#this part was NOT supposed to take this long

[milkteabinniechan]

♡Tongue in Cheek - Yang Jeongin

MINORS DNI 18+ ONLY MEMBERSHIP//M.LIST

pairing: CEO jeongin x fem! reader

summary: your boss is up for a big promotion. There's just one problem, he told his boss that he's married. So he asks you to be his wife for just one night. But now this cold CEO is seeing you in a whole new light.

warnings: power dynamics, tooth-aching fluff, angst, kissing, did I mention fluff????

Jeongin slid a few papers around his desk. “Something you need?” He snapped, his tone exhausted and annoyed. His patience was wearing thin lately. You had noticed immediately, the way he moved around the office like every corner and seam of his heavy armor was starting to crack. He was stressed, he was nervous. You suppose that's why you agreed to this dinner in the first place. To help him out. That was the only reason you had agreed to be his “fake wife.”

“Sorry to bother you, Sir. But Mr. Kwon’s assistant called again to confirm that you- um, that we would be attending the dinner tomorrow evening.” You kept your eyes downcast, studying every fiber of his office carpet. A deep, intimidating red color that filled the entire room like an inferno. It's as if he wanted everyone that walked into his office to know that they were walking into Hell.

“Tell her that we'll be there at eight sharp. I want you dressed nicely. Take my card and buy yourself something expensive.” Jeongin's hand stretched out to reveal a heavy platinum credit card weaved between his fingers. You took a step forward but hesitated, your mouth parting slightly. Jeongin's eyes flashed up to you, his head still hanging down. “No arguments, just do it.”

And that was that. Because if Yang Jeongin told you to do something, then goddamn it, you better do it.

The night of the dinner was chiller than you had anticipated. The sun was going down sooner and sooner and cold air swept you up and pulled you inside of Jeongin's luxury car. It was warm inside with plush seats that hugged you better than your own mother. Was this what money could buy? You casually glanced at Jeongin's hand gripping the expensive leather of the steering wheel. He was wearing a shiny silver bracelet and a large, heavy looking ring on his middle finger. He had told you once that the ring was lucky and he would only wear it when he really, really needed it. Jeongin kept his eyes fixed on the road, focused and determined even in his driving. But soon his deep voice cut through the building tension. “Mr. Kwon is the man to impress, the man to be, the man to beat. But he is put off by the fact that I never settled down to start a family. He thinks it's abnormal for a man my age to not have someone.”

You kept your mouth closed tight. You agreed with Jeongin's boss, it was abnormal. Jeongin was young, attractive, and successful. So why hadn't he found someone? As if sensing your train of thought, he cocked his head towards you and raised an eyebrow. “It's not like I don't fuck, I just don't have time for a relationship.”

A relationship. He said that word like it was poison on his tongue. The two of you pulled into the long driveway of a sprawling manor you had only seen in magazines. The path was lined with lights and led you both to a towering front door that was painted the most intense red you had ever seen. You were starting to understand where Jeongin was getting his business inspiration. You stepped inside to see dinner already being set.

Five course meal. Five courses. There were nights when all you could afford was a cup of ramen and a few beers. This was how the other half lived. Mr. Kwon and his wife were both incredibly gorgeous. To look at them too long almost felt greedy. Mr. Kwon commented on Jeongin's cufflinks and his wife absolutely adored your dress. You found it easy to converse with her. A simple, sweet woman who meant well but was so detached from the real world that she was living in her own little fairytale. Jeongin and you had discussed a background story for how you met and what your wedding day was like in case anyone had asked. And to no one's surprise, Mrs. Kwon wanted to know every detail.

After a few glasses of champagne, you found yourself gushing about Jeongin. You spoke about his gentle demeanor when his mother or siblings call. You talked about his smell and the first time you knew you were in love with him.

Jeongin sat back in his chair and watched you. He watched you diverge from the previously discussed storyline that the two of you agreed on. He listened as you spoke honestly about your feelings and your ambitions and goals for the future. He felt a clench in his chest that he hadn't felt in years. You seemed to almost have a glow around you when you spoke. As if the roof opened up to let moonlight pour down over your entire body. And the dress you chose. Jeongin finally allowed himself a moment to admire and memorize every curve and dip of your waist and legs. He could feel his $300 slacks growing tighter by the second. Mr. Kwon stood from the table and announced that the men should adjourn to the other room for cigars and brandy. Jeongin let out a sigh of relief and quickly stood to follow the rest of the men but before he could leave you grabbed his hand and kissed his cheek. “Miss you already.” You said with a smile loud enough that the rest of the guests could hear. You gave him a quick wink before dropping his hand and returning to the dinner table.

“You got a good one there, Yang.” Mr. Kwon let out a large puff of smoke from his cigar. “Don't fuck this up. She's good for you.”

Jeongin fiddled with his own cigar, still unlit. He weaved it between his fingers. “Yes, Sir.” His mind was a million miles away. You have worked for him for three years now. He still remembers the day he hired you. The outfit you wore, the messy bun with frazzled strands of hair falling in front of your eyes. You were so nervous. But you were determined. He recognized that fire in your eyes. It was the same fire that burned inside him.

“Thank you for tonight. You were very convincing.” Jeongin had driven you back to your one bedroom apartment. You stood in the single step in front of your front door. You were actually eye-level with him now, your face just inches from his. “You're welcome. It was fun.” You confessed. You liked being a part of his world. Jeongin cleared his throat and smiled. An awkward, unsure smile that you weren't used to seeing. He gave you a polite bow and turned towards his car to leave. You felt a heaviness pull at your heart as he started to walk away. But before he got to the street he stopped. He turned on his heels to face you once again, his unsure smile now transforming into a devilish smirk. “The night isn't over. Technically, you're still my wife.” He took a few steps towards you. “Kiss me.”

The heaviness in your chest now felt like a balloon soaring high as you ran towards him without hesitation. You jumped into his arms and he held your leg with one hand and used his other arm to wrap around your waist, holding you close to him. Your lips crashed into his clumsily. Your mouths falling over each other until you slowly found a rhythm. It was the most romantic moment of your entire life and you never wanted it to stop. You kissed him over and over again. Some were slow and lingering while others were needy and impatient. You kissed him. Because if Yang Jeongin tells you to do something, then goddamn it, you better do it.

taglist: @simply-trash5 @sugawhaaa @trixiekaulitz @chrizzztopherbang @cassidymb121 @roanns-posts @staysinbloom @yaorzu-blog @bubblebisk @cotton-candycloudz @beautyinhypnosis @domicaru @strawberry31 @slxtmeri @newhope8 @tinyelfperson @dandelions-143 @stayyyyyyyyyyyy21 @msauthor @fun-fanfics @ell0thebell @stephanieeeyang @juskz @kimahreummm @readr1221 @kayleefriedchicken @ovulatingrn @hwnglixho @darthmaddie25 @queen-in-the-shadows @itgirlalisaa @miinhoo @greyaia @chanchansgirly @skzleeknowcore @skz-smut-reader @thatisrankharry @hearts4yawnzzn @jchotch726 @cherricola-star @minh0scat @kibs-and-bits @minhosgirlposts @firelordtsuki @softkisshyunjin

[sylvia-und-sybille]

💯 [100] How many words does your WIP currently have? How many words do you hope it’ll have when it’s done? 2.3K+ now, and whatever happens, that happens.

⌛️ [Hourglass] How long have you been working on this WIP? 3 days.

📚 [Books] Is this WIP part of a series or standalone? AU location (starts as) and aged-up characters.

🎀 [Bow] How many named characters are in this WIP? How many do get a POV? OTP only. Even as 3rd person's point of view there's little of point of view at all (as thoughts or just about a person alone.)

💖 [Heart] What is your favorite moment in this WIP? OTP talk & do things together.

🎶 [Notes] Do you have any other WIP related things, like moodboards, character portraits, playlists or similar? It can happen in 0.001% of cases (if, then fanfictions only.)

📖 [Open Book] What form do you want this WIP to take when it’s done? Posted, printed, published, etc? Posted only.

🐀 [Rat] Name three reasons why this WIP is great at being insert genre here. (You can send a genre, or let the recipient pick one.) Romance, as it's about a lot of love (as in every fanfiction about them.)

🐁[Mouse] Name three reasons why this WIP is horrible at being insert genre here. (You can send a genre, or let the recipient pick one.) Humour. Unfortunately, no funny moments.

🔎 [Magnifier] Is there a phrase/word you know you use too often? Will you change it in editing? So (for years.) If exaggerate, the answer is, so what? So to be it. | Whenever possible, I try to find other way to glue parts of looong sentences and not to break them into shorter ones. The writer of the original version had looong sentences as well and paragraphs can seem almost endless in many cases.

🍖 [Meat] How many fictional people were harmed in the making of this WIP? EVERY SINGLE of my fanfictions & original stories has happy end (unless past when I wanted to write about harm done to or defeat of a bad or unpleasant character.) In the case of latest WIP fanfiction: deep sadness of both, character 2: wish to cry before relief, no harm.

🌈 [Rainbow] If at the beginning of your WIP the characters knew about the end, would they kill you to stop you from writing it? They would look forward to a plot twist (mostly character 2, as character 1 had an idea.)

‍🎨 [Palette] If your WIP was a color, which color would it be? Rainbow, as they deserve.

🍩 [Donut] What’s the weirdest thing someone eats in your WIP? What’s the best thing? No food or drinks are mentioned (yet?)

🔒 [Lock] Would you let your family, friends, or other people you know in real life read your WIP? No, and I almost don't know people in real life. Yes, I'm so called "live under a rock."

🖋️ [Pen] Describe your WIP in a single, terrible sentence. At first, the two are icebergs, but very, very soon, nothing is under water . . . (They talk about character 1 as having an iceberg, so . . .) . . . positive plot twist, philosophical discussion, something else unexpected (positive again.) (Note: something else is before plot twist, though. | I've had to search for answers to at least understand how such description can be possible.)

❌ [Cross] What would your WIP get cancelled on Twitter for? What does it mean even? If as not accepted, one of important parts is gender non-conformity. Those who are against girls & women who don't look feminine can be highly displeased. BUT what can I say, the version the fanfiction is based on has scenes with character 2 in man's shirt. So yes, haters can hate as long as they want.

UPDATE a day after: I've had an idea (chapter 2, not one-shot as it was planned initially) which is the reason to "get cancelled on Twitter," but I don't care. The idea supposed to be a part of some future fanfiction (no matter which, but based on the modern version of the story,) but the wish to add this to the current one was too strong, so it will be here :D The first chapter discussed above has two plot twists, but this idea is an enormous plot twist. Second plot twist & new one will result in (in my opinion, at least) it's too good to be true | unrealistic, but I don't care. I want this to exist, so it will.

Random WIP Ask Game

💯 [100] How many words does your WIP currently have? How many words do you hope it'll have when it's done?

⌛️ [Hourglass] How long have you been working on this WIP?

📚 [Books] Is this WIP part of a series or standalone?

🎀 [Bow] How many named characters are in this WIP? How many do get a POV?

💖 [Heart] What is your favorite moment in this WIP?

🎶 [Notes] Do you have any other WIP related things, like moodboards, character portraits, playlists or similar?

📖 [Open Book] What form do you want this WIP to take when it's done? Posted, printed, published, etc?

🐀 [Rat] Name three reasons why this WIP is great at being insert genre here. (You can send a genre, or let the recipient pick one.)

🐁[Mouse] Name three reasons why this WIP is horrible at being insert genre here. (You can send a genre, or let the recipient pick one.)

🔎 [Magnifier] Is there a phrase/word you know you use too often? Will you change it in editing?

🍖 [Meat] How many fictional people were harmed in the making of this WIP?

🌈 [Rainbow] If at the beginning of your WIP the characters knew about the end, would they kill you to stop you from writing it?

‍🎨 [Palette] If your WIP was a color, which color would it be?

🍩 [Donut] What's the weirdest thing someone eats in your WIP? What's the best thing?

🔒 [Lock] Would you let your family, friends, or other people you know in real life read your WIP?

🖋️ [Pen] Describe your WIP in a single, terrible sentence.

❌ [Cross] What would your WIP get cancelled on Twitter for?

[wtfaniii]

I can do it alone, but he can also save me

Fem reader x Hwang In-ho / Fem reader x Hwang Jun-ho

Part 1 // Part 2

•Summary: Jun-ho's girlfriend was a decorated policegirl, strong and brave, she, along with Gi-hun were taken to the games to stop them, however, there was a setback in between

•Note: Thanks for the support! Here I bring you the second part of this one shot that is personally one of my favorites.

•Warning: Maybe some drama, Some violence and attempted abuse, ¡Don't worry! this man arrives on time like a prince on a white horse

N/A: I haven't checked this yet, sorry if it has spelling mistakes

Gi-hun had told some participants that the next game would be dalgona, but it was not so and now they were upset with him, surrounding him and complaining about his mistake, calling him a "liar."

—You guys decided to play these games —the girl said standing in front of Gi-hun —Face the consequences and don't expect someone to come and save us.

—He's a fraud! —Player 100 shouted at him, pointing at accusingly and with contempt.

—ibelieve in him word —001 interrupted, standing next to her.

Due to the first impression that the two made on all the players, the complaints immediately stopped and retreated.

—It's nothing, I really believe you —Young-il said with a friendly expression

—And if you allow me... I would like to be on your team.

The next game would be in teams of five players, counting the girl, Gi-hun, Jung-bae, Dae-ho and now Young-il, they were full, however, when they were talking to get to know each other a little, a woman with the number 222 on his uniform approached them cautiously.

—¿Can I be on your team? Please —Jung-bae was going to interrupt her to tell that they were full but the young woman finished his sentence first —I'm pregnant.

The five pairs of eyes fell on the small bulge of her belly and noticed that it was true. Immediately, the woman spoke. —I'll look for another team.

—¿Are you sure you'll do it?— In-ho asked, looking at her carefully. A person who looked out for someone else's well-being in these games was rare to see, but considering the situation, it was quite understandable. He wouldn't give up his place if he wasn't so interested in his enemy.

She nodded confidently and left to find another team, it didn't take long, after all, most people took advantage of having someone like her on their team just by considering the word "police" in their introduction.

Once the teams were formed and they were told what had to do, they sat on the floor to wait the turn.

As time passed and gunshots mixed with screams sounded in the background, the young woman thought silently.

¿Will Jun-ho be okay? She really hoped so, she had known him for four years and knew that there were times when he could go to extremes to get what wanted.

It was something she loved about him but right now just worried about.

—¿What game are you going to play? —246 asked sitting next to her, momentarily taking her out of his thoughts.

—Gonggi —answered immediately, she was very good at that game, it had been his favorite since she was a child.

The others nodded and continued talking, she didn't go there with the intention of socializing too much.

For starters.

She was only there because Jun-ho had asked her to.

Jun-ho...

She just hoped him could find her and Gi-hun in time.

The policeman had no intention of stopping now, even without having the tracker active and with the fact that apparently someone was sabotaging them from inside, he was not going to stop searching.

The woman he loved was in those games, that wasn't going to be the plan, she was only supposed to be Gi-hun's bodyguard but things didn't go as planned.

—I think we should stop, it's almost time to eat and we're a bit far from the shore.

—We can't be so close now —he said, somewhat irritated and helpless. —Every minute they spend on that island is a danger.

He felt guilty for having dragged her into his own problems.

He remembered the last conversation he had with her before he lost sight of her.

[...]

—We are police officers —Jun-ho said, showing his badge to the guard who was guarding the entrance of the place

—Just like everyone else tonight —the man said with a mocking laugh, pointing at the long line waiting to get into the Halloween party.

Jun-ho didn't have enough patience to tolerate this, so with no other choice he went up to the man and took his gun out of his pocket.

—¿Do you want to see if this is a toy?

The guard stepped back in fear, giving them free passage.

The girl smiled proudly and waved her hand as if it were hot while sighed.

—That's my man —she boasted to the guard as they crossed the entrance. Jun-ho managed to hear her and inevitably a sly smile appeared on his lips.

—We have to find him before they do —he said, referring to Gi-hun searching the crowd but no masked pink guard was visible.

—It will be faster if we separate —she added, taking out her weapon and pointing it at the ground just to be ready in case used it —When we leave here it will be fondue night —she said without losing her charming touch.

It was something they both shared, despite being in tense situations like this, comments like that were never lacking, especially from the girl and that was something Jun-ho adored, her daring was part of what made the policeman fall in love with her.

—Maybe I should drag you into my problems more often —He replied with a smile and separated from her.

The girl was the first to find Gi-hun and surprisingly they let her get into the limo with him.

Jun-ho was unhappy about that but he couldn't change her mind and just when they thought they could intercept the front man of those suicide games they were forced to make a last-minute decision by shooting at the tires of the cars.

[...]

His stomach turned just remembering what people go through inside those games, he trusted that she could survive but the odds of not making him tremble and want to vomit.

—Okay... we'll call off the search —He relented after a few minutes.

He looked up at the sky and asked whoever would listen him to keep the woman he loves alive.

Meanwhile on the island, they had managed to get through the second game alive, she was sitting with Gi-hun's team silently watching around them when 001 sat next to her.

—Hi... —he greeted her with a soft smile, hoping that the mask being Young-il was convincing enough to fool her —I'm curious... if you're a police officer, ¿how did you end up here?

—¿Debts? —She replied with a false smile —My job was to take care of Mr. Seong but it didn't turn out the way I had in mind —she admitted, looking away again but feeling Young-il's intense gaze on her.

—So... ¿you're here as an undercover agent? —he asked, feigning surprise and curiosity.

He himself was the one who gave the order to allow her to also get into the limousine to accompany Gi-hun.

In-ho knew his brother would be worried about her, searching for her relentlessly, but it was inevitable, he needed to meet her in person and be sure how good of an influence she was on Jun-ho.

Or at least he thought it was a good excuse.

—Yeah... —She looked at him silently and attentively when she noticed a certain peculiarity in him appearance —¿Do I know you from somewhere? I feel like I've seen you before...

Him face seemed familiar but she couldn't figure out why. In-ho kept eye contact with her, waiting for her answer.

It was a pity, if she recognize it him had no other option to let her die in the next games but luckily for the girl she denied it.

—Forget it, I'm just stressed ¿And why are you here?

—My wife is sick and pregnant.

She looked at him with pity as he told her his story, it wasn't a lie, it was just that it happened years ago and he couldn't do anything to keep her alive.

—I'm sorry —The girl said after he finished his words.—I promise we'll get out of here and I'll help you as much as I can with the expenses.

The police had money, not to say that she was a millionaire but she lived in a good social status, she was willing to help him only because her heart was softened by him story.

–You barely know me, ¿why would you do that?

—My boyfriend has also had a somewhat hard life and I took this job for a reason, to help others.

She did not consider herself a saint, but if she had the opportunity to do something good for other people, she would do it regardless of the consequences.

—Also... I think I'm pregnant —She said with a small smile.

How chaotic and unfair could fate be that just one night before she was to go to the medical laboratory for her results, she was taken to those games against will.

On the other hand, she could also feel a slight connection with this stranger, which was why she revealed that to him so naturally, but she still didn't know exactly why.

—I have to go to the bathroom, I'll be right back.

He nodded and watched her leave but his eyes also noticed three other suspicious looking players who followed her into the bathroom.

Without thinking twice he also stood up.

Not even two minutes had passed since she entered the bathroom when a woman grabbed her by the collar of the jacket and threw her backwards, making her fall on back.

–¿You remember me? —the woman demanded, looking at her with disdain and annoyance

—No —She answered standing up.

—You threw my husband into prison and won't be out for another twenty years —The woman pulled out a small pocket knife and another woman stood behind the police girl to hold her —I thought about how to kill you for days.

—Very cute, I still don't know who you are.

Those words only made the woman even more furious as lunged at her and tried to stab her,

Her hard training served her well in this unarmed fight.

But she was counting on another man to come in to help the two players who were trying to kill the young policewoman.

—Three against one unarmed is not fair... —she gasped for air as saw that he had a small opening in his head, her had hit himself on the sink at one point during the fight.

—¡It was also not fair that my husband was sentenced to twenty years in prison for attempted abuse!

—Oh, believe me, I tried to make it forty.

A kick to the face from one of them managed to stun her long enough to give them time to pin her down on the cold, damp bathroom floor.

She couldn't hear clearly what they were saying but when she saw how the man placed himself on top of her, their intentions were quite clear.

She didn't have enough strength to continue defending himself, her felt bleeding from his leg from the knife and the cut on his head hurt, but like a hero coming to save the day, Young-il walked through the door and shouted "Hey!"

That small interruption was enough for her to hit the man in the genitals with her knee, making him move away and moan in pain.

She was too stunned to see what was happening, but before she knew it, he had her in him arms and walked out of the bathroom leaving the two women unconscious on the floor and the man with a bleeding nose.

—¡You should do a better job as guards! —he yelled at the two pink soldiers guarding the door, she didn't know it but that scolding was enough to fire those two.

He carefully led her to the men's room where, due to his front man advantages, he was able to have a guard deny another player access until he said so.

—Thanks... —Her murmured as he dropped her on the ground—But I had it under control.

She let out a giggle that made his ribs hurt, In-ho refrained from laughing, now he had to focus on fixing her wounds.

—Being a police officer you made many enemies —He said while using his jacket with some water to clean her.

—You have no idea.

In-ho continued to clean her wounds and after a few minutes everything was better for her, the girl stood up cautiously because of the wound on her leg and thanked Young-il with a small bow.

—Thanks for helping me, for the second time.

—I hope it doesn't become routine —he said with a soft smile, looking her up and down unconsciously.

When they came out of the bathroom there were suspicious glances but neither of them cared.

It was cute, she liked the way this man treated whenever her found himself in trouble, in a way he reminded her of Jun-ho,

She liked that even though she could defend herself, there was still a knight in shining armor who would arrive in the worst situations.

Young-il, the gentleman who arrived just in time and the only one who knew about her suspected pregnancy.

tag list:

@raya4643 @lvspedri @iloveoldermen0204 @ravenslocked

[mountainsandmayhem]

BDSMaid - Chapter 9

Series Summary: In order to save money for law school, you accept a job working as a maid for high end clients. You aren’t supposed to know whose home you’re cleaning, but your curiosity is peaked by your first client, and when the two of you have a shocking and surprising run in more than just your curiosity peaks.  Word Count: 5k CW: see small red lettering below the cut AN: I'm going to miss them!! I'm absolutely heartbroken that I'm done, but so fucking proud of myself for what I've created. Thank you to @lotusbxtch for being my beta from pretty much the very beginning. I am so grateful to you and so honoured (yes, with a u because I'm Canadian lol) to call you my friend. Also little shoutouts to @for-a-longlongtime, @alltheirdamn, @mermaidgirl30 and @littlevenicebitch69 for listening to me go on about them for 80% of 2024. As always, graphics and dividers by @saradika-graphics

My Masterlist || Series Masterlist

TW: unprotected p in v, one spank, multiple orgasms and Overstim hinted at, pining, heartbreak

Eight Months Later

Joel

“I got yelled at by a feisty brunette last night at that gala,” Tommy says as the two of them sip whiskey at the bar of the club. 

“Probably deserved it.” Joel deadpans and closes the folder of invoices he’s looking over.

He should be doing this in his fancy, and newly renovated, office across the street. He was in the large office for all of three minutes the day after you left when he could only see the ghost of you. From the chair you sat in when you first asked him to teach you how to be a sub, to the door he pinned you against and confessed how out of his mind he was over you, everything was you, and it had to go if he had any chance of following what you needed from him. Joel hasn’t even been in his room at the club out of the fear of what it would do to him. Would I still be able to smell the lavender of her shampoo in there? Still be able to hear her beautiful cries of pleasure and pain bouncing off the walls?

