#these two have been plaguing me for WEEKS. WEEKS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

[jburrgf]

About You I — The Love Trope Series.

“Do you think I have forgotten about you?”

◦pairing: ¡lsu! joe burrow x ¡ex situashionship! reader

◦summary: second change trope, college relationships, slow burn love, right person wrong time.

◦description: you and joe had a thing months before, but the things ended in a bad way. now, you see yourself stuck in something that requires you to be close to him every single day.

◦playlist: About You - The 1975, Love Me Like You Do - Ellie Golding, Like Real People Do - Hoozier, I Bet You Think About Me - Taylor Swift, Called You Again - Lizzy McAlpine, Tolerate It, ImGonnaGetYouBack, Clean - Taylor Swift

PART ONE: CLEAN.

There are certain moments in life that seem impossible to forget. The second I walked onto LSU’s campus, I knew my life was about to change. But not just because of the classes, the social scene, or the crazy football culture.

When I started in LSU, it was supposed to be a clean slate. A chance to focus on my career path and prove to myself that I could thrive in a bigger pond, surrounded by people just as driven as me. Advertising and Public Relations wasn’t just a degree—it was a strategy. A way to blend my creative instincts with a business-minded edge.

What I didn’t expect was LSU’s football program to be the centerpiece of everything.

LSU football wasn’t just a sport. It was culture, identity, and religion rolled into one. By my second semester, I was interning with the athletic department, brainstorming marketing campaigns and filming promos for the team. I was good at what I did—so good that I convinced myself it didn’t bother me when my work bled into my personal life.

Everything started to go wrong when I met him. Tall, blond, American aesthetic, and so, but so kind. That was Joe Burrow, the youngest transferred from Ohio State to the south. New just like me.

Joe was Joe —calm, collected, and infuriatingly charming. He wasn’t flashy like some of the other players, but the air shifted when he walked into a room. Everyone noticed him. And the first time we crossed paths, I did too.

We met my junior year at a party, back when he was just Joe—a talented quarterback with a quiet intensity and a way of looking at you like he could see straight through every mask you’d ever worn. I hadn’t planned on noticing him, but it was impossible not to.

And since then, I'm haunted by his face, his smile, his smell, his body. Every little thing that made him Joe, it was inside my head like a bad song that you can’t stop singing. I didn’t want that, not in the beginning.

And now, I'm running from him like the plague. Every place he might be, I'm not going. Every little encounter or party, or dinner, or what else, I wasn’t going.

It was a party I didn’t want to go to. Maddie had been bothering me for weeks to go to this party, and honestly, I didn't feel like going. Simply no desire.

"I'm serious, Y/N. You work too hard," Maddie, my best friend at LSU, said to me. We had just left one of our classes together, and were walking around the campus, heading towards Maddie's car. "You're missing the entire college experience."

I sighed, pinching the bridge of my nose. “I’m here to build my career, not get drunk at frat houses.”

“Even Beyoncé has to relax,” she shot back. “I’m picking you up at eight, tomorro, no excuses. But now, we’re going to Malone’s.”

[…]

I didn’t want to be here.

Malone’s was Maddie’s favorite spot, a college-town bar where everyone gathered on weekends to drink, laugh, and pretend their responsibilities didn’t exist. It was the kind of place where the sticky floors were part of the charm, and you couldn’t walk two feet without bumping into someone you knew. Normally, I’d avoid it like the plague—especially on a night like tonight, when Maddie’s sole mission was to convince me to go to that stupid party tomorrow.

“You’re being dramatic,” Maddie said as I slid into the booth across from her, the sound of the bar’s chatter and faint music drowning out half her words. “It’s just one party. What’s the worst that could happen?”

I rolled my eyes, pulling my coat tighter around me despite the warmth of the bar. “You say that like you don’t know me. I don’t do frat parties, Maddie. I don’t want to spend my Saturday night elbow-to-elbow with drunk people I barely know.”

“That’s the fun of it,” she countered, her grin far too smug for my liking.

“You’re impossible,” I muttered, reaching for the drink she’d already ordered for me.

“I’m persistent,” she corrected. “And don’t think I didn't notice that you didn’t actually say no.”

I groaned, leaning back in the booth. Maddie had been trying to drag me to this party for days, claiming it was some can’t-miss event that would somehow make my life infinitely better. I wasn’t convinced, but I’d stopped arguing because, frankly, I didn’t have the energy.

I was checking on the bar from above my shoulders when It happened.

Joe Burrow.

The last person I ever expected to see here, especially tonight.

My chest tightened the moment I spotted him standing by the dartboard, his tall frame impossible to miss, his blond hair was slightly disheveled, and the faint scruff on his jaw made him look older than he had when we’d last spoken. Joe was dressed casually, jeans and a hoodie, looking like he didn’t have a care in the world, and was laughing at something one of his friends said, the sound cutting through the low hum of the bar like a knife.It wasn’t just the way he carried himself or the fact that he was Joe Burrow—LSU’s star quarterback—but the way my body reacted, as if it had its own memory of him.

I hadn’t seen him in months—not since we’d ended things without really ending them. And now, seeing him here, so casually present in my space, felt like a slap to the face. Work Out from J Cole was playing, and everything felt like a movie scene.

It wasn’t like we had history. At least not in the way most people assumed. We barely knew each other. But there had been that one night at a party a while back, and another one after a game, and another one at our friends house, and another one… and the tension between us had never fully died down. I could still remember the way his eyes had felt on me, like he was measuring me in some silent way I didn’t know how to interpret.

“Y/N.” Maddie’s voice snapped me out of my daze. She followed my line of sight and groaned. “Oh no.”

I shook my head, panic setting in. “I can’t do this.”

“You don’t even know if he saw you.”

“I’m not sticking around to find out,” I said, already sliding out of the booth.

“Y/N—”

But I was gone, weaving through the crowd toward the back hallway where the bathrooms were. I needed to breathe, to get away from the overwhelming weight of his presence.

The bathroom at Malone’s was about as glamorous as you’d expect—a narrow space with flickering fluorescent lights and graffiti scrawled across the stalls. I locked myself in one of the stalls, leaning back against the door as I tried to steady my breathing.

Of all the places to run into Joe, it had to be here.

It wasn’t like I hadn’t thought about him. I had—more than I cared to admit. But thinking about him was one thing. Seeing him, knowing he was just a few feet away, was something else entirely.

I couldn’t face him. Not now, not here.

The bathroom was quiet, the kind of eerie stillness that felt out of place in the chaos of Malone’s. I leaned against the sink, staring at my reflection in the smudged mirror.

“Get it together,” I whispered to myself, taking a deep breath.

I didn’t even know why I was reacting like this. It wasn’t like we were still together. We weren’t anything anymore. And yet, the sight of him had thrown me completely off balance, dredging up feelings I thought I’d buried a long time ago.

But I couldn’t stay in the bathroom forever, either.

I opened the bathroom door and nearly walked straight into him.

Joe was leaning against the wall opposite the bathroom, his arms crossed over his chest and his gaze fixed squarely on me.

I froze, my heart hammering in my chest.

“Y/N,” he said, his voice low and steady, a hint of amusement curling at the edges.

Nope.

Without a second thought, I ducked back into the bathroom, slamming the door shut behind me. My cheeks burned with embarrassment, and I bit my lip to keep from screaming. What the hell was I supposed to do now?

I paced the small space, my mind racing. He’d seen me, which meant he was waiting for me. I couldn’t hide in here forever, but the thought of facing him felt impossible.

Eventually, I forced myself to take a deep breath and opened the door again.

Joe was gone.

Relief flooded through me as I stepped out into the hallway, my eyes scanning the crowd for any sign of him. But instead of Joe, my attention was drawn to a small slip of paper pinned to the corkboard on the wall next to the bathroom.

It wasn’t there before.

Curious, I stepped closer and pulled it free. The handwriting was unmistakable—slanted and bold, with a certain sharpness to the letters that felt uniquely him.

“Go to the party tomorrow. Please.”

I stared at the note, my heart pounding for an entirely different reason now.

My fingers tightened around the paper as Maddie appeared at the end of the hallway, her eyes wide with curiosity.

“What’s that?” she asked, gesturing to the note.

“Nothing,” I said quickly, shoving it into my pocket.

She raised an eyebrow but didn’t push. “Ready to head back? I don’t think Joe’s here anymore.”

I nodded, though my mind was miles away.

Maybe tomorrow. Maybe I would go. Maybe I wouldn’t.

But one thing was for sure: Joe Burrow had just made sure I wouldn’t forget this night.

——————————————

part 2: About You II (The Love Trope Series) — Friend.

hey guys! this is the beginning of my Love Tropes Series. The first part, About You, it’s going to be launched in four parts! stay tuned :)

[godmadeaterribleerror]

Chapter 6 - Everything I Do

Tags: Dean Winchester/Female Reader, Sam Winchester/Reader (platonic), light fluff, mutual pining, light angst, love confession, smut (handjob, fingering, p in v sex), Dean's got the Mark of Cain, uh oh.

Summary/Warnings: The Mark reaches a breaking point. Usual Warnings, little angst, lotta smut.

Author's Note: I am of the firm belief Rowena would’ve said cunt religiously if the CW wasn’t full of a bunch of pussies.

Chapter title from Video Games by Lana Del Ray

Word Count: 8.7k

Read on A03!

Chapter 5

Dean can breathe. Not easily, but he can. He can feel the weight of something airy and thin wrapped around him, stuck to his skin and far too heavy. There’s a hand on his brow, and it’s not the right one. Dean’s not sure what the right one would even be, but he knows it’s not this one. This one feels a little wrinkled, and the nails are too long, and it doesn’t satiate the betterlust. It’s just there, pressed to his skin like it’s looking for something and not all too pleased with what it finds.

The longer it’s there, the more the betterlust pounds and stabs and scrapes at him. Rots his guts and carves open his skull and rips through his chest. It’s searching for something that’s not there, and Dean’s head is too clouded with pain and ache and sickness to figure out where he should even be looking. Not in the hand. Not in the thing around him like a shroud–hot and clinging to him like a plague—but maybe somewhere close. Because wherever Dean is—he doesn’t know, and he doesn’t have enough of a brain to guess right now—it’s unfamiliar, but feels right. He’s lying on something soft, and it smells good, and when his fingers flex, they’re tracing over an impression left on the area next to him. An indent left on the space by something that could curve and press into Dean exactly like he wants. Craves. Needs. 

The betterlust starts to flare and bellow, almost drowning out the low voices around him, and Dean knows he might die if he doesn’t find what fits into that impression and take it.

“How long has he been like this?”

“I’m not sure, a few hours?”

“Well can you try to be sure, Samuel?”

“I got here the same time you did, how am I supposed to be sure-“

“Ask our resident Dean Expert, the poor girl has been stuck with him all week-“

“No, I’m not going to make her do more. And, uh,” there’s a long sigh, and Dean still isn’t really sure what’s going on, or who these people are, or why they’re talking about him. “I don’t think it’s safe for her right now. To be around him. He said he didn’t want her-“

“He obviously lied, you idiotic boy-“

“He didn’t want her to know, Rowena. And it’s not my place to tell her-“

“She’s a big girl, she’ll survive a little bit of emotions.”

“He’d, he’d fucking kill me-“

“And he will kill himself if he does not accept what he needs! It’s quite honestly a miracle he was a stubborn enough arse to resist the Mark’s demands this long.”

Dean’s really fucking confused. There are two voices, one that sounds a little like his and one that very much doesn’t, and they’re both talking about him like he’s important. He doesn’t feel important. He mostly just feels tired, and bad, and sick. Sweaty and hungry and desperate for something he can’t name, but they say he needs to name or he’ll die, and he doesn’t even really know what names are right now-

“If I tell her, this becomes her responsibility-“

“Well, Dearie, I wasn’t aware you were stupid and blind-“

“Hey-“

“You cannot look me in the eyes and say that she would not welcome the responsibility, boy. She is so pathetically obsessed with him it makes me feel ill.”

Dean felt his mouth try to frown—he can’t figure out how to move, so it more of a twisted grimace—as he racked his mush of a brain to figure out who they could possibly be referring to. He couldn’t remember names, but he could remember presences. Remember that the voice like his was good, and he was supposed to protect it. The voice that wasn’t like his was bad, and kind of a bitch, but helpful when they ran out of options. There wasn’t a third voice, but there was a smell that he really liked. Loved. Craved. Needed-

That was the imprint. And it wasn’t here right now, but the betterlust and already spiraling around it and constricting his lungs as he tried to find it. He needed it, and it didn’t need him, and he was going to die-

“I know,” the familiar voice sighed. “Believe me, I know, but I can’t ask that of her-“

“She’ll shred your sorry arse apart if you don’t-“

“And Dean will put a bullet through my brain if I do!”

“He will die before he gets the chance. Have I not made it clear that, unless Dean receives the help our lovely, pretty, lovesick-“

Then the voice that wasn’t like Dean’s said a name, and the betterlust exploded inside him. He knew that name. He’d die and kill and cut himself to pieces for that name. He wanted it. He couldn’t have it. He needed it, more than he needs air or water or food or music. The betterlust demanded it, and was shredding apart his insides because he refused to take it, but was also lending him the strength to find it. To find Her. Dean needed to fucking find Her, or nothing would ever be good again-

His eyes fly open, and for a long movement everything is only a blinding blur of color. There’s noise around him—both voices shouting words that sound like they’re for him but he can’t understand—and Dean’s brain kicks into a vigilant, borderline feral function as he hauls himself up, something pushes him back down, and the betterlust grew feral.

“Rowena, grab the other arm-“

“I am not meant for brute labor, Samuel-“

“Are you fucking kidding me-“

Dean roars Her name clawing and grabbing at the air to try and go, try to get to Her, because he was going to fucking die, and the betterlust told him She could fix this, make this better, make Dean better-

“Oh for- Fine.” 

The voice not like Dean’s says something he can’t understand, his whole body tightens. Like a weight has been dropped on his chest, and ropes have been wrapped around his limbs, forcing him to collapse back onto the bed with a noise that might have been a whine.

“Dean.” Rowena appears in his vision, her face drawn in annoyance. “Blink twice if you understand me.”

Dean scowls, but blinked twice.

“Good. Are you going to try and kill us again?”

Dean glowers at Rowena, keeping his eyes wide open in a gesture of no, and she sighs.

“Good boy. I’ll let you up, but if you ever try and grab my hair again, I’ll make you regret having hands, aye?”

The tension vanishes from Dean’s body, and he sits up slowly, pinch the bridge of his nose to try and curb the pounding ache behind his eyes, taking deep, mechanical breathes to get some fucking control over his body. Over the betterlust. Over himself.

“Dean, are you feeling okay?“

Sam looks worried. He’s frowning and scanning over Dean with concern, like there will be wound on his skin they can patch up to fix this. 

But only one thing can fix this. And Dean still isn’t strong enough to not know where She is, not when all he can remember is dragging himself to Her room, and hearing her voice, and seeing her pretty face before it all went dark. 

Dean mutters Her name, his voice low and gruff, and Sam and Rowena freeze. “Where is she.”

“She’s eating.” Sam mutters, bracing his hands on his hips. “I told her to get some rest. You freaked her out, dude, she-“ Sam shakes his head, giving Dean a look he doesn’t understand, and doesn’t have the energy to try and decipher. “She was really shaken, when we got back. She needs-“

“She needs you.” Rowena interrupts Sam, and he shoots her a venomous glare. “You’re too much of a meat-headed dolt to see it, but that darling girl looked as if she’d been devastated over you.” 

“Rowena.” Sam hisses. “We agreed-“

“You agreed. I made no promises-“

Dean raises his hands—they both need to shut up, or his skin will fly off his body—and their argument stutters off.

