the demon’s name is Azazel. It’s a proper demon name.

It makes everything too big.

And when you say it, when you call for him, you know why you hate the word before he even appears. It tastes like as, and the world goes gray, and this was a mistake.

But it’s too late to run now.

Azazel smiles at you like he has before. It would never matter what body he was occupying, you’d always recognize that smile. It creeped over your skin and haunted your nightmares, the same way Dean’s winning smile followed you into every dream.

The shade of yellow in his eyes is sickly. You’ve only seen it from afar, twisting and rotting in body.

It’s worse up close.

“Hello,” He says your name, and it might be the worst sound you’ve ever heard. “Pleasure seeing you here. Wish I could say I’d been knocked out of my boots, but,” he sighs, clicking his tongue, nod it almost sounds like he’s disappointed in you. “I seen you with the smaller one? Bigger one?” He laughs. You’re going to vomit. “The one that’s wasting away as we chat. Dean.”

“Stop talking to her.” John grunts. “She’s just the caller, you’re here for me.”

Azazel attention flicks away from you, and his grin grows. “Well, if it isn’t old Johnny Winchester. Didn’t think I’d ever see you two pairin’ up. She’s a little above your pay grade, don’t you think-“

“She’s just a girl-“

Azazel laughs at that. You can’t really remember how to speak.

“Just a girl?” He cackles again, and the Darkness feels like it’s going to shred you apart, staring in your lungs and ripping up your spine. “Oh, you have no idea. We’ve been watching you, darling, and you are so much more than you let on. More than any spirit or monster, more than sweet Sammy Winchester and the others, more than me.”

You blink at him, your voice hoarse. “I don’t- Sam’s-“

“Oh, he’s a little more than he seems as well. John knows what I’m talkin’ about, ain’t that right?”

John expression is firm. Unreadable.

The room is sort of spinning.

“That’s not her business.” John says, and Azazel laughs again. You wished he’d stop.

“Oh, it’s more than her business. Do you really know, John? The grand hunter himself having damnation right under his nose, not able to sniff it out.”

You swallow. “I- I’m not- damnation-“

Azazel shrugs. “That’s fair, you haven’t quite hit that milestone yet. And you could be salvation, but I don’t you will be. You seem to like the pain too much, don’t you.”

John looks between you and Azazel with a frown. “She’s nothin’, and this isn’t-“

“Wrong, Johnny! She’s everything.” Azazel shoots you a wink. “Might end up more, if she lets herself. But she’s a righteous little witch-“

You pray John heard it as bitch.

You’re not that lucky.

“She’s a what.”

You thought he’d know. But he’s shaking his head like he doesn’t believe it, and you realize that he didn’t. That he’d only hated you, not what you are.

But he certainly knows now. He’s walking away from you, looking at you like you’re a bomb set to go off any moment. It’s terrifying, and you can’t worry about it right now. Azazel’s wasting time.

Time Dean doesn’t have.

“She’s an obstacle,” Azazel sneers. “Smart, pretty thing. Got Dean wrapped around that finger of hers-“

“She doesn’t have Dean-“

John’s snap is cut off by Azazel’s shrug.

“Not now. But that’s just cause the boy is dying, and nobody’s got him. Nobody but you, John. You’ve always got your sons, always keeping them nice and safe, comfy and hidden from the truth-“

“I’m protecting them.” John grunts. If you weren’t falling and burning from the inside, you’d press about what the fuck the truth is. “And we both know what we’re building up to-“

Azazel sighs. “Well, I was hopin’ you’d try to kill her.” You must visibly go pallid, because he waves you off with a hand. “Don’t worry, darling. John’s gonna take care of Dean first, then deal with you. For now, we’re gonna cut to the chase. I can save Dean, but I don’t just want that gun in your pocket.”

John’s eyes narrow. “What-“

“I want you, John. Damned down in hell, like you shoulda been long ago. Gimme you and the gun, and Dean wakes up like nothin’ ever happened.”

“I want to see him. Make sure you follow through.” John holds Azazel’s gaze, and the demon shrugs.

“Seems fair. We got a-“

“And.” John jerks his head to you, and the Darkness recoils and explodes. Still trapped in your body. “I want her gone.”

Azazel sighs. “That might be a little outside my jurisdiction, I’m afraid-“

“Demons don’t got jurisdictions-“

“With her?” Azazel laughs. You wish you could remember how to scream or speak or move. “We all got jurisdiction. But,” he raises his brows. “I can kill everyone she cares about and make her life worse than hell, if she gets near your boys again. Deal?”

John doesn’t hesitate. He nods, shakes Azazel’s hand, and that’s it.

You don’t get to scream or protest or fight or explode. Your fate is sealed and it’s out of your hands. John doesn’t look at you as he leaves you in the boiler room, Azazel smirks at you again before he evacuates his vessel, and it’s… over.

You won’t get to say goodbye. You don’t doubt Azazel’s promise—if you go near Sam and Dean again, Bobby will probably die and you’ll live a life worse than hell–and you can’t fix this. You won’t even get to say goodbye.

But Dean will be okay. Azazel will heal him, and he’ll be broken by John’s death but that’s not your problem, because you have to go.

And you’ll have to get through this. Alone.

You will get through this. You’d say you’ve gotten through worse, but if it really does feel like this is something a little lower than low, and that can’t matter.

You’ll get through it. You have to get through it. You always get through it, and you don’t have any other choice.

And then color burst along your vision and over the White, and there’s silver harmony in everything, and Dean’s okay.

But you still don’t get to stick around. You’ll never get to shout at him for almost dying, or fight about how you did the same to him only two weeks ago. You won’t get to know what the gold is. You won’t get an apology, or another chance to try and hate him. You’ll have to learn what you are alone. You’ll tell Bobby you’re searching for a cure—one that isn’t Dean, even if you can’t really imagine there being anything else that could even compare—and you’ll figure out how to not be damnation.

You don’t really want to be salvation either.

But you’ll have to learn how to be nothing more than you, alone.

And those pieces Dean left over your body aren’t shattering, or eroding, but freezing. It feels like a stasis. Permanent light trapped in your body, gravity calling you back to Dean’s side that you can fight against because you still have that iridescent light lining everything inside of you.

You don’t get to say goodbye.

But you’ll get through this.

You always do.

End Note: John Winchester you should be glad you’re dead and also not real or I’d kill you with my bare hands for what you did to my husband. Also I’m SORRY but you have to TRUST I’m doing something!!! I’m cooking!!

Thank you so so so much for reading!! If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3

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