“She thought I was you,” Tommy says, glancing over at his brother and interrupting Joel’s impending spiral.

Joel sighs, slipping his reading glasses from his face before taking a long pull of the amber liquor from his crystal glass. Tommy looks straight ahead as he continues.

“She’s doing great, by the way. Or at least that’s what her friend said when she was scolding me.”

 Joel winces at his words, “Of course she is, Tommy.” Even though it's been almost a year since you left, just the mention of you rips his barely-mended heart back in half. It doesn’t seem to matter how much time passes, he still feels like he did in his kitchen. 

The very fibers of his being ache just as hard for you now as they did then. He longs to see you and touch you, to feel your warm, soft skin under his hands again. Anyone before you was always, ‘Yes, Mister Miller,’ even when they weren’t in a scene; but not you. You weren’t afraid to be curious and unapologetically yourself. He hasn’t laughed as hard with anyone, including Tiffany, as he did with you. But the part that he misses the most is the way you look at him the first time you see him. Your eyes soften, velvety pink lips parting slightly before they curl into a smile that makes his heart hammer behind his ribs. Then, he watches your shoulders relax and it makes him feel like he hung the moon and stars for you, and if he could have, he would have.  

He clears his throat and then rasps, “She’s too smart to not be doing well.”

Tommy stands, bringing his hands to rub at Joel's shoulders. He squeezes his tense deltoid muscles and with a hint of mischief in his voice he says, “Lots of pretty girls here tonight if you feel like moving on.”

Joel shakes his head and pulls away from Tommy’s grasp with a grunt. “Never gonna happen. Get outta here before you get yelled at two nights in a row.”

“Just too bad for me that you aren’t a hot brunette,” Tommy says with a laugh.

“I have brown hair,” Joel replies defensively, running his fingers through the grown out curls. 

“Not to kick you when you’re down, but it’s mostly grey at this point.”

Joel holds up a single finger at Tommy over his shoulder as he laughs and walks away. 

Two and a half years later

You

You’ve been up to your eyeballs in studying as you prepare for your finals. These last few years in California have been the hardest yet most fulfilling time of your life. Two nights in a row now, you’ve fallen asleep in the library, only waking when your Spotify would switch from the white noise playlist you use to help you focus, to your “getting ready” playlist. After dragging yourself to your dorm room in the dead of the night, you’d get a few restless hours of sleep before heading right back to your favourite studying spot. You can’t believe that in just a few short weeks you’ll be graduating and stepping into the life you’ve always envisioned for yourself.

The unmistakable FaceTime jingle fills your AirPods. Jamie’s name is splayed across the screen of your phone, along with a photo of the two of you at Albany Beach when she visited this past Christmas break. You put your highlighter down and slide the answer toggle over. 

“Hey!” She says, her warm smile shining up at you. You squint, trying to place where she is. You don’t often let yourself think of Joel, but the cracks across your screen make FaceTiming difficult, and the selfish side of you always wishes you had grabbed that new phone before you left. Your head cocks to the side; broken screen or not, you don’t recognize the background.

“Where are you?” You ask.

“Oh, I’m good, thanks. How are you?” She jests with a mocking eye roll.  “I’m at a cabin.”

“What cabin?” You say, glaring at her jokingly. A deep laugh comes from the otherside of the phone and your eyes widen. “Who’s that?”

The man's voice comes from offscreen, “I can’t believe you thought she wouldn’t ask where you were. She’s going to be a lawyer, for god's sake.”

“Jamie, who is that? What is going on here? Blink twice if you need rescuing!” You joke. 

Jamie blushes, looking over the phone at whoever that voice is coming from. “I just wanted to call to see how the studying is going, and to let you know that I got the graduation tickets.”

A glass of white wine appears in front of Jamie and she smiles before puckering her lips in a kissing motion towards the man in the room with her. “Ok, seriously, who the fuck is that and where are you?”

“I was also calling to let you know that Laren can’t make it anymore and Odette is in New York,” she takes a small sip of her wine.

“Oh, well that’s ok,” you say, trying to squash the disappointment and hoping it doesn’t show in your voice or face. You wished that at least two of your three best friends would be there for you. “It can just be me and you, baby!” 

“Well…I’m wondering if I could maybe bring my boyfriend? Might be a good opportunity for you two to meet.”

“What? What boyfriend?” You say, officially abandoning all study materials until you get some answers. Jamie raises a perfectly manicured finger and calls the mystery man over. 

You swallow hard as Tommy Miller appears beside her. 

Jamie glances up at him, her bright green eyes full of admiration, his mirroring hers. The starry look in their eyes tells you everything you need to know; they’re so far gone for that even a search and rescue team wouldn’t be able to save them. She looks back at you. “Meet again, I guess.”

You try to push for answers, but either of them give in, claiming you need to focus on finals. Before you hang up, Jamie promises to tell you the entire story when you see each other next. You’re happy for your friend, especially seeing the way Tommy looked back at her. Even through your cracked screen you could see the love, but as you try to go back to studying you have a hollow feeling in your stomach.

Graduation Day

You

The late afternoon sun fills your dorm room, boxes of your belongings stacked haphazardly around you. After walking the stage tonight, you are going out to dinner with Jamie and Tommy, and then he has paid for a hotel suite so the two of you can have a girls’ night. You can’t wait to hear how Tommy went from, in Jamie’s previous words, “my dad’s new asshole friend” to her boyfriend. 

You step in front of your floor length mirror, zipping up the black graduation gown over your knee length, form fitting, deep emerald velvet dress. The California sun has been good to you, your tanned legs and sunkissed nose and cheeks are glowing. You place your blue and yellow Berkeley Law stole over your head and then grab your cap, ensuring the ‘Class of ‘28’ tassel is secure. You fluff your curls one last time as a light knock comes from your door. 

“Ready to graduate, gorgeous?” Ronan smiles at you, eyes trailing down your gown. He’s the type of handsome that’s almost painful to look at, but more importantly - you wouldn’t have made it through these last three years without him. You met the first day - the lock on your door wasn’t working, and he waltzed in on you half naked when he mistook your room as his. 

You smile at him in your doorway now; remembering the way you screamed at him that first time, trying to cover your chest, and him scrambling to close the door. His eyes were clamped shut, and he slammed his finger so hard that you had to take him for stitches. Now, several years later, he fills out his graduation gown perfectly with those wide rugby shoulders, a sight you couldn’t even have imagined back then. Whichever angel made him didn’t make a single mistake - he’s tall and insanely broad, with dark sandy blonde hair, and clover green eyes that in the right light are a golden hazel. He’s easily one of the smartest men you’ve ever met and an incredible athlete. The cherry on top, because of course there’s more: he’s an international student and has a panty-melting Irish accent. 

“Beyond ready. Let's become lawyers, babe.”

He steps aside, one arm out in a ‘ladies first’ gesture. Handsome, charming, and thoughtful - a dangerous trifecta. You slide your hand in the crook of his muscle-lined arm and walk across campus together.

Ronan jerks his head towards the coffee cart. “Remember when you spilled your entire coffee on your new puffer jacket?”

You glare up at him, you saved for weeks to buy that jacket. “No, but I remember you throwing up in that trash can after the Halloween party last year.” 

“Well, if Beach Party Barbie had helped Lifeguard Ken with all those shots we wouldn’t have had that problem, would we?” You laugh as Ronan puffs out his chest, but you both know he was more than willing to take your half of the ‘Best Couples Costume' shots. 

Finally, you reach the courtyard where the law students will be walking across a stage that acts as the symbolic bridge to the rest of their lives. I’m a lawyer, you think to yourself and try to force a smile. The magnitude of the day only really starts to sink into your bones as you see the friends and families of your classmates start to take their seats. The excited feeling you had earlier starts to morph. You’re proud of yourself for what you’ve done these last three years, and this was just the first step. You have so much to look forward to, so why do you feel a sense of dread building in the pit of your stomach? 

Ronan walks you to where you need to line up alphabetically, kissing your cheek and then, after leaning in and placing his large hand on your lower back, he whispers a joke about how you better not trip. You glance around the thick crowd for Jamie and Tommy. After realizing it’s hopeless to try and spot them in a group this large, you slip your cap over your hair and get in the procession line. 

You try to soak in every minute of the day, from the speeches to the birds chirping in the background, but something akin to loss flutters at the base of your spine. You’re just as sad to be leaving Berkely as you are excited to carve out your future. Leaving here isn’t what’s causing you to feel this way, however. You try to tell yourself that maybe it’s just nerves; even with all the job offers coming in from your internships, it’s normal to be nervous about what comes next. 

As the student union president gives his toast to the family and friends, you look down at your lap, pushing back the cuticle on your left thumb. Maybe it’s leaving Ronan. He’s been an anchor for you, grounding you almost every day of the last three years and you don’t know how you let yourself become this dependent on anyone, especially a man, again.  

You shake your head at yourself and try to move your focus to the cuticle on your other thumb. Seeing the skin clean from the nail bed eases the tension slightly for you. ‘I’m allowed to be nervous when leaning on people, but not everyone will leave me,’ you recite almost automatically in your mind, the mantra you’ve had these past few years whenever you feel yourself getting this anxious. Just as you finish the thought, a car revs in the distance and the realization of what - or who - you’re actually missing slams through you so hard that you almost feel winded. Your lungs ache, tears pushing behind your eyes as his name rings loudly through your mind.  

Joel.

You kept yourself busy since the minute you left Austin. The busier you were, the less time you had to focus on the void in your heart. During the school year, you didn’t have to find things to stay busy with; law school nearly chewed you up and spit you out. Over the summers, you worked as an intern and visited your friends. There was never a quiet moment, never too much time alone with your thoughts, and it was better this way. You can confidently say that you’d only thought of Joel six times since you walked out of his house that day: when you fell asleep on the beach and were so sunburnt you could barely move for three days; when you failed your first test; when your rusted SUV, that acted as your ticket to freedom at eighteen, died on the freeway in rush hour (from that point on you had to rely on public transportation to get you to the homes you cleaned). When you experienced your first earthquake; when you stayed up for forty-two hours straight after your partner in a group project didn’t have their side of the work done; and, lastly, this past New Year’s Eve when you were in Austin and thought you saw him at a party. 

“Is he here?”, that little box of feelings that you shut away in a vault long ago wonders. “Has anything changed for him in the last three years?” 

The small smile that pulls at your cheeks, and the excited flutter of your heart when you think about the possibility of seeing him again, proves that maybe nothing has changed for you. As the minutes tick by, your mind races with all the possible scenarios for after the ceremony. What if he is here? What will you say? What will he say? How will Ronan react, you know he has strong feelings about what happened between you and Joel. Even worse though, what if he’s not here? But maybe he’s at the hotel where Tommy and Jamie are staying?  

Before you know it, your row is standing and walking single file towards the stage. With each strike of your high-heeled strappy sandals against the concrete, a memory of Joel floods your system. The toast he made you in his kitchen, the kiss in that dimly lit hallway on your birthday, the way he walked you through his club and how calmly he talked about you being in charge before going into the voyeur room. The multitude of orgasms he gave you within the four walls of his private room. Him singing on the small stage of the dive bar you found, followed by him spanking you right there in the bathroom with his hand clamped to your face to keep you quiet. His strong hand grasping your thigh as he drove you to his house. The way he tasted on your tongue. The smell of his skin: all ash and leather, occasionally mixed with whiskey or mint. The feel of his body: hard, broad and hot. His shuddered breaths as he confessed so many things in so few words. 

‘It’s only you, sweet girl.’

‘Just call me Joel.’

‘I know, and I’m so proud of you, sweet girl.’

You carefully walk up the stairs, forcing the thoughts of Joel from your mind, just in time to hear your name announced as a graduate of Berkeley Law. You float across the stage, grabbing the piece of paper that acts as your degree until the real one comes, shaking the hand of the Dean who flips your tassel before you walk to the stairs on the other side; the stairs that symbolize the ending of your time here and the beginning of the rest of your life. 

As you reach the top of the steps, you look out into the audience and see Jamie. She pumps her fist in the air and before you can process the empty seat beside her, you feel it; a strong tug from behind your navel. It takes you less than a heartbeat to find him and the sight before you floods your body with a familiar warmth. Standing under a large tree at the edge of the audience, dressed in all black, and holding his Stetson hat to his heart, is Joel. For the first time in years you feel whole again.

 You keep your gaze on him, worried that if you so much as blink that he’ll be gone. You are supposed to follow your classmates, but you veer left, walking towards Joel. The closer you get, the more at ease you feel. He’s real, you think, he’s here. You stop a foot or so in front of him. 

“Hi, Freckles,” he whispers, his voice cracking slightly. His eyes dance around your face, almost as if he’s trying to memorize this moment. You can’t help but wonder if he’s feeling exactly how you are.   

“Hi, Sweet Cheeks,” you say, the same tremble in your voice, as you try desperately to hold it together. “You’re here.”

He nods and you give him a tight-lipped smile as your mind races. There’s so much you want to say, but now that he’s standing right there in front of you after three years, you don’t know where to start. 

Joel breaks the silence, jutting his chin in the direction of the other graduates as he says, “I saw you come in with your boyfriend. When I saw you kiss, I was going to leave, but I made you a promise.”

You knit your eyebrows together and take a step closer. “Boyfriend?”

“The man you walked over here with,” Joel says, his black Stetson sliding down the chest you so desperately want to touch as he drops his hands to his sides. He’s left no barriers between the two of you except the heartbreak that’s evident on his face. 

You laugh quietly, “No, he’s - that’s Ronan.”

Joel nods. “Okay.”

“He’s my friend,” you clarify, and when Joel’s face stays the same, you add, “And he’s still as gay as the day we first met!”

Joel lets out a whoosh of a breath and closes the distance between the two of you, his free hand comes to one of your curls, twirling the end of it around his thick fingers. Soft and silky meets rough and calloused. “I’m so proud of you, Freckles.”

You don’t miss how he watches your tongue dart between your lips, “Thank you.”

“So? How does it feel?” He gives you a soft crooked smile, his dimple carving into the short facial hair of his salt and pepper beard. Between that smile, and the way his brown eyes wash over you, you’re overcome with affection. He let you go. He did exactly as you asked him. He didn’t chase you or try to convince you to stay. You told him if he really loved you, then he’d do exactly this; and in turn, he did what he said he would. 

He showed up. 

“I love you,” you state and the air between you turns electric, almost like this moment could either set you both aflame or act as a generator for your future together. Joel gives you that look, the one that makes you feel like you’re the center of his universe. He lets the curled end of your hair slip from his fingers, reaching up towards your graduation cap but hesitating.

“May I?” He rasps and swallows hard.

You nod, and knowing exactly what he’s going for, you take the Stetson from his other hand and place it on your head after he removes your cap. The brim of it blocks out everything but the two of you.

“Say that again, sweet girl,” he murmurs.

“I love you,” it’s barely a whisper this time. “Even after three years apart, you are everything to me. I asked you to let me go so I could accomplish this, and you did. You’ve always done what I asked, what I needed. I’m not sorry for what happened between us, but I am sorry that I missed out on getting to spend the last three years with you looking at me how you are now. I love you, Joel Miller.”

He brings his lips within a breath of yours, and your body practically vibrates with the knowledge that if you leaned just a bit forward, you’d finally have his mouth on you again. You can almost taste the mint on his tongue as the familiar fragrance of ash and leather surround you. “I have dreamed of hearing those three words leave your beautiful lips more times than I can count, baby. You’re it for me. I’ll do anything for you, even if it means breaking my own heart, but I’m always going to be here for you, rooting for you and encouraging you. I’m glad you’re not sorry, because I’m not, I’m so fucking proud of you. I love you, too, my sweet girl.”

Finally, he presses his warm, firm lips against yours while pulling you tight to his body. You wrap an arm around his neck, holding the black cowboy hat against your head with your other hand. It doesn’t matter that the ceremony isn’t done, or that there are hundreds of people to your right. For the first time in three years, everything goes quiet. He hums contentedly and you feel yourself melt against him, tilting your head so he can deepen the kiss. He parts his lips, letting you take the first swipe of your tongue against his. Need floods your system, and based on the way he grinds into you, he’s feeling the same. 

He breaks the kiss, but doesn’t go far, resting his forehead against yours. “Take me home,” you practically purr.

“Where do you want home to be? I’ll go anywhere,” Joel rasps, running his nose down the bridge of yours. 

“Austin,” you respond, your breath catching as his lips ghost along the side of your mouth.

“I sold my portion of the club to Tommy and Tess. I don’t have anything holding me in Austin anymore, sweet girl. If you have a job offer you really want, that’s where we’ll go.” You pull back to look at him. You can tell by the set of his jaw that he’s serious. 

“I want to go to Austin. I have a job offer there.”

“Good thing I told Tommy not to touch my room at the club then.”

“That’s a very good thing,” you moan and then pull him in to kiss again. The audience behind you erupts into cheers, celebrating the accomplishments of every student in that crowd. 

You’re a lawyer, and suddenly, the future doesn’t seem so scary.

Joel

Taking you home to Austin that night unfortunately wasn’t an option. After finding Jamie in the crowd, and being formally introduced to Ronan, he called the car to pick up the three of you. You all met Tommy at the restaurant, celebrating with all the expensive homemade pasta and overpriced wine that you wanted; even though seeing you in that curve-hugging velvet dress was slowly killing him. Joel had kept at least one hand on you since seeing you again, and he doesn’t plan on changing that anytime soon. 

He didn’t want to rush you on your big night, so he waited patiently, listening to you tell stories of your last three years, and revelling in the evident joy that you and Jamie share over being together again. When dessert comes around he catches Tommy’s attention and gives him a small smile. It’s fitting that the two brothers, who have been so close their entire lives, would fall in love with best friends. 

Once in his room, he spent two hours stripping you down at an almost painfully slow pace. He kissed every inch of your skin twice over and has pulled five orgasms, and counting, out of you so far. 

Now, Joel is seated in the wide velvet arm chair in the corner of his hotel suite. His cock is buried deep inside of your tight cunt as you straddle him. Your skin feels like butter under his hands as he trails them along your back and the globes of your perfect ass. He’s missed tying you up, but this is what he longed for: the earth shattering intimacy he feels with you in these moments.   

“Please,” you mumble into his neck, desperate to move your hips.

“Not until you answer me,” he demands softly. “How many times was it that you needed me, but were too stubborn to reach out?”

Earlier tonight you told him about the six times you really needed him. He’d kissed you softly after each confession, returning the trust with a time he needed you. After the last one, he’d pulled back to look at you with dark eyes. He’d hated that you needed him and he couldn’t be there. He’d clenched his back molars twice before he said you’d be denied six orgasms the next time you were at the club, but tonight you have permission to come as often as you need to. 

He swats your already reddened ass cheek and your pussy flutters as you cry out. “Mister Miller, stop. Please, just let me move.”

“Do you need to use your safeword?”

“No,” you respond with a pout. 

“How many times?” He says again through gritted teeth, even though already knows the answer. 

“Six,” you sob. 

He tuts and then growls, “That doesn’t sound like my good girl, does it?”

You shake your head against his throat and moan a sound of disagreement.

“Do you want to come for me again?”

“Yes, Mister Miller. Please!”

He trails his fingers up and down your back again, the thin sheen of sweat on your skin makes it easy for him to caress you. He smiles to himself at the shiver that racks through your body at his touch. You react so beautifully to him. “Yeah? You wanna grind your swollen little clit on my piercing, baby girl?”

“Please,” you whine again, stretching out all the vowels in the word.

“Show me. Ride my cock, take what you need.” 

You lift your head from the crook in his neck and pull back slightly, rocking your hips back and forth; a sultry laugh leaves his lips at your eagerness. You look at him with hooded eyes, hair stuck to your forehead. His eyes trail down your neck to the bruises he sucked into your collar bone earlier and then to your breasts; both of which are covered in his marks. He watches the little gold nipple clamps, and the chain that connects them, bounce with each flick of your hips. 

“That’s it, sweet girl. You look like a goddess, my goddess. Who do you belong to?”

“I’m yours, baby,” you say through shallow breaths. He pulls at the chain and you cry out in pain. “S-sorry, Mister Miller.”

“Again, sweet girl. Tell me who you belong to.”

“Oh fuck, y-you, Mist -” his hands come to your face and when he whispers your name the rest of your sentence dies on your tongue.

“Just call me Joel.” The commanding voice of his alter ego is gone as he says it. 

Your hips slow, changing from a frantic back and forth to a sensual swirling motion. “I’m yours, Joel. Forever.”

He kisses you softly, a silent telling of how vulnerable he is at this moment. “Don’t ask me to let you go ever again.”

The smile you give him causes his heart to skip, “I won’t.”

“You might, sweet girl. I won't survive it if you do, so I’m going to remind you of this moment as often as possible for the rest of my life. Remind you how much you’re loved and supported. You’re mine, Freckles.” Your hips swirl and he feels you tighten up around him. “Come for me, my sweet girl.” 

“Fuck, fuck, Joel!” It’s a cry and moan all at once. 

“I’m here, it’s ok, baby.” With that, your body shudders and you fall into him as you shatter. Your pussy clenches and releases rapidly around his length. His cock twitches, and once he can’t hold it anymore he relaxes, letting his orgasm rock through him in time with yours.

“I’m yours, too,” he gasps as he melts into you.

The End

Coming Soon:

Curious how Jamie ended up with her "dads new asshole friend?"

Part 2 of the BDSMaid Trilogy coming mid 2025!

Also, stay tuned for the epilogue for Joel and Sweet Girl.

[covenofagatha]

But you're my stepmom! (Part 11)

A/N: oh my god guys I finally wrote the next part! Please like it lol. I did see this as the end of the story but I purposely kept it open so if I ever did want to write more I could

Special shoutout to @lunargrrrl because without you saying that you loved this story I probably wouldn't have even touched it for at least another month (I love your writing so much I would do anything for you)

Word count:

Warnings: oral sex, scissoring, little bit of angst?

Taglist: 3440

@stayevildarling@i-just-cannot@hazey-g@buttercandy16@320viada@evilangels-stuff@rmaximoff@morganismspam23@aboutcustardcreams@sasheemo@rigglemethat@walkethisway@mommywandas@r-3-becca@harknessshi@ihaveawifebutwerenotmarriedyet@polaris-likethestar@ahintofchaos @dorabledewdroop @toomanylesbiancouples @accidentally-made-a-sideblog @chiar4anna @lonelyhalfwitch @lostbutlovely33 @diorrxckstar @whoreforolderfictionalwomen  @katekathry @onemansdreamisanothermansdeath @tayasmellsapples @natashashill @mybraininblood @mysticalmoonlight7  @cactuslover2600 @loveem0mo @readysteddiero-nance @lonelyhalfwitch @lesbiantortilla @crescendoofstars @sol-in-wonderland @ahsfan05 @gbab09 @sasheemo @agathaharness @live-laugh-love-lupone @chiar4anna (sorry if I forgot you or if I put you twice, I just copied and pasted the taglist from the part 10 and then whoever said they wanted to be on it recently)

“Hey!” You call after your step-mom as she struts through the parking lot back to her car, never breaking a stride, leaving you to chase after. “Agatha, wait!” 

She doesn’t even turn around, just unlocks the door and slides in, and she’s turning on the car when you finally make it into the passenger seat. 

You’re a little out of breath, so you take a moment to compose yourself. Agatha is staring forward, hands gripped on the steering wheel. “What was that?” You’re finally able to ask. 