“How bad is it.” He looks to Rowena, the moment alone an act of labor. “And don’t try to lie or sugarcoat it. How long I got.”

Rowena sighs. “If you insist on keeping your head up your own arse, a day. Maybe two.”

“But we’re going to try to reverse it.” Sam jumps in, his voice desperate. “And Rowena gave you something to keep you going-“

“But, as I told your brother,” Rowena’s words are harsh, and Dean appreciates it. This really isn’t the fucking time for dancing around anything. “It is a very temporary solution, and the reversal will take time you no longer have. There is an obvious fix to your little problem-“

Dean lets out a dry chuckled. “My problem? Last I checked, Rowena, you were the one who fucked this up-“

“I did not fuck anything up, you petulant man child-“

“Rowena-“

“No!” Rowena cuts off Sam with sharp words, holding Dean’s glare. “I did my job, Dean Winchester, but you are too much of an arrogant, brooding little cunt to do yours.”

Dean narrows his eyes. “Watch it, bitch-“

“I did not have to help you,” Rowena hisses. “But that poor, desperate, lovesick woman begged me to. You know exactly what you need, and you are too cruel and stupid to do it.”

Dean’s hands curl into fists on the sheets. “I said fucking watch it-“

“She’s right.” Sam mutters, and Dean’s gaze whips to him, his mouth falling open at Sam’s pitying, exhausted expression.

“I’m sorry, I must be going insane, because there’s no fucking way you just sided with Rowena-“

“I didn’t side with her.” Sam snaps, running a hand over his face as he shakes his head. “I’m just trying to get you to think for five seconds. I’m trying not to lose my brother because he can’t see what’s right in front of him-“

Dean scoffs. “There’s nothing in front of me, Sam. Rowena botched the spell, and now I can’t do anything but-“ He cuts himself off with a groan, a stab of pain twisting over his ribs, and Sam throws his hands in the air.

“For crying out loud, Dean, you’re dying because of this self-righteous, sacrificial bullshit you always pull! Rowena didn’t botch the spell, you’re just refusing to give the Mark what it wants, and until you do-“

“It doesn’t matter what I want!” Dean roars, slamming a hand down on the mattress. “Fuck, Sam, I’m not going to force myself onto her just because-“

“Because you think she’ll say no?” Sam rolls his eyes. “Dude, you can’t be stupid enough to really believe that-“

Dean scowls. They don’t fucking get it. Sam and Rowena don’t know Her like Dean does. They don’t understand that She would say yes, but she wouldn’t really want it, and Dean would stain and mark Her in a way that they’d never come back from. She’d never smile at him the same, and he’d have to die alone in the dirt when she finally got the memo that he wasn’t worth helping. When She left him, her soul more tainted than when she’d found him. When his poison sunk into Her skin, and she would still be so pretty and amazing, but ruined and marred from Dean’s touch. From how weak and pathetic and toxic he was. 

He couldn’t do that. He’d rather fucking die.

“Just drop it, Sammy.” Dean mutters, his gaze falling to that imprint of Her on the bed. Her bed. Dean was finally in Her bed, and he didn’t even get to enjoy it. “It’s not happening. And you’re not going to convince me, so either fix this, or let me die without goddamn yelling at me.”

There’s a moment of wired silence, Rowena silent in the corner of the room as Sam and Dean glare at each other, and Sam shakes his head like he can’t believe Dean’s nerve. Like Dean isn’t saving the only good thing they both have. Protecting the only person that’s stayed with them, that they both love, even if Dean’s love is made of undying, animalistic, grime and dirt covered devotion, and Sam’s is purer, softer affection that could never cut and scar Her like Dean’s. 

“She was crying.” Sam finally says, his tone colder than Dean’s heard it in a long time. “When we got back, she was sobbing, Dean. Have you ever seen her cry? Ever?”

He hasn’t. Dean has seen Her grit her teeth and bite back sounds of agony from injuries, seen Her scream and flail when they’ve lost people, and seen Her so angry it scared him a little, but he’s never seen Her cry. She didn’t cry. Her eyes got glossy, and her voice grew tight and choked, but she didn’t cry. Sam has to be lying, and he doesn’t look or sound like he is, but he has to be. She doesn’t cry, so why the hell would that be the truth? But why would Sam lie, and why has She stayed this long, and fuck, everything hurts and Dean’s too damn tired to figure out what the hell Sam is trying to tell him but the betterlust is scratching at his heart to know-

“Sam,” Dean swallows, watching his brother carefully. “I-“

There’s a knock at the door, and everything in Dean flies to the sound. It’s Her. Before Sam’s hand is even on the doorknob, Dean somehow knows it’s Her. Here. Maybe for him, maybe not, but the betterlust doesn’t seem to care because it’s Her-

She looks horrible. Still so fucking pretty, but horrible. There’s a slump to Her posture as she stands in the door—hair tangled and shirt wrinkled—and Her gorgeous face is slightly puffed. Her lips pouting. Her eyes lined with red. 

Like She’s been crying. 

Sam says Her name in question, and when She speaks her voice is hoarse.

“Look, I know you to told me to rest, but-“ Her mouth falls open as her eyes land on Dean, and Her sharp inhale feels like it shoots adrenaline right into his blood. 

He tries to offer Her a winning, I’d be happy to see me too smile, but it doesn’t feel right on his face. It feels too vulnerable, where it’s always been like a shield. It feels like it’s a lie, or trick, or act of cruelty when Dean’s rarely met a woman who doesn’t flush and giggle under that attention. It’s supposed to make him feel good from their happy, hopeful eyes. It’s supposed to make them feel good from Dean’s well-crafted, carefully wielded charm.

But right now he still just feels like shit. Bottom of the gutter, horrible, flea-ridden and matted shit. A fucking piece of shit that might have made Her cry, and isn’t even smart enough to know why.

He tries again, making the smile wider, adding his most casual drawl. “Hey, Sweetheart-“

She makes a strangled sound—loud and pained, making the betterlust start to snap at Dean’s brittle spine—and all but runs to the bed, almost falling to Dean’s side as Her hands begin to grab at his face and run over his skin. Angling him for Her to examine with frantic eyes and words, igniting little paths of insatiable fire wherever She touches.

“Are you okay?!” She turns his head to the side, her fingers tracing his jaw and cheek like boils or scars might have just appeared. “Your fever is gone,” the back of Her hand presses to his brow, flipping to touch it with Her palm. “But shit, you’re covered in sweat-“ Her glare whips around to Sam, Her grip still tight on Dean’s face. He doesn’t really mind. The betterlust is still trying to climb out of his throat, but he can fight it—for Her—and this can be enough. It’s all he’ll get before he’s gone anyway. Her touch, and loud almost furious shout at Sam. “Why didn’t you change the sheets like I told you to-“

“He was dead weight,” Sam says Her name, his voice a hell of a lot kinder than when he’d been talking to Dean. “And you also told us to make sure he got some rest. Rowena said the fever broke, and he’s lucid again-“

“But this is gross Sam, and you could’ve moved him if you tried-“

“Moved him where? He started freaking whimpering when we took away your comforter-“ 

Dean scowls. “Can you guys stop talkin’ about me like I’m not right fucking here-“

Her gaze turns back to Dean, the odd, aggressively mind-numbing panic and care returning to her eyes as she begins to examine him once more. 

“You seem better, but you’re redder than you should be, and, shit, was that scar always there-“

Her finger’s trial over Dean’s chin, dangerously close to his mouth, and he has to bite down a groan as he says Her name. “That’s been there at least a decade-“

“What about this one-“

“Three years, you were there when I got it-“

“Fuck, you’re right.” She shakes her head, Her eyes suddenly boaring into Dean’s and settling warmth in his gut. “Well, are you feeling okay? Does anything hurt, or feel sick, or feel numb-“

“Sweetheart.” He catches Her hand, and she falls silent with wide eyes. “I’m-“

“And,” She moves his gaze onto Her’s, and fuck She’s always so pretty. Even when She’s pissed at him. Especially when She’s pissed at him. “Don’t you dare fucking lie to me, Winchester, I’ll stab you-“

He chuckles, and it’s dry and low, but maybe the realest sound he’s made since he woke up. “I don’t doubt that, Sweetheart.” He drawls, and she lets his guide Her hands away from his face. “But I promise, I’m feelin’ better.”

She nods slowly, and Dean pretends he can’t see Sam’s eye roll in the background.

“Oh. Okay.” She turns at Sam and Rowena, her voice slightly unsteady and weak. “Have you, um, have you both been in here? The whole time I was eating?”

Sam nods. “Yeah.”

“Oh.” She swallows, and Dean notices Her body go slightly rigid. Sam must notice too, because he tilts his head and frowns at her.

“Is that okay?”

“Yeah, sorry, it’s just…” She trails off, staring at her nails as her voice drop to a mumble. “There’s a lot of people in here. Makes me nervous.”

“Shit, sorry.” Sam says Her name, his voice apologetic. “Didn’t know that. We can go, if you want.”

There’s a long moment where She’s just staring at Sam, Her mouth slightly open, and her body curled in on itself like she’d been punched. Sam repeats Her name, his voice cautious, and when She snaps out of it, her voice is still soft and anxious. 

“That would be good.” She whispers. “Thank you.”

Sam nods. “No problem. Me and Rowena,” he shoots the witch a glare, and she rolls her eyes. “Are gonna go try to fix this. Text me if you need anything, either of you.”

She hums an acknowledgment, Her attention never leaving Dean as Sam and Rowena close the door, and Dean’s whole existence begins to curve into only the feeling of Her as her fingers trace over the back of his hand. 

After a long moment of silence—only the sound of Dean’s heart in his ears and the shifting of blankets under their bodies—she swallows, her voice barely a breath. “They can’t fix it, can they.”

He blinks at Her. “They’re gonna get it-“

“Don’t lie to me, Dean.” She gives him a soft smile that makes her look like she’s already grieving, and something in him lights up and withers away in the same second. “Please.”

He swallows. He is really tired of lying to Her. And he can say something closer to the truth and still hold his ground. He’s not quite that weak. Not yet.

“It’ll be close.” He grunts. “But I’ve survived worse. I just gotta pull through-“

“You don’t, though.” She whispers. “Rowena said you just have to-“

“Rowena can eat me.” Dean mutters, glaring at the door. “I’m not doin’ whatever the hell the Mark tells me to, that was the fucking point of this.”

“The point was to help you, Dean.” She sounds so freaking sad, and it’s pulling Dean apart. His will and mind all being reduced to Her. Too good and pretty to be sad. And it’s just Dean. She shouldn’t be this sad over only Dean.

“Sweetheart-“

“I don’t,” She swallows, speaking over Dean with quiet, soft words. “I don’t know why you’re being such an ass, Dean. Why can’t you just do what the betterlust wants? Isn’t it what you want-“

“It is.” Dean has to push the words through his teeth, because She so close and it’s not close enough and everything fucking hurts. “But I can’t have it, so we’re dead in the water. But Sammy and Rowena-“

“Dean.”

He can’t look Her in the eyes. Her voice is so gentle and nervous, and he’s not strong enough to look Her in the eyes and see all that worry and pity in them. He can barely even grunt an acknowledgment for her to continue.

“What do you want?”

“I’m not gonna-“

“Is it me?” She whispers, and Dean’s eyes shoot to Her’s. He can’t breathe. He can’t do anything but stare at Her and try not to die as he realizes this is it. This is how he loses Her. Forever. This is the last time he gets to look at Her and bask in her beauty and kindness, the last time he gets to drown in the smell of cherries and feel a little more alive under Her touch.

But She doesn’t look afraid, or disgusted. She just looks urgent. Desperate. As confused and hopelessly hopeful as Dean feels.

And he can’t speak, or think, or do anything but stare at Her as she speaks again.

“Dean, do you,” She takes a shaking breath, and Dean needs to touch Her. “Do you love me?”

——————

He’s not saying anything. Dean’s looking at you like you’ve shot him right through his heart, ripped it out, and taken a bite. Gaping like he’s trying to ask you for it back but can’t find the breath to, blinking like he’s trying to test if you’re really there. He reaches a hand up to run over his own face, reaches out to touch you—trace broad, calloused fingers over your cheekbones and jaw, over your chin like he’s wiping something you can’t see away—and jerks back suddenly, like you’d hurt him. Burned him. Branded him.

He’s branded you. You’re never going to forget his voice in your head, sounding like he’s overdosed on something awful, and doesn’t think he’ll come back down. Like he’s trying to cleanse himself of something by whispering words that will either haunt you past the grave or feed you for the rest of your life. Your heart will never forget the way it stopped for only a second before kicking into a pace that was all too fast when Dean’s eyes closed, and your hands will always remember the cold fever of his skin.

“Dean.” You have to make your voice strong. Steady, like you’re demanding something from him and not praying to him. “Please-“

“Why-“ His voice is hoarse, almost strangled, and it makes your every muscle feel a little weaker. “Why would you ask that.”

“I’m, I can’t tell you, just please answer me-“

“Did Sam tell you-“

“Sam?” You frown, shaking your head slightly. “No, I just, this has nothing to do with Sam-“

“Then why the hell are you-“

“What would Sam have told me?”

Dean falls silent, opening and closing his mouth as he goes red, his eyes looking almost feral. He looks like a cornered animal, something starved and needy, unsure if it should bite the hand reaching for it or grab it and never let go. 

You want to hold him and never let go. You want him to grab your hand, and hold it, and never think to drop it again. You want to hear him say those words again, and have his voice be certain. You want to touch him, no matter if he’s like this or breaking or furious or—in those rare, priceless moments—happy. And you need to know. Dean’s never owed you anything, and he never will, but if there’s only one thing that he can offer you in universe, it would be really nice if it was this. If Dean ever gives you anything, please, dear God, let it be this. 

“Dean,” you whisper, moving your hand to his knee and holding his almost fearful, rabid gaze. “Please answer me. Tell me what Sam-“

“He,” Dean swallows, voice gruff. “He wasn’t supposed to say anything. He fucking swore he’d never-“

“He didn’t.” You repeat, unsure if he’s even understanding the words out of your mouth. “All I’ve talked to Sam about is the spell. But why-“

“Rowena.” He mutters, and it sounds like he’s mostly talking to himself. “Rowena must’ve open her bitch mouth-“

“I haven’t really talked to Rowena at all-“

“Must’ve been some fucking spell-“

“Dean!” You scream, your nails digging into his leg like you can hold him with you forever. “It was you! You told me you loved me! You had a fever and you told me you loved me, you said my name, and I just,” Your voice cracks, desperation starting to break through your blood, out of your mouth in spit. “I need to know, please, you need to tell me if you meant it-“

“Sweetheart-“

“Please.” You refuse to look him in the eyes. The moment you look in Dean’s deep, pretty eyes you’ll know what he’s thinking, and you’ll lose him forever. Everything in you is screaming to know, but you’re still not able to just look into Dean’s eyes. “Dean, please tell me.”

“Why.”

For a second you’re not sure if you heard him right. The question startles you enough to make you look up, and the moment you see him something snaps inside of you. He looks wounded. Nervous. Almost as afraid of you—of your words, and what they might be capable of doing to him if you use them wrong—as you are of him.

“Why would you need to know.” He rasps, staring at his own hands. Flexing in his lap, seemingly against his will. “You’re not- It’s not somethin’ you’re-“ He looks up to you, his eyes almost pleading. “Why would you give a shit about-“

“About you?”

Dean’s throat bobs, his nod short, and you summon more bravery than you’ve ever been capable of before. Enough to reach out, over the space between your bodies that so small—but still feels like miles—and place your hand on his cheek. Keeping his gaze on yours.

“I always care about you. I-” You take a shaking breath, the last words falling off your tongue. “I love you.”