Her knuckles turn white but she doesn’t answer. She shifts into drive and pulls forward and you can see how tightly her jaw is clenched. 

“Agatha, will you please talk to me?” You’re begging at this point, you don’t know what else to do, because something is wrong. That wasn’t her plan. 

Although, neither was fucking you in the bathroom. 

Your body betrays you and the concern you’re supposed to be feeling right now and heats up at the memory. You can still feel her thrusting inside you, your hips hitting the cold sink top, her hand wound in your hair making you watch yourself get absolutely railed by her. 

Stop. 

You shake your head to clear your thoughts, to get your mind out of the gutter, and Agatha finally pulls into the driveway of her house. 

It’s a good sign she didn’t take you back to your mom’s house, you suppose. She slams the car door after she gets out and storms into the house, you following hot on her heels. 

Agatha goes right to the kitchen and pours herself a glass of wine. She takes a long sip and a deep inhale, and pinches the bridge of her nose. When she opens her eyes, she finally looks at you like she’s seeing you for the first time. 

“I’m sorry I did that with you there,” she says and you almost laugh. Is that what she was upset about? 

You shake your head and steal the glass from her, taking a gulp and wincing at the bitter taste. Agatha raises an eyebrow at your blatant underage drinking in front of her, but says nothing. You swallow the wine hard and make a face. “Don’t be. It was kind of hot,” you admit, and she chuckles humorlessly. And then a thought dawns on you. “Wait, do you think he’s going to think something happened in the bathroom? Cause we both went, and then you came out and said you wanted a divorce.” 

There’s a glint in Agatha’s eye. “You really think he’s going to assume that I fucked my stepdaughter against the sink in a restaurant bathroom and then decided to break things off?” 

“Well…” You trail off, the leap to that conclusion seeming a bit implausible, especially for him. Your dad has a hard time focusing on things that aren’t himself. “Seems like we’re in the clear, at least.” 

Agatha snorts and drains the rest of the wine. There’s still something off about her, but you can’t quite put your finger on it. 

“Are you okay?” You ask, your voice softening. “I mean, are we okay? I know we said earlier that we didn’t know what this would mean for us –” 

She cuts you off by slamming the glass down on the countertop so hard you’re surprised it doesn’t break and then closes her eyes to take a deep breath. You freeze. “I’m sorry,” Agatha says eventually, but it’s unclear if she’s apologizing for the reaction or for something else. Maybe for the whole thing between you? 

There’s an uneasy feeling that starts to grow in your stomach. Is she going to break things off with you too? 

Not that there’s anything to break off, is there? It hasn’t even been that long since this thing started, but it’s been intense. More intense than anything you’ve ever felt. 

You know that it might kill you if she walks away now. 

“Do you not want this?” Your question is like a stab to your gut, you’ve never sounded smaller in your life, and your heart pounds heavily in your chest while you wait for an answer. You need to know.

Agatha’s hands fidget on the counter, it looks like she wants to pour herself another glass of wine, but she refrains. “We can talk about what happens next later,” she says levelly and walks away without another word. 

The pit in your stomach only grows. How did you go from being fucked by Agatha’s strap not even an hour ago to this cold distance between you? She had been so possessive, so inflamed by the thought that you would even entertain another woman. 

The sound of her footsteps recedes up the stairs. What does she expect you to do? She picked you up from your mom’s house, and you can’t exactly call her to come get you. 

So you go upstairs and find Agatha in her bedroom, swiping at her face while she’s throwing clothes into a suitcase. You momentarily lose your train of thought when she slides open a drawer and you see about a dozen sets of lacy lingerie. 

Agatha clears it out and dumps it into the suitcase. 

And then your brows furrow in confusion. “Wait, you’re moving out? Why not make my dad?” 

She looks at you like she didn’t even realize you had come in. “It’s easier this way. I’ll get an apartment closer to my job. Your dad can do whatever he wants with this place, he’s the one that wanted it in the first place.” 

“Oh. Okay,” you say, a little dumbfounded. Everything is happening so fast, completely spinning out of control, and you don’t know what to make of it. She spares you another glance before standing up and moving to clear out her nightstand. 

She takes out a vibrator and the rope she tied you up with just yesterday and places them on top of the lingerie. 

“At least we don’t have to worry about my dad catching us anymore, right?” You try to joke, but definitely not the time or place.

Agatha stiffens. “Honey,” she starts, and you know you’re not going to like this. 

“No,” you interrupt. “You’re getting divorced. We don’t have to sneak around anymore, or at least not as much. I like you, Agatha, and I don’t know how you feel about me–” 

“I’m leaving your father because of you,” she snaps and it’s like you’ve been slapped in the face. A thick silence settles over the two of you and you can see how hard she’s clenching her jaw. 

“What?” You whisper. “He’s having an affair, I feel like that should be your main priority.” But your heart is beating fast and you feel like you’re getting close to getting something real from her. 

She rolls her eyes and faces you directly. “Obviously. But I was thinking about it before. He’s not the only one who’s been having an affair here.” Was she leaving him because it’s the right thing to do? Or–

“So…” The pieces are scrambling to connect in your mind. “You want to be with me?” 

Agatha scoffs like the idea is ridiculous. “Be with the eighteen year old about to go off to college and find plenty of girls her own age to fuck?” 

She’s insecure? You can tell Agatha doesn’t completely understand how she’s feeling either, you can see the storm brewing in her eyes. She’s conflicted, torn between her own feelings. 

You walk over to where she’s standing and put your hands on her shoulders. Agatha doesn’t even meet your eyes. But then you slide your hands down her arms, onto her hips, and sink down to your knees. 

Now she looks at you and swallows hard. You can see the effect you’re having on her, her blown out pupils, and it only spurs you on. 

Your fingers fiddle with the zipper on your pants, carefully watching her face for any sign of hesitation. You drag the zipper down slowly and she helps you take off her pants and steps out of them like she’s in a trance. She’s still wearing the strap-on, it still smells like you – fuck, don’t get distracted. 

You loosen the harness and slide that down her legs too before leaning in and nipping at her thigh. 

“Let me show you how much I don’t want someone my own age?” You offer, gazing at her through your eyelashes. 

Her hand tangles in your hair and you let out a quiet gasp. “Go ahead, babygirl,” she says in a low voice, the voice that always gets you going, and pushes your head in-between her legs. 

It’s a bit of an awkward position, with her standing above you, stance slightly widened with you on the ground in front of her, but you make it work. 

You flatten your tongue and lick through her folds, collecting her wetness and moaning at the taste. It’s something you’ll never get tired of. You think you could easily spend hours eating Agatha out, and that’s something you’d like to try if she lets you. 

When your tongue flicks against her clit, her hand tightens in your hair and she lets out a moan and you do it again, desperate to please, desperate to hear more sounds fall from her lips. She lets out a little gasp when you suck on her clit, and you do it harder. Agatha’s hips jerk and she tugs on your hair, causing you to moan against her pussy. 

“God, honey, right there,” she says hoarsely and you double-down on your efforts, rubbing your tongue up and down over her clit while maintaining eye contact. Her groan is deep and she keeps brushing away the hair that falls over your face so she can see you. 

Your hands trace her thighs, the front and the back, and you dig your nails into the skin, leaving crescent indentations. The muscles in her legs tighten and she tries to roll her hips against your face but the position you two are in makes that challenging. 

So she steps back, your tongue still moving instinctively even though her pussy is gone, and you whine her name. 

She smirks and runs a hand through her hair, collecting herself for a second. “Don’t worry, baby. Mommy just wants to move to the bed.” 

Agatha walks to her bed, sits and leans back, spreading her legs for you. Your mouth practically waters at the sight of her dripping cunt that was on your face not a minute earlier and you move to stand up, but she stops you. 

“Stay on your knees,” she orders and you clench around nothing. The carpet is rough on your skin, but you can feel yourself getting wetter from her intense but appreciative gaze as you practically crawl across the room for her. 

You finally get to her and you push open her legs even more, first deciding to kiss up the length of each inner thigh. She shakes beneath you, especially when you get close to the heat between them, and she gasps when you nip at the pale skin. And then you dive back into her pussy, thrusting your tongue inside her, and she’s able to grind much more on your face without fear of falling over when she’s sitting like this. 

Your stepmom rides your face and all you have to do is open your mouth and stick out your tongue and she does the rest; she drags her pussy all over, small huffs falling out of her mouth at the exertion. Agatha takes what she needs from you until you can feel her clenching and her hips start to falter – she’s getting closer. 

You slide your hands around the backs of her thighs and pull her even closer to you so you can take over, sucking roughly on her clit and then curling your tongue inside her and repeating, all while Agatha moans uncontrollably above you, her hips jerking with each touch to her clit. 

“Fuck, babygirl, right there,” she chokes out, you can feel her throbbing, feel her walls fluttering around your tongue, and you don’t change a thing about what you’re doing, keeping the same pace and speed to gradually build up her orgasm. You can feel her body getting tighter and tenser and you know she’s about to cum. 

You give her one last filthy lick up the length of her pussy and then suck on her clit harshly, and she cums all over your face, getting it absolutely soaked. 

As if you’d ever complain about that. Agatha looks so hot coming apart for you like that, and you can’t believe she’d ever think you’d rather have a college hook-up than her. 

It takes her a moment to recover, but when she tilts your chin up, you beam at her, and you can still see the heat in her eyes. 

And even though she just fucked you hard in the bathroom, you need more too. You surge up off your knees and almost knock her backwards with the force and capture her lips in a bruising kiss, all teeth and tongue and lips. 

She groans at the taste of herself on you and you straddle her lap, pushing a thigh between hers so you’re both able to grind on each other while you kiss. Her hands hike up the dress you’re still wearing so she can cup your ass and guide you on her leg, pushing you down harder against her, and you have to break away from her mouth to moan. Your underwear is absolutely soaked and clinging to you, almost getting uncomfortable. 

Your fingers fumble with buttons on her silky button-down and eventually you get so exasperated that you just rip it, buttons flying everywhere around the room. Agatha chuckles in amusement and tugs on your underwear, and you reluctantly get off her for a second to take it off. 

But then you climb back on her, your lips finding hers again, and this time when her hands wrap around your waist to pull you closer, she does fall back with how hard you’re grinding and kissing. 

You don’t care. Instead, you get an idea. You’ve never tried it before, but it seems like this would be the perfect time to. 

Sitting back up, you ignore Agatha’s confused look and chew on your lip. She lets you angle one of her legs up and over your hip, while you put your other leg over hers. When your eyes flick back up to Agatha’s, you can see recognition on her face and she looks positively excited. 

And then with a deep breath, you lower yourself down and a gasp escapes your mouth when your cunt touches hers. 

“Fuck, honey,” Agatha says and you have to pause before you become overwhelmed with pleasure. 

You slowly roll your hips and you both moan. “Mommy,” you whimper. “Feels so good.” 

Her hands settle on your waist while you lean forward, bracketing her head with your arms, and she helps you move against her, your wetness mixing with hers and making it easy to slide against each other. 

“Fuck, baby, you have no idea how hot you are,” Agatha murmurs, maybe more to herself than to you, but there’s no denying how much effect those words have on you. Your clit pulses and you keen, your movements becoming sloppy, but Agatha’s hips rise to meet yours and there’s an absolute mess between the two of you in no time. 

Your head drops down so you can pepper kisses against her chest and sternum, mouthing at her breasts through her lacy, gray bra. Agatha jerks beneath you, her clit stroking against yours and you pant hotly against her skin. 

“Mommy,” you whisper, your head starting to spin with how good it feels. Her wetness, being able to feel all of her so intimately, her ragged breathing, the slight sheen of sweat on her chest. You drag your tongue over the skin at her bra line and her back arches off the bed.

Your limbs are entangled and the movements become short ruts against each other, hands flying from cheeks to hips to breasts to thighs and you can feel the tension building in your stomach. Agatha is getting closer, too, she’s breathing into your open mouth and the only sounds in the room are the two of you moaning and the slickness of your wetness. 

“Fuck, right there,” Agatha says tightly, your clit finding hers, and the two of you grind just like that, the stimulation almost too good. “God, sweetheart, you feel so good.” 

Your hips stammer and she pulls you in for a kiss, strokes her tongue into your mouth, and you cum all over her pussy, the dam inside you exploding. Pleasure races through your veins and you think your mind goes blank for a second, absolutely no thoughts except for Agatha. 

She follows shortly after, her body twitching under yours and you can feel her orgasm as she rides it out against you. It’s the hottest thing you’ve ever felt, and the embers of the heat inside your stomach flicker. 

You stay on top of her for a minute or two, just soaking in the feeling of her against you like that. 

And then Agatha stiffens. “I don’t know if your dad is coming home tonight, but we should probably get cleaned up.” You groan at her mentioning your dad right now, right after possibly the best sex you’ve had in your life, but she has a point. 

You get off her and find your underwear, sliding it back on and fixing your appearance in the mirror. Agatha gives you a wolfish grin and a low whistle at your reflection and you roll your eyes playfully. 

She pulls on an entirely new outfit, her pants strewn on the floor somewhere and her shirt completely ripped open, and then she washes off the strap in the sink and puts that in her suitcase, too. 

It’s as you’re following her downstairs, carrying the other suitcase she quickly packed in your hands, when your dad opens the front door, looking flustered. 

“Agatha, please, talk to me,” he begs when he sees the two of you, eyes darting in confusion between you, probably wondering what you’re doing. Your stepmom walks right past him, and you awkwardly follow. “Sweet pea,” he says, this time referring to you. “What is going on?” 

“I know you’ve been cheating,” Agatha says, pausing when she gets to the door to whirl back around to face him. He looks like he just got punched in the stomach and you almost laugh. “I’m getting a hotel tonight, and then I’ll look for an apartment. You can have everything in this house. I’ll be talking to my lawyer tomorrow.” 

It’s the quickest settlement you’ve ever seen. When your parents got divorced, they had gone back and forth for months, bickering over the smallest things like blankets and game boards. You couldn’t be more relieved that Agatha just wants a clean break and no hassle. 

She opens the door and walks out of it, you only two steps behind, and you close it after you’re both outside, ignoring your dad’s calls for you to come back. 

You both wordlessly walk to her car and she opens the trunk to put her suitcases in. She didn’t pack all of her stuff, she will still need to come back and get the rest of her clothes and whatnot, but it’s a good start. You’re more than willing to come back by yourself and get the rest of her belongings, too. 

Agatha gets into the driver’s seat and you slide into the passenger’s. It doesn’t seem to be a question that you’re coming with her. 

“I know you don’t really want to talk about what happens next for us,” you say quietly, needing to get some things off your chest. “We don’t have to put a label on it or anything. But just know that I’m not going to do what he did, or throw you away like that. I really like you, Agatha. And if it’s just like this for however long this lasts, I’m okay with that. I just want you.” 

Her eyes stay on the road and her lips purse, but she doesn’t say anything. Maybe she won’t. 

But then her hand slips down across the center console and interlocks her fingers with yours and she squeezes. You can see the hint of a smile ghosting her face. 

You squeeze back. That’s all the answer you need. 

[mattybsgroupie]

fitting | chris sturniolo

— CONTENTS: handjob (m receiving); mommy kink; milf!reader; virgin!chris; sub!chris

— NOTES: hi my loves! sorry i’ve been a little m.i.a, some stuff happening at home and not really in my best mood BUT i’m here! you give me strenght to keep going and doing what i love. did you guys miss him as much as i did :( chris my beloved!!! inspired by this blurb, thought i’d show how shy chris was before their first time! — btw this fic is part of the milf!au but you can it on its own! — not proofread, i apologize for any mistakes. enjoy ♡

walking around the mall after a busy morning at work, you spotted a familiar figure across the alley. it was quite impossible not to recognize chris — his long hair falling over his big eyes, wearing his shabby jeans and his old converse as he typed frantically on his phone, oblivious to his surroundings.

you approached him slowly, standing in front of chris and expecting that he’d notice you soon. when he raised his head, a smile spread from ear to ear, his blue orbs sparkling. it had been over two weeks since you last saw each other due to stacy staying at her father's place, therefore, chris had no excuses to visit you.

“chris? what are you doing here?” you asked in your usual sweet tone. he scratched the back of his head, as if he was a bit embarrassed about the situation he found himself in. “huh... actually, i was supposed to meet stacy” chris admitted, tucking his cell phone back into his pocket and standing up beside you.

“but she won’t make it” he said. a puzzled frown appeared on your face. it’s true that you couldn’t always keep track of your daughter’s schedule when she wasn't at home, but she wasn’t the type to miss dates or hangouts. 

“cheer practice” he explained. you nodded, realizing that the game season was about to start. it felt so wonderful to see chris again. “well, would you like a ride home? i just have to look for something real quick and then i’m all done”

“sure, c-can i keep you company?” he asked, eager for a positive answer. “absolutely, sweetheart”

you led the way to the store you were going to visit. a lingerie shop. chris gulped when he saw the bright sign, the pink lights contrasting with the black interior and then sighed. he knew you missed him just as much.

“that’s not fair, mama” he mumbled after a while. chris had been following you like a puppy, interlocking his index with two of your fingers, as if he could lose his way at any second. 

“making me so needy” he complained again. you stopped by a red, lace lingerie set and happily brought it to your chest, turning to chris. “what do you think of this one, chris? pretty, right?”

“mhm— really pretty” chris shook his head as he sunk his teeth on his bottom lip. he looked away from you and the way the bra rested perfectly against your chest. “what’s up, baby? are you having a little trouble down there?”

“mama… don’t do this to me” chris whispered. his hands started to get sweaty and he could feel the blood rushing to his cock. he was about to get hard in public just because he thought of you in lingerie, which was ridiculous, since he had seem you naked previosusly.

“i’m not doing anything, sweetie. i’m shopping and you’re keeping me company, isn’t that right? is it my fault that you can’t hold yourself back and got all worked up just because i got some lingerie?” your warm tone sent a shiver down his spine, his chest immediatly inflating with air. “‘m s-sorry i just keep thinking… of you wearing it” chris tried to explain himself as you chuckled, enjoying his embarassement.

“yeah? you wanna see me wearing a nice set for you? which one do you like better?” you asked, handing him three pairs of bras and panties in different colors.

“the red one” chris spoke, still not daring to look at you in the ways. you walked in slow, seductive steps towards him, the sound of your heels taking over the empty store.

“c’mere,  i’ll try it on for you” you continued, undoing the first button of your silk shirt. chris got a peek of your bra, it was the leopard print that drove him insane and made him kiss you for the first time, months ago. “but first we gotta fix this, hm?” you cooed, placing your palm against his boner and applying some pressure to it.

once again, you led the way towards the fitting rooms. chris followed you obediently, holding a bunch of hangers. you gaze scanned the store and with a naughty grin, you opened one of the curtains and quickly went inside, pulling chris by his wrist.

he didn’t even had time to hang your underwear. you pushed him against the mirror, smashing your lips together in a desperate, hungry kiss. a loud groan left his throat as you moved to his neck, gently sucking on his skin. “mommy i missed you so much” chris rolled his eyes, his hands going to your hair.

“i missed you too, my good little boy” you whispered, palming his cock over his jeans. chris squirmed against you, a moan slipping from his lips. you opened a satisfied smile as you pulled away, sitting on the stool next to the mirror.

chris whined in protest, already missing how you hand and your lips felt on him. “got all hard for mama? you poor little thing” he pouted, nodding “c’mon, touch yourself for me” you instructed him.

his eyes widened in surprise — you had never asked him that. he didn’t know how to do jerk himself properly. chris was a virgin and the first time he was actually able to reach an orgasm was with your help. how was he supposed to do it on his own, and in public?

“mhm, unless you wanna go out with that pathetic boner” you teased, crossing your legs. the red heel started to slip from your foot as you finished unbuttoning your shirt, fully displaying your bra. chris whined again, silently pleading.

“mama… i n-need your help” chris spoke under his breath. “can’t cum without you”

“you’ll have to learn how to take care of yourself, chris” you said, pulling chris by his belt. you helped him to undress, freeing his shaft, almost slapping against his own tummy. you wrapped your knuckles around his length, stroking it in slow motions. “do you expect mama to be there every time you get hard? what are you gonna do when i’m not around, hm?”

“nhng— can’t— can’t be without mama” chris whimpered, more to himself than to you. he twitched inside your fist, placing both hands on the mirror to hold his weight, knowing his knees would ultimately give up.

you moved your thumb to his tip, pre-cum leaking from his slit as you circled it. his hips bucked forward as he leaned his head down, trying to hold himself. chris didn’t want to cum too soon, it was humiliating. he wanted to last long for you, he wanted to get used to the feeling your fingers around him, to the sound of your voice whispering praises and calling him a good boy, but no matter how hard chris tried, he pathetically failed.

“cum! mama, cum!” chris whimpered. you tightened your grip around his cock, pumping it faster. “please!”

“cum for me baby” you allowed him. you knew chris would need a long time to get used to your touch. in fact, it was adorable that he couldn’t even last five minutes.

chris threw his head back, moaning as he came on your hand, thick spurt messing your fingers and his jacket. you didn’t move your hand, continuing to gently stroke his wet, sticky cock.

that’s until your phone rang. you reached for your bag, quickly picking it up and seeing the name on the screen. “i think stacy is back home” you told chris, whose dick immediately became soft at the mention of your daughter’s name. “would you like to join us for dinner?”

— TAGLIST ♡⊹𑄽୧ @thepubeburgler @submattenthusiast @pearlzier @mattsfavbitchhh @bugeyedgrl @sturncakez @riowritesitall @mattsturnswife @sturnsmia @sturnthepot @mattscoquette @conspiracy-ash @ilovemattsturn @lizzymacdonald06 @blahbel668 @fratbrochrisgf @sturnobsessedwh0re @cayleeuhithinknott @sturniolo04 @1c3b4th @mattsfavbigtitties @bellassturniolo @sturnsxplr-25 @ivammbb @shadowthesim @slutformatthewsturniolo @stefansring @teeheeomg @dystfopia @riasturns @faiyaz555 @sturnslutz @cvnntagious @alesturniolos @emely9274

chris masterlist | milf au masterlist

[moonstruckme]

Pookie! I need you to write me something pretty please :)

Can you write Remus comforting a reader with an anxiety disorder when someone told them "there's nothing to be anxious about. You just want attention" ??? Pretty please?? Love you pookieeeeeee

Thanks for requesting!

cw: mean girl stuff, social anxiety

Remus Lupin x fem!reader ♡ 929 words

“Shh.” Remus holds you close to his chest, his hand moving up and down your arm now that your crying has slowed. “It’s okay. It’s just us, yeah?” 

“Yeah,” you echo, croakily. You’re glad you can’t see your boyfriend’s face, for fear you’d die of embarrassment otherwise. The looming insecurity of your day stands over you like a grim reaper. 

You arrived home from a friend’s birthday dinner to find Remus sitting on the couch, already marking the page of his book as he turned to you with a soft smile. 

“Hi, sweetheart. How was it?” 

You replied, through a laugh that turned into a sob halfway through, “Not great.” 

The dinner had been an event of foreboding for you since your invite. You’d been determined to be a good friend by not bailing, but actually going had confirmed your worst fears; it was loud, crowded, filled with people you didn’t know and didn’t fit with. Your outfit wasn’t right, the menu was daunting, and conversation swirled all around you about things you weren’t a part of. The fallout was basically inevitable. 

You perhaps waited too long to excuse yourself. You were sweating buckets and breathing around a lump by the time you did, whispering an explanation to your friend before locking yourself into a bathroom stall to talk yourself down. You’re sure she didn’t mean anything by telling the people sitting closest to her why you were gone—you don’t think she’d do it to gossip, and she’s never talked down to you about that sort of thing, at least not to your face—but by the time you returned one of her friends—a stranger to you, who’s name you can’t even remember—had formulated a fairly decisive opinion and dubbed you an attention seeker. 

You stayed only a little longer after that. Just long enough to avoid attracting more attention. And you worked yourself up well enough on the way home that all it took was one innocent question from Remus to send you crumpling into his arms. 

You’ve tried to steel yourself more than once, but any attempts at stoicism have been foiled by your boyfriend’s tender looks and whispered placations, which only make you cry harder. If you’re an attention seeker, Remus is your holy grail. Self loathing sits lodged in your throat like a stone. 

“Whose friend was it, again?” Remus asks, stroking your arm gently. 

You take a breath, trying to steady your voice. “Does it matter?” 

“I don’t mean it’s your friend’s fault, sweetheart,” Remus says. He’s all softness and patience, better than you could ever deserve. “I just thought you might talk to her, if you want to. She ought to know her friend is going around saying cruel things.” 

“She was there.” Your throat tightens at the memory. 

“Oh. Then I don’t suppose you need to say anything; I’m sure she’s already very upset for you.” 

You try to laugh, frustrated with yourself when it only seems to spur another wave of tears. “Rem. You’re biased.” 

“What?” Remus sounds genuinely surprised. “You don’t think she’s angry with that other girl?”

“She’s her friend.” 

“So are you.” His arms tighten around you protectively, chin bumping your head. “I may be biased, but the other girl was clearly in the wrong. There’s no excuse for the way she acted.” 

A dozen rebuttals fly about your head, but you keep your mouth shut. You don’t have the energy to argue. Unfortunately, Remus hears your argument in the silence anyway. 

“Sweetheart,” he says softly, “no one puts themselves through what you do for attention. You don’t choose to feel that way.”

You hunch your back, tucking your head underneath his chin. “I do get attention for it, though.” 

“That doesn’t mean you want it.” 

“But I—”

“Do you want it?” You can’t see Remus, but you hear the hardened edge to his tone. “Did you like it, when that girl called attention to you in the middle of the dinner?” 

Your voice smalls. “No.” 

“Right.” The gentleness returns. Remus puts his lips to your head. “I know you didn’t, dovey. So don’t torment yourself, please. She doesn’t know anything about you.” 

You push your lips together. He lets you chew on your next words for a while, his thumb swiping softly back and forth over your upper arm, the sleeve of your top shifting slightly with the motion. 

“What if…” You gnaw the inside of your cheek. Remus waits. “What if everyone thinks that?” 

“Mm. Well, for what it’s worth, I don’t think most people would. Surely not anyone who knows you, or anyone worth being around.” He takes a breath, thinking. “You can’t always control what people think. I know you say I’m biased, but anyone who thinks something like that really isn’t worth thinking about at all. You’ve got enough going through that head of yours, yeah?” He kisses your hair fondly. 

“I guess so,” you admit. 

“Yeah,” Remus decides. He pulls away to see your face, pushing hair away from your tacky cheeks. “I’d say so.” 

You wonder if you look as horrendously in love as you feel. You think you must, because your boyfriend’s expression softens impossibly further as he turns his head to give you a proper kiss. You feel raw but comforted, and suddenly, totally exhausted. 

“Let the bullies worry about themselves.” Remus gives you a tender look. “I’ll worry about you.” 

You let a small smile tilt your lips. “And what am I left to worry about?” 

“Nothing,” he says solemnly. “Think you can manage that?” 

“Nope.” 

“Mm. Well, try.” 

[f1ora1f1owerswrites]

little things

Summary: the small things that Jake does that differentiate him from "Hangman."

Warnings: NO use of y/n, she/her mentioned, established relationship

Word Count: 687

a/n: i really really love this one, i tried my best to capture my perception of jake! i hope you like it! :) reblogs, likes, and comments always appreciated <3.

***

Most people knew Jake as Hangman—cocky, confident, and never without a sarcastic quip ready for whatever challenge the world threw at him. In the skies, he was fearless, always a playful grin on his face. His reputation as an aviator was built on confidence, sharp skill, and an ego that matched his abilities. But, at home, when the door to your shared apartment clicked shut behind him, he was different. He was just Jake.

You had seen sides of him that the world never would. The small, tender things he did that no one could know but you. The things that made your heart swell without him ever realizing it.

It started with the little details—like when you came home after a long day and, no matter how tired and sore he was, he’d have dinner ready. It wasn’t some gourmet meal, just simple comfort food, but it was always exactly what you needed. As you walked through the door, you could smell it, the warmth of his effort filling the space before you even saw him.

“You’re late,” he’d joke, tossing you a mischievous grin over his shoulder as he stirred something in a pot. “Were you avoiding me again?”

“You know I’m not avoiding you, Seresin,” you’d say, crossing the room to wrap your arms around his waist. “Just had a long day.”

And there it was—the subtle shift. His hands would rest over yours for a moment before he’d lean back against you, taking a deep breath, like he was the one who needed this moment of calm, just as much as you did.

After dinner, when you’d lounge on the couch, he’d make sure to throw a blanket over you, even if it was just to watch TV or scroll through your phone. He wasn’t the type to show vulnerability in front of anyone else, but at home, there was a softness to him. Sometimes, when you reached for the remote, he’d catch your hand, fingers warm and steady. Without a word, he’d flip it to your favorite show—sometimes the same one you’d been watching all week—and lean back, content in the silence.

***

It wasn’t just the big gestures that made you fall deeper for him; it was the moments no one else would see. 

Or when you had a bad day, his way of comforting you wasn’t through words. Instead, he’d just pull you into his arms, his large hands brushing through your hair, holding you close until the tension melted from your shoulders. Sometimes he didn’t say a thing, just held you, knowing that was all you needed.

He’d get you a drink from your favorite place on his way home, he would grab your favorite snacks from the store without you asking, or leave notes on the bathroom mirror, small messages reminding you to have a good day or to take care of yourself. You never even had to ask for these things. They were just a part of him—quiet acts of love and care that made you realize how lucky you were to have him.

And even though he would always say it in a teasing way, there was no mistaking how much he meant it when he said, “I got your back, always.”

You could see it, in the way he’d lean over the counter when you were trying to figure out your day, his forehead furrowed in concentration, always making sure you had everything you needed, even when he was buried (sometimes suffocating) in his own responsibilities.

At home, Jake wasn’t Hangman. He wasn’t the confident, cocky aviator who ruled the skies. He was the man who tucked you into bed after a long day, who made sure your water bottle was filled before you fell asleep, who laughed at your jokes even when they were corny. And in those moments, when the world felt like too much, you knew you were exactly where you were supposed to be.

Because with Jake, it was the little things that made everything feel right.

[keepingitformyself]

older (and wiser): i

synopsis: in which time could have never undone what she left.

A/N: FIRST WANDA FIC!!! had this idea long ago when i was crushing hard on this girl from the theatre program at my uni; around that time i had also seen ‘past lives’ and i wanted to do something similar with that film. also at my core i know wanda maximoff would’ve totally been a theatre kid, this is me paying ode to that. while this specific part doesn’t go into that, i am gonna work on a sort of prequel to this Short Series…anyways enjoy!!!

pairings: wanda maximoff x reader

genre: angst?

warnings: it’s sad. but it gets hopeful…

MASTERLIST

please do not repost my work anywhere for any reason at all. if you do see this happen to any of my stories, please let me know. thank you x.

it had been years.

wanda had finally decided to take a breather. she’d been working non-stop ever since she left for work all those years ago after college.

she didn’t think she’d get so lucky off that one job, that it’d immediately get her into another, or another, and so on and so forth.

she loved her work, sure, but now it was catching up to her. everyone in her life, her manager, her agent, her family had all begged her to slow down.

“take some time off, wanda.” her agent, daniel had said to her during a meeting. wanda’s eyes traveled between daniel and her manager, samara.

the meeting had all been a set up. what wanda thought was supposed to be a discussion on a new project, was actually a ploy. she had no idea the meeting was meant to convince her to take a break.

“yeah right.” she scoffed. not believing in what they were saying.

“we’re serious, wanda.” samara stated, her eyes stern but with genuine care. “when was the last time you had time for yourself?”

wanda remained silent at the words. all of a sudden she felt like a kid being scolded by their parents. and she wished to be anywhere else but in the room with them.

“really.” daniel starts. “go be a real person. smell the flowers, meet people, fall in love, take in the view—”

“i meet people all the time, daniel.” wanda quickly cut in.

all daniel could do was shake his head, a sigh escaping his lips as he tried his hardest to make the woman in front of him understand.

“you know that’s not what i meant, wanda.” he gives her a pointed look.

with a jaw clenched, she crossed her arms over her chest and looked off to the side. the windows overlooking los angeles now seeming more interesting than this conversation.

“we know how much it means for you to work, we know how much you enjoy it, but you’ve been doing it for so long. we just want you at your best.” she hears samara say. and as much as she hated to admit it, daniel and samara were right.

wanda hadn’t stopped working since she started. in fact, it’s all she can think to do. she didn’t have anyone outside of work—no partner, no obligations except to her family. why stop when there was nothing waiting for her?

wanda knew the answer but wouldn’t admit it. she might as well never have fully faced it.

the truth was, she’d loved someone once. she’d loved you. and no matter how much time had passed, the thought of you still gnawed at her.

though everything was perfect for a while, her career was well off, she was successful, and her family was proud.

but wanda couldn’t help asking, is this really it?

of course, she tried meeting people. she really tried. she didn't like being miserable over someone she hadn't been in contact with for years. but even that wasn't enough. it was honestly a bit pathetic. it had happened years ago. four years, to be exact. wanda should’ve been well moved on by now, but she isn’t. at least not entirely.

so, she poured everything into her work to distract her from that gnawing feeling inside her. the one that had been lit up all those years ago. the one that was tamable with you around.

but you’re not around, and wanda couldn’t help but throw herself into more work hoping she could get rid of it, get rid of you. but she hasn’t.

“listen, wanda,” daniel cuts her train of thought. “your work is important and people need it, but to keep it up to that degree, you need to go out and just be a human.” he finishes.

wanda sighs. she leans forward on her knees and drops her head into her hands. daniel was right. they were both so right.

wanda never properly dealt with things. maybe it's time she finally did.

she looks up from her hands, a look of defeat yet understanding, with pursed lips she finally says,

"fine."

and now, two months later, wanda finds herself back in los angeles, in an empty home, eating expensive sushi.

she had gotten off the phone with her brother, pietro, who had just joined her on the recent trip she’d been on.

a trip that he insisted he’d join her on to make sure wanda would do all the resting and touristy things she should.

she had done all the traveling she could do in the last two months, jumping from plane to plane. talking to strangers, being a tourist in european cities, and befriending random people in planes.

now, wanda actually had time for herself, time with her brain. a thing she honestly didn't want to face. because even thinking about anything made it even more real.

but now wanda was bored, and the movie playing on her eighty-inch television wasn't doing much to entertain her. and it also didn't help that it was eleven pm on a thursday night and all wanda could do was feel bad for herself.

so she does the next thing she had been really trying to avoid,

stalking your social media.

wanda herself wasn’t much active online these days. she had much to do day-to-day and week-to-week, rarely would she ever have the patience to sit down and scroll through her phone much. that and she honestly tried to stay off of it.

but now she has the time. and the patience. and honestly, she’s a little scared at what she could find.

she tells herself it doesn't have to mean anything. just a little check-in to see how you were, after that she'd really work on trying to forget about you altogether.

and with the simple type in of your name, wanda finds your instagram. your profile picture, a professional headshot of you, and a bio that reads,

editor in chief.

New York Times contributor.

something that shouldn't have made wanda's chest burst with joy, but it does. and as she scrolls further and further, she finds that you now reside in new york city, that you've moved on well without her and that you have a cat and a boyfriend.

boyfriend.

she shouldn't care so much, but she does.

you were living your best life. the one you had always wanted.

just not with her. not with wanda.

but she doesn't stop there, and she ignores the lump in her throat as she exits your profile and searches for your mother's name.

and maybe she feels her heart break a little when it turns out the boyfriend you had is actually your fiancé. she finds out through a photo your mother posted.

the picture shows you, and a handsome man next to you. you’re both sat outside some restaurant in the city, his arm is thrown over your shoulder while your right hand clutches his left, and there it is. in all its glory—with the diamond on it catching the suns light perfectly. the ring on your finger.

it doesn’t help that he looks so in love with you.

out for lunch with y/n and paul again! i promised them an engagement lunch and we were NOT disappointed. make sure you try Jack’s Wife Freda if you are ever in SoHo!!#motherinlaw #NYC #loveinnewyork

is what the caption reads.

wanda freezes at the fact and immediately throws her phone on the empty seat beside her. she stares at it like it had just offended her.

many things go through her brain. how did you meet him? was it shortly after you broke up? was it really him you wanted to spend forever with? how long did it take for him to ask?

wanda had always loved your mother. a sweet woman who always had your best interests in mind. she had always pushed you to do what you loved. and wanda had always seen that some of her favorite traits of yours had come from her.

after the break up, your mom made sure to check in on wanda. without you ever knowing, wanda and your mom kept in touch, until eventually wanda had cut her line for the sake of fully moving on.

though, she never really fully did.

wanda evaluates what to do next. was this her sign? she doesn’t want it to be sign.

wanda doesn’t want to admit that it seems like you had moved on so completely.

on impulse she looks up your fiancé’s name. “paul” is all she had to type out in your mother’s following before she found his account.

she finds that paul is just as successful as you are. he’s an investigative journalist, born in ireland. he briefly worked at a publication in london but transferred to a firm in new york after a year.

he’s gorgeous, she thinks. he has blue eyes, a kind smile, and he has an accent. it would make perfectly good sense why you would choose him.

wanda’s stomach twists with a mix of happiness and regret.

“fuck!” She whispers to herself.

“of course, you’re happy. of course the man you’re engaged with is actually a decent man! fuck.” wanda says to no one in particular. in frustration, she burries her hands in her hair.

wanda is annoyed at herself.

“i need a drink,” in an instant she’s on her legs making her way to the kitchen. she finds a bottle of wine that has been kept cool in the fridge and she wastes no time in popping it open, she pauses briefly, debating on whether she’d need or glass or not.

to hell with a glass. she thinks, and makes her way back to the couch, she holds the bottle by its neck and takes a long swig from it.

it’s all so perfectly miserable. wanda maximoff stalking her ex-girlfriend on social media while she gets wasted. the self loathing has got the best of her. she finds it all ironic.

wanda maximoff could have anyone she wanted. she knew this. she has everything she could ever want or need. she has credibility, a nice home, the luxury of traveling at any moment she wants.

yet, her mind kept coming back to one thing. the one thing she’d decided she’d leave behind all those years ago. it isn’t fair, she thinks. wanda was young and stupid back then, but she was so so in love. she knew that for sure.

but sometimes…sometimes she really wishes she had fought harder.

briefly, wanda wonders if your number was still the same. if you had ever changed it or at least tried calling her. she wouldn’t know, she had changed it years ago once she started getting more attention for her work.

wanda was really drunk at this point. her better judgment had gone away as soon as she’d picked that bottle out the fridge. there was no better time than now.

she taps on her phone until she lands on the number keypad. her fingers hover over it, would she regret it if she didn’t? probably. would she regret it if she did? probably.

but if there was one thing wanda had, it’s that she’s got nerve and audacity.

so she types in the number that she doesn’t think she could ever forget, and lets it ring.

your fiancé answers the call.

“hello?” an irish accent sounds through the speaker. paul. wanda’s blood runs cold and she stays silent for a moment. all of sudden she feels incredibly sober and regretting making the call.

“hi.” she pauses. “uhm, i’m looking for y/n?” wanda manages to squeak out.

“right! who is this? your number isn’t saved.” paul says,

“an old friend. i changed my number a while back.” wanda replies smoothly.

“oh! let me pass her to you, she’s just in the kitchen.” the line goes quiet for a few moments, and she’s able to hear a few words exchanged between you and paul.

“hello?”

wanda freezes again, a hand covers her mouth as she tries not to shake at the sound of your voice. it’d been so long. she grips her phone tighter.

“hey…” her voice shaky and unmistakable. you know it’s wanda.

“wanda?” your voice betrayed the surprise you felt. from the couch paul caught your eye, a raised eyebrow on his face. everything okay? he mouthed.

you shook your head.

“i wondered if your number was still the same.” wanda says after a moment. her tone light, but with an undercurrent of something else.

your mind raced. why was she calling you? why now? your fiance was in the other room, you were getting married soon. you’d built a life perfectly fine without her in it. so why was she calling you now?

“how have you been?” her voice cuts through the line again. wanda holds the phone close to her ear, wanting to make sure she could hear every word you say.

and all you can think of is how confused you were.

“i- i’m fine. i’m good. yeah.”

“that’s good—”

“i’m sorry, uh…why are you calling?” you find yourself cutting her off. your fingers press against your forehead in act of trying to understand what was happening.

wanda pauses. she realizes just how impulsive this whole thing was. she’s on the phone with her ex of four years, while your fiancé was probably in the other room. she goes silent again. her words have to be carefully measured.

she gulps,

“uhm…i just—i just wanted to know how you were. heard you’re based in new york now...so…” wanda trails off. you don’t miss the tone in her voice as she says those words. the familiar rasp, the lowness of her voice, she’d used it many times on you when she wanted something.

you close your eyes with a sigh, “yeah. yeah, i live in new york now, engaged and everything.”

wanda smiles through the phone, her eyes almost prick with tears at the corners.

“i saw," she says just above a whisper. "congratulations, you…you’ve always wanted that.” and she means it. she knows better than anyone how much you’ve wanted this.

suddenly a wave of nostalgia hits you, and you’re brought back to when you were both in college. so young, so dumb, but god, it was one of the best times of your life. you try not to let it affect you, how much this call seems to be doing for you. you haven’t yet figured out if it’s a good or bad thing.

“thank you." your voice softens. "how have you been?” you find yourself asking her next.

wanda smiles at your question, “life has been…insane, you know?” she pauses on the line. “still missing some pieces, but overall i’m doing well,” you pretend not to hear the sudden shift in her voice when she said that.

you exhaled quietly, unsure of what to say. the air between you felt charged with unspoken words, old memories stirring to the surface.

“can i see you?” she asks, her tone hesitant. “catch up in person? i’d really like to see you.”

with your bottom lip between your teeth, you contemplate your next words. paul notices your tick from the other his seat on the couch, despite you telling him it was okay he couldn’t help but worry. he’d heard enough of the call to know something was wrong. still he knows you had it down, so he waits until you need him.

you struggle to find your words for a moment, the question being so…why?

“oh, wanda, i don’t know if—”

but wanda ever the stubborn woman she is, doesn’t relent.

“please. Just for some coffee and conversation.”

your mind is torn between keeping your peace or taking wanda up on her offer. but you were curious.

with a sigh you finally decide.

“where and when?”

you can hear wanda’s smile through the phone,

“i can fly to new york anytime you’re free. you can pick a spot and i’ll be there.”

you think for a few moments.

“okay, meet at caffe reggio in greenwich.”

wanda’s heart stutters, something she hadn’t felt in a while. her eyes flutter closed, she breathes in— out. her eyes open again. and though you can’t see it, there’s a new look in her eyes.

“i’ll be there.”

[godmadeaterribleerror]

Chapter 2 - Under My Skin

Series Masterlist - Main Masterlist

Author's Note: If you're mad at me for getting any lore or myths wrong through this story, consider that Supernatural themselves cannot track their own lore, and I'm doing my goddamn best.

Chapter title from Akaska Sad by Rina Sawayama

Word Count: 15.7k

Chapter Summary/Warnings: Dean and John take on an odd, difficult case, and you try—and fail—to avoid them. Usual warnings.

Tags: Dean Winchester/Female Reader, enemies to friends to lovers, canon divergence, slow burn, angst, fluff, monster of the week.

Chapter 1 - Chapter 3

Read on A03!

Lately, Dean’s life was fucking lonely. It was made of long car rides where Dad wouldn’t speak to him, countless cases where he felt almost useless, and restless nights where he’d get up to use the bathroom, look at the couch, and feel a little piece of him die again when Sam wasn’t there.

Every town looked the same. Every girl did too. He didn’t try to talk to them—he never had—but there was still something in him that was so furiously lonely, he was burning through chicks night by night in a desperate plea that they’d offer him something. Sometimes they’d talk to him, and that would become enough. He was never really all that interested—they all had the same voice and same words and same boring, apple pie lives that Dean would never get to be a part of—but it carried him over until the next one. Until he and Dad got the monster, left town, and nobody there would have to spare Dean a thought for the rest of their lives.

He tried to make them remember. He poured all he had to spare into the sex, and making it good enough that maybe—when each woman was married with kids and some sort of boring office job—they’d still use the memory of him to get off. They might not remember his name, or his voice, or his face, but they’d remember how he made them feel. And that did a little more to curb the loneliness. The pit like feeling of uselessness.

But sometimes he’d strike out, and be forced to wake up on an empty, stiff motel mattress. Dad would already be gone—getting coffee or working there leads or just fucking sick of Dean not being Sam—and it would only be Dean in the whole world. And that wasn’t enough. It couldn’t just be Dean. It’s never supposed to just be Dean. When it’s just him, everything gets too loud and too quiet and so hot, but also massive and empty and cold. Corners are shaper and knives are duller and colors are all muted, because only Dean can see them and he doesn’t deserve to. 

And when that happened, sometimes he’d grab his phone and consider calling Sammy. He’d stare at the number—hidden from Dad with a fake contact, just in case—and allow his thumb to hover over the call button, but never press it. He couldn’t. He’d have no way to get to California, Sam probably wouldn’t want to see him, and Dad would freakin’ kill him for even considering it. Dean couldn’t even say Sam’s damn name without Dad’s jaw ticking and an unsettling tension falling over the room.

So Dean stayed lonely. He worked every case lonely, found every bed lonely, and woke every morning lonely. 

But he wasn’t lonely in his dreams. It didn’t matter why he wasn’t, but he wasn’t. That, at the very least, was something Dean could count on. When he slept, he’d never be lonely, because-

It didn’t matter. They were just dreams, and dreams didn’t mean shit. Even it had been the same person starring in them every night—the same beautiful, twisted salvation to the pit that had formed inside of Dean, that he loathed and craved and couldn’t figure out how to get rid of—for the past year, Dean wasn’t some crystals and tea leaves chick who was going to try and find meaning in his freakin’ dreams.

This lady seemed to be, though. She was dressed like she belonged at Woodstock, there were dreamcatchers and random dried plants all over her house, and she kept trying to offer Dean a palm reading. Telling him his aura was strong. That didn’t fucking mean anything, because that shit wasn’t real, and Dean should know. His whole life was figuring out what things were real, and what was fake.

This magic, witchy bullshit was fake. 

The ghost haunting Woodstock Chick’s house was very real.

“You know,” Woodstock frowned at Dean and Dad from across the table. “I’m a little surprised you’re listening to me.”

Dad shrugged. “Well, ma’am it’s routine to investigate complaints. It ain’t our job to judge, just hear what you’ve got for us. Now, we’ve got the objects flyin’ around-“

“It’s just,” Woodstock let out a breathy laugh, shaking her head slightly. “I’ve been filing these complaints for weeks, and all I’ve gotten is made fun of by my neighbors. Then, suddenly, you’re taking me seriously? Sending three officers to talk to me-“

Dean cleared his throat, shooting Dad a weary look. “Sorry, did you say three?”