Dean’s hand shoots up to cover yours. To hold you against him, with a grip that tells you he might be trying to sear his skin into yours. 

“You-“ His voice is so soft. His hand over yours is like iron, but everything else about him seems to be dreamlike. Hazy and uncertain, both of you watching each other like you’re sure the other will vanish if you look away. “You love me?”

“Yeah,” you try to smile at him, and it’s not charismatic. It’s pleading and tragic and so fucking delicate. “I do. I mean, I have. For a while.”

“How-“

“Four years.“

He blinks at you. “No, I, I meant-“ He swallows, shaking his head. “I meant how. How did that happen.”

It’s your turn to frown at him. “How did that happen?”

“You shouldn’t love me.” He mutters, his hand over yours flexing. Like he’s trying to pull it away but doesn’t know how. “It’ll get you hurt.”

You raise your brows slightly, running your thumb over his cheek. “Are you going to hurt me?”

Dean’s eyes narrow. “That’s not what I-“

“Are you?”

“Of course not, I’d never-“

“Why?”

“It doesn’t matter why-“

“It does.” You whisper, folding your legs under you to rise on your knees, dropping your brow to his. Holding his gaze the whole time. “It matters to me, Dean.“

He makes a choked sound, but doesn’t move away. “Why?”

“Because I love you.” You whisper. “And it would be really cool if you loved me.”

Dean’s only staring at you, his eyes flicking between your own, slightly blurred gaze that can still see him so well, and your lips. 

“And it happened,” you push on, your voice growing a little weak when he still doesn’t respond. “Because it’s really easy to love you, Dean Winchester. You’re a good man.” You offer him a smile, and his own mouth falls open just a little. “And even if you don’t love me, I wouldn’t have you any other-“

Something in Dean’s eyes flickers, and he moves before you’re sure what’s happening. Yanking you into his lap with his hand—fingers now tangled in yours—catching you with an arm around your waist, and kissing you. 

Kissing you. Dean’s kissing you. 

Your body sparks into action—even as your brain becomes fogged with a hazy, Dean-shaped lust—and you fist a hand into his shirt, pulling him as close as the world will allow. He’s holding you so carefully, leaning down in a slight dip, and there could be a storm raging around you instead of the soft, romantic rain this feels like it belongs to, but you wouldn’t know. Because this is a kiss people wage wars over. 

It’s louder than music in your ears and electric in your blood, but sparks isn’t a strong enough word. It’s like lightning. Shooting through your spine and lighting up every nerve in your body to Dean. Soft lips molding perfectly into yours, warm and calloused hands skillfully mapping over your skin, a groan down your throat that you can feel settle in your lower gut and start a wildfire.  You’ve been hungry and you’ve never dared to eat, but Dean is here now and you’ll either be starved for the rest of your life or never want for anything again.

When Dean tries to pull away, you just follow him. Chase after his lips with yours, trying to get just a little more before this all comes tumbling down. Before the thought can even dare to cross Dean’s mind—that he’s not good for you, and he should go—because this is all you’ve ever wanted and you’ll be damned if you don’t cling to it for as long as he’ll allow. You’ll fall all the way down, until your body is only supported by Dean below you, and you’ll forsake oxygen until your body demands it. Maybe a little while after, too. 

And Dean doesn’t seem to care to let you go. Every time he tries to pull back it’s a jerked movement, and every time you collide again he grows more and more feral. His groans turn into deep, animalistic growls, and his touch on your skin becomes rough. Not painful, never painful, but urgent. Uncontrolled. Pulling at your skin like he’s trying to meld it into his, kissing you with bruising force, bucking up into you with his hard cock brushing your inner thighs. 

You grind down onto him once—when he hits closer to where you’re beginning to ache for him, and your own need grows stronger than you’re desire to let Dean control this—and he bites you. Dean catches your lip between his teeth, sucks in into his mouth, and grins like he’s won a prize when you whine a plea of his name.

“Holy shit,” he mutters your name, pressing his brow to yours as you both catch your breath, grabbing your waist to stop the next roll of your hips. “I’m not- I can’t do this to you-“

“You’re not doing anything to me,” you whisper. “I love you. I want this.”

Dean catches your hand, running his thumb over your knuckles and staring at the movement, his voice so low you almost don’t hear it. “Say you’re lying.”

You blink at him, and shake your head. “No.”

His eyes flash, shooting back to yours as he grunts your name. “You need to say you’re lyin’ right now, or I’ll-“

“You’ll what?” You lower your face back down, until you’re sharing Dean’s every breath. “Fuck me? Actually say you want me?”

His throat bobs, voice rough with lust. “You, I can’t fucking control it, sweetheart, if you’re fuckin’ with me you need to take it back now-“

“Dean.” You grab his face between your hand, forcing his darkened gaze back to yours. “Answer my fucking question.”

He shakes his head weakly. “You don’t-“

“I love you.” You hiss. You need to make sure he feels it, in the slightly spit on his face, that still tastes a little like him because it’s pushed through lips that are swollen from Dean, and Dean alone. You glide a hand down his chest, the kiss apparently fueling something bold inside you that hadn’t been there before. Your fingers trace down, over his abdomen—hardened from work but still soft in all the best places—and Dean takes in a sharp breath, his hands on your hips tightening enough to leave a mark, and you lean back. Just enough to open space between your bodies, just enough for you to palm him through his sweatpants.

He’s huge, and twitching under your careful, light fingers, and God, you need him inside of you in any fucking way—between your hands or filling your mouth or buried deep into your cunt—but Dean’s still just staring at you. His chest heaving, eyes so dark and wanting you might cum just from his attention, and nostrils flaring as you move your hand up, resting right over the hem of his pants. 

“I love you, Dean,” you whisper, the rush of confidence barreling down as you wait for him to do anything. “And you need to tell me now that you don’t love me, or-“ you take a long breath, dragging up the last bit of your nerve. “You need to say you love me, and do something about it.”

Something shatters in Dean’s gaze for the last time, and whatever war he’s been waging with himself reaches a brutal end as he surges back up, kissing you with all spit and bloody need. Like you’re the best thing he’s ever dared to have on his tongue, and he might be trying to chew off a bit of you to keep.

He won’t need to. He has you. He’s had you for a while, and when he leans back to watch you with glazed, hungry eyes, his words seal some deep, fragile part of you to him forever.

“I love you,” Dean grunts your name, scanning over your face like he’s afraid the words will yank you from his hands. They won’t. “I need you. I gotta have you, but I’m- I’m not in control of it right now-“

“I can take it.” You push your hand into Dean’s sweats, taking his cock in your hand. He groans, eyelids fluttering, and when you run your thumb over the head of him—pressing into the weeping slit and squeezing just so lightly—he hisses your name like a prayer. “Please, Dean. I want it. Please.” 

You pull down his pants with your free hand, taking his boxers with them, and start to slowly pump your hand up and down his impressive length. There will be bruising marks of Dean’s hands of your hips for a while, but you’ll survive. It’s worth it, to watch him unravel below you, to see Dean’s pretty eyes grow glazed with lust for you, feel his dick throb and hips jerk under your touch, hear his low growls and grunts as his jaw clenches and he doesn’t pull you away.

“God,” he moans your name, and you start to squirm above him, desperate for a bit of your own relief. “I wanna- Wanna taste you. Fuck you. Ruin you-“

“So do it,” you slip your other hand down—trusting Dean’s hold to keep you upright—and squeeze his balls. “You say you love me, Dean, but you haven’t proved it-“

The words do exactly what you’d wanted them to. Dean yanks your hand from around him, crashes his lips into yours with a fervor that might have been dangerous if it didn’t taste and sound and feel like Dean, and lets go. 

His every movement is rough and uncontrolled, because his tether over every bit of will that had seemed to keep him restrained is gone, and in its wake is only the Mark. All its lust and fury and hunger, primal and focused on you. On taking what it wants.

And you’d give it to him, even if it left a few marks on your skin and bruising on your heart, but you realize that the Mark doesn’t seem to just want to use you. If it did, Dean wouldn’t be sucking on your neck and moaning at the taste of your skin, all while tracing big, warms hands around your body to palm your breasts. He wouldn’t allow you to grind onto him, or whimper his name, or scratch at his skin as he pulls you apart with barely anything at all. When he flips your over without any effort—only a low grunt and flex of his muscles—you feel like the most priceless bag of flour in the word. Perfect to be tossed around like that forever, but worth more to him—more the Mark—than just another body.

And you can’t see him anymore, but you don’t need to. You hear the sounds of him shuffling behind you, the muffled noise of his shirt being tossed onto the floor, and then his voice. Low and feral and saying your name in a way that makes your knees weak. 

“Up.” He grunts, and you whine when he angles your hips up and pulls down your shorts, you already wet cunt being hit by the cold air. “So fuckin’ pretty, gonna ruin you, baby. You’re never gonna even think about a cock that’s not mine again-“

You nod a little stupidly, wiggling your ass back into him and moaning when his still-clothed erection presses right into you. “Fuck, Dean, please-“

He spanks your pussy—just once the stinging pleasure shooing up your spine—and you bury your face in the sheets to stifles your desperate moan. 

“Need ya’ to listen.” He mutters. “You’re gonna have to talk to me, baby, lemme know what feels good, what you’re likin’, what you need more of-“

“You,” you gasp, and Dean chuckles, running a taunting finger between your folds. “God, I need you, Dean, need you so bad-“

“You need me?” He pushes the finger into your cunt, his body moving to covers yours as he whispers in your ear. “Need me to fuck this tight little pussy until you scream? Goddamn prove you how much I’ve wanted you, how much I’ve always wanted you-“

“Yes.” You nod frantically, grinding your ass up into him. “Show me, please show me-“

Dean moves your head to the side, capturing your lips in a long, slow kiss, and hums in satisfaction when he crooks that finger right up against that deep, sensitive spot inside of you, and your hands start to claw at the sheets.  

Then he’s gone. Without warning Dean draws back, yanks his finger out without warning, spanks your pussy again—chuckling at the high, needy sound that escapes your lips—and presses one hand to your lower back to still your writhing as he shuffles behind you

“Tell me whatcha want, baby.” He mutters, moving his hand to rub up and down your thigh. “And I’ll get it for ‘ya. But you have,“ He slaps your pussy one last time for emphasis, and you can only moan. “To say what you-“

“Your cock.” You whisper, spreading your legs wider for his to see. To look at your wet pussy—need dripping down to your knee—and take whatever the Mark is asking of him. “Want your cock Dean. Want you to fuck me, no holding back, please-“

He slams into you without warning. Burying himself at the hilt in one brutal movement, groaning above you as you go limp under him, trying only to twist and touch him, only to push back and somehow get him deeper. You feel so full, so fucking high on the stretch of Dean inside you, but it’s not enough-

“God, sweetheart, you feel so fucking good.” Dean starts to massage your ass, with one hand, the other holding you up in the air for him to use. “Better than I dreamed, feel like heaven, gonna fuck you so good like you deserve-“

“Dean, fuck-” you clench around him, the praise feeding right into your cockdrunk daze of Dean, and he groans. 

“Don’t do that,” he grunts your name, and it sounds like an order. “I ain’t gonna last if you-“ He moans as you squeeze around his massive cock again, and pulls all the way out before slamming back into you with a growl.

Your mouth falls open, a sound like a mewl escaping your mouth, and Dean starts to fuck you. Really, properly fuck you into the mattress, with low groans and an unforgiving pace, bumping your cervix and snaking a hand around your stomach to pull you up to his chest, rubbing your clit until you’re wrecked and seeing stars, thrusting up into you like a jackhammer and keeping you so blissfully pleasured and warm.

“So fuckin’ good,” he growls your name in your ear, and you squeak. “Takin’ this cock so fuckin’ well, all warm and tight, made for me. You were fuckin’ made for me-“

Dean’s thumb and fore finger roll your clit in a tight circle, and you cum with a scream. Light and color lining your vision, the far-off sound of Dean’s filthy praise making your orgasm ride out and out and out until you’re sure you’ve reached something like heaven. Your vision is still blurred when the satisfaction has washed fully through you, and you realize Dean’s stopped moving.

His hand tangles in your hair, angling your face back for him to see, and fuck he’s so handsome. Breathing heavy in your ear, lips puffed from sucking and kiss your skin, eyes glazed but still focused on you.

You must look like an idiot. Your expression is slack and needy, your eyes glazed a lips parted, but Dean looks at you like you’re a diamond and his cock twitches inside you as your eyes meet.

“Shit, baby,” he mutters. “You gotta say somethin’-“

“That-“ You let out another moan, your pussy still fluttering around him. “Good.”

He chuckles, kiss the very corner of your mouth with a smirk. “You got full words, Sweetheart?”

You swallow, the full feeling of Dean—throbbing inside you, still rock hard, pushing against that heavenly spot but with just too little pressure to send you over once more—crashing into you, and you say the only thing you can think of.

“Keep going?” 

He stares at you for a second, then shakes his head. “No, I- I’ll be fine, I can take care of myself-“

“Want you to use me.” You’re practically whining, and you’d be more embarrassed if the words didn’t make Dean jerk up into you. “Please-“

He groans your name, burying his face in the crook of your shoulder. “I’m not- you’re-“

“I said don’t hold back.” You whisper, rolling your hips against him and feeling pride glow in your chest at his moan. “Fuck me, Dean. I’m yours.”

And there it is again. You say the exact right thing, the thing you knew would work, and Dean gives in. He shoves you down, flips you onto your back—pulling out for only a second as he adjusts you under him—and starts to fuck you like an animal. Rutting into you at a near inhuman speed, hitting your cervix with every thrust, every word a low growl that coils release tighter and tighter in your lower gut. 

“So fuckin’ greedy,” he grunts, slamming a little rougher. “Wantin’ more, begging me to fuck you, so fucking pretty comin’ apart on my cock, tell me how good it feels, baby-“

“Good,” you moan, your nails digging into his shoulders as the bed creaks around you, your whole body overwhelmed with pleasure. “Feel so full, Dean, feels so good, you’re so fucking big-“

He groans, and you start to babble. You’re not even sure what you’re saying anymore, because every word feels like it’s spilling from your mouth. But every inch of your brain trapped in Dean’s skin slapping against yours, his muscles flexing around you, the low and primal sounds rumbling out of his chest as his movements grow sloppy and his cock starts to throb inside of you, and you couldn’t think about anything else if you tried.

“You feel so good, Dean, please don’t stop, want you to cum, I-“ You gasp as he starts to kill up your neck, your hands shooting into his hair. “Fuck, Dean, please, so good, God, I love you-“

His mouth slams into yours, and your orgasm rushes through you like a tidal wave. Longer and powerful, leaving you so fucked out you can only whine under Dean’s body, toes curling and eyes rolling back in your head as your pussy flutters around him.

Dean pulls out, keeping one hand gently on your knee as he pumps himself with an almost blurring fist, and cums over your abdomen and thighs. It’s hot and sticky, and part of you wishes you’d had enough of a brain to ask him to let you taste it, but you’re so completely spent that when Dean collapses over you—a heavy, comfortable weight you’re more than happy to be trapped beneath—your brain wipes every other thought but Dean away, and you decide to just stay here. Where Dean’s face in buried in your neck, and your sore from all of it but there will never be a better pain to experience.

“I-“ Dean breaks the silence, words muffled in your skin. “I feel better.”

“Oh.” You huff a soft laugh. “Good.”

“What, uh, what should we tell Sammy?”

You tug on his hair, just enough to move his gaze back to yours. “That we had sex?”

“No,” Dean groans your name, a smile pulling at his lips. “About the Mark. But we should tell him that-“

You make a mock, dramatic gasp. “Dean Winchester, are you going to brag about sex to your brother-“

“It’s sex with you, Sweetheart.” He winks, rolling you both over and caging you comfortably against his chest. “And Sammy’ll be thrilled to hear it, he’s been on my ass for years-“

“Years?” You squeak. “How many years?”