“Yeah. You two, plus the one yesterday. Young woman, with the rings and lip gloss. She was gorgeous, good skin and hair, bright aura, just like yours.” she smiled at Dean as she continued. “She kind of looked like a,” Woodstock frowned, tilting her head. “Like a cat.”

Dad scowled. “A cat.”

Woodstock nodded. “You know, just like how he,” she nodded at Dean, and he frowned. “Looks like a puppy. It not about their faces, it’s about their energy-“

“And you’re saying this chick had the energy of a cat?” Dean asked, not allowing himself to dwell on the puppy thing. He had too much shit to worry about already. “Ma’am, we-“

“We’re takin’ your complaints seriously, ma’am.” Dad’s voice was firm over Dean’s, and Dean felt a cringe of shame in his chest. “Now, tell us about the lights, and we’ll let you keep goin’ with your day.”

Woodstock continued, Dad asking more careful, smart questions as Dean sat in silence, and the lady’s problem was pretty obviously a ghost. Kind of a douchebag of a ghost, but just a ghost. The hard part was just gonna be figuring out who it was, because Woodstock was insisting nobody had ever died in this house, that she had no dead relatives, and that she’d never even killed anyone.

That last question did get them kicked out, though.

“We ain’t accusin’ you of anything, ma’am.” Dad remained in the threshold of Woodstock’s door, holding the angry woman’s gaze. “It’s a just part of our report-”

Woodstock let out a dry laugh. “Nice try, officer, I don’t know what you’re trying to pull, but I do know that’s a lie. If you come back, come back with a warrant, or-“ Woodstock paused, looking between Dean and Dad. “Send Officer Brown. She was nicer, and didn’t ask me stupid questions.”

The door slammed, Dad groaned—running a hand over his face before stomping back to the Impala—and Dean was frozen in place as Woodstock’s words rang a loud, clean, golden bell in his brain. When Dad shouted at him to haul ass he managed to move, but barely. Everything was far away, because things that were supposed to be trapped in dreams were starting to follow Dean into the real world. They weren’t supposed to. Dean had promised himself he’d keep Her trapped down, where he never had to think about her until sleep dragged Her back to the surface of his brain.

And that hadn’t really been working. Sometimes he’d smell fruity perfume on a woman, and She’d flash in front of his eyes. Sometimes he’d have some random girl next to him or over him or under him, and they’d moan, and it would sound like a siren. The worst was when someone would look at him and a tiny, traitorous asshole voice would whisper She’d look at you better. She’d be better. You’re a piece of shit, Dean Winchester, because She’d been the freakin’ best and you left her.

He hadn’t left Her. He’d escaped her. Outsmarted whatever bullshit she’d been trying to pull on him, whatever scam She’d been running. And it didn’t fucking matter that his brain was clinging onto every piece of Her he’d gotten to see that day—that the bells were made of Her beautiful voice saying Brown’s a cop—because she’d probably stopped hunting. Realized it wasn’t the fun little rush She thought it was and crawled back home to her fancy, stupid life. 

But She’d told him she’d been hunting since she was fifteen.

That had probably been a lie too.

It hadn’t sounded like a lie. 

Well, maybe She’d just been an awesome liar. 

Dean needed to snap the hell out of it. He’d tread down this path countless times, the voice—it seemed to live in his chest, a little to the right of his heart—trying to work out what that whole thing had been, and a good reason for Dean to track Her down and ask if She’d felt it too. 

But She’d been playing him, and he never wanted to see Her drop-dead gorgeous face again. It didn’t matter what he’d felt, because Dad was right. It had probably been some sort of trick, made of all those pretty lies and words She’d been using on him. So Dean didn’t mention to Dad that Brown had been one of Her aliases, because he wasn’t supposed to remember anything about Her. Dad was seething in the driver’s seat—grumbling about lone, stupid hunters interfering in their case—but She wasn’t here, probably, so it didn’t matter anyway.

Another three days passed, and they still couldn’t figure out who the ghost was. Everyone Woodstock knew was clean—and claimed she was too—and everyone in this town died of old age like a bunch of freaking suckers, so they had nothing. This ghost couldn’t chill the fuck out, Woodstock had been telling anyone who would listen about how it had started to throw plates at her head—how she didn’t feel safe—so Dad had them on rotating watches. Keeping an eye on the house from the forest in case Woodstock started screaming while the other kept working it, searching for just one goddamn idea of who the ghost could be.

They hadn’t figured out who the other hunter was, either, but Dean was growing more and more certain it might be Her. He could’ve sworn he saw a flash of perfectly styled shiny hair on the street. He was either going batshit crazy, or he’d heard Her voice in a corner store while he was buying aftershave. And a feeling like gravity had reformed in his eyes, bringing his attention to shadows that might be Her and making his every nerve flare when he smelled something sweet. Most of all, he’d been in the motel parking lot a handful of times and felt it. That odd, light feeling that had surrounded him when he’d met Her, making it so easy to breathe he’d been certain he’d been doing it wrong before. That he’d started to do it wrong again, after She’d left. It had felt so good and been so impossibly to duplicate—Dean had really tried to, as well, in body after body after body—but it was back like a fucking asteroid, crashing into him and obliterating everything he’d thought had been right.

But he hadn’t told Dad. To start, Dad would look at him like he was a fucking idiot, and ask if Dean had watched a chick flick while drinking one too many beers. Then Dean would mumble no, and Dad would roll his eyes and tell him to get his shit together, because they had a job to do.

Dean could’ve told Sammy. He would’ve listened, made a little fun of Dean, and then started to ask a bunch of  questions about what made Dean think it was Her. Maybe Sam would have found an explanation about how the vampire baby made men go crazy or something. Maybe She’d been a monster, and Sam would figure out what kind the moment Dean explained it.

But Sam wasn’t here, and Dean didn’t have any real evidence. He hadn’t seen that fancy car She’d been driving, and when he’d very casually asked the front desk of their motel—the only one if town—if anyone with Her name was in a room he’d gotten a no, but she’d probably be in a real hotel. With good water pressure and room service and little shampoo bottles that she didn’t need. 

She hadn’t been in a fancy hotel last year. But that had probably just been another part of the scam.

So he didn’t tell Dad. Dean just took his shifts to watch Woodstock, worked the case, and fucking prayed they’d wrap this up and he could forget the whole thing. Dad would find something soon, they’d gank the ghost, and it would be done. 

Dad had even said he had a new lead, when they’d swapped the watch. Dean had dropped off the car and gotten orders to stay here until Dad got back, to call only if it was an absolute emergency, and to message if he thought of anything new. 

He’d been trying to. Dad was off working the lead, and Dean really wanted to help, but no matter how long leaned against the trees—watching Woodstock’s house and frowning into the air—he couldn’t think of shit. His brain felt numb, because this was freaking boring, and none of it made sense. It was just a ghost, it shouldn’t be this hard. Shit, with another hunter on the case, the asshole should’ve been ash days ago. Maybe it had been Her, and she’d realized they were in town, and She’d left. Been worried they’d try to turn her in for her bullshit, even though She had no way to know they’d figured her out. 

Maybe She hadn’t wanted to see Dean. Which shouldn’t bother him at all, but the thought made his stomach turn and heart split down the center. He didn’t get it. It shouldn’t hurt, because he sure as hell didn’t want to see Her. He was looking everywhere for Her, but he didn’t want to see Her. He didn’t. He didn’t-

He did. He could. That was fucking Her. Walking up the steps of Woodstock’s house with a large bag, knocking on the door and being welcomed in with a warm smile Woodstock hadn’t offered Dad or Dean. 

She looked hot. Dean wasn’t sure it was possible for Her not to—She’d even looked sexy covered in blood—but she’d somehow gotten hotter. She wasn’t wearing that horrible jacket anymore, but well-fitting, casual clothing that She moved so easily in. Clothing that suited Her, that She looked comfortable in, that Dean wanted to touch to see what fabric She liked. It would tell him more about Her, about what she deemed suitable for herself, what she enjoyed, what she wanted. And if She allowed him close enough, maybe Dean could rip it off Her body-

Fuck. It was happening again. Dean had just looked at Her and she’d dragged him under some sort of trance. The feeling had returned in full force, like an inevitable kind of cancer over his brain that Dean didn’t know how to cure. Part of him didn’t even want to cure it—it felt right and natural and filled up that pit with a shifting light that was shaped like Her—but he had to. He was useless like this. Useless to the hunt, useless to himself, useless to Dad. Dad would smack him on the head and tell him to get a goddamn grip, because a girl wasn’t worth falling down for. Dean’s job wasn’t staring at pretty things and trying to make sense of them, it was creating ash and spilling blood. He was a solider, not a prince who was going to save the damsel. 

And She wasn’t a damsel. She was a bitch. The prettiest, funniest, smartest bitch Dean had ever met, who seemed like Cinderella but was really a stepsister. Dean didn’t need Her, and he shouldn’t be sparing Her a single thought at all. He should just text Dad that She was the other hunter, that She seemed tight with Woodstock, and that She’d been in the house for a long time.

A really long time. 

Too long. It had been almost an hour since She’d disappeared off the porch, and unless she was there for a sleepover, she should’ve been out by now. Maybe the ghost had gotten the jump on Her and Woodstock. Maybe Dean had to go in and save Her, not because it was Her, but because that was his job. And maybe She’d thank him, and kiss him because She was so grateful he’d put his grudge aside to save her life, and it would be awesome and She’d taste like sugar and be soft under his hands-

“Dean Winchester.” 

He nearly leapt out of his goddamn skin, spinning around with wide-eyes and clenched fists that couldn’t seem to remember how to fly and land square in Her pretty, mocking face. She was standing barely three feet away, Her arms crossed and brows raised, her bag nowhere in sight.

“Fucking hell, Princess.“ The nickname slipped out of him without thought, because She really did look like royalty. He knew why that was now—easy to look smoking hot and fancy when you had the money for it—but it didn’t change the fact. Her lips were glossy, her eyes seemed to shimmer with that pretty color that washed over his dreams, that causal clothing really did look like it was made to touch Her, and Dean couldn’t believe he was jealous of a fabric-

“What are you doing here.” Her voice still had that haunting, angel-like quality, but it was flat. Bored. Almost dead.

He gave Her a smirk, and he wasn’t sure why it hurt that She barely even blinked back. “Funny, I was just about to ask you the same thing. What could a bitch like you be doing in a place like this?“

Her eyes narrowed, and Dean could’ve sworn She curled a little into her body. “I asked first.”

Dean shrugged. “I asked louder.”

“I- You know what? I don’t care.” She stood a little taller, her voice somehow growing colder. “Whatever you’re up to, stop. This is my hunt. I got here first, I’m handling it, and you’re only going to slow me down.”

Dean let out a dry, humorless laugh. “Ghosts aren’t really gonna respect dibs, sweetheart.”

Her eyes flashed with something Dean didn’t really understand. “They don’t, but I’m not that worried about it, De. Like I said, I’m handling it.”

He glared at Her, ignoring how something in his chest was humming, trying to get Her to call him De over and over again forever. “Sorry,” he drawled Her name, leaning forward and trying not to think about how she didn’t flinch away. How he could smell that same, fruity perfume and sugar from before. “I guess we’ll just have to let the better hunter win.”

She raised Her chin, holding his gaze. “I’m warning you, Winchester. Leave.“

He chuckled. “I’m good, Princess. Think I’ll pass, but trying to warn me was cute-”

“Listen to me.” She hissed, leaning close enough that Dean could pick out every small bump on Her face, isolate every color in Her eyes. “I’m not asking. Go back to Sam and John, tell them you figured it out and it’s done, and get the fuck out of my way.”

Something brittle snapped in Dean’s spine, his jaw clenching as the words pushed out of him like vomit. “Sam’s not with us. He left.”

He didn’t know why the fuck he’d tell Her that. She wouldn’t care. She seemed to hate Dean as much as he hated Her—probably bitter he’d got the up on Her, didn’t want him to mess with whatever scam she was trying to pull on Woodstock—and She’d met Sam twice. He shouldn’t have told Her that, because Dad hated even talking about it. Hell, Bobby barely knew about it. It was family business, and She wasn’t family, and that perfume had to be some sort of pheromone because it was making Dean a freaking dumbass-

“Is he okay?”

Dean blinked at Her, and her expression wasn’t soft, but it wasn’t empty. She didn’t seem like a statue anymore, and whatever was behind Her eyes looked real. Just as real as it had been last year, like there was a whole universe inside of Her that Dean had wanted to explore. To find out what She was made of, and if it was as similar to heaven as it seemed.

It wasn’t. Dean knew that, in his working brain—rather than his heart that stretched for Her and his dick that ached for Her to be just a little closer—She wasn’t heaven. She was temptation in a beautiful form, determined to make Dean weak and pathetic and soft, everything he couldn’t allow himself to be. But he still told Her the truth. His voice lower and without any venom, his body tensed slightly, his brain spinning as the strange look in Her eyes seemed to glow, dragging the words out of him. 

“He’s fine. Off at college. Decided he didn’t want-“ Dean cut himself off with a small shake of his head. He wouldn’t be that weak or dumb, exposing a gap in his armor she’d use to make him crumble to his knees. “He was done hunting. Wanted a normal life.”

She was just looking at him. Scanning over him carefully, holding one of Her own hands and just fucking staring, like Dean might be an illusion or his words might be a lie, and She was trying to look for evidence of it.

“That sucks.” She finally said, and it sounded so real. Like She might actually give a shit that Dean was lonely. That Sam had left him. “Sorry.”

 “I don’t need your pity, sweetheart-“

“I don’t pity you.” She snapped, Her features growing harsh once more. “I’m saying that fucking sucks, I know you cared about him. I’m apologizing because it’s probably complicated and messy and not all that fun to deal with.”

Dean scowled, something raw snapping along his heartstrings. “I’m doing just fine, Princess. I’ve got my dad, and Sammy’s safe in California. He’s still my brother, and it’s not like he’s fucking dead. So I’m good.”

She raised her brows, an amusement that made Dean’s gut boil written over Her face. “Yeah, you really sound it.”

He narrowed his eyes. “Watch it-“

“Or what.” She hissed, leaning forward until Dean was almost drowning in Her. “You gonna run to John and tell him that the little moroi bitch is bullying you? That you need to hurry up on the hunt, because you can’t stand that I’m going to get this thing all by my fucking self-“

“All by-“ Dean stared at Her. “You’re still hunting alone?”

Her face twisted, her words hushed and furious. “That is none of your fucking business-“

“It is if you’re going to get yourself killed-“ 

She snorted. “Shut the fuck up. Don’t pretend like you give a shit about me-“

“I give a shit if you end up monster chow.” Dean sneered, pretending something wasn’t cracking along his ribs at the certain, settled hatred in Her voice. “The job is saving people, not choosing who. You try and jump in front of that ghost, I’ll stop you-“

“Please,” She scoffed, narrowing her eyes. “I’d like to see you fucking try.”

Dean’s breathing was ragged. His heart was violent in his chest, and his hands were curled at his side, and She was so fucking infuriating. Dean shouldn’t give a shit about Her, but his skin felt like it was being flayed at the thought of Her in danger or pain, and She shouldn’t sound like she was wounded by being the little moroi bitch, because She was, and Dean wanted to grab Her by the neck and slam his lips to Her’s-

“Stay out of my way, Winchester.” She hissed, still so close, and looking so warm and soft, and Dean was so close to figuring out what the hell that fruit was-

She was gone. She leaned back in a rough, sharp movement—like Dean was a magnet and She was only just strong enough to pull herself away—and just walked away. 

He might be stuck here forever—on the edge of the woods outside Woodstock’s haunted house—his body trying to cling to her and his brain trying to erase Her forever. It was something he’d been trying to do for a year, something he’d never managed, and something that was made so much more difficult by the fact that She looked back. That their eyes met one last time, and it was like lightning through his blood.

He would have chased Her in Dad hadn’t called right then. He spent the next two days trying to convince himself he wouldn’t have, but it was a fucking lie. He wasn’t sure what he would have done when he caught Her, but he would’ve chased Her. Rushed after Her and asked why had She lied, why did She look like she wanted to punch Dean when She’d been the one to hurt him, if She had looked back because she could feel it too. Feel the gravity, feel the drug, feel the storm that threatened to consume Dean in Her name. Ask if She dreamt of him, ask if She saw him in shadows, ask if She was a monster and beg her to set him free.

But he hadn’t chased after Her. So it didn’t matter. Dad had picked Dean up—long after She’d been gone, Dean still rooted in place, his head still spinning—and he hadn’t seen Her since, so it didn’t matter. Maybe She’d left. Maybe She’d just skipped town, and Dean would never see her again.

That shouldn’t feel horrible. It should be relieving, the idea that he’d won. That he’d gotten the hunt, gotten Her away from him, gotten a justification for why he hadn’t told Dad he’d seen Her. It would mean that She was gone, and Dean could pretend that had never happened at all. But it still felt like fucking shit, and Dean couldn’t figure out how to stop it. It ate away at his brain as the days blurred together, and they hit dead end after dead end. She remained at least out of sight, Dean still didn’t tell Dad that She’d ever been in town, and the hauntings just fucking stopped. No more lights, no more temperature drops, no more screaming Woodstock. 

It couldn’t have been Her. There were no graveyard disturbances, She hadn’t entered the house since their conversation, and it wasn’t like the EMF was gone. On the second day of no activity they’d had broken into Woodstock’s house, checked to see if it was gone, and it wasn’t. It had just stopped haunting.

Dad was losing his mind. He was barely speaking to Dean, shooting down all his ideas, and mostly just reading book after book and grumbling that it didn’t make any goddamn sense. Ghosts just didn’t stop, they still didn’t know who the hell the son of a bitch was, and they couldn’t leave until this thing was dealt with.

Dean suggested drinks—the motel room was starting to feel like a cage, they both needed it, and maybe the answer would be one or two bottles deep—and Dad had grunted an agreement. It was a small victory, but a victory all the same. Maybe Dean could find a woman there to distract from this disaster, distract him from Her-

He didn’t need to be distracted from Her. There was nothing to distract from. Dean might be dreaming about Her still—dreams where he did grab Her and kiss her, She fell to her knees and he went right down with Her, and it was fucking awesome—but She wasn’t anywhere real around him, so it didn’t matter. Every shadow on the darkened street was shaped like Her, but shadows weren’t real. That gravity in Dean’s chest was trying pull and pry Dean open so She could take a look, but that was just an emotion, and Dean wasn’t about to be some sort of pussy about his feelings. The whole bar seemed to smell like that strange fucking fruit and sugar, but Dean could just be losing his mind. The woman in the booth looked exactly like Her, and sat with her knees tucked up like she did, and was wearing the same shirt-

Shit.

“Dad, I don’t feel great, maybe we could-“

“You’ve gotta be fuckin’ kidding me.”

Dean felt the blood drain from his face. Dad had seen Her. His face was drawn in a scowl, the glare he used during hunts was furrowing at his brow, and there was a glint in his eyes that set everything on edge.

He was fucked. She was going to tell Dad they’d run into each other, Dad would fucking murder him for not mentioning it, and She’d just fuck off and get herself killed with the ghost. Dean didn’t know why that last one felt just as terrifying as Dad’s wrath, but it might actually be worse. Dad wouldn’t actually kill him. He’d get yelled at and probably banned from driving for a month, but Dad would never hurt him. 

Dad would hurt Her. He was already stalking over to Her booth—She hadn’t even looked up, which didn’t increase Dean’s faith in Her lone hunting abilities—with white-knuckled fists that would have probably collided with Her face if she wasn’t a chick. Dean barely ran after him in time for them to reach the booth, to stop at Dad’s side right as he slammed his hand on the table.

She flinched slightly as she looked up, and the air around them became wired and electric.

“What the hell are you doin’ here, girl.” Dad lowered himself down to Her eye level as he spat the words out. “Ain’t no way you’re in town just by fuckin’ coincidence.”

She huffed a dry laugh, holding Dad’s gaze as she answered. “Not a coincidence. Just me, having the worst luck in the world.” Her attention finally turned to Dean, he felt alive, and Her words remained just as flat as before. “Hiya, Deano. You look like shit.” She looked back to Dad, her pretty lips curling into a smirk. “You both look like shit.”

“You think you’re smart-“

She snorted, cutting Dad off with a bored grin. “I am smart. Sit down, you’re drawing attention.”

She waved a loose hand around the bar, and She was right. People were wide eyed, watching them nervously, and they didn’t need that. Attention was bad in this line of business. It was downright dangerous. And Dad knew that, so he gave Dean a curt nod to listen to Her, and slid into the booth once Dean was settled across from Her. 

It was a little freaking insane, how She only got prettier. How in the low, golden light of the bar she seemed to have a halo around Her head. But it wasn’t real. Nothing about Her was real, and Dean would have to remember that. Dad was real, was looking at Her like she’d tried to key the Impala, and Dean needed to figure out where that hatred for Her had gone and bring it back. Convince Her to skip town—because She’d get in the way, not because the idea of Her being thrown across a room by a spirit made him sick—and cover his own ass, because he was still in danger of Her snitching on him. 

But She was hardly looking at him. Her attention was divided between Dad, her own hands, and the neon red, cherry and ice and paper umbrella drink in front of Her-

“Are you drinking a fucking Shirley Temple?” Dean spoke before he could stop himself, and She shot him a glare.

“You got a problem with that, Winchester?”

“Nah,” Dean shrugged, a smirk tugging at his lips. “I just didn’t know you were that much a prissy little princess-“

“They’re good drinks, dick.” She snapped. “It’s called having fun. Something you two buttheads,” She gestured between Dean and Dad. “Clearly know nothing about.”

Dean learned forward, bracing his elbows on the table. “I know plenty about having fun, sweetheart. Some might call me a master at it.“

She snorted. It was freaking adorable. “Some might call you a manwhore-“

“Watch yourself, girl.” Dad snapped, and Dean’s whole body tightened. Everything was rigid from the fury on Dad’s face—all directed at Her, all sick in Dean’s stomach—and raw from Her words. 

Manwhore. She wasn’t wrong, and he’d been called a lot worse, but it still stung like a freaking hornet along the cavity of his chest. There was no way for Her to know that, unless Dean’s whole face just screamed lonely. Lonely fucking trash to be used up and forgotten. It didn’t. He was so goddamn careful to ensure it didn’t. Even Dad didn’t know the extent of that pit, so it was impossible for Her to, and why did it feel like She’d just punched him in the gut-

“Listen to me,” Dad hissed Her full name, and it was a low threat that snapped Dean back into his body. “Skip town. This is our case, and we don’t need some fancy brat gettin’ in our way.”

She glanced at Dean, and he almost didn’t catch the small frown on Her face. It was fleeting—barely a flash on Her gorgeous features—but strong. Reaching all the way to Her eyes and filling them with an emotion Dean didn’t understand.

But then it was gone. And when She looked back to Dad her face was in bored and taunting once more. 

“I’m hate to break it to you, buddy, but ghosts don’t care about dibs.” Her lips curled into a smirk, and this was it. She was going to rat Dean out, he was dead-

“Lucky for you,” She picked up Her drink and leaned back in her seat. “It’s not a ghost. So maybe if you ask it really nicely, it’ll refuse to be killed by anyone but you.”

Dad scowled. “What the hell are you talkin’ about, girl. This ain’t another moroi thing, this is a fuckin’ ghost-“

“It’s not.” She grinned at them from around Her straw, and shit She had nice lips. They were a little puckered, Dean could still remember how soft they’d been, and they’d probably look even better wrapped around Dean’s-

“Whatever game you’re playin’,” Dad hissed at Her, snapping Dean out of his thoughts. “Cut the shit and say what you mean.”

She hummed, still wearing a bright, mocking grin. “You think it’s a ghost.”

“It is a ghost,” Dean muttered, watching Her carefully. “You’re not stupid, Princess, EMF plus random flying plates equals evil Casper.”

“That’s true.” She dropped Her empty glass on the table, leaning toward with a shrug. “But it’s still not a ghost.”

“You heard Dean, girl, it’s a ghost, plain and goddamn simple.”

“Have you seen it?” 

Dean glanced at Dad, and he’d bet a lot of money that their expressions were identical in pure freaking confusion.

“We don’t have time,” Dad grunted, his voice low and edged. “For fucking riddles. You-“

“It’s not a riddle.” She raised her brows, picking a cherry out of the glass. “Have either of you actually seen your alleged ghost? Did Maggie Rose tell you she saw it?”

Maggie Rose. Woodstock. The woman who would’ve definitely seen the ghost by now.

And who hadn’t mentioned it a single goddamn time.

“I’m guessing you haven’t found remains either.” She hummed, picking the cherry off the stem with Her teeth. “And you’ve been looking for who the ghost could be, but you’re not finding anything. You’ve been looking in the wrong place. Poltergeist’s don’t have to haunt the places where they died, and they often have little to no connection with their victims.”

Dad’s eyes narrowed. “This thing ain’t nearly violent enough to be a poltergeist-“

“That’s because it’s been getting enough attention so far. Maggie’s been screaming about it, and it’s found that satisfying enough.” She spun the stem between two fingers, looking between Dad And Dean with a triumphant grin. “Poltergeist.”

Dean was pretty sure Dad was going to leap across the table and strangle Her. His jaw was clenched, his body stiff at Dean’s side, and his words—when he finally spoke—were pushed through his teeth. 

“Dean.” He grunted, not looking away from Her. “I have to make a call to your uncle. Deal with her.”

“Yes, sir.” Dean nodded, and Dad slid out of the booth without another word. Leaving Dean.

But not alone.

Dean blinked at Her. Dad was gone, and She hadn’t mentioned that they’d seen each other before. Shit, She hadn’t even mentioned Sam, and his obvious absence. Dad would just chalk that up to Her being a bitch, but Dean was clinging to it. She should’ve said it. She had every reason to. But She fucking hadn’t, and some part of Dean was desperate to know why. To know if it was because the idea of him in trouble made Her feel like her skin was being ripped to shreds. It felt like that for Dean, whenever he was reminded that She hunted alone. Whenever a memory of Her covered in blood flashed through his brain. 

And he could still feel it. Feel the electricity in the air that was so different than before. It was charged and tense, but in a way that made Dean feel like he was breathing. He could feel things that didn’t make sense, but they were right. She was right. Across the table, running Her hands over her calves and watching Dean like he might try to take a bite of Her, She still felt like she could fit against him like another piece. 

“You’re not going to deal with me.”

Dean frowned at Her. She wasn’t meeting his gaze, poking the paper umbrella around the glass. “What?”

“What your dad said,” She muttered. “He told you to deal with me. You won’t.”

“What makes you think that?”

She finally looked at him. Really looked at him, for the first time since last year. On the curb She’d seen him, but not looked at him. Not like before. Not like that. Where Dean felt like She was seeing right into the pit—how empty and fucking pathetically worthless he was—and filling it up with something peaceful and silver and molten in his gut, like a melted star lighting him up from the inside. He wished it was real. Dean wished, more than almost fucking anything, that he didn’t know that this was part of Her scam or game. That She was looking at him like that because he made Her feel stripped and raw too. Because She saw something in him she wanted, and just kept digging for more without fear of him breaking Her.

But he also wished he wasn’t so fucking lonely that he could care about that. That he could get a hold over himself and just deal with Her. That She wasn’t giving him a strangely soft smile, and he wasn’t caving from how it made his heart freaking glow like a night-light. 

“Because,” She said, like it was simple. Like Dean should just know what she meant. “You won’t.”

“I might.” He leaned forward, holding Her eyes on his as he smirked. “You’re putting yourself in danger, Princess. Dealing with you would be the responsible thing to do.”

“Really.” Her voice was dry, disbelieving. “How would you deal with me, Dean Winchester?”

God, She was trying to kill him. She was looking at him like that, and there was a smug smirk on Her full lips, and Dean had spent the last year hating Her but now all he could think about was how the universe that existed in Her eyes, and how he wanted to see every inch of it. Bare skin and brilliant eyes that had been phantoms in is sleep, now real and touchable. He had a million ways he’d like to deal with Her, and all of them started with those blinding fucking eyes. Rolling back in Her head and fluttering under him and sparkling on his. Her voice saying his name like it was more than just a breath, like it was the blood in Her veins-

“I’m afraid that’s top secret, Princess.” Dean dragged himself together to shoot Her a wink, and he could’ve sworn she flushed. “But I’ll tell you if you give me that answer you owe me.”

She gave him a strange look. “We were even.”

Dean shook his head. “You had asked me two questions. I only asked you one.”

There was a small, frowning pout on Her lips, and Dean realized She might be trying to work out if he was lying. He wasn’t. That conversation lived in the corners of his brain all the goddamn time, he couldn’t forget it if he tried. And he had. He’d bet his life that he was right. She’d asked him two questions about Dad and Sam, called him De, and his whole brain had short-circuited. He’d only realized on the drive back, and he’d been planning to use that to try and get Her to do the game again, but-

But She’d been tricking him. A con-woman and spoiled bitch who had been planning to use him. He’d seen the evidence. He knew that’s what was real. That between them, Dean wasn’t the liar.

He should care about that more. He should stand up and leave, or threaten Her to get the hell out of Dad’s way, or at least stop fucking smiling at Her. But She’d nodded, dropping Her knees down to lean closer, and he was drugged on Her voice and smell and face.

And he stayed.

“Fine.” She said, and Dean felt a thrill-like rush through his body. She was so pretty. “Go.”

He didn’t have a question ready. He hadn’t really expected Her to agree. But She had, and now he was staring at Her, trying to find something. Anything at all that didn’t make him look like a gaping dumbass, lost in Her eyes and high on her smell. He should ask everything he’d wanted to scream at Her on the street, and throw in a shout of why the hell didn’t you tell my dad I knew you were here. It didn’t make any goddamn sense that She hadn’t, and Dean needed to know why. That’s what he should ask. He should just freaking ask why.

“Where are you staying?”

Son of a bitch. That wasn’t what he’d meant to ask, now She was staring at him like he was some kind of creep or asshole, and Dean had to figure out how the hell he could justify asking that.

“For the case,” he added quickly, his voice drained of most of the artificial, cocky arrogance he prided himself on. “Ya’ know. In case we need to find you.”

“You won’t.” She said, Her finger running over that scar on her palm. “This is my case-“

“Yeah, and you’ve got it handled.” Dean drawled, raising his brows. “You gonna answer the question?”

She sighed. “Same motel you’re at. Down the road.”

He shook his head. “No, I haven’t seen your car-“

“You remember my car?” 

He felt a little heat rush to his face, only worsened by how there was a little, dancing light in Her eyes that was trying to draw him into Her, as if he was only a moth and she was the freaking sun. And of course he remembered that car. It was Her car. He’d felt something seize in his chest every time he’d seen one like it for the last year. 

“I like cars,” Dean grumbled—hoping She wouldn’t see it for the half-lie it was—and a small smile pulled at her lips. It looked a little too real.

“Like your dad’s.” She nodded, starting to fish ice cubes out of Her glass. “The Impala.”

It was Dean’s turn to grin. “You remember my car?”

She definitely flushed that time. “Yeah,” She mumbled. “It’s memorable. Shut up and answer my question.”

Dean raised his brows, remained silents, and tried to bait Her into saying it again. It worked.

“You’re such a-“ She cut herself off with a sigh and roll of Her eyes. “How would you deal with me.”

“I’m so glad you asked,” Dean drawled Her name, feeling his grin overtake his face, every bit of his confidence returning—stronger than before—as She swallowed under his gaze. “I’d deal with you however you’d like.”

She blinked at him, and he was certain Her voice was higher than before. “I don’t, um, I-“ She glanced down at his lips, Her tongue poking out between her teeth. Dean wanted to bite it. “What?”

“However you tell me to,” he winked, and She looked like he’d shot her. Good. “I’ll deal with you. My question is how?”

“How-“

“How would you like me to deal with you, Princess?” 

Dean was pushing it. Shit, he didn’t even know what he was saying anymore, or why he couldn’t bring himself to sneer at Her, or mock her, or deal with her the way Dad had definitely meant. But he did know that Her eyes were wide and blown out, and Her lips looked soft, and he wanted to know if could get Her to be speechless. To gape at him all needy and dumb, so he could show Her exactly what fire She’d been playing with. That he wouldn’t roll over like a puppy, that whatever spell She’d cast on him—whatever aphrodisiac she’d been using—Dean might not be immune, but he could give better than he got. Maybe he’d get Her to bend enough that She’d admit what she’d been doing last year, and Dean would forgive Her because he didn’t know how not to. Because She was like tattoo on his brain that he didn’t want to get rid of.

Maybe he’d get to keep Her.

Maybe they could start over.

“I…” She trailed off, and Dean wanted to smash his lips to Her slack, open ones and start over. She was still gaping at him with a wide, open expression, and fuck he wanted to start over so bad. Against every bit of willpower and intelligence he had, Dean wanted to give into this strange instinct and start over.

“C’mon.” He drawled Her name, shooting her a wink. “Use some words.”

She glared at him, something hot flashing in Her eyes. “Pass. Ask me a different question.”

Dean scoffed under, dropping his voice to under his breath. “Who’s not fun now-“

“I heard that.”

“Course you did.” He rolled his eyes. “Fine, party pooper. What do you like?” 

She blinked at him. "What do I like?"

"Like you said, sweetheart, I like cars." Dean said, trying to make his words sound casual. Like he wasn't desperate to learn everything about Her that she'd offer. "What's your thing?"

"My thing." She said slowly, still looking at Dean like he was insane. "That I like."

He nodded, watching Her carefully, and she frowned into the air as she continued. 

"I don't know. Books? Movies and music?"

Dean gave Her an amused, flat look. "C'mon, you can gimme more than that-"

"No, I can't." She snapped. She was really hot when she snapped. "Movies and music is my answer, Winchester, deal with it."

Dean drawled Her name. “Everyone likes movies and music-“ 

“That doesn’t make it any less important to me.” She said, narrowing her eyes. “How would you like it if I said everyone drives cars-“ 

Dean scoffed. “They don’t drive them like I do, Princess-“ 

“And you don’t watch movies and listen to music like I do, Deano.” 

He chuckled, raising his hands in surrender. “Alright. Point proven.” He titled his head at Her. “What’s your favorite movie?” 

She laughed. A real laugh, and it sounded like music and rain and a soft summer breeze that shot right into Dean’s blood like a drug. “It’s my question, De. But nice try.”

He grinned at Her, clicking his tongue. "Bossy-"

"Shut up." She tilted her head at him, and Dean just grinned. "What's your favorite movie?"

"Untouchables." He said with a shrug. "Your turn."

She just looked at him with a small, teasing grin, and Dean realized she was waiting for him to repeat the question.

He chuckled, shaking his head. "Fine, sweetheart. What's your favorite movie?"

Her face split into a wide, full grin, and God, he was fucked. Nothing in the world seemed to matter more than that smile, and the way it made him feel like he was circling the sun, crashing down to Earth in a ball of fire, and turning to steam as She swallowed him in her gravity. He really didn't give a shit if it was real. Maybe Dean could get himself to be bloody and bright enough to match Her, and she'd feel this too. She'd feel this, and stay, and offer an explanation about last year. An explanation that would prove it wasn't all that bad, and that She was just as fucking empty as Dean was, and he'd fill Her up-

Fuck, he couldn't think that. Not right now, when She looked like that—beautiful in a way that might be deadly—and was smiling at him, and he couldn't get a damn grip and just hate Her. He wasn't supposed to be crashing back up into Her. Dad would be so freaking disappointed that Dean was dumb enough to fall for this act again.

But he was. His jeans felt tight, he couldn't stop grinning at Her, and that siren-like voice kept Dean in her orbit, with absolutely no desire to leave.

She had a million favorite movies. And She hadn't been lying. She watched movies differently than Dean did. Differently that anyone did. He'd never heard anyone use so many big art words in a row, followed by about twenty, very creative swears at a speed he could only describe as frantic. Like if She didn't get Dean to understand exactly why Indiana Jones was the perfect adventure movie, why chick flicks had irreplaceable cultural value, and sitcoms could be the best medium of television, the world might end.

And it should be reminding him that they weren't the same. That Dean was trapped in the mud—he'd been born here, he'd die here, and he belonged here—because it was the only place for things like him. Gut covered weapons, made of rust that would crumble to dust before they made it out alive. And She was just visiting. Using the mud to make Her feel alive or important until she could return to a world of people with ivory and marble who all spoke like this. She was using Dean to do the same, maybe more. Maybe worse. Maybe trying to pry him open and steal what little he had inside him. 

But, son of a bitch, She could have it. He'd stay right here with Her for a million freaking years, just as long as She kept smiling and rambling and giggling at Dean's small jokes between Her breathes. Maybe he could take that bite out of Her. Taste sugar and fruit and whatever else he was starting crave. He could take Her flesh and blood and call it even for what She’d done, because She was still so pretty, and Dean felt like he could be valuable under Her bright attention.

He’d repay Her for that bite by offering himself. He'd be that smeared, dulled weapon for Her. He shouldn't be. Dad would kill him. But he wanted to be. He wanted to stay here forever. And when the waitress came over—with plastic tits and syrupy words—he didn't even fully realize until She cleared her throat and jerked her head to the side. Even then he just frowned at Her, a drunken trance of her voice and smile still clouding his attention, because what the hell could possibly be more interesting—more important—than listening to Her talk?

Then the waitress leaned down, almost blocking Her from view, and Dean frowned.

"What?" His voice was irritated, impatient, but he didn't really care. He needed think lady to freaking move, before She somehow vanished like a dream through Dean's fingers, and he was alone again.

"You want anythin' to drink, handsome? The waitress asked, and Dean nodded. He could use a beer—it might help dull the raging wildfire inside him, trying to tear him between his hatred of what he knew She was and the raw, feral instinct to latch onto Her and never let go—and Her glass was almost out of ice cubes. If he got Her another glass, he could keep Her here just a little longer. As long as he could.

"Beer for me," he raised two fingers, pointing between Her and himself. "Virgin Shirley Temple for the lady."

The waitress blinked at him for a second, but got the message. Dean had Her. He didn't need to company of another pretty face, because none of them could be prettier that Her's. Shit, it wasn't even a fair comparison. Leaving this booth for anything—leaving Her for anything—would be like trading a burger for a fucking salad. Insane and pointless.

When the waitress finally moved, She was gaping at him, her words suddenly soft. Almost nervous. 

"You, um-" She shook her head slightly. "Thanks."

Dean shrugged. "Not a big deal, you blew through that fancy girl drink in like a second anyway-"

"No, that's not-" She frowned at him, and Dean realized she was touching that scar again. "You remembered. That I don't drink."

"Oh." Dean stared at Her, his tongue almost glued into his mouth, his brain a little warm and soft from Her almost vulnerable gaze. "Yeah."

They were just staring at each other, and all Dean could manage to do was clear his throat, scratch the back of his neck, and force himself to speak. 

"You, uh," he swallowed, fidgeting with the cuff of his jacket. "Never mentioned why."

"Why-"

"You don't drink."

"I'm not twenty-one yet, Winchester, I don't think I-" She cut herself off, leaning a little away from Dean with a small frown. He waited, the silence resuming for a long, heavy second that sat and froze in Dean's lungs. She wasn't looking at him anymore, twisting a ring on Her finger, and when She spoke again, her voice had dropped to a mumble. "I want a clear head. It's safer."

"Safer?"

"For our job." She curled a little into herself, like Dean was trying to peel her apart. "I mean, I can't really afford to get drunk. It could end, uh, badly."

Something became sharp over Dean's skin. That wasn't it. It wasn't a lie, but Dean could read it all over Her—he wasn't sure how, but he could—that there was more to it. But that's not why there was a sore prickle rooted in his muscles. 

"Because you hunt alone."

She nodded, bringing Her knees up to her chest, and the ache worsened. 

"You could drink." He muttered, leaning back with a slight slam of his hand on the table. "If you'd hunt with a partner."

She sighed. "I'm not going to hunt with a partner-"

"Why?"

He'd snapped. He hadn't meant to, but the ache moved to his mouth and he needed Her to understand. To get that hunting alone was fucking dangerous, and would get Her killed, and he cared about that so goddamn much for no real reason. He shouldn't care. But the thought of Her covered in blood make his gut twist and his heart burn in his chest, so She needed to get it. Now.

She narrowed her eyes, finally looking at him. "Why what."

"Why won't you hunt with a partner." He grumbled, holding Her gaze. "What would make that so fucking bad, sweetheart?"

"Because, as I've told you all week, I don't need to.” Her words were firm, dropped to a hushed sneer. "Anyone else would get in my way."

"I haven't even seen you since the freaking house," Dean said Her name with a low huff. "How could that be getting in the way-"

"I'd be fucking babysitting." She hissed. "I don't need a bunch of assholes tell me what to do, how to fight, how to kill something, how to-"

"Be safe?" Dean cut Her off with a sneer. "Not act like you're too good for anyone else?"

"I never said that, you asshole." She was starting to hug herself, and Dean felt ill, but he wouldn't be the one to break. "I am not too good, I just refuse to be a little hunter fuck-doll beating bag."

Dean blinked. "What?”

She sighed in flat, unamused disbelief. "Hunter's don't have great track records with women. I mean, be fucking real, dude. It wouldn't be the monster's that kill me."

"You," he shook his head. "That's- There are assholes out there everywhere, that doesn't mean you just roll over and accept death-"

"So what should I do?" She raised Her brows. "Be your partner? Be you and your father's little fucking toy until one of you puts a bullet-"

She cut herself off, and Dean gaped at Her, fire crawling over his veins.

"I-" She swallowed, and Dean wished he didn't give a fuck how She suddenly seemed so small. "I'm-"

"Do you seriously believe," Dean muttered, unsure if the fire in his voice was for himself, Dad, or how She looked like a wounded animal. "That we'd- Shit, are you fucking kidding me-"

"It's- I-"

"Save it," He snapped. "We are not killers or fucking savage trash-"

"That's not-"

"You listen to me, Princess-"

"No! I just-" She sounded panicked. Cornered. "I’m sorry, I didn't mean it like that, it's complicated-"

He scoffed. "Not that complicated, sweetheart, you think I'm just as bad as that shit we hunt-"

"No I don't-"

"You do," he hissed Her name. "Drop the act. And, just so we're clear, I'd never hurt you-"

She laughed, shaking Her head. "You can't be fucking serious. That’s-“ She tensed, her face twisting slightly as she scratched at Her skin. "You don't get to tell me what I should and shouldn't do, Winchester. You don't get to act like you give a fuck if I hunt alone."

Dean's hand curled into a fist. "Nobody should hunt alone, it's, fuck, it's stupid-"

"I am not stupid-"

Dean huffed a dry laugh. "I got that, Princess. But you know what? I think," he leaned forward, letting the words fall out of his mouth before he could think about them. Before he could stop them. "That you're just too much of a crazy bitch to have anyone stick around."

It was silent, and She was just staring at him, her features moving through a million emotions that Dean couldn't understand. He'd won. She looked like he'd taken a knife right to Her heart, and she wasn't fighting back, so he'd won. And he couldn't fucking breathe. He felt sick, and faint, and freaking awful-

"Choke on my dick, Winchester.” She snapped, but there was something weaker in Her voice. Something that told Dean he’d hit on something fragile. That he was a piece of fucking shit that went for the killing blow because he couldn't help it. Because he was the very fucking, lower-than-the-sewers trash She'd just accused him of being-

He opened his mouth to say something, anything, to take it back or say they'd both gone too far, and he felt like shit and still wanted—despite literally everything—to start over. To at least ask Her to tell him the truth, to at least tell Her how hating her like this made him feel wrong-

But She was gone. She'd left the booth and stomped out the door before Dean could even make a sound, and he just goddamn sat there. She wouldn't come back, but he was still just sitting there. Dad was probably waiting for him, ready to demand a reason why he'd taken so long, but Dean still just sat there. Shit, they might have a poltergeist to deal with, but Dean wasn't freaking moving.

What finally got him was the waitress, making her way back to the table and saying some snide comment about his girlfriend not appreciating him. Dean didn't even spare the woman a look as he shot up, shoved past her, and marched out into the parking lot to find Dad and get the hell out of here. If Dad asked, Dean would say he'd taken care of it. Not of Her—She'd looked like he'd torn Her to shreds with his teeth—but the situation. She'd probably be gone by morning, not wanting to be anywhere near two mud and gut covered hunters. Near Dean.

Dad was still on the phone when Dean saw the Impala. Sitting in the front seat with a frown, the windows rolled down to combat the flat heat of air, speaking in a low, gruff voice to whoever was on the other end of the line.

"I don't care," he was muttering as Dean approached, his voice carried on the wind. "I can get the asshole no problem, Bobby, the poltergeist ain't my issue."

It was a poltergeist. If Bobby said it was a poltergeist, it was a poltergeist. She'd been right. And as Dean got closer, Dad obviously couldn't see him in the shadows, so he should probably say something to alert Dad that he was here

"Obviously it's the fuckin' girl." Dad snapped, and Dean froze. "Shit, she just shows up again? On another weird fuckin' case, bein' right about what it is, sinkin' her claws into Dean-"

Dad stopped talking—Bobby was probably saying something Dean couldn't hear—and Dean's breathing was shallow. He shouldn't be eavesdropping. Dad would kill him, and he just shouldn't. He trusted Dad, and if this wasn't something Dad wanted to hear, it wasn't something he had to hear. But She hadn't sunken Her claws into him. She'd just scratched him over his brain and scarred him, but Dad couldn't see that. She just haunted him, and drove him mad, and made him want to-

"She's the one Dean's obsessed with."

Dean frowned. He was not obsessed with Her. 

"She's a hunter alright. That moroi case me and the boys worked-" There was a small pause. "Yeah, moroi. Freakin' nasty little vampire baby shits. She-" Dad huffed, and Dean could hear the muffled sound of Bobby's voice. It sounded urgent. 

Then Dad said Her full name into the speaker, and Dean could hear his frown. "You heard of her, Bobby?"

Bobby must have said no—there was no reason for him to know Her—but whatever he did say made Dad's hands grip the wheel with white knuckles.

"The hell you mean you have to go- Bobby-" John groaned, the click of his phone being closed snapping through the air and Dean swallowed. The call was over. Time to pretend he wasn’t a piece of fucking shit that had been invading Dad's privacy.

Dean moved out of the shadows and opened the car door, Dad barely waiting for him to be seated before he started talking.

"We got a poltergeist." He grunted, turning on the engine. "Let's go."

Dean blinked. "Go? Like, now?"

"Damn right, now." Dad shot him a raised brow. "Why, you fuckin' waiting for somethin'-"

"No, sir." Dean shook his head, and Dad nodded, still watching him carefully.

"You take care of the girl?"

"Uh, yeah." Dean hated that the words tasted rotten in his mouth. "She's gone."