He shrugs. “I dunno, all of them?”

“All of them?! What do you mean all of them-“

“I mean since I met you.” Dean starts to rub soothing circles on your back, his mouth curling in smug amusement. “Deep breathes, baby, you’re gonna hurt yourself.”

You flush, still not really use to the baby thing. Or Dean’s hands on your skin, every touch lingering like an imprint that will never even try to fade. “Shut up-“

He shakes his head. “Nah. You love it.” A boyish, wide smile splits over his face. “You love me.”

You might die. You might explode into a million, tiny pieces of confetti and shimmering glass, because Dean looks so happy. There are no ghosts in his beautiful eyes, no loathing or dread stained over his perfect face. He’s happy, here, with you, and you’re not cruel enough to stop yourself from crawling up his chest and pressing a soft, sweet kiss to his lips.

“I do love you,” you mumble against him, straddling his torso as you push yourself up flat palms. “But I’m still gonna tell you to shut up.”

He chuckles, the sound rolling and humming right into your blood. “And I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

Dean reaches up to tuck a little hair behind your ears, and freezes, his eyes trained on his forearm. On the Mark.

“We, uh,” he clears his throat, watching you carefully. “We do need to figure out what we’re gonna do about this.”

“Yeah.” You sigh. “We do. But I, I think-“

You cut yourself off, taking his hand in yours and running light fingers over the Mark in thought. Dean stares up at you with a slight awe in his gaze that makes you feel almost important, and your words fall to a soft breath.

“If you want.” You whisper. “We can turn it back-“

“No.” He shakes his head, sounding almost panicked. “I’m not goin’ back to that shit, not now-“

“Dean.” Your fingers still on his arm. “Was it me? That the Mark wanted?”

He swallows, but nods, and you sigh.

“We’re going to have separate sometimes. And we can figure out the bloodlust-“

“We should have to figure it out though, you don’t gotta put up with that-“

“I know.” You smile at him, and it’s not hard. Smiling at Dean is never hard. “But I will.”

“Do you-“ He stares at you, tangling his fingers in yours. “Do you not want me to keep the betterlust? You can tell me, I don’t want you to feel like you have to, for me-“

“God, no.” You shake your head, squeezing his hand. “I’m just, I’m worried about what might happen when the betterlust decides I’m not enough. Or when this, um, when you-“

Dean says your name, slow and firm, and you swallow. “This is it for me. It’s you, and the Mark knows that. You’re gonna be more than enough, hell, you’re more than I deserve-“

“That’s not true.” You mumble. “You deserve the world.”

He chuckles, pressing a kiss to the palm of your hand. “It’s adorable that you really believe that, baby, but-“

You scowl at him. “It’s the truth, Dean. You’re a good man, I meant what I said-“

“I know you did.” His charming, cowboy grins falters slightly. Not falling, but twisting into one you’ve never seen before. Still roguish, still well designed and stealing your breath, but with a slight crack that allows you to see deeper. To see the lonely part of him, that really thinks you don’t belong here with him. That’s trying to drag you into him, because he’s certain you’ll start running if he doesn’t. “But this,” he nods to the Mark. “Is still gonna be a problem. I’m still gonna be a problem-“

“You’re not a problem-“

He says your name, the word careful and tender and holy from his lips. It’s the best way you’ve ever heard it. The only way you want to hear it again. “Do you want me to keep the betterlust.”

You purse your lips, and nod.

“Words, baby-“

“Yes.” You whisper. “But I need you to promise me that if it stops working-“

“It won’t.” He shrugs, his voice flat, as if he’s speaking in fact. “And we’re gonna keep looking for a way to get this son of a bitch off. But we’re doin’ it together.” He pauses, scanning over your open features. “If that’s what you-“

You lean down, silencing him with a long, easy kiss. It’s not desperate anymore, but careful. Like you’re making art, or starting to spin a web that could unravel with a single tug, but neither of you will let it. You’ll never let this���whatever this becomes—fall apart. You’ll put your whole life into keeping Dean, fighting for him and helping him and reminding him that he’s not really a burden. Letting him remind you that he really does want you, and he’s never going to allow you to doubt that again.

“Together.” You speak against his lips, letting your content breath fall into his mouth. “I’d like to stay together.”

He nods, mouth curving into a grin. “Alright then. Together.”

End Note: Thank you so so much for reading!!! I've had a lot of fun with this one, and I'm so happy y'all have as well! I hope to see some of you soon for the next one, and if not, thank you. no matter what!!

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[smut-anarchy]

Own Me - Chapter Two

Tags: Dom!Mattheo, Gryffandor!Reader, Cursing, Blackmail, Suggested Trauma & Death, Violence, Blood, M**blood Slurs

Rewritten as of: 12/26/2024

Word Count: 1,917 Words

Chapter Two: Worth It

“Merlin’s Robes, you look dreadful.” 

Under normal circumstances you found Luna’s way of talking to be charming, her refusal to mince words was always admirable and amusing. 

However, after a solid week of traipsing after Mattheo all around the castle and doing a majority of his classwork and homework while also struggling with your own, you were exhausted and mentally drained. You could hardly sleep, your dreams plagued by an amalgamation of anxiety-induced fears and Mattheo related nonsense, and when you were awake you’d hardly felt comfortable enough to do anything, concerned that he would call you in the middle of something and you’d have to book it to some godforsaken part of the castle. 

He’d already interrupted three showers, and you had the burns on your neck to prove he was truthful about the choker heating up the longer you’d took to get to him. You’d cleverly told Madam Pomfrey you’d taken up baking so the watchful healer was all too happy to give you a large amount of burn-healing paste, blissfully unaware of the true reason you needed such a cure.

So when you met Luna for your usual weekend exploration of the Forbidden Forest you knew you’d looked worse for wear. A small part of you thought to cancel on Luna this one time but you couldn’t find it in yourself to do such a thing. This had been a tradition with her ever since you became friends in first year, both of you bonding over the love of magical creatures. While Luna always seemed insistent she’d finally find the Nargles every single weekend, you’d simply been happy to enjoy the peaceful time in the forest, documenting and sketching any magical creatures in your personal journal. 

You’d offered Luna a withering smile, “I’m fine, Luna.”

She sent you a curious look but said nothing, walking towards the path their many days of exploring had created in the forest. Truthfully, you were glad for Luna’s acceptance of your disingenuous answer. Knowing that you couldn’t confide in her like you wished to meant you could only take solace in the serenity of nature for now. 

Your feet fell into step with Luna’s, both of your subconscious memories carrying you through the forest with ease. In moments like these you felt so comforted by Luna’s presence, she too often was mistaken as crazy with her unconventional ways but at her core she was such a soothing and kind soul. Though it made you feel immensely guilty for withholding the Mattheo situation from her, you’d felt more relaxed just walking along with her quietly.

“I think the Nargles would like Whispering Pond today. Maybe they’d like a swim before the cold sets in.” Luna suggested, you nodded at her, striding with her in the direction of the pond. 

You and Luna had discovered the small body of water in your third year, and it was easily one of the best discoveries of your school life. Though it was relatively close to Hogwarts it was hidden away, blocked by dense trees and berry bushes, when the wind swept through the towering trees Luna swore it was whispering secrets. The only creatures that seemed to frequent the pond were Nifflers, Jobberknolls and Glow Bugs, who usually recognized you and Luna after all these years, happy to receive food and pets occasionally. 

At the pond you preferred to sit on some stones, letting the cool October breeze wash over you. Luna occupied herself with looking around rocks closest to the pond, checking for lounging Nargles.  You had closed your eyes, breathing deeply to let go of everything that buried you this week. 

“The girls in my house are jealous. They say you and Mattheo Riddle have gotten quite close.”

Godric’s sword, I am going to drown myself.

You opened your eyes, Luna looking at you inquisitively. You should have expected this, word at Hogwarts traveling fast, and your fellow classmates were bound to notice you were suddenly always next to the Slytherin bad boy in and outside of class. Luna and you only shared the Care of Magical Creatures class, which thankfully Mattheo was not in, giving you a small reprieve and the ability to hide your newfound torturous relationship with Mattheo. In the last week you’d definitely caught some questioning looks and envious glares, but you’d brushed it off, much more concerned with Mattheo’s hold on your entire life than the petty feelings of strangers. 

“We are not close,” you snorted, “He’s an egotistical brute.” The truth burned on your tongue, longing to share everything with Luna, but with Mattheo’s cruel control literally wrapped around your neck meant there was no telling what he’d do to you or Luna if you let it slip.

“Is he perhaps why you are so tired?” Luna’s voice held a subtle teasing tone, “Perhaps he’s occupying too much of your night time hours.” 

“Luna! Absolutely not!” You blushed, face heating up as you sputtered firm denial. Such an accusation made you want to retch, the current reality was already horrifying, imagining anything further would likely send you into an early grave.

“Well I can hardly fault you if you did, he is quite handsome,” Luna jested, “Though I always figured Harry would be more your type.” 

“Harry? As in Harry Potter? Luna, have you been stung by a Swooping Evil? Do I need to take you to the infirmary?” You were floored, of all the things Luna could suggest, implying either of the boys would be suitable for you was just beyond impossible. 

“What’s wrong with Harry? He’s my friend you know!” Luna pushed. 

Nothing was wrong with Harry, he was handsome and sweet, though you’d hardly ever said much to him, he was too often getting into trouble with Hermione and Ron for you to build any kind of friendship with him. Even so, he attracted far too much attention to be an appropriate fit for you, you’d much preferred to stay away from the flashy kind of scrutiny Harry seemed to draw everywhere he went. 

As for Mattheo, well you would concede with Luna that he was, tragically, unfairly attractive. Though that hardly made up for his bad attitude and egotistical nature. He also attracted an uncomfortable amount of attention to you, though where Harry’s attention was not accumulated wholly by his fault, Mattheo’s was, the Slytherin seeming to thrive off of the endless rumors and gossip. Between his family, his inclination for fighting and the relentless list of lovers he gathered there wasn’t a soul who wasn’t aware of Mattheo Riddle.  

“Nothing! They’re both just… too much.” You asserted.

Luna looked at you, as her best friend you could see the hidden knowledge lingering behind her eyes. “That’s too bad, Harry thinks you’re cute.”

Now your face was flaming, in all the time you’d been at Hogwarts you thought yourself to be somewhat invisible. You shared your year with other Gryffindors like Harry, Hermione or Neville, or even Seamus Finnigan and Dean Thomas, who people were aware of for one reason or another, you didn’t think yourself remarkable enough to be noticed. 

Then you’d felt it, a feeling now etched into your memory from the last week, a light warming sensation around your throat. You could feel your body stiffen, your mind already urging you to start running. 

Black Lake.

You praised the founders silently in your head, if you ran you could get to the Black Lake in four minutes.

“Luna, I’m sorry, I have to go. I-I just remembered I needed to do something.” You rushed out.

Luna’s face turned to worry, with a hint of guilt. “Have I made you uncomfortable?”

“No! Of course not! I just have to go, I’ll see you at dinner though, I promise. Let me know if you find the Nargles!”

Luna nodded at you, casting you one of her knowing smiles and turned back to the rocks, looking under each stone in hopes of finding the mythical creature. 

As soon as you were out of Luna’s eye line, safely behind the cover of various bushes and looming trees you burst into a sprint. The necklace was not burning yet, but slowly becoming uncomfortably hot. You pushed yourself even harder, jumping over sticks and plants, eager to dull the fevered feeling around your neck. 

Breaking past the forests’ tree line you quickly scanned for Mattheo, immediately spotting him lazing against a tree near the lake with the rest of the Slytherin boys. 

Your lungs were burning and your legs trembled, still weak and sore from all the running you’ve done during the week. Still, the choker was now causing a searing pain against your skin, you needed to get over there now. 

Mattheo noticed you hurriedly coming towards him, a cruel smirk spreading on his face as he leaned against the trunk. The rest of the gang stopped to notice your approach as well, their eyes of spectacle filling your stomach with embarrassment. 

As you’d slowed your run you’d tripped on a tree root sticking out of the ground, sending you tumbling down at Mattheo’s feet. All five boys bursting into laughter watching your clumsiness, causing more embarrassment to flood you. 

“Wow mate, you’d already got her falling at your feet!” Enzo cackled.

Mattheo’s face was all too pleased, his friends feeding his hubris with their laughter. 

“I know, and it only took a week. My pet is so obedient.” 

You were on your knees, still trying to catch your breath from running. Angrily glaring at Mattheo, trying to hold back your temper at the demeaning compliment.

“You called for me,” you huffed, “Sir.”

Though you’d begrudgingly used the title all week, it had not worn out its novelty to the boys or Mattheo. More laughter ensued and Mattheo’s self-satisfied smile widened, his puffed up ego practically suffocating you. 

“Yes my dear,” He drawled sarcastically, “I’d like to rest my head on something soft. I think those thighs of yours will suit nicely.” By the look of his face this was meant to be a trap, obviously he was bored and had nothing better to do than torture the poor Gryffindor he’d blackmailed into being his servant.

Internally, you’d wanted to cry in frustration, he’d made you run all the way out here to be a fucking pillow for his stupid head. You’d wanted to argue, to tell him to go fuck himself, tell him that if he wanted a pillow so damn bad he could go to his fucking bedroom, which was ridiculously close because he lived at the bottom of the castle like the evil reptile he was. Alas, such a display might attract the wrong kind of attention, so you sighed and shrugged off your chunky sweater.

Not willing to sit on the bare ground, you’d folded your cardigan, placing it on an empty spot closest to Mattheo before sliding over and sitting down. You tucked your skirt between your legs, not willing to let Mattheo get a peek up your skirt if he turned his head, and then stretched your legs out. Mattheo laid his head on your thighs, satisfied smile not leaving his face. 

“Did you come from the Forbidden Forest?” Theo broke the silence. 

You’d looked at him suspiciously, not expecting to be talked to by the boys who considered you Mattheo’s plaything. “Yes.” 

“What were you doing there?” Blaise asked, eyes displaying mild interest.

“Luna and I look for magical creatures together, every weekend.” You’d answered curtly, not wanting to give much more information. Even though Hagrid knew of you and Luna’s exploring and encouraged you both to be safe, it was still technically off limits to students.

“Seriously? Like what?” Enzo joined in, the three boys looking expectantly at you, curiosity on their faces, unlike Draco who sneered from above on a tree branch, preferring to read his book and ignore your presence. Mattheo, whose head was in your lap, had his eyes closed, uncaring. 

He looks like an angel like this.

As quickly as it came you shook that thought out of your head.

“Not much today since someone interrupted me,” Mattheo’s lips twitched into a smirk at the subtle dig, “But we’ve seen all kinds of creatures in there. Nifflers, Bowtruckles, Doxies, Dugbogs, a Porlock a couple times, we’ve seen Augurey nests but never the Augurey, a couple of Thestrals here and there and a Unicorn two times.” You chattered off a list, each mention inviting a core memory to the front of your mind. 

While talking you realized you were absentmindedly combing your fingers through Mattheo’s hair, but he made no move to correct the behavior. You allowed yourself to keep going, rationalizing that if you’d stopped Mattheo would join in the conversation to annoy you. After all, a relaxed Mattheo was more beneficial to you.

The three formerly curious boys stared at you, a mix of caution and fascination on their faces.

“You can see Thestrals?” Blaise hesitated. 

Fuck. 

You tried not to tense, not wanting to show any vulnerability in front of the boys. You should have held back, too lost in your interest of magical creatures to remember what revealing that information meant. You could feel Mattheo’s eyes on you, the impenetrable stare sending a cold sweat down your spine, you willed yourself not to look at him.

“Um… yeah. But it’s not like, bad or sad or anything. It’s… just what it is.” You choked out. You could feel your face flushing from embarrassment, you did not want to talk about this at all. 

“I’ve seen ‘em in books. They look fucking terrifying!” Enzo joked, grateful for the change in tone you smiled lightly at him. 

“Honestly, I’ll take them any day over an Acromantula. There’s a whole huge nest in there.” You joked back. This seemed to break the mood into something more lighthearted, Blaise’s eyes popping wide. 

“An Acromantula nest? As in there is more than one of those in there?” 

You laughed at his astonishment, “Yes! Luna showed me! Harry showed it to her after he’d been in there!” 

“It’s not enough for you to be hanging around with Loony Lovegood, you hang around Potter too?” Draco snarled, his full attention now on you. 

Your fingers had slightly tightened in Mattheo’s hair when Blaise had asked if you could see Thestrals, your body automatically tensing from the uncomfortable query. But now you were clenching his hair so tight he let out a low groan, the sound zapping nerves in your gut. You mumbled a soft ’sorry’ before turning your furious attention completely on Draco. 

“I don’t hang around Harry, he’s friends with Luna, not that it’s any of your business Draco,” You seethed. You could feel the lion inside of you foaming at the mouth, encouraging you to hex Malfoy in protection of your best friend. You tried to swallow your wrath, assuming Mattheo wouldn’t take too kindly to any action against one of his friends. 

“Well, hardly surprising that Loony is friends with a blood traitor and a mudblood.” Your entire body felt like it was dipped in lava, your head ignited with the urge to rip the blonde apart with your bear hands. Mattheo’s mocking and bestowing you with a fucking torturous collar felt small in compassion to how you were feeling now, the seething heat of venom in your mouth threatening rupture.

“Come down here and say that Malfoy.”

Draco dropped down from the tree, squatting in front of you to get on your level, “I said, you’re a mudblood and your friend is a-“ Without any hesitation you brought your head back and, with as much force as you could muster, slammed your forehead into Draco’s nose. A sickening crunch was heard, followed by spewing blood from Draco’s nose as he fell backward. 

“Did you just head butt me?!” Draco cried, hand going up to his face in an effort to stop the blood. 

“Fuck yeah I did. Say what you want about me, I don’t give a shit, I’ve heard worse. But you won’t talk about my best friend that way.” You snarled. The instant pain and headache that rocked you after was well worth it, watching streams of blood gush from the young Malfoy’s nose.

“Mattheo, do something about your little pet!” Draco demanded, his voice nasal from holding his broken, bleeding nose.

“Oh, I will. But she’s mine to mess with Draco, let this be the first and last lesson not to do it again.” Mattheo shrugged. 

“Come on man, let’s get you to Madam Pomfrey” Blaise sighed, pulling a frustrated, sputtering Draco away from the group. Blaise respectfully nodded at you, before walking away with a whining Draco. 

You sighed, looking down at Mattheo, “Okay, how much trouble am I in for that?” You’d hoped to get it over with as soon as possible. 

“Oh, a lot. You can’t just go around head butting my friends, Kitten.” Mattheo laughed. 

Your eyes rolled at him and your shoulders slumped a bit but you didn’t seem too down. “Worth it.”

“Okay, her, I like.” Theo announced, his voice a pleasing mixture of shock and amusement over what he’d just witnessed. You took this as high praise from the Italian Slytherin, he was typically known to disregard mostly everyone.

“I’ll say! That was a sight to see.” Enzo joked, “I can’t believe you head butted him. I bet you he’s in the infirmary right now doing the ‘my father will hear about this!’ thing.” Enzo, Theo and Mattheo laughed, completely agreeing that Draco would very well be bitching about this right now. 

When Theo and Enzo turned to their own conversation, you looked at Mattheo, whose eyes were already on you.

“So…” you whispered, “What’s the punishment?” 

“Oh Kitten,” Mattheo huffed, a wicked promise in his voice, “Just you wait and see.”

[lynn-tged-posting]

hello tee gee eee dee community this is my offering

[icewindandboringhorror]

Recent images I suppose ~

[thelionwholearnedtowrite]

when did the breath of the wild fandom unanimously decide that sidon has two dicks? like, was there a meeting? because i have not seen one explicit fic where he didn’t have two, and i’m just wondering-

[hauntingblue]

Castlevania is interesting but tell my why we get three episodes of internal conflict in the dracula castle (good) while the main characters are on a library and do fuck all. Well they have three scenes of relationship building that are supposed to mean something when they come out but they are so little and superficial imo

[walterdecourceys]

ocd sucks for a number of reasons but it's objectively at its stupidest when the inside of my brain just sounds like a twitter argument between two people who haven't been outside in a month

[avvidstarion]

Covid is unfortunately spreading around my marching band. Was talking to this guy I hate. He was like “I can’t believe I didn’t get it!” (a close contact of his tested positive last week). I said. “Well don’t call it too soon, it can take up to two weeks to incubate”. He said. “Wait, for real?!”. Girl. I hate you so much

[exopelagic]

i can’t believe i managed to get fucking mono and didn’t even get it by doing anything fun

[tonycries]

R U Mine?

Synopsis. Does he really count as an éx if he’s fúcking you this good?

Pairings. [SEPARATE] Gojo x Reader, Sukuna x Reader, Choso x Reader, Geto x Reader, Nanami x Reader, Toji x Reader

Content. MDNI, fem! reader, éxes, mating press, they’re REALLY down bad, jealousy (Nanami’s, Sukuna’s), bréeding, marathon séx, recording (Sukuna’s), creampíe, cúmplay, pússytalking, possessíve boys, oraI (fem receiving), thígh ríding, fíngering, proposals, HEINOUS things, pet names, swearing.

Word count. 5.2k

A/N. I love men groveling hehe. Hope y’all have a great week!

♡ TOJI FUSHIGURO - 1 week

Oh, it’s around the fourth orgasm when Toji can’t think - can’t even breathe.

Can’t do anything but spit out little profanities into your swollen lips while he rams his messy cock deeper into your sloppy entrance. Body moving before his mind to savor the sweet sweet cunt that’s been plaguing his mind all week.

Again. And again. And again and again and-

“A week.” you hear that familiar mantra from behind you, whirling your teary eyes to stare over your shoulder at your utterly wrecked ex-husband. Gaze glassy, cheeks flushed, lips sagging open as he pants, “A whole week, n’ you’re sure she didn’t m-miss me, doll? Didn’t crave me fillin’ her up?” 

And Toji takes your pitiful little whine as enough of an answer, reaching down below to thumb apart your folds greedily - all puffy and sensitive where he swipes at the seed trickling down your poor, overfilled slit. “Or do I just hafta prove it to ya?”

So mean with the way he’s shoving each and every thick spurt of his cum back inside your gummy walls. Sloppier. Languid, as the exhaustion sets in - and honestly, Toji doesn’t even know if he can cum again despite the long, calculated strokes into your snug cunt. 

But he has to, even if it fucking kills him. 

Moaning messily, your knees weaken at his renewed vigor, “T-Toji I-” Laying your body limply over the lewd little pool of cum below you, you claw at the damp sheets. “D-didn’t-”

But he doesn’t hear - doesn’t even care when he brings up his shaky fingers -  glossy, and covered in the mess of your juices and his cum - up to your swollen lips. 

“Ah ah-” he tuts, pushing the pads of his thick fingers between them amusedly. Dick swelling up further inside you at the way that smart mouth of yours sucks on the salty taste like such a slut. “These mm- sheets were expensive since ya ngh- threw out all mine, y’know. C’mere, come to your husband.”

And in a split second, two, strong hands are pulling you back up by your forearms. Arching your body back like such a slut, bending you in half against Toji’s sculpted front. And fuck this new angle makes you keen. 

He’s pressing a chaste kiss into your quivering shoulders, “Or- we could just mm fuck- share the same ones again?”

That only makes your hips fuck back against his, messily trying to meet his ruthless tempo - one that has you depending on Toji holding you up like some ragdoll. One that has him pistoning his hips faster, more purposeful, so infuriatingly familiar with the way he glides his aching tip along your ravaged g-spot. 

“Y-you’re too much-” you meet his amused, half-lidded gaze. Letting him lick and kiss at the big fat tears rolling down your cheeks, grazing your lips against that tiny scar of his. “Should’ve ngh- never-”

“No.” a groan bursts from his lips. Fingers tightening - sure leave marks around your arms, using the gravity to bounce your body deeper into his cock. “No no no no- was a- fuuuck stop squeezin’ me s’tight- was a joke, doll. Already waited a week, don’t go takin’ this ah- pussy away from me again.” 

For all his cockiness, Toji sounded worried - so genuinely concerned as he drags his sensitive length along your plushy walls. Tears pricking behind his eyes with each painful squeeze of his twitching balls, smacking your skin with each rough, depraved thrust inside

Scoffing, “Wh-what if I mmpf- do?”

And he’s slamming his hips into you so mean that you could almost feel the overabundance of cum sloshing inside you, claiming you from the inside out. Hips sloppy in a way that told he’s lost whatever sanity he had left.

“Said m’sorry, right? C’mooon-” Dancing an open palm up to press down on your lower stomach, hard. Letting Toji’s cum ooze down his length, pooling at his heavy balls. “She missed me too- look how much she’s ngh- takin’. How much more she wants.”

Toji’s free hand comes up to squish your cheeks together in an embarrassing pout, forcing your head down just enough to look at the heavenly sight below. And what you’re met with has you mewling out his name embarrassingly louder. 

Your poor pussy stuffed to the brim, just bulging with the struggle to take your ex-husband. 

But still trying so needily to milk him as much as possible, clenching and quivering every time his fat head kisses all your sensitive spots. 

And despite all that, you still stupidly lie, “Didn’t- didn’t miss you.”

It’s like he expected that - was waiting for it even, as an excuse to go harder.

“Well then…” a slow, dangerous smirk spreads across Toji’s features - one that definitely didn’t bode well for you. He presses a hot peck against your wobbly lips, cock twitching knowingly against your g-spot. “Guess I’ve gotta f-fill her up again to prove it.”

♡ NANAMI KENTO - 3 weeks

“Look at me.” you hear from above you, two long fingers gently tilting your head up to meet Nanami’s hardened gaze. “Look at who’s fucking you, my love.”

You squirm, thighs trying to clamp around where he was positioned between them. “K-Ken–”

“Yeah, that’s it.” Nanami hushes you gently - the exact opposite of those languid, heavy grinds of his aching cock into your already-stuffed cunt. Shoving you further and further up those silky sheets of his with each smack of his hips, “S’me. I hah- I got you, darling. Finally, I got you.”

It’s been a whole three weeks without your pretty touch, without those sweet sweet moans spilling from your lips. Without you - sprawled out all prettily like this on Nanami’s king-sized bed, being fucked into the mattress by him like you deserve. 

And he’ll be sure to make up for those three weeks.

Nanami pushes away the bouquet of roses he’d gotten you earlier today, throwing your legs over his sculpted shoulders to bend you into such a mean mating press. 

He’s murmuring against the underside of your jaw, “I missed you, my love. Missed my cute cunt.”  Rolling his hips deeper into yours, fat head kissing at your poor g-spot with each little movement. Nosing down the sweet spots on your pulse, “Missed those sweet noises for me. Missed-” Biting down on the crook of your neck, hard. Enough to break skin if Nanami really wanted to. “-this. This one’s for that douche at the club.”

You’re gasping at those neat little indents on your skin, fingers twitching upwards to feel the deep, purposeful mark. Never has Nanami acted this feral. Never has he left embarrassing marks to admire for later. 

“Ken- what-” you whine - but you don’t get very far with that dazed little sentence. 

No, because Nanami’s dragging his lips so searingly across the print, hips stuttering forwards while he kisses away the dredges of pain. Only to turn his head to the other side of your neck and give you a sinful, matching mark on the other side. 

Murmuring into your skin, “That one’s for the hah- cashier that looked at you wrong. N’ this one’s-” Pretty lips sucking a tiny mark right above, “-for the security guard that was too nice to ya.”

Fuck.

No sooner are you actually realizing what is happening, Nanami’s pulling out with a pained grunt - like it killed him to be apart. Even if it was just for all of the two seconds it took for him to flip you onto your stomach like some ragdoll, strong arms supporting your weight. 

And if you were in any better state of mind you’d have questions. Literally anything but those fucked-out little moans he was dragging out of you, rock-hard cock molding your walls to him with each mean, possessive stroke. 

“This one-” Nanami kisses up your curved spine, biceps bulging as he wraps them around your middle. Biting down on the small of your back, “-s’for Higurama a-asking for your ngh- number.” Onto your shoulder, tough. Meaner than the rest, in fact, “N’ this one’s for Gojo.”

Fuck, and he won’t stop - can’t. Leaving you utterly wrecked like you’d been thrown to the wolves. But no, it’s just Nanami Kento.

“Nghh- Ken.” you blabber when he doesn’t ease up on colliding his thick tip against your g-spot. And as if that wasn’t enough, he’s snaking down a hand to draw tight, urgent little circles on your clit. “But m’yours! N-no need to be so…”

A low chuckle sounds in your ear, “What, my love?” And Nanami pistons his hips even harder, bouncing you onto the fresh mattress. “Mean? Jealous? Possessive?” 

Each little description is rattled off with a harsh pattern on your clit, sending white-hot pleasure down your poor, marked-up body - all the way down to your stuffed pussy. Bulging and stuttering with each harsh thrust.

You turn your head around to meet an uncharacteristically disheveled Nanami, familiar blue button-up pulled open, stray strands of blond sticking to his forehead, that furrow in his brow softening at the sight of your fucked-out expression. 

Through those hard, taxing rams of his hips against yours, Nanami manages to whisper out a ragged, “You’re jus’ too perfect, my girl. Too irresistible.” Hot tongue licking all over those bruises he so proudly made, “Can’t help but ngh- wan’ you for myself. Want to write my name on you.” 

“W-write your- hngh- Didn’t think you’d be so-” You’re cut off by Nanami’s fingers moving sloppier - faster. Those messy little circles forming- oh. Fuck. 

Your eyes widen, blinking up tearily at Nanami’s loving grin that told you he knew what he was doing. Fingers deftly rolling against your sensitive nub to draw out a persistent little K-E-N-T-O-K-E-N-T-O-K-E-N-T-O-K-E-N-T

“This one…” He trails off, pulling your back flush against the ridges and curves of his toned front. So tight it almost hurt. Making it easy to dip his head down and suck on your syrupy addictive lips, “This one’s all f’me.”

♡ GETO SUGURU - 1 month

It’d been a nice, long month without any noise complaints from your neighbors. A month of being left with nothing but the thought of you and whatever disappointing rebound sex you’d been having to make up for it. 

And to Geto Suguru, that was a month too long. 

Which is why he was currently snaking your shaky legs to lock around his neck, hot breath ghosting over your soaked panties as he hums. “Oh how I missed this view.”

You let out an embarrassed whine, cheeks burning at the way that Geto’s hooded eyes were just devouring the sight of your dripping wet cunt. Greedily pulling aside the flimsy fabric to eye the way your pretty pussy was glistening and winking up needily at him. 

“Did anyone else treat you like ya deserve?”

“Wha- oh!”

Geto doesn’t waste any time, flattening his hot tongue to drag it along your sloppy slit - too impatient, too starved to go without a taste any longer. Hell, he already waited a month for this. And he wasn’t going to wait any longer. “Mmm-” Dewy eyes rolling to the back of his head, “Even sweeter than I remembered, gorgeous.”

Diving in so deep between your legs that his nose was pressing up so sinfully against your throbbing clit, chin grinding against your skin. Like he couldn’t care - would love it - in fact if he could suffocate buried right here in his favorite place. 