Dad nodded. "Remember, son. No pair of tits are worth more-"

"Then family." Dean finished. He'd heard that sentence enough to recite it in his sleep. It didn't matter. She didn't matter. Dean felt like a fucking asshole, but She didn't matter. "I know, Dad."

"Good." Dad muttered, pulling out of the lot. "Let's kill this fuckin' poltergeist and get the hell out of here."

—————————

Bobby doesn't know you're here. He thinks you're in Louisiana still, dealing with the kelpie.

You're not. You're in Illinois. Trying something on a poltergeist.

You'll tell him when you get home. Explain that you'd just wanted to test your ghost ritual again, and if you'd told that him before, he would've snapped that testing that stuff was dangerous, and the thing had already worked once, so there wasn't any goddamn reason to risk it again. 

And he was right. The rituals and spell and curses that had started to come to you in the dead of night—when it was just you and the White in the world, and the darkness became consuming—weren’t exactly safe to test on hunts. Not because of the rituals themselves, but because of the exposure. The danger of using magic where you could be discovered by another hunter. But you had to test them. You didn't know where they were coming from or how to stop them, but they always worked. You wake up and know that, if you said all these words and mixed these things together, you could make a veil between dead spirits and the living. A barrier that didn't kill the ghosts, but stopped them. A blockade that could be torn down, but bought you plenty of time and minimized any casualties. 

It was why Bobby wasn't stopping you. He insisted you stay far away from other hunters, and update him after every test to make sure you hadn't blown yourself up or worse, but he wasn't trying to hold you back. Convince you to just drown in the darkness until it eroded the White, and you lost control forever. But he still wouldn't be happy about the second test. And you could've justified it by pointing out that this was actually a poltergeist, so you'd had to figure out how to alter the ritual, but then you saw the Winchester's Impala in your motel parking lot. 

Which meant this it would be stupid to keep working the case. It meant you were in danger, because they were probably hunting the same poltergeist you were trying to do magical experiments on. 

Worse, it meant Dean was here.

And you're going to fucking scream.

He'd never left your brain. You haven't stopped moving, you never stop moving, but Dean has followed you everywhere. Into your head every second, still circling around his handsome face and pretty face and beautiful smile. Into the darkness when it started to slip out of you, fueled by an echo of unworthy and sick, edged with the phantom feeling of his body at your side.

He was in countless, lonely motel beds where you looked to the side and expected him to be there. He was on the curb when you were covered in grime and monster guts, and you looked up to find the shadow above you only a shadow. He was in your bag, because you’d never thrown out his shirt. It didn’t smell like him anymore—he was there too, in wet grass in the spring and the spice of cheap aftershave on a man in a bar—but you were still holding onto it. Holding onto Dean.

You weren’t sure what could make you let go. You’d even started to fish for information about him from Bobby with careful questions about the Winchesters. What they usually hunted, so you could avoid them. What Sam and Dean were like, in case you ever ran into them, so you’d know what to expect. If they always hunted with John, or if they ever went off on their own. Bobby would always give you a strange look and a short answer—whatever they ran into, they’re good boys in the same shit situation as every other hunter, and John never let them hunt alone—but you’d pieced more from what you already knew. Sam hated hunting, and Dean loved it, their relationship with John was complicated—you could’ve gotten that one yourself—and Dean was what Bobby called eager with women.

He slept around. He’d probably been trying to sleep with you, and given up when he realized that you weren’t easy. That you were tired and rough and so, so angry all the time. That you might be beautiful, but the same was a thunderstorm is beautiful. The same was a statue is beautiful.

Something you shouldn’t touch. Something you shouldn’t try to hold, even for a night.

Something that wasn’t worth Dean Winchester time. Something he’d seen, turned away from, and then left you. He’d left you because he’d seen you for what you were, and he hadn’t wanted anything from you in the first place, but he’d still fucking left you. And you hated him for that, because you’d been ready to offer him whatever he wanted. Against all reason and logic and caution, you’d wanted him more than you could describe. 

And against all your willpower, you couldn’t let go of him. Because you’d seen the Impala in the parking lot—the one you’d been searching for on every highway, in every small town and city—and the force of Dean is here had hit you like a hurricane. Everything had felt so fucking big, and you couldn’t hold onto the darkness in your body as your breathing became heavy and you attempted to keep yourself together. Nails digging into your skin as the wind howled through your room, the peeled paint on the walls cowering from you as your attention became vigilant, everything crashing back down into you when you bit down, and a lightbulb shattered across the room.

You’d avoided him. You’d hidden in crowds on the street when you saw him, and ducked behind shelves when he entered the corner store. You’d kept your shades angled so you could see the parking lot, and pushed down the way the White howled at the sight of him coming and going. You’d planned to handle the hunt in silence, and then just go.

The house owner was a sweet hippy who agreed to let you do the ritual when you told her she had the aura of a swan. You’d give it a few days after to ensure the barrier could hold, get rid of the poltergeist for good, and then leave without the Winchester’s ever even knowing you were here.

Then you’d seen Dean in the woods, and you couldn’t resist talking to him. He’d seen you anyway, so there wasn’t anything left to lose. And he’d still been so pretty, and your knees still felt weak, and the White still whined for him no matter how much of a dick he was being. It was insufferable, you’d left with darkness eating at your blood, and you’d looked back. You couldn’t stop looking back. Every time you had run on the street you’d turned around to see if he was frowning in adorable confusion around the busy sidewalks. When he was in the parking lot you’d checked to see if he was still pretty, even though you knew he would be. Of course he would be. He was an asshole like that. 

You’d looked back outside of the poltergeist house because you had to. You had to see if he was real or just another flickering dream, and you couldn’t resist the desire to see him—staring at you on the street and suffocating you with that same smell from last year—one more time. It’s why you hadn’t skipped town right after. It’s why you’d stayed so long in the bar. You just fucking had to. You could fight against his winks and grins and smooth words, making you smile when you hated him, making you laugh when you should’ve been running. It had seemed—for whatever strange reason—that Dean hadn’t told John you were here, but he definitely knew now, and you were certainly in very real danger. But Dean had carved you open again, and you’d stayed in that stupid booth until he’d given you a good reason to leave.

And it was a great reason. It would’ve been kinder to shoot you in the temple than say that. At least he would’ve killed you, and you wouldn’t have had to wage this war in your body. The war between your hatred of him, and how you want to go back. He’s such a fucking asshole, but you still want to turn around and go back. To ask him why he left, why he cares, how he seems to know your every raw nerve and if he's still feels this too. If he felt it before. 

You don't really want to know that last one. Because if he felt it before, that means he felt it and left. That he can feel it now and hates you for it. 

Because he does hate you. If it wasn't in his words, it was all over his face. How he’d laughed like you were just a silly little girl. How he’d looked right into you like he could see the darkness. How he’d grinned at you like a wolf, like he wanted to rip you apart. He sees what you are, and he despises it.

And you were fine with that. You despise him. He was an arrogant, smug, dickish, charming, controlling, annoying, handsome, caring, selfish, funny, sexy, adorable, funny, strong, sweet-

God fucking damnit. He was an asshole. He'd left you, he hated you, and you wouldn't fall for the cowboy-in-shining-leather thing again. You were going to take care of this poltergeist now, and leave town right after. Dean and John could be here another week trying to figure out if it was even dead for all you cared. You just had to go. Before this all got worse.

You've barely parked when your phone starts to buzz. You don’t look at the contact when you decline it—you don’t have the time—but then it just starts buzzing again. 

It’s Bobby.

You still don’t answer. If he’s in danger, he wouldn’t call you. If it’s an urgent question, he can handle it himself. If it’s a non-urgent question, he can wait for this to be done. If he was dying-

You almost pick up the phone. The thought flashes through your brain, a small stone grows in your throat, and you reach for the phone with a frantic movement. You’re about the dial him back when the first message comes through, and you sigh in relief.

You better call me back now, kid, we need to talk.

Not dying. Can be dealt with later. You’ll call him back when you’re done, because this will be quick, and you’ll get through it. You always do.

You’d convinced the homeowner to get out of town for a few days, to stay with her sister until you were done. The purification ritual was in the trunk of your latest stolen car—you’d meddled with the ingredients, giving it an extra kick—and this would be quick. 

There’s no blur as you start. You’re alert for your barrier to break—keeping in iron poker in your hands—but there’s no disturbance, so you just go through the motions. The basement is finished in five minutes, the first floor in ten, and you’ve only got two bags left when glass shatters downstairs, and the blur starts to cloud your head. Something cracked in the ritual, maybe because you’re almost done, but now you have to fight-

“Dean, you got the guns?”

You freeze as John Winchester’s voice sounds from down the stairs, and everything becomes too sharp. There’s a creaking sound from downstairs, the darkness is starting to spread up your spine and over the white popcorn ceilings of the house, you’re fucked, and the White is reaching out to-

“I got it, Dad, but I thought poltergeists-“

“Son of a bitch wants attention.” John snaps over Dean, and you might crush the bag in your hand. “We’re gonna give him some until he shows himself, and we find the asshole’s remains and burn them.”

This is bad. That’s not how poltergeists work at all—you’re a little shocked John thinks it is—and they’re going to fuck up your barrier, and you can’t tell them they’ll fuck up the barrier or John will turn one of those guns on you-

“Is the hippy chick home?” Dean asks, snapping you out of your panic as the White howls inside you. “I can deal with her while you take care of-“

“No need. Car ain’t in the driveway.” There’s a pause, and you can hear them shuffling downstairs. “Plus I know how you deal with the vics, Dean. We don’t need that right now.”

Something’s bitter in your mouth that has no right to be there, and no right to vanish at Dean’s grumbled words.

“I didn’t mean it like that, Dad-“

“I don’t care how you meant it. Focus up so we can get this shit done.”

There’s another few muffled sounds, an unmistakable click of a gun, and you’re moving before you think better of it. 

“Stop!” You’re almost shrieking—dropping the poker and shoving your last two bags into your pockets as you run down the stairs—and barely stop your body from colliding with Dean’s in the entrance hallway.

“What the fuckin’ hell are you doin’?!“ John’s roar makes you flinch, his rifle aimed right at your head. You take a stumbling step back as darkness wraps around your hands and your heart kicks into a rapid, frantic rhythm you can hear in your ears. John can see you. He’s going to kill you. You going to die, and they’ll burn your body, and shit you never called Bobby but the darkness is going to burst out of you and John’s going to kill you-

A hand steadies you by your shoulders, grass and spice and leather ease the darkness down, and you wish you didn’t relax into the warmth of behind you, that the pretty, rolling voice a little over your head didn’t soothe your panic.

“Woah, Dad, it’s just-“ Dean says your name, and John scoffs, not lowering his gun.

“I know who it is, Dean, that ain’t my issue.” John’s eyes narrow on you, hatred painted all over his face. It’s worse than Dean’s somehow. There’s something pure about it, like John didn’t have to look into you to see what an atrocity you are. He just senses it. “Why the fuck are you here, girl.”

“I’m hunting my poltergeist.” You snap, forcing your voice to sound angry and not terrified, your face to be a mask of annoyed and not painted in dread. “What possible other reason could I have.”

“Could be looking at real estate.” Dean mumbles with a shrug, and he’s still touching you. You can’t help but glance back as you jerk away from him, and the expression on his face is unreadable. Guarded but cautious, like when he’d watched you and John snap at each other in the booth. Like he’s waiting for a bomb to go off. “I hear this is a good neighborhood.”

You give him a flat look. “This house is haunted.”

He shoots you a wink, clearly fueled by you not just ignoring him. “Won’t once we’re done with it-“

“Once I’m done with it.” You narrow your eyes at him. “This is my hunt, Winchester. I was here first.”

“Poltergeists don’t respect dibs, Princess.” Dean snaps. “And you don’t even have a freakin’ gun.”

“I don’t need a gun-“

Dean lets out a dry, shouting laugh. “I take back what I said earlier, you are stupid if you’re about to try and kill this thing without a freakin’ gun-“

“You’re stupid if you think I’m just going to let you fuck this up-“

“We’re saving your ass from getting whacked by a poltergeist, some gratitude might be nice-“

“You’re getting in my fucking way-“

“You’re-“

“Enough!” John’s shouts over Dean, and you both freeze. You hadn’t realized you’d been shouting, or how close Dean had gotten. You can see his every freckle, every shade of green in his eyes, how his lips are slightly parted so his breath fans over your face-

“I don’t want you two talkin’ unless it’s telling me where the poltergeist is.” John hisses, and you force your body away from Dean’s. “We’re killin’ this thing right fuckin’ now, got it?”

Dean nods, bowing his head slightly, and you just glare at John. All you have to do is get upstairs place the last two bags, and you’ll be fine. If agreeing to work with them does that, you’ll do it.

You split up. John goes to the basement, Dean takes the first floor, you rush upstairs. The bags are in your pants, and you’re so close, but John and Dean are waving around guns and talking about ganking the poltergeist, and it can definitely fucking hear them. The paintings shake on the walls as the temperature drops, and it’s trying break through. You get the first bag just as the lights begin to flicker, and you sprint down the hall to the last wall. Just one more and it will be done, and you can leave-

“Fuck-“ Dean shouts right as you reach the spot, and your blood goes cold. “Dad! It’s on me- shit-“ 

Then he roars your name, and you’re moving before you can think. Grabbing the poker, half-falling down the stairs, and reaching Dean just as his gun is yanked out of his hands by nothing at all. His eyes widen as they meet your, his mouth opens to say something and-

“Dean!” You can barely hear your own scream as he flies across the room, his head knocking on the counter. 

His body slumps, and you’re not in a blur. This is a rush. Everything is wide around you, there’s an airy chill in your lungs, and the darkness is pouring out of you as the lights grow too bright and the windows bang on a windless night. The darkness starts to ignite over your hands—a phantom flame you’re not sure is real, burning and stinging at your skin—you whirl around, and, on instinct alone, shove the air. There’s a high, shrill, horrible sound of pain as the air goes up in flames, and then it all comes down. The room grows warm, the house goes quiet, and the darkness returns to you without a fight.

And Dean’s still slumped on the floor. 

“Dean!” You fall to your knees at his side—rolling his face to the side, grabbing his hand to take a pulse—and only notice John as he silently joins you, taking Dean’s face between his hands with a set jaw. 

You don’t know how long he’s been there.

You don’t know what he saw.

“What the hell-“

“Poltergeist.” You whisper, watching John examine Dean’s head. “Threw him across the room.”

John scowls. “You just let this shit happen-“

“I didn’t- I got the asshole.” You hiss, clawing at the skin near your nail until it stings. “House purification ritual, which I was already doing before! Nothing would’ve happened at all if you didn’t jump in with fucking guns-“

“Just-“ John raises his hand, and you fall silent. You’re still holding Dean’s hand. You don’t let it go.

“He’s okay.” You mumble, mostly for yourself. Mostly to fight the bile in your throat at the sight of him, sweaty and pale, not bleeding but moving, eyes fluttering but not waking up. “He’s gonna be okay.”

You almost miss John’s strange look. You almost forget about the axe over your head, and how he might know what you are. All you can really think about is Dean. You barely hear John order you to stay here while he grabs the car, and it feels a little pointless. You would’ve stayed here no matter what. 

He’s groaning. Dean keeping making low noises of pain, and his hand keeps flexing in yours, but he’s breathing. Shallow breathes, but he’s breathing. And he’ll be okay. He has to be okay. It’s just a Poltergeist, not even a strong one, and he’s young and strong, and he’ll be okay. Your breathing has become a little uneven, and you can feel the White rioting and bellowing inside you as he shudders slightly, but he’ll be okay. You won’t let him not be. He feels clammy when you press your hand to his brow—your fingers brush his hair, and it’s soft, and that’s not important but you’re going to think about it for a million years—so you shrug off your own jacket and toss it over his body. He’s still holding onto you, so you don’t drop his hand. When John gets back you loop his arm over your shoulders, your own arm around his waist, and haul his dead-weight up until John grabs the other side. 

When you reach the Impala—you working in silence with John to slide him carefully into the backseat—he clings to you. John drops his arm and it shoots over your stomach, his head falling onto your chest as he makes another low grunt of pain. And there’s such little color on his face, and he’s still shuddering when you move the jacket back over him, and you could fix this. You’ve never healed anyone before, but you could. You can feel the darkness moving into the tips of your fingers and over your heart as Dean takes a stuttered breath, and you have to-

“Get out.”

You look up and find that John has walked around the car and opened your door. “I-“

“Leave.” John grunts, not even sparing you glance as he speaks. “Now.”

You shake your head, and it’s a weak movement. There’s that feral instinct of survive still in your bones, but it’s not bigger than Dean. Nothing’s bigger than Dean. “No, I-“

“I ain’t askin’-“

“It’s not up to you-“

“My car. My rules.” John’s words sound pushed through his teeth. “Out.”

“I,” you swallow, glancing back down to Dean. “I could help-“

“You’ve done enough.“

“I could fix him!” You shout, and your sounds pleading. You feel like you’re pleading. It’s pathetic, and you don’t care because Dean makes a low, strained noise and you feel like you’re choking. “I could-“

“Listen to me very fuckin’ closely.” John sneers your full name, finally lowering down to meet your gaze. “The out of my fuckin’ car, and stay the hell away from my son. I don’t need you fixin’ him, because he’s not broken, and if he was the last thing he needs is some high horse brat making him weak.”

There’s a high ringing in your ears, and your voice is soft. “I-“

“He’d be fine if you hadn’t interfered with our work.” John snaps. “You’re out of your little pond, girl, and if I ever see you distractin’ Dean or fuckin’ with his brain again, I’ll put a bullet in yours. Got it?”

You nod, something vast and numb spreading over your chest as you carefully climb out of the car—making sure not to disturb Dean, or make his head worse—and leave John without another word. But you look back. You can’t help yourself from turning and watching the Impala pull away, from digging your nails into your skin as you cling to yourself until their headlights vanish around a corner. 

You’re already packed. Everything’s in your car—clothing, tools, books, makeup and hygiene products, first aid kit—and you could just drive out of town, but you don’t. You toss the last purification ritual bag into the truck, sit behind the wheel, just stare into the darkness.

You need to call Bobby. You need to go. John wouldn’t kill you with an injured Dean to care for, but he’d seen. He had to have seen. And not leaving now would be a death sentence. 

But you just sit in the car. Sit in the cancerous darkness that’s alight in your body, the image of Dean’s pained features burned into your eyes, flashing in front of you whenever you blink. All that boiling hatred for Dean is gone. Evaporated into thin air, leaving you ill and pained and empty. John was right. You hadn’t been fast enough, and Dean got hurt. Your barrier against the poltergeist made it violent, and Dean got hurt. You’re the sick one. It’s why he left to begin with. 

He was better for it. He didn’t need you—no one needed you—and John’s threat hadn’t been empty, so you need to drive away and never look back.

And yet you end up in the motel parking lot. Hunched in your seat as you wait for just a little proof that Dean’s okay. That you hadn’t held him and shattered him, like he’d shattered you. You’re there until the sun breaks the sky, until it’s beating over your head and you have to crack the windows. 

You’re there when your phone starts to ring, and you realize you’d forgotten to call Bobby.

You’ve barely picked up when he starts shouting, and you flinch away from the speaker. 

He uses your full name. First, middle, and Singer. He only uses your full name when he’s proud of you, or furious. And this feels more like the latter. You’re in trouble.

“You wanna tell me,” he hisses. “Why John fuckin’ Winchester knows who you are?”

“I, uh-” You swallow, twisting a ring with your thumb. “I don’t-“

“And I ain’t gonna buy your bullshit, kid, that shit doesn’t work on me.”

You sigh. “Bobby, look-“

“No, you look. I didn’t teach you to be a goddamn idjit dumbass,” he snaps your name, and you curl a little further into your seat. “You know what he’d do to ya’. Shit, what are you plannin’ on doin’ if you have a slip? If he sees that hoodoo shit happen?”

“Um, he might have already seen it.”

There’s silence on the other end for a long second, then a low, “What.”

“We just finished a poltergeist case.” You mumble, hoping he’s too angry to catch onto the why are you on a poltergeist case part. “And it attacked Dean. And I killed it.”

Bobby says your name slowly. “How the hell did ya’ kill a-“

“With my hands. I just, um, burned it.” You take a long breath. “And I think John saw.”

“And he just let ya’ off the fuckin’ hook-“

“Dean got hurt.” You whisper, and the words sting your tongue. “He was focused on that.”

“Balls.” Bobby mutters, and you can picture the frown on his face. “Well, you’re outta there now, we can-“

“No.” You sigh. “I can’t go, I have to-“ You cut yourself off, because it sounds stupid in your head. You do not have to make sure Dean’s okay. He hates you, everything logical in your brain says that you should be remembering how to hate him any time soon, and he’s not yours tocare about. John made that clear with his threat. Dean made it clear by leaving. But you’re still in the parking lot. And you still have to make sure Dean’s okay.

Bobby says your name through the phone, his voice slow. “You gonna tell me what happened last year. On that moroi hunt.”

“I ran into the Winchesters-“

“I ain’t slow, kid, I worked that part out. What happened that made you call me and flop around the house like a widowed fish for a week.”

You bring your knees up to your chest, shaking your head. “It’s… I can’t-“

“What if I ask if that was Dean’s shirt.” Bobby grunts. “That you were wearin’.”

“Yeah.” You drop your head back on the seat, letting out a heavy exhale. “It-“ 

You freeze, watching Dean finally step outside like he’s been summoned. He’s walking slowly, but walking, and he seems really okay, and he’s looking around the parking lot with a frown-‘

Shit.

You drop down in your seat, out of the view of the parking lot, and pray he didn’t see you.

“Bobby, I gotta-“

“You ain’t goin’ anywhere, we still got some shit to sort out-“

“I’ll come right home.” You keep your voice hushed, in case it could carry on the wind. “And you can yell at me there.”

Bobby sighs. “I wasn’t gonna yell-“

“Yeah you were-“

“No-“

“Lying is a sin, Bobby.” You smile, carefully pulling the car keys out of your jacket. “You’re not a very good role model-“

“Well, I’m gonna fuckin’ yell at ‘ya now!” He snaps, but you can hear the slight amusement in his voice. “Get home quick, and we’ll deal with this. John don’t know you’re with me, and unless Dean needs a week after your hunt-“

“I think he’s fine.” You mumble, craning your head up to see Dean gone from the lot. “I’ll be safe at home.”

“Not if I kill ya’ for pullin’ this shit on an old man.” Bobby grunts, and you grin he falls silent, a long moment of static before- “You okay, kiddo?”

“I’m okay.” You mumble, and you’re not, but you will be. You always are. “And I’m really sorry for-“

“Apologizin’ ain’t gonna help us,” Bobby mutters. “Get home, and keep outta trouble till we sort this.”

You nod. “I will.”

You’ll try. Dean’s still pulling at you in your chest and consuming your head, but you’ll try. If only for Bobby’s sanity, you’ll really try.

You’ll pretend you don’t stay in the lot for a minute longer to watch Dean walk back to his room, that you don’t glance back at the room as you drive away, and you’ll keep yourself away of trouble. 

Away from Dean.

End Note: I’d say this story is about to be John vs Bobby on who’s a better dad, but that would be like making a mouse (John) fight a dragon (Bobby).

Thank you so so so much for reading!! If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3

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[dissvicious]

Alone in Wano - 2 / 2

A/N: THANK YOU SO MUCH for how y'all welcomed the first part of this little flic, I was SO nervous about it and I'm really really happy that it made you feel things! here is the second & last part, thanks again @a-killer-obsession for beta reading, platonically kissing you on the mouth buddy ♥ No content warning but maybe don't read if you're not comfortable with pregnancy & delivery stuff, and KidLaw is mentioned as a joke, maybe light Wano spoilers too

Part 1

“NO FUCKING WAY IN HELL. I'D RATHER DELIVER ALONE BY THE RIVER AND LET MY NEWBORN DRINK WATER FROM KAIDO'S FACTORIES THAN LETTING YOUR EMO-ASS FINGERS ANYWAY NEAR MY CUNT SO BACK OFF.” 

Law looked up at the ceiling, passing a hand on his face and taking a huge breath. He pondered for a moment if he could just leave the abandoned house and leave Nina on her own without checking her up. He rubbed his temple, looking down at the small woman in front of him, and tried to calm his nerves.

“Stop acting like a moron, Pinky-ya. You've lost a lot of blood, and I have more important business to attend. Just let me check if the baby's doing well, and I'll leave you alone.” 

Nina pouted and crossed her arms - a face she used to make to wrap men around her little finger. However that somehow had no effect on this stupid depressive doctor. Maybe her big pregnant belly blocked her cuteness aggression abilities? Maybe he was just an ass. She tilted her head, studying his face. By some ways he reminded her of Wire, which made her nostalgic.

That's not how things were supposed to happen. When Killer - at least the man she'd mistaken for Killer - hit her with his scythes, she lost consciousness and barely remembered anything then. She woke up in the small cabin she shared with Hiyori and Toko, curled in her bed, an immense pain radiating from her lower half. Hiyori did what she could to stop the bleeding but it was clear she needed a doctor to check if the baby was alright. By chance, running to the flower Capital, they bumped into Law, who was looking for his crewmates. Roronoa pushed her against the black haired guy like some kind of heavy packet with a mumbled “needs a doctor for pregnancy shit, Torao” before walking away, leaving both of them flabbergasted, and here she was. 

However, she quickly made clear that in no way Law could approach her, let alone touch her or look between her legs. Each of his attempts to do so ended up with him being hissed at and insulted, her nails threatening to claw his eyes out. There was a persistent rumor running through the new generation that Law and Kid had a quick fling at Sabaody, and even if it was long before Kid and Nina met, even if she never met Law before and even if Kid always denied it, it was enough to fuel her jealousy and hate towards this stupid ass doctor and his stupid ass poseur tattoos and his stupid ass spotted hat. 

“Come on, Pinky-ya,” Law insisted, looking at her with all the softness he was able to gather - which wasn't a lot, “just let me do a quick check up and I'll leave. I'll use my power, I won't have to touch you. Let me check if the baby is ok, at least.”

Nina hesitated, nipping her lips. She caressed her belly and thought for a moment. As much as it cost her to admit it, Law was right. She was worried sick about her unborn child. Since the attack, she suffered from heavy cramps, and she had lost a lot of blood. Tired and worried, she decided to put her ego aside and gave up. She lied on her elbows, uncrossing her arms, silently agreeing to let him do so.

Law closed his eyes and mentally thanked whatever god was listening to him for her cooperation, impatient to be done with this feral girl who seemed to hate him for no reason - not that he cared a lot. He conjured a room and used Kikoku to inspect Nina's body. Immediately, he frowned. 

“What? Something's wrong?” Nina asked in a surprising soft voice.

“How far along are you in your pregnancy, Pinky-ya?”

“About 7 months, why?”

Law put down Kikoku and looked down at her, understanding at the moment that he was far from being done with this girl. 

“You're in labor,” he said bluntly, looking her in the eyes. 

Nina sat up immediately, gritting teeth as she felt an intense pain in her lower abdomen. 

“No,” she cried, “he's too small, he wouldn't survive.”

Law sat on his heels, pondering his options. They were alone, in an abandoned house. With his devil fruit he could stop the labor, but he wasn’t experienced enough with pregnancy to trust his abilities to do so safely. Not to mention the mother lost a lot of blood, and the probable placental abruption the hit induced. There wasn't any good choice in this situation.

“7 months, he has good chances to survive,” Law said, trying to be reassuring.

Nina shook her head, putting her hands on her belly as to protect it from him, tears flooding down her cheeks. “No, no. You’re a doctor aight? And you have some shitty doctor power, so use them to stop the labor, I can’t deliver now, I can’t do it.”

As Law looked down at her, he suddenly felt a wave of pity for Nina. With her hands on her belly and the mix of anger and fear in her eyes, she looked like a feral creature protecting her cub. At this moment, he understood that behind all this though girl attitude and aggression, she was probably deeply scared and anxious.

“Pinky-ya,” Law said with a stern voice, looking right in her bright green eyes, “right here and now the best option for you and your baby is to deliver. If he stays in, with the blood loss and without any good hospital around, I can’t ensure his survival. I’m not sure, but I think your placenta broke. If you deliver, though, I could use my ‘shitty doctor power' to check for any issue and heal them if necessary.”

Nina shook her head again, closing her eyes as tears flooded down her cheeks. She was terrified at the idea of delivering alone without her lovers, without her family, on a dirty floor in an empty house. “I … I can't do this I need Kid and Killer, I can't -”

Law grabbed her knees and looked down at her with a stern glance. “You can, and you will. I won't let you nor your baby die.” 

Nina held his glance, and something in his face provoked a change in her. For the first time she felt that her anger toward him might have been misplaced. It was clear that he wanted to do everything he could to save her baby, and that’s what mattered. She nodded weakly, tears flooding down her cheeks.

“Alright Trafalgar. I trust you.”

Next hour felt like a torture for both of them. 

Nina was lying on her back, gritting teeth and crying, following Law's instructions as he was trying to help the labor, looking between her legs, trying to fight the urge to run out of the house and vomit on the ground. He saw a lot of body horror in his life but it was the first time he helped with birth giving and to say the least, he wasn't comfortable with the whole thing. If it wasn't to save an innocent baby's life he would have left this shit behind him. 

After trying different positions to help the labor, he gave up and looked at her. “It won’t work. You're too weak after bleeding this much. We need to do a C-section”

Nina whined and looked down at him “Again?!”

“You already had a C-section?”

“Not much of a choice when you're 5’0” and have to deliver a 16 pound baby…”

Law winced. Two C-sections, in a short amount of time… that was risky. But with his powers, he could manage to make it safe for her and her baby. “Pinky-ya, do you trust me?”

Nina surprised herself when she realized the answer was yes. They didn't appreciate each other, that was clear. However, he still went out of his way, stopped as he was going to look after his men, because she needed help and he was the only one able to provide it. Her eyes met his, and a silent comprehension passed between the two of them. Law stood up and raised up his hand.

“Room,” he said with his deep voice, the house around them suddenly glowing in a blue light. He looked down at her, trying to locate her womb and the baby in it with as much precision as possible, using both his devil fruit and his Haki to help him do so. It was the first time he had to do something like this, and he was a bit nervous. 

He took a deep breath to steady, before turning his hand, fingers pointing up. “Shambles.”

What happened next mesmerized both of them. Without any pain or suffering, a round hole opened in Nina’s belly. Her baby, wonderful, amazing, the size of a regular baby despite being preterm, flew up from it, umbilical cord still attached to both of them as Law created a protective bubble around him to replace the amniotic bag. 

For a moment, the whole house went silent, Law and Nina both transfixed by the sight in front of them. The baby already had a mess of blonde hair on his head, leaving little to no doubt to who his father was. For Law it conjured bittersweet images, images of someone he used to know and loved like a father, in another life.

After a few moments, Law snapped back to reality, and used his powers to cut the umbilical cord, proceeding to check for any issues in the newborn before giving him to Nina. 

“I did everything I could,” he whispered, a hint of worry in his voice, “now, he has to scream.”

The silence that followed was deafening. Nina held her baby against her, cradling him softly. 

“Please,” she whispered, “please sweetheart please. Please scream. Please.” 

After what seemed like an eternity, loud screams and cries echoed in the house. Nina burst into tears, hugging her newborn baby, holding him carefully as if afraid to break him, humming the scent of his head, peppering kisses on his little face. 

She looked up at Trafalgar, who was sitting on the ground, catching his breath as well.

“Thank you” she whispered.

“No problem” he answered, and Nina could swear she saw him smile.

[anonity]

across the hall - chapter 2

you all have anon to thank for this LMFAO i must have written the first part in a fever dream because i genuinely had no recollection of making this

anyways sorry for the wait + i hope this lives up to your expectations! 

WC: 1500ish

you jiggled your door handle again with the hope that it would open by sheer force of will. evidently, your telekinesis skills needed work, because it didn’t even seem to consider unlocking. 

with a huff, your forehead came to land against the wood of your door with a soft thud. after contemplating the helplessness of your situation, you fish your phone out of your pocket and stare holes into the delivered sitting under your text to alyssa. 

she was supposed to be home by the time you got back, so originally it was “no problem” if you left your key in the room. 20 minutes prior, though, she’d texted to inform you that she would not in fact be home because her tinder date had decided to move the time up.

you hope he's a catfisher. 

it wouldn’t have been such an inconvenience if you hadn't already spent your entire day at the library. now you were exhausted, and had no clue when you would finally get to sink into your shitty mattress.

the floor was looking more enticing by the minute, and you were about to resign to sleeping on it when a voice rang out behind you. 

“locked out?” 

your heart stopped. this could not be a more humbling experience. every star in the sky has aligned just to screw you over at 9:45pm on this friday night, and paige bueckers is an active participant in your downfall. 

she’s going to think you’re an idiot, but what are you going to do, lie? oh, no, i just thought the wall looked comfy.

“yeah,”  you answer, turning to face the woman you’ve been avoiding for the last week. the instant eye contact has you fumbling for words a little. “i, uhhh.. well my roommate – well i left my key.. my key is in the room and my roommate is not,” you finally finish.

you’re waiting for the floor to swallow you.

paige tilts her head, nose wrinkling a little as she smiles at you. she looks amused. “so, whats your plan? teleport?”

you hum, glancing sideways at the door. “it crossed my mind.”

she’s still smiling when she gestures towards her own door. “well, if you don’t wanna sit out here all night, my roommates out. no superpowers required.”

your eyes widen – you think you’ve misheard her. “your room?”

paige laughs this time, opening her door. “well one of us has a key, and it’s not you.”

you hesitate. is paige morally obligated to let you into her room now that you’ve dragged her into your disarrayed state? are you morally obligated to decline?

she must be a mindreader, because she steps to the side and nods her head at the door. “i promise i’m literally just gonna watch game reruns tonight. you can hang out as long as you want.”

you finally nod appreciatively. “yeah, okay, thanks paige.”

you slip past her, politely taking your shoes off at the door when she shuts it behind the two of you, a glint in her eye. “you a fan?”

you eye her suspiciously. “i’ve seen some games.”

“i just find it interesting you know my name–”

“oh my god,” you roll your eyes, the smile pulling at your lips betraying you. “maybe i should’ve just stayed in the hallway.”

“oh, because the vending machine is so much better than me.”

“it’s got food,” you mumble, moreso trying to get on her nerves than make a suggestion. she takes the bait anyways, looking mock-offended.

“i have food!” she immediately reaches for her mini fridge. if you weren’t already in such an unbelievable situation, your jaw would’ve dropped at the contents.

“paige, this hardly counts as food.” the “food” in question is reminiscent of a teenage boy's “gym fuel”.  “everything in there has to taste like cardboard.”

“i play D1 basketball!” she scoffs, like she can’t believe you would suggest her chocolate chip cookie dough quest bar might be unappetizing. “you have a lot of attitude for somebody who locked herself out of her room a week into moving in.”

you sit down on someone's bed, (you can’t really tell, because both walls are lined with basketball posters) and grin, leaning forward onto your knees. “okay, you’re right, i’m sorry. but i’m still going to pass on,” you wrinkle your nose in distaste, squinting at the fridge. “legendary foods cake?”

“for legendary players,” she shoots back. you must’ve sat in the wrong spot, because paige throws herself down opposite of you and pats the space next to her. “KK’s kinda weird about people bein’ on her stuff, so..” “are all basketball players this high maintenance?” 

paige hums. “just us, i think.” “thank god.”

you move despite paige’s scowl, pressing yourself close to the edge of the bed. silence apparently never lasts long with paige, because she immediately drawls out, “sooo,” and then continues, “what are you doing alone on a friday night?”

you roll your eyes. “waiting for my roommate to get home, apparently.”

“you guys together or sum?”

you laugh. “uh, no, she’s on a date tonight. hence the locking out.” paige hums, eyes trained on the TV. “just haven’t been invited to any good parties recently.”

“i don’t think there are any – ion’ even know where KK went tonight.”

“it’s still early in the year.”

your mind drifts. you hate small talk. paige gestures towards the TV, a celtics v. bulls game from years ago rolling. “can you play 2k?”

much better.

you argue for a minute over who gets to play as the lynxes (paige finally relents, saying something about being drafted somewhere cooler and then choosing the wings of all teams) and then the first match starts.

right off the bat, she was bragging over a 2-pointer. “this games over already, y/n, you can put the controller down.”

“yeah okay, keep that energy when i drop 20 on you.”

after a flashy dunk you were particularly proud of in the second quarter, you grinned at paige. “you want me to clip that for you? you can start a highlight reel for me.”

she rolled her eyes, leaning closer to the TV. “doesn’t matter how good you look doin’ it if it’s still only two points.” 

you falter only slightly at her how good you look. 

by the fourth quarter, you were embarrassingly down 8 points. the last 6 minutes had been rough – not because you were bad at the game (because you weren’t) but because in the excitement of one of her riskiest plays following through, paige had shoved your shoulder and shouted “boom!”. unfortunately, she hadn’t moved away after that, and you could practically feel the heat radiating from her body. 

it didn’t take long for her to call you out. “bro, why is your defense so bad? do i needa show you where the buttons are?” she reaches over, mockingly gesturing at your controller. you stiffen a little at the contact. jesus, pull it together.

“touching the player in real life is totally a technical foul in 2k.” you laugh out instead, tilting the controller away.   

thankfully oblivious to your hesitation, paige laughs incredulously. “okay, now you’re just making shit up.”

at 12:00am, your phone buzzes between the two of you. paige glances down first.

“is that your roommate?”

your heart sank. after two rounds of bickering over 2k, you were beginning to hope alyssa would be out late. she wasn’t, though, and her contact photo was now bright on your screen. 

you’d abandoned her playstation after paiges second win (you’d stubbornly pointed out that it was her job to be good at basketball) and paige had turned on love and basketball instead, calling it tragic that you hadn’t seen it. the end credits had been playing for a hot minute now though, and you were really out of excuses to not go back to your dorm.

“yeah, it is. apparently her date was super hot.”

paige smiles. “good.”

theres a beat of silence (something you’ve discovered is rare with paige), before you finally shift in the bed. “thanks for letting me crash.”

she jolts a little, watching you get up. “oh, yeah, no problem, anytime.”

before you reach the door, though, paige is up with you. “hol’ on,” she starts, thrusting her phone towards you. “well, actually,” she doubles back, bringing it back to herself. “um,” she starts again, eloquently, and you raise an eyebrow at her fumbling. “give me your number – in case you get locked out again.”

“i gotta get locked out for you to play 2k with me?”

“no!” paiges eyes widen and you decide to have a little mercy on her.

“relax, i’m just messing with you.”

she gives you a bone-dry laugh in response. “ha, ha. give me your number, f’real.”

thank god for hot tinder dates.

[softnprettyrolls]

JJK cast admiring Curvy!Reader

Headcanons !

contains: gojo, yuji, megumi, nobara n nanami <3

tw: suggestive

Gojo Satoru

Gojo notices everything. It’s a perk that comes with having the six eyes. It allows him to see every part of you and he’s not subtle at all.

When you catch him staring, he brushes it off with a teasing comment.

“How are we supposed to focus on curses when you look like that.”

He uses his height as an advantage. Draping his body over yours, casually leaning against you. Anything to feel you against him. (He says you should be lucky he releases his infinity for you <3)

Throws out playful compliments to fluster you.

“Careful now. Someone might faint by looking at you. Not me, of course. I’m invincible.”

Yuji Itadori

Poor Yuji. He’s trying to be respectful, but it’s hard when you’re around. Literally.

He’ll turn bright red and rigid at the smallest thing—you sitting down, stretching, walking. He loves the way your uniform hugs your hips and brings out your shape.

He’s sometimes so focused on not openly staring that he doesn’t notice you saying something.

“Oh! Uh, hey—uh—nice day?” He’ll say, stuttering out his words while tugging his coller and avoiding any eye contact.

When you’re both sparring and you turn your back towards him to dodge, his brain short circuits.

He immediately trips over his own feet and thus lost the match.

You’d tell him to focus while laughing and he’s laughing and everything seems cool but internally he’s screaming.

Oh and don’t even start with Sukuna.

Yuji is getting teased and mocked by the old meanie.

Megumi Fushiguro

Megumi is a very stoic guy. Not outwardly obvious about how he feels.

But inside? He’s panicking.

His eyes flicks to you when he thinks no one is watching and when you do catch him staring, he’ll quickly look away and pretend that he’s busy.

Whoa that patch of grass looks real interesting right now.

He’s so respectful that it’s almost painful. He’ll never let his real feelings show, even if his body language betrays him.

That is unless someone teases him about it (cough Gojo cough).

Will absolutely glare at anyone who stares at you too long.

Nobara Kugisaki

Nobara has no shame when it comes to admitting that someone looks good and she knows you look good.

“Damn, you’re really out here making the rest of us look bad, huh?”

Lowkey jealous about how effortlessly good you look, but she’d never admit it.

Instead she hypes you up and takes it as a challenge to look just as good.

Loves to compliment you, especially when you’re wearing something that shows off your curves.

“That skirt? Chef’s kiss. You’re killing it, Babe.”

Nanami Kento

Nanami is far too professional to ever vocalize what he’s thinking, but he’s only human.

When you walk into a room, he’ll always steal glances that linger far too long

Each time he reprimands himself for thinking like a teenage boy and forces himself to focus on something else. (Which doesn’t work)

During mission, if your clothes get torn or ripped, he’ll offer his jacket while averting any sort of eye contact. He’s a gentleman like that.

But it’s also because he likes how his clothes look on you <3

That moment will always linger in his mind, no matter how hard he tries to suppress it.

[loudkidsoulfreak]

Detective Conan - First Concept Note

(Full under cut)

"Half of my life was tied to Detective Conan (lol)"

Note: Texts in indented paragraphs are Aoyama Gosho's quotes/comments. The "Initial designs" parts are probably editor's comments I'm not sure. I'm not good at translating so feel free to correct or throw rocks at me if I get anything wrong.

Note 2: These are not scans. They're just pictures I took with my phone. The sketch itself is already messy tho (probably giving you the feel that you are viewing the raw sketch itself). I only edit it a bit so it doesn't look too dark or yellow compared to how it look irl.

Kudo Shinichi / Edogawa Conan

His bangs ended up being a centre parting. (lol)

Initial design: Shinichi's hairstyle was mostly finished. The balls are to indicate his soccer skill. Conan's glasses style was also decided. The handwriting texts are to indicate the character's tone.

Mori Ran

She haven't got the horn yet. (lol)

Initial design: Go to the next page to read the author's comment about Kogoro to know more about characters' surname (lol). This design really give the Karate Champion vibe. And here she supposed to call Kogoro "papa"?

Mori Kogoro

His surname was supposed to be Hattori. Later, it becomes Heiji's name. (lol)

Initial design: Slicked back hair and parted pencil mustache look also mostly finished. It giving the classic vibe of a sharp detective instead of the comedic feel. His hair stand up like a thorn when he just woke up? Not mentioning the surname, the name Kogoro probably wasn't decided back then either?

Agasa Hiroshi

His surname supposed to be Mori you know! I probably wanted to use this design for Ran's grandpa. (lol)

Initial design: The design are well rounded. From his smiling face to his "serious" face are all perfect. Not sure if he's a genius inventor, but the great thing about this design is it also give off the vibe of a mad scientist.

Gin

I literally sketch these in just 3 minutes (lol)! Back then, I haven't even give him a name yet.

Initial design: Black hat and long black coat. Along with the cold stare of a cold-blooded murderer. This mysterious and scary figure is definitely Gin!

Toyama Kazuha

The hair is still tidy! The brown is a little thick though. (lol)

Initial design: Her first appearance was "The Naniwa Serial Murder Case" from volume 19! There is a lot of great dialogue scattered around in that case.

Detective Conan: The Time-Bombed Skyscraper

This is the concept art for the movie "The Time-Bombed Skyscraper"! I already draw the scene "I might never get to say it again" (lol)

Illustration: This sketch were drawn in the meeting for the first movie - "Detective Conan: The Time-Bombed Skyscraper" first aired in 1997. The author Aoyama has put in the story he had always wanted to write from a long time ago! Beside, the author himself has take in the responsibility for the key frames of these scenes using these concept arts!!

For TV Anime

I draw these so the anime crew can draw him in every angle!

Initial design: This is the sketch for the anime production crew when the anime was produced 29 years ago!

[slimybeth69]

Girl Dinner

@pedrospookie made the cutest fucking mood board for this fic, she also gave me so much inspiration for this! Let's all thank her for her perfect brain.

Part 1 of 4- Knocked Loose

Rating: explicit -

kidnapped!Joel x isolated&unhinged&potentially crazy!reader (no use of y/n, no physical descriptions besides having hair long enough to hold and fall into your face, the reader is actually crazy, talks to herself- hears little voices in her head. You gotta know this going into it)

thanks to @bonezone44 for this idea.

w/c : 9k (whoops)

Summary: After the civilized world you once knew came to an end-- the men that survived... well they just take, take, take. Growing tired of having things taken from you-- you have a hankerin' to take somethin' for yourself... and make him perfect.

warnings/tags: non-con/dub-con/ altered mental state(?) throughout the entire thing. stockholm syndrome, violence (reader and Joel both get hurt) Joel is an unwilling participant... or is he? cockwarming, unprotected P in V, dirty talk- more to come.

authors note: Hey! I know a lot people get icked out by the idea of non-con or dub con, and that's fine, but I like it, so I'm gonna write this. I don't think any of this should be acted out ITRL. DON'T KIDNAP PEOPLE!! This is your last and final warning just so everyone is aware of what's going on. this is unbeta'd, poorly proofread and probably incoherent. I love you all so, so, so much.

The weather is finally starting to change, it's not as hot as a pigs asshole anymore, and you wake up feeling refreshed, rather than sticky and sour from sleeping in a pool of your own sweat all night long.

The first thought that comes to your head though isn't the changing weather, or how you'll eventually need to break out your warmer clothes soon, nope— you don't give a shit about any of that.

It's just Mister-man that you're thinking about.

He might be the most pretty thing you've ever seen. With his shoulder length, brown and gray curls, and his patchy facial hair that matches so nicely. The thought of how rough and scratchy it would feel against your tongue makes your spine tingle.

Mister-man is a big boy. Hefty, broad, and looked so strong whenever he came into the mall.

You've been watching him for a while. He comes around every three or four days snooping in all the stores for supplies.

It's like he doesn't even know you're here…or if he does, he doesn't care. Rude! You're a pretty girl!

He's just coming to take our stuff, just like the rest of the monster-men out there. If he finds us, he might wanna take-

"Stop, stop, stop, stop, stop!" You put your hands over your ears, even though those voices just get louder when you do that.

Mister-man wouldn't hurt'chya…

Yes, he would. He's a man.

"It's too early for this," You grumble, sitting up in your bed.

The mattress store is nice and clean, just how you left it last night before you crawled into bed. You think