“Mmm,” he smacks his lips against your puffy ones, teasingly circling right around the sweet spot of your clit. “Bet the neighbors missed me, huh? Missed the way I had you screamin’ on my mouth?”

You click your tongue, bucking your hips up - partially because you needed Geto to make out with your cunt the way you knew he wanted to, partially because you really needed him to shut up right now. “M-maybe.” you mutter.

Geto’s eyes are widening in mock-surprise, “Maybe?” Hooking a finger underneath that familiar little hair tie on his wrist to easily tie back those long, inky locks. Oh. Fuck. You were so fucked. “‘Maybe’ she says, hah. Well, here’s a little reminder, gorgeous.”

And it’s all you can do to bring a hand up to your mouth, trying not to scream when Geto presses a hot, open-mouthed kiss on your needy pussy. Pretty pink lips wrapping around your sensitive nub to suck - harsh. Peering smugly at you through his long lashes when you thrash and buck closer. 

“Yeah?” Geto slurs into your cunt, one hand pushing down your reckless hips. The other rolling your ravaged clit between two fingers. “Remembered?”

It was true - none of your past hookups have ever been this dizzyingly good. 

Your mouth sags open, letting out a broken whine that makes Geto throw his head back and laugh - laugh. Long tongue darting out again, circling your sloppy entrance, pressing in. “Not yet, I think.”

And oh while you were desperately trying to keep quiet, he was trying his very best to do the exact opposite. 

Tongue bullying past your puffy lips to map out all those sweet spots against your gummy walls, brows furrowing in concentration when he picks up an intense, maddeningly little tempo.

And yet, the only thing ringing in Geto’s ears were those fucking obscene squelches from below. Well, that won’t do. 

“Oh!” you yelp at the feeling of two long fingers pumping past that first ring of muscle. “Ngh- fuck you- Sugu!”

Hitting the bullseye of your g-spot straight on. Making you let out a slutty little ah! ah! ah! as his finger pads drag against every sopping nook and cranny of your plushy walls. “Lemme know how good it feels, gorgeous.”

Unapologetic. Unrelenting, as Geto plays with you on his fingers. On his mouth lapping at your syrupy sweet juices, rolling his tongue so mean against your ravaged clit. Your sloppy entrance. Fuck, even those sensitive areas on your thighs. Anywhere and everywhere that Geto Suguru could reach because shit, it’s been too long. And he’s drunk, so fucking drunk on his girl’s pussy. 

Your eyes snap open, and shit the sight is so pretty that it makes you clamp down sinfully on his fingers. Hair falling out of his sloppy bun, framing Geto’s pretty flushed face. As pink as those lips meshing messily with yours. Eyes dazed, miles away, your slick dripping down his face, down, down, down all the way to the curve of his jaw. 

You manage to let out a disbelieving mutter of, “Y-your girl?” And when that doesn’t rouse Geto, you tug familiarly on his disheveled hair. Having to fucking pull him back to repeat, “Your girl?” 

Fuck, did he say that out loud?

Oh, well - he wasn’t entirely wrong, was he?

And he tells you that - involuntarily, of course, high off your sweet taste and your cute moans. Loud. Movements only speeding up. 

“S’true.” You feel his lips form a fucked-out smile against your pussy, “This pretty pussy is mine, right? S’mine to ruin.” Giving your poor, abused clit a lingering, chaste peck - one that if you didn’t know any better, you’d consider to be apologetic. “Mine to make you scream.”

So it only makes sense that you do when you cum. 

“Hngh- oh my god oh my god, Sugu I’m- m’cumming m’cumming hah-” Your thighs tighten around Geto’s frenzied head, vision blurry while he laps away content at your pussy. Difficult, almost, with the way you were clenching and milking his face. Until your voice was hoarse, “I’m- oh”

Your hips drag along his pretty face, and he eases you into it. “Yeahh, that’s it.” Giving your ass a gentle smack, “Jus’ like that. Let ‘em know. Let everyone know there’s no one that knows this pussy as good as me.” 

“Y-you’re so- ngh”

“Shhh shhh, I know I know, gorgeous. But save your voice-” Geto rock-hard cock twitches needily at the thought of how fucking pissed everyone in this apartment building was about to be. “-cuz you’re about to lose it, soon.”

♡ CHOSO KAMO - 4 days

Choso feels hot - he feels like he’s burning from the inside out when you slide your slutty excuse of your panties to the side. Spreading your legs to flash him a glimpse of your dripping wet cunt, “So do it then, if you’re so sorry.”

And oh was Choso sorry. 

Sorry he couldn’t move faster with the way he was immediately sidling up right next to you, shaky fingers trembling on that belt of his until his red, angry cock springs free. Smearing a lewd streak of precum down his abs.

Sorry he couldn’t even pretend to want this any less when he’s immediately sliding his fat, leaky tip between your pretty folds. Sliding up and down up and down up and-

“Oh.” you jaw falls slack when he presses in, stretching that first, feeble ring of resistance around Choso’s thick tip. Hips stuttering in protest, “Fuck- forgot how- ngh, big you are, Cho.”

“S-sorry-” he gasps into your open mouth, moving in shallow, slow grinds to squeeze inside. Catching your lips with his in a messy kiss, “Sorry m’sorry- m- hah-” And whatever coherent thoughts are fucked out of Choso’s mind when he finally sinks in all the way, “Ohhh m’sorry.”

Sorry it took him a whole four days until he was buried to the hilt inside your syrupy sweet pussy again. 

He squeezes the fat of your ass between two hands, pulling your tight pussy impossibly deeper down his length. All the way until you could feel the thump! thump! thump! of his racing veins again your gummy walls. “M’yours again, right?”

And despite his question, Choso doesn’t even think about giving you the time to answer - immediately shoving his swollen cock inside until he could feel the plush of your cervix. Fucking you into your couch so ruthlessly, so depraved. 

Making up for those four days - twofold.

“Ngh- f-fuck, Cho, where did ngh- where did this all come from?” you whine, biting down on his wobbly lower lip. “What’s got you so-”

One arm wraps around your middle, the other snaking down to cut you off with one, hard roll of his thumb against your throbbing clit. “You.” Is all he manages to get out, before looping that same thumb around your flimsy panties. Once - hard. 

Rip!

Looking right into your bleary eyes as he shreds them clean off your waist.

And you can only watch - lips dropping into a soft oh! of disbelief as Choso brings the sodden, tattered fabric up, up, up to his face. Breathing in your essence, “F-fuuck, n’ this pretty pussy, of course.” 

Immediately, he’s smashing into your sensitive spot. Sloppy. Animalistically. 

So depraved - not even pulling all the way out until his weeping tip is circling your entrance like usual. Instead, fucking into you in just quick, jagged thrusts like he was addicted to the feeling of your cunt, addicted to each pretty moan pulled out from you when he brushes up against your g-spot. 

“S’too good, Cho.” you mewl at the way you’re being shoved higher and higher up your couch with your ex-boyfriend’s rough cadence. “S’too- oh-” Scrambling at the cushions, the coffee-table, anything and everything to keep whatever’s left of your sanity. 

So much so that you almost miss the gentle hand placing your trembling ones over Choso’s broad shoulders, whispering out a strained, “M’sorry. Fuck- m’sorry.”  

You didn’t even know what he was apologizing for at this point, but you circle your hands around his neck to pull him closer. Letting Choso place his teary eyes on your mouth, tentatively sucking on your bottom lip, “M’yours, right?” Abusing your poor sweet spots, fingers taking their place back to toy with your pulsing clit. Rolling and circling the sensitive nub against his thick fingers, “Lemme be yours, baby- can’t ngh- can’t live without your sweet pussy. Without you.” 

“Y-yeah?” you let out a wet murmur.

And Choso’s giving you a barely-lucid nod, each drag of his cock along your gummy walls makes him grow louder. Pulling you along with him, closer and closer. 

“Mhm, wanna be yours-” Utterly wrecked little strangled gasps of your name escaping him, “M’gonna die- ya feel too good. Too- hah- mine. Oh, baby m’sorry I’m-”

It’s all it takes for him to send you over the end, with one harsh collision of his thick head against your g-spot. And suddenly you’re seeing stars behind your eyes, feeling Choso’s cock twitch wildly as he fucks you through your high. 

Once. Twice.

With absolutely no rhythm or rhyme - just running on the fumes of you milking him so fucking tight and an orgasm so hard it has tears pricking behind his lids. Cumming in thick, hot ropes of his seed that coat your walls white - again and again and- Choso can’t stop. Doesn’t want to stop. 

“M’sorry- ngh” Doesn’t want to do anything other than push your legs so far apart it burned, eyeing the creamy ring of white around his base as he whispers, “I’ve still got four days to make up for.”

♡ RYOMEN SUKUNA - 13 days

“Ya think he’s really gonna like this, brat?” Sukuna breathes hotly against your ear above the thumping bass. Sharp canines grazing along the outer shell, “Think hell like how pretty you look whining on my lap like this?”

You huff in frustration, eyes screwed up against the harsh flashlight shining down on your precarious position. Hands still urgently tugging down your ex-boyfriend tight boxers, skirt hiking up where you were sat so sluttily across his muscled thighs. 

Honestly, you didn’t know that all it’d take for Sukuna to snap was a risky little dance with some cute guy at this party. Eyes hardening, all but dragging your smug self into the nearest unlocked bedroom. 

But, hell, you weren’t complaining about it, either.

“Maybe.” you flash him a devilish grin, batting your lashes up so devilishly innocently at the phone camera pointed at you. Perfectly catching the way your bare cunt was just drooling and glistening all over him, “Or maybe he’ll just wonder why your dick’s so sm-”

Whatever insult dies on the tip of your tongue when Sukuna pulls down his boxers just enough for his swollen cock to hit his toned front. 

Rock-hard and beading angry precum at his fat head, running down, down, down his long length to pool at his heavy balls. So unfairly big that it made your thighs quiver - fuck, it’s been too long. 

And Sukuna notices - of course he does. 

“What were ya sayin’, brat?” he hums, dick twitching ever-so-slightly at the flustered shake of your head. “No no no,” Sukuna raises his knee so that gravity slides you closer down his thigh, his free hand reaching out to squish your cheeks together. Possessive. Demanding. You gasp as he starts up a steady, methodical bobbing of his leg to the music outside. “-use your words. My dick’s so what?”

Sukuna knew the answer - and you did, too. 

And it certainly wasn’t wrapping your swollen lips around that large thumb of his on your face, sucking softly as you rock your hips back to meet his cadence. 

“Nothing, Kuna.” you smile, syrupy sweet. Letting your cunt form a lewd little wet patch that helps you slide easier. “Just talking about-” Sukuna’s breath hitches in his broad chest when you wrap your soft palm around the base of his cock, squeezing. “-how much I missed your dick.”

The camera shakes in his hand, “You little minx.”

Maybe you were an idiot - maybe you were a genius.

Because no sooner are the words out of his mouth before Sukuna’s bucking into your hips, dragging your sloppy cunt along the dips and curves of his thigh muscles. Having him fuck your fist at the same frenzied tempo.

Muffled around his fingers, “Kuna-” 

“Shut up.” he hisses, resting your pretty pussy on that tattooed band on his leg. “Couldn’t even last two weeks. If you hah- missed my dick so bad then y’can get off on this, too, hm?” 

And shit you forgot how mean Sukuna was with his little movements. 

Bouncing his legs to grind your dripping cunt along his thigh, making you ride it so hard that your throbbing clit is catching on his muscles. All the way from near his knee down the sinful trail to where you could almost meet his aching cock.

He pushes the phone closer to catch the way your eyes roll to the back of your head, lips sagging open stupidly. “Answer me. Answer the camera, tell him how much you missed me.” 

The blurry camera alternates between the way you’re pumping your hand - all shaky and soaked in precum - up and down his cock. And the way Sukuna’s dipping a large hand down to help spread your swollen pussy lips, toying with your sensitive nub in the process.

“Ngh-” you squeal when he places that same hand back on your hips, taking control to bully your hips harder and harder down his thigh. Flashlight illuminating that obscene trail of sweet sweet juices you’ve left behind. “M-missed this-”

Sloppier. More desperate. 

And, usually, he’d tease you a little for being so pliant, for humping him like a bitch in heat - but fuck Sukuna can’t even speak when your thumb teases nimbly underneath his sensitive tip - just the way he liked.

“O-oh-” he’s letting out a guttural groan, eyes rolling to the back of his head at the familiar touch. “Heh, that needy? You ngh- wanted this that much ya had to dance with a loser to fuuuck- make me jealous?”

And yet for all Sukuna’s talk, he’s only fucking his hips up into your fist. Recording the way he was furiously twitching in your hands, so needy. So depraved. 

Fingers jolting to leave little crescent marks on your hips as they tighten. Words strained, “Wan’ed to ride my thigh like before? To leave your lil’ mark on me? After all, I did get this thigh tattoo in honor of you, y’know.” 

It’s all you can do to sob out, hips stuttering messily. “K-Kuna- m’close- ah-” Messily dragging your lips across his, “Gonna cum mmpf- gonna cum gonna-”

But oh you should’ve known. Should’ve gotten an inkling that your dear ex-boyfriend wouldn’t let you off that easy. 

Because in a split-second, you’re being plucked off Sukuna’s thigh so easily, the camera set up in some corner of the bed to capture the way he sandwiches his swollen cock between your puffy folds. Kneading at your ass to slobber your syrupy juices all over him. 

Mouth quirking up into a cruel little smile at your disappointed little whine, “You really think m’getting ya for the first time in almost two weeks n’ letting you cum on anything but my cock?” And an even crueler laugh, “Better get workin’ before I send this video to that new boytoy of yours, brat.”

♡ GOJO SATORU - 6 hours

“New shoes, new purses, new nails-” Gojo has his face buried into the crook of your neck, swollen lips bursting with new, broken little moans each passing second, “-a new car- fuck- five new cars. I don’t care, sweetheart. Jus’- jus’ a bit more-”

“Six hours…”

“Six hours too fuckin’ long, thought m’gonna die without this sweet sweet cunt.”

And oh then two large hands of his are shoving up that silky new dress he’d bought for you just a few hours before. Spreading your shaky legs further apart to piston his cock faster - deeper - into your heavenly cunt. 

“Hngh- T-Toru–” you whine, your new heels digging into the skin of Gojo’s toned hips. Jeweled bracelets clanging together as you drag your nails down his milky back - absolutely ruining the smooth canvas. “You’re just b-bribing me.”

“So?” Gojo sounds genuinely confused, raising his pussydrunk eyes to focus on yours, “What’s wrong with ohh fuck jus’ like that- spoiling my girl?”

You give him an eye roll - which only makes your ex-boyfriend let out a stuttering gasp. Head dropping back as his cock twitches wildly, massaging those hidden sweet spots along your gummy walls in a way that only he can.

“The- the problem is- ngh m’not your girl.”

For the entirety of six hours, that is. And the great Gojo Satoru wasn’t about to let that last for a minute longer. 

“Fuuuck don’t say that, sweetheart.” Gojo groans, two fingers making their way downwards to toy with your poor clit, twirling and brushing the pads of his fingers against the sensitive nub. “You’re my girl, always my girl, right? Or do I h-hafta ngh- buy ya another house to prove it?”

You’re gasping at the sight of Gojo reaching for wherever his phone had been thrown off, well and fully intent on calling Tokyo’s best contractor right now. “No!” Pinning his hand down with yours, “Don’t- don’t need another house, Toru.”

Gojo’s pretty pink lips fall into a stubborn pout, and yet his hips never stop. Fucking you into the mattress of this overpriced hotel suite so hard you were sure it would leave marks. 

His heavy balls on your ass, thighs against your own, fingers on your waist - just itching, aching to rip this flimsy dress off of you and fuck you all over again in a whole new one from the stacks of bags on the floor. 

“Then what.” he moans, words hitching upwards with each sloppy smack of his hips against yours. Shuddering out a heavy breath against your lips, “Anything- haaah anything for you. Anything n’ I jus’ want you- fuck fuck fuck jus’ want you.” 

It’s a ragged, dizzying little mantra that he kept spitting into your open mouth. Only growing louder and louder with each drag of Gojo’s massive length against your dripping cunt. Stretching you out, molding you, drawing you back to him.

You choke out, “Wan’- want- ngh-” 

But fuck it was so difficult to speak with how needily Gojo was playing with your pretty pussy. Just ravaging your gaping hole with his unforgiving cock, molding you against each ride and curve of his dick. Fingers so firm on your clit, “Mhm? Tell me- ngh anything.”

“Wan’ you-” you’re letting out an embarrassed pant. Lips crashing against his stunned ones, “Wanna cum- want you- fuck- wanna cum, Toru, so bad.”

“Then cum.” It’s all you can make out through the blood roaring in your ears, your orgasm so close that it almost hurt. Or maybe that’s just how hard that Gojo was pushing into your cervix, your g-spot, everywhere and anywhere. “Cum f’me, my girl.”

And then you are - your entire body jolting into Gojo’s as he fucks you messily through your high. Over and over and-

Barely even making it three, mean thrusts before the way your tight pussy was milking him gets too much. Before he can’t help but spill all into your gummy walls, painting then a creamy little white that was so sinful. So his.

Gojo’s free hand crushes you even closer to his body, pinning you down with his weight to make sure you take every single drop of his seed. All of it. 

“Ohh fuck- you’re right.” he grits out, the pleasure too much that his eyes are blown, jaw falling slack, veins popping out from the side of his neck. “Ngh- this is the best- fuck, you’re the best. The- oh m’gonna give ya everything for the rest of m’life-”

And in the haze of it all, you barely even register the cold, metallic band being slipped gently onto your finger. And despite your blurry, unfocused vision, you could pick apart the ridiculously large diamond winking at you under the dim-lighting. Gojo’s voice sounding way too-pleased as he hums, “Jus’ a lil’ something I bought extra.”

A/N. Reader in Gojo’s is too nice idc I’d be asking for that new house. 

Plagiarism not authorized.

[stargirlrchive]

simon’s work wife

one — two — three — four

the transition in your relationship—if you could call it that—with simon was easier than you anticipated. he practically herded you into his apartment.

helping you pack, doing all the heavy lifting, and grunting softly when you’d ask if some of your decor would clash with his. “wh’tver you want in our house will go, doll.”

our house. our.

shivers ran down your spine when you’d hear him refer to your things as our. you didn’t mind it—albeit it did confuse you a bit because just two weeks ago you were single, and now you were living with your lieutenant, and sleeping in his bed, and he’d cook for you—even knew how you liked your coffee in the morning.

the only weird thing was that he didn’t touch you.

well he did, like placing a heavy hand on your lower back to guide you, or pressing up against you to grab a cup from the shelves because you couldn’t reach it, or letting his thumb trail down your throat as you spoke to him.

but he didn’t touch you.

that plagued your thoughts all day, even as you slipped into bed with him. letting out a small huff as he turned to face you in the dim light of the room.

“what’s wrong?”

“nothing.”

you could tell his brows pinched together but you didn’t mention it. picking at your cuticles to stop yourself from looking at him.

you were still so confused; he clearly wanted you if his actions meant anything. and you couldn’t deny that anytime he’d refer to you as his ‘missus’ that warmth curled in your belly and left you a mess.

a needy, horny mess. it was his fault really.

he grunted, thick fingers wrapping around your soft thigh to pull you closer to him, “we ain’t supposed to go to sleep mad at each other.”

your nose scrunched up at him as you somehow found yourself under him, “and who sets these rules?”

he stared at you for a second before that same hand that was curled around your thigh now moved to curl around your throat gently, his eyes glued to your lips.

“me.”

you huff again, but make no move to move from under him—a move simon doesn’t miss. “what’s go ya’ so worked up, sweetheart?”

the gravel in his voice had your skin heating up, nipples pebbling as you met his gaze, “you.”

“me?”

“mhm.”

the amusement was clear in his eyes, staring down at you as he let his weight sink into you and you had to bite back the moan that threatened to leave your lips.

god, you felt pathetic. just the feeling of his cock on your belly, the scent of him, had you reeling.

“tell me what you need.”

one of his hands trailed lower, thumb barely ghosting over your nipple and a breathless whine left your mouth. “well—i-i need you to perform your duties-”

a rumbly laugh left his mouth as his nose dipped down to your throat, licking up your neck and nipping softly, “my duties?”

heat coiled in your belly, arousal pulling between your thighs as you tried to control your breathing. “and what duties have i been falling short on?”

your mind went hazy as he cupped your breast, lowering his hips to press his cock against your cunt, heavy and thick and just there. teasing you further by not moving.

“have i been neglecting my missus?”

that pulled a moan straight from your parted lips, hips bucking upwards to grind against his cock as he grunted lowly. “y-yes, been neglecting me.”

he nipped at your neck, thick fingers easily snapping away that lacy fabric that sat on your hips as he growled out softly, “m’sorry, baby. i’ll make it up to you.”

[dawnwriterimagines]

Innocents among you

Part Two to TRAITORS AMONG US

SIMON RILEY X FEM!READER TASK FORCE 141 X FEM!READER

Summary: Your torture is over, but is it really? There is only the torment in your mind now. The nightmares, the flashbacks, the flowers at your hospital bed and the tormentors awaiting the relief of your forgiveness.

Part 3!!

Part 4

If you liked this would you Buy me a Coffee?

---

You flatlined twice, almost as soon as you were handed off to the medics.

Committing themselves to doing CPR before bringing in the defibrillator for an electric charge to your sudden cardiac arrest. "Clear!" They restarted your heart just outside the hallway of your cell, Simon held back by Price as your heart stopped again within the same minute and panic ensued. Johnny and Kyle hearing the news, rushing up towards the hall, their footsteps probably the echo that you held onto as your heart rate picked back up.

Clearly, you lived.

You didn't have the luxury of going comatose immediately after. As you would've preferred.

You'd awoken hours after the medical team carried you off to the infirmary. Still on edge, still plagued by discomfort and cold, despite the lights of the recovery facility and the nurses that paraded around you.

Morphine wears off in about 6 hours, so you were up wailing in agony within the same time. Clearly no one expected you up so soon, but you hadn't slept in days, at least not more than an hour. Jerking up involuntarily, hands all over you to keep you down and steady, you could hear a familiar doctor's attempt to calm you down. But, the blistering pain that radiated from every pore in your body was ringing so loud, a present noise that blocked everything out.

So, at first, you'd been terrified, attempting to clutch onto the first thing you'd woken up to. But, you couldn't move, at least not voluntarily.

With the damage to your spine for countless hours, days, and what you had discovered to be two fucking weeks of endless torture, you'd undergone three difference corrective surgeries that would 'possibly' fix the nerve and circulatory damage done to you. It had left you nearly completely immobile since your admission into the infirmary. The doctors were quite astonished that you were even alive...

The nurses were patient enough with your panicked state to slowly ease you out of your stupor. But, at times it wasn't easy, especially when you didn't even know where you were at first. Since you couldn't see...

You were blind for about four days. Everything a tinted red for a few more after you'd regained your sight.

Fevers plagued you for the week, skin that was raw and inflamed from the severe cold and constant dousing from the pipes, you couldn't move if you wanted to.

The first thing you'd been graced to see were the multiple arrangements of flowers, lilies, white tulips, hydrangeas, roses...typical assortments of regret and remorse.

"Can someone throw these away?" had been your first words.

The nurse who had been checking over your vitals looks over at the flowers, the were all over the desk, even on the floor lining the windows, once they ran out of space to put them. It was beautiful. But, she knew why. Everyone knew why. You were quite famous here in the infirmary, as you were in special unit. "Of course."

They were out within the day. The room bare once more.

And then you saw them outside your infirmary window. Just a glimpse. Around the time you were still getting your sight back.

Seeing them for the first time since everything made bile build up in your throat, a screaming fear that created a pulsing headache.

Kyle, Johnny, Price and...you didn't see Simon.

Price was...a statue. Not moving an inch. His hand against his mouth, covering up the aching distress anyone could see on his face.

Kyle was pacing, back and forth and back and forth. Making an offhanded comment at one of them every few seconds.

But, Johnny was talking, pointing spitefully at someone out of your view.

He was there too then. Simon.

Turning away from the window, you couldn't look at them anymore.

"Don't let them in," you breathe out to your doctor as she sets down a trayed mug on your sliding table as she sits you up to drink a hot cup of tea, which you had requested. "Any of them. Please." You were still so cold, you couldn't imagine dealing with any type of cold weather for a while after dealing with this.

She's confused a moment, before turning to the doorway, where she recalled seeing the four men waiting outside in the hallway. She's seen them just sitting there for days now, they wouldn't beg or argue to come in, they'd just wait. It's not like you were cleared for visitors yet anyway.

Every morning she clocked in for the job, there they were. Sitting there like abandoned children, awaiting the moment the door would open to be welcomed inside.

It was like they never left.

Of course she knew who they were to you. Word spreads fast on the base. Especially for a Task Force as 'famous' as they were around here.

Squeezing your shoulder, comfortingly. Feeling protective, your doctor spoke, "Of course," she slides the mug forward a bit, taking the teaspoon to stir once and lift it to toward your lips to sip. "Blow," she guided.

You did. And sipped.

And it was warmer than any blanket they'd wrapped you in.

---

Prior to being able to trudge around on your own, with the help of a crutch you'd been given to go to the bathroom by yourself finally, the nurses had sponged you down in bed. Your spinal surgeries led to you being at risk if they made efforts to remove you from your bed for anything more than a medical emergency.

Mostly, because you're terrified of the showerhead....and it's pathetic, but no one judges you for it as you opt for a sponge bath every time instead. Even if you're shaking as the water slides down your skin even now. The last thing you needed on top of all this was to develop aquaphobia.

Today was the first day you could do it on you own, limping your way to the bathroom with your crutch. The smell of bleach is much stronger in here, it stings your nose.

You stared at the metal stool left tucked at the side, walking around it as if it would pounce up and attack you, you try not to look at it. You'd been doing well without panic attacks for a few days now, just hold it together.

Taking a breath, you reach out to the handle for the spout, glancing up at the showerhead, before back down. Swallowing thickly when you begin to turn it before pausing, hearing the water rush up the pipe to spill out. Turning it back up just as quickly, shutting off the pipe, you inhale deeply, trembling now, hand up to the chilled tile to steady yourself.

You'll try again, you had to.

Drip...

Drip...

Unable to help yourself, the sudden rush of paranoia that runs through you is terrible, a hoarse cry leaves you. You shove yourself away from the shower stall, back ramming into the doorframe, catching yourself, and away from the showerhead as the water drips, slowly from the faucet.

Drip...

Drip...

As panic tightened its grip around your chest, your breaths quickly turned to short, sharp gasps. The room spinning, colors blurring into a dizzying whirlwind. You turn swiftly, nearly knocking yourself off your feet as the thudding of your own heart startles you, you can hear it in your ears, in your hands, in your feet.

You press a trembling hand to your chest, clawing over the area, trying to slow the frantic pace of your breathing, but it only seemed to escalate. The small room narrowing to a black hole of fear and suffocation, every gasp began to disorient you, turning lightheaded.

As tears welled in your eyes, you collapse against the side wall, sliding down to the tiled floor. Slamming your palm against your chest, once, twice, as hot tears leave streaks down your bruised face, you beg your lungs to expand and wait for your breathing to regulate.

Beginning to sob uncontrollably as you hit yourself in the chest again and again and again, waiting for the moment you found yourself able to breathe.

Why did this have to happen?

You remember the violent swing of the baton against your face, the sting it leaves afterwards, the immediate spotting of bruises forming. The memory startles you, receding back into yourself, back to that day.

"It wasn't me..." you cried loudly, in the empty room. It echoes against the tiles.

Simon wrapping his hands around your neck, staring you down as he squeezed, maliciously. You couldn't breathe as your lover shook with the strength he uses to hold himself back from taking your life.

"I'm sorry," you hiccupped. "I'm--I'm sorry," you're not sure when you crawled yourself into the corner, the lights of the bathroom flickering off dimly from your lack of movement. As you're drowned in darkness, the water dripping from the spout, the cold tile against your skin, it's too much. You scramble upwards, running out of the bathroom.

The automatic lights flicker back on inside, but you're too in your head to notice.

Stumbling down to your knees as you feel the rip of a ruined stitching tearing along your side. "Ah!" comes your startled cry. Making it to the side of your hospital bed, you fist your hand through your sheets, unable to stand yourself up.

Taking pained breaths against the sterile sheets, you bury your head in them, cursing whatever luck you thought you had in this life.

They were your family...

All you had for so many years...

As your breathing slows to distraught, agonized huffs of air, sniffling to yourself as you catch sight of your face in the metal frame of your hospital bed. The dark purple bruises beneath your eyes as the swelling gradually went down, the still bloodshot left eye of yours, the twelve stitches on the left side of your face. So gruesome you knew it would scar you for life, a permanent reminder on your fucking face.

Anger bubbled up inside you at the sight of it. At the memory that would always follow when you'd look at it.

Anger that you hadn't been able to properly feel until now.

Anger that you feared to have until today.

"Are you alright?" the sound of his voice makes you visible tense.

Simon.

He's here.

You don't turn to face him, if you did, you'd revert back to the person you were cowering into moments ago. "The door was open...I just--" he pauses, swallowing thickly. "Lemme help you up."

Hearing his footsteps suddenly moving closer, you speak fast. "STAY THE FUCK AWAY FROM ME!" you scream over your shoulder, tucking yourself further away from him. "Do NOT move."

He stops in his tracks. You catch the sight of him in the metal framing of the bed, he's a blur in the metal, but you notice his mask is gone, he's Simon Riley now, not Ghost as he appeared to you in the interrogation cell.

"Don't you dare get any closer," you spat.

"I heard you," he spoke, carefully. Mouth opening and closing, before speaking again. "But, you don't have to be stubborn. If you stay there any longer you could tear your stitches."

"Whose fault is that?"

Simon shifts his stance on his feet, waits a second. "I know. And I can never begin to tell you how sorry I am for what I did. What we all did to you," he says, quietly. "The intel we discovered...or that was forged, it came from a source we've used a dozen times, (Y/n), we thought it was true. It had to be. We've never been misled before."

"So..." your nails bite into your skin, you make an amused sound, biting down on your lip for a moment, till it hurt. " That's what you came here to say, huh? What you waited days to--. Is this you justifying--"

"No, (y/n), that's not--"

"--why you tortured me, strangled me, stripped me, in that fucking cell, Simon?"

"We had to believe it, at the time..."

"Was I not a trusted source?" you argued. "Had I not proven more than a thousand times that you could trust me? I've fought next to you, laid in your bed, given you my love, my trust, I--" you shook with rage at the time and energy wasted on time family, this relationship, if the end goal was always meant to just be this.. "I thought that was at least half the reason you decided to marry me..." at the mention of your relationship, you could see the way Simon nearly lost his balance, hands coming up to run along his face. "You told me you would kill me in that room..."

"I was just talking, I wouldn't have--" his voice cracks as he whispers, trying to convince.

"When you left, I thought you'd come back to kill me any minute, or Price, to spare you. I waited to die for two days, terrified out of my mind. I wondered about heaven, not if I'd make it... but what it'd be like, what I'd be missing out on," you thought back to your time in that cell, a haunted expression Simon couldn't see. "While you all got a good nights rest, woke up for some bacon and eggs, and listened to the warden tell you that your prisoner was framed...for a crime you'd already punished her for..." you stuttered on your breathing, tears flowing silently.

Simon inhales deeply. "I could never expect you to forgive me. I-I had taken my hurt out on you, I thought you did it, I was so sure. I couldn't hear what you were saying, I just could see the evidence, and I--I'm sorry. I'm sorry, love. I'm truly--" he gets to his knees behind you.

"Get up."

"I can never tell you how sorry I am---"

"Simon."

"I never should've done this to you. If I could ever--" his voice rising with distressed breaths, you didn't have to look at him to see his face a mess of sorrow, tears that would mix into the stubble on his face.

"Simon!"

"--make it up to you. If you could ever find it in your to forgive me, (y/n). I'll spend the rest of my life--" he gets closer, reaching out.

Whipping around, stiffening completely as you feel the graze of his fingers across your skin, "DON'T TOUCH ME!" you shove your back against your bedding, your hand swinging and flying across his face. His head snapping to the side as he pauses, freezing up where he kneels, having completely forgotten your request to stay put. "What's the matter with you! Even now? Even now, you can't just listen to this one thing?!"

"I-I'm sorry..." He looks at you, finally seeing your face clearly and up close since it all happened. Finally he can see the bruises along your face, the blood that fills your eye, the dark bruise still around your neck.

Seeing him. He looks rough. Honestly, he looks terrible. His hair shaggy and falling over his eye. Dark circles with bags under them. Pale, and thinner than he should be.

His jaw clenches with guilt and he averts his eyes, you continue. "How could I forgive you for this?" you stare at him, "I could forgive you, if you hadn't let them chain me up like an animal. If you hadn't watched them drown me for hours, beat me black and blue and left me screaming for days. I could forgive you if you had just believed me even for a moment." you feign thoughtfulness. "How about you look at my face. My wrists. My legs! MY FUCKING SPINE, SIMON!"

"Nothing I can say or do, will ever make any of it ok, I know that. And I can't ask for you to ever forgive--"

"What could I possible owe you in this life, that makes you think I'd even think about forgiving any of you for the things you did to me?" you gritted out, angrily.

Simon's head drops, a slow, shuttering sigh leaves him. "I'll never stop trying to make this right. Never."

"...Get out, Simon."

"I'm sorry."

"Simon."

"I'm so sorry..." he reaches out again.

"Ghost."

He's silent this time, fingers tensing, out in mid air.

"I never wanna see you again."

"I love you, (Y/n)," he confessed, eyes feral and wide. Pulling at the ends of your slip.

"I don't want to hear that, Ghost," kicking away from him. "Stop it."

"I couldn't stop even as it happened--"

"Shut up. And get out," shaking as you sneered at his desperate attempts. "It's over, Ghost."

"And I took it on you. It hurt so much, I couldn't think," Simon's face twisted with agony and remorse. "I'm sorry!"

He was making you lose your goddamn mind, you broke. "GET THE FUCK OUT!" screaming at one another as overwhelming tears escaped your eyes.

---

It's quiet in your hospital room, it's empty now, the door closed this time.

The door knob turns and opens again a moment later. "Oh no, Ms. (L/n)!" luckily it was your assigned nurse, who takes your arm and fixes it around her shoulder before helping haul yourself up to your feet. "What're you doing on the floor? There's a call button for a reason," she scolds as you sit on the edge of your bed.

You're quiet.

Alarmingly so for your nurse, who notices the pulled stitching that creates a line of blood down your side. "If this is about what happened to you..." the nurse started, speaking carefully, pulling a lining of gauze from the side to press to your skin. You don't even wince at the pressure, even when she begins to clean and replace the broken stitch. "Don't let it break you. Not even further than this experience already has..." she says, while through the last stitch and prepping a bandage.

"I've been broken long before this," you whispered, looking towards the afternoon sun shining through your window. "This. This didn't break me, no," you admitted, before glancing up with glossy eyes, rage hidden beneath a profound look of sadness. "It destroyed me."

Her hand pauses at your side, your words startling, turning to see the tear that slips down your cheek. Knowing now how deep your scars were from this, before gently sliding the last of the bandage across your skin. "Do not think you are irreparable. That time can't heal your wounds."

"But, there's always reminders," touching the stitches on your cheek, "some things can't be forgiven."

"I never said to forgive..." the nurse interjected. "If you could, after all this, you're stronger than any woman that could be named."

You snicker at that, humming soundly. "That's an interesting thought. I guess I'm one of the weaker ones then."

"And yet, still the strongest I've ever met," she finishes. Pats your cheek, "click the button next time. Save us both the heart attack."

"Noted," you assured.

As she's prepping to leave for her rounds, you open your mouth, once, twice, before clearing it. "Is it possible, someone could help me out--the water..."

"Of course," the nurse says, quickly. "Don't worry, I understand. I'll get everything set for you."

As she walks away, you breathing out your appreciation, you take a long inhale, swallowing down the heaviness in your chest.

part 3 OUT NOW!!

Tag List:

@m3ntally-unstable @dreamsarenicer @ttsbaby01 @theweirdgeninistuff @shelbycillian @azxulaa @kthehoeforfictionalmen @amusling @v1x3n @nobodycanknoww @thesinsoflust @asexualbuthorny @poisonedsultana @blackhawkfanatic @character---obsessed @yunggoblin @teenagellamaangel @hanniebanggi @nym-phos @gastonlover9000 @lyssa-211 @doodle-cat16 @haven-1307 @kneelforloki @delphiakira @just-going-through-the-motions

[sleepymaddy]

.

[ohcaptains]

𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝𝐧'𝐭 𝐡𝐞𝐥𝐩 𝐦𝐲𝐬𝐞𝐥𝐟.

college! peter parker x fem reader.

18+ only !!! f! receiving oral sex. peter parker has an oral fixation i said what i said. in my spider-man era again.

peter was a weekly visitor at this point. sometimes, it was twice, but never more than three. three was pushing it.

Three said that Peter meant something to you, and you couldn’t have that. No, whatever this was between the pair of you was strictly transactional. It was Peter texting you late at night, the classic, you up? Gracing your screen, and every time, you would pretend to be annoyed.

As if Peter coming around to give you the greatest head of your life was an inconvenience. Tempted, the devil on your shoulder smirking, to type back, Jesus, again? but never doing it. Instead, you wrote: sure.

Still, it plagued your mind. He never asked for anything else.

It was as if he did this purely for himself.

“Oh fuck,” you mewled, clenching down tight. The hand that was wrapped around Peter’s brown curls clutched and tugged, and the unconscious movement earned you a chastised groan. It rumbled through your cunt, and the echo shot to your clit, making you close your eyes and lean back, wet mouth spilling his name into your dorm.

Peter liked hearing you.

Liked seeing you lose your mind with his head between your thighs, your pussy wet and throbbing from his mouth and fingers. It’s why he came around often. Sometimes, he wouldn’t even text, would just knock on your door -- looking sheepish from under his dark curls -- and just. Not. Say. Anything.

His silence was answer enough. You knew what he wanted. Or, needed, as you later figured out, as you saw how red he’d gotten when you told him he couldn’t come around for a bit. When you said something about focusing on exams, he’d come over anyway, whined, shuffled his feet and said, You can do your work, I just gotta…I’ll be quick.

The lack of explanation made your mind swirl. But regardless, you’d let him in and did your work with his head between your thighs. He’d tutored you, too, told you how to solve for x with his fingers inside of you. He’d said, if you let me make you come again, I’ll do your Maths work for the next week. After he’d left, you stared at the scene of the crime in pure silence.

Just…reflecting.

Peter fluttered his tongue over your swollen clit. Focused on swirling it around his tongue in sloppy, wet circles, and the thick desire that swelled between your thighs began to pool at your lower back, forcing you to arch up into it.

“Please,” you wept, even though he was giving you what you wanted. Flat on your back with his deft grip keeping your bare thighs open. It was 8 pm. He’d caught you just after your shower, so the smell of your shampoo and body wash wafted through the air – Lavender and pear.

Peter had spread you open and said you smelled like spring. You’d been far too turned on to comment on it. He grumbled into your cunt, and you managed to work out the word, more? You hummed, too drunk on him and wound tight to verbalise that yes, you wanted more. Wanted him to make you come, and come again, till all you could do was mumble his name and focus on your breathing.

He'd learnt how you liked it. Paid attention, and he was getting full scores as he pushed his tongue flat against your swollen clit and sucked. Your vision went white.

“Oh fuck – ohfuck, Peter—” you squirmed, but Peter was strong, and he held you to the bed with his vice-like grip, wordlessly saying take it take it take it.

He lapped at you, salvia drooling over your cunt and down his chin, soaking the sheets. He was always so careless. In moments like this, that nervous edge that always fluttered around him was gone, replaced by a visceral drive to either please you, or get what he wanted.

The two bled into each other.

His tempo was leisurely, but that didn’t stop the heat from washing over you all at once.

You clamped your thighs around his ears and moaned -- loud, so loud that you were sure the other students on your floor heard.

Still, the ache was erratic, “So good,” you sobbed, and you heard yourself, heard the near primal need in your voice, and the desperation made you embarrassed, made you cover your mouth with your palm and grip the sheets, willing yourself to cool it. 

“Move your hand, or I’ll stop,” he uttered against you, and your clit was so sore that the echo of his words made your eyes roll back. Peter must have seen, as he hummed a laugh, and kissed your inner thigh, “lemme hear you.”

Managing to gain some sense of sanity, you blearily blinked down at him, but all sense of stability you thought you had was wiped away when you saw Peter had his hand stuffed down his pants.

You dropped back onto the bed and sobbed.

You knew he got off on this, but Jesus Christ, you’d never seen that before.

“Gotta be kidding me,” you breathed, and Peter must have understood what you were referencing, as he buried his reddening face into your inner thigh. He let out a breathy chuckle, “’ M’sorry,” he mumbled, “usually I wait till I get home, but you’re just so hot.”

You had to stay completely still, or you’d burst. Usually, I wait till I get home?

Peter moved his face and began nuzzling the wet folds of your pussy. He bumped his nose against your clit, and you quietly choked.

Peter hummed, “couldn’t help myself.”

You figured he did something like that, but the admission made your thighs tense. You pictured him stumbling home – cheeks still wet with you – and tugging his pants down, quickly shoving his hands into his boxers and taking hold of his aching cock. Did he whimper when he came? Or was he silent, all tremors and low grunts? No. He definitely whimpered.

He was far too pretty to stay quiet.

The sudden desire to kiss him swept over you.

Reaching down, you tugged at his curls, wordlessly motioning him to move. When he did, you briefly saw the red of his cheeks and wet of his nose before you kissed him, all tongue, and tasted yourself on his pink lips.

Peter melted into you. Huffed your name like a sigh, and the sheer tenderness of it had you wrapping your legs around his back and pressing your bare cunt against his jeans.

He was rock-hard. Tentatively, you ran your nails over his chest, and dipped low, pressing between his thighs, cupping his bulge, and gently squeezing. Peter wept.

“Oh fuck,” he sobbed, as desperate as you imagined. With one hand in his hair and the other on his cock, you continued to kiss him, until the ache between your thighs became too much to bear.

“Make me come,” you whispered, “and I’ll put you in my mouth.”

Peter had never moved so fast in his life.

[chatsukimi]

ᴄᴏᴜʀᴛɪɴɢ ᴅᴇᴀᴛʜ

featuring: protective!heian!sukuna, kindhearted!servant!reader. slight angst/hurt -> comfort. synopsis: you're sick. to your surprise, you're rescued by the man second closest to death himself. masterlist

you should've known he wouldn't come. sukuna has never set foot in the servant's headquarters in his life, let alone to chase after a sick servant. you lower your head, trying to ease the headache that has plagued you through the day.

sukuna loves his bloodshed and his gore. him and death would be good friends, you think to yourself. he wouldn't care if your body was burnt or buried, you think to yourself; wouldn't care if you died at all.

the room the others put you in is empty. ash spreads neatly over the cold floor. the scent of kibble haunts the atmosphere. it's where they put the dogs before sukuna killed them.

ever since you took care of the king of curses while he was sick, the other servants had been careful in keeping a distance from you. not in ill of heart; they're simply terrified at what you must've done to survive in your week long stay with the monster. honestly, you don't blame them.

but now when you're laying on the freezing ground, struggling to breathe, it's hard not to.

'this is where you live?'

your eyes look up. shock. then, with all the strength you can muster, you heave yourself one step away from the man at the doorway, which only serves to piss him off more.

sukuna ryomen, in all his glory, looks down at you. bending down to pick you up like a limp doll to be seated against the wall, he seems to revel in his regained strength. you can't help but feel happy for him, to have survived this fatal disease. not many men can attest to that...

then again, he is no ordinary man.

'i asked you a question.'

you nod, a small thing, barely a movement. he seems to clench his teeth.

he takes off his long white coat, flaunting a layer of dried blood, and drapes it over your shoulders.

yet it doesn't end there. he retrieves from his pocket a bottle of what looks to be a golden syrup.

you know exactly what it is.

he takes your hand and wraps it around the flask, making you hold it, sparing, not one, but two of his eyes, to stare at you, making sure you do as he commands.

'swallow.'

you shake your head. you know he's asking you to do. this is a medication is so rare for your disease that no sorcerer has found in over a hundred years. he's brought this thing of myth right to your very lips. now he's asking you to drink it, and thus take away any chance of it saving anyone else's life.

you scowl, but the tickling sensation in your throat grows stronger, eventually erupting out of your mouth in a harsh cough. you look away from sukuna.

'leave,' you whisper, weakly. 'don't wanna infect you.'

'i survived the illness already. i've developed an immunity.'

you shake your head again. you couldn't threaten your king's health with your own weakness. you just couldn't.

'i can't take this.'

he growls. without any notice, he swallows your lips in a kiss. in the momentary haze, you could hardly resist, fisting the front of his kimono to ground yourself. then, you feel something sweet, honey-ish, hit your tongue.

with his hand locked on your chin, it forces you to swallow.

you pull back, pushing him away. he groans.

he wipes his mouth, still with two eyes staring.

no... no, why did he do that?

'y-you- how? no... why did you waste it on me?' you whisper, desperately searching his face for an answer. 'i'm just a servant. you could've given it to a princess, or a scholar, or priest-'

he grabs you by the arm and forces you into his arms. its heat astounds you, and you find yourself crawling closer. a vague thumping sound seems to press against your ear-

oh. you calm your breathing.

it's his heartbeat.

alive.

'sleep in my room tonight,' he demands.

what did he say? you strain your mind, trying to replay what he said earlier. no... maybe you heard correctly.

'but i'm no concubine,' you respond, instantly.

his arm supports your waist, helping you up effortlessly to your feet. he then directs two of his eyes to the doorway, his cadence low and domineering.

'it doesn't matter.'

he leads you placidly through the servant's quarters. you notice all conversation cease at your entry, bodies dropping into a low bow. a small voice in you whispers that it's where you should be too. you tug at sukuna's arm.

'i'm only a servant, sukuna.'

you know what it looks like, a servant clutching onto a man, more god than human. a man who has slaughtered villages, blood staining the base of his kimono crimson, and turned half a province on its head, just to save you.

'whatever you are in my eyes is what you are to the world,' he states, his expression unchanging. 'if i deem you a queen, that is who you are.'

exiting the servant compound, you know you can't say no- not like you wanted to. the wide expanse of his chest is comforting.

yet however sweet this feeling remains, you can't help but gulp. perhaps this is the closest a human has ever come to courting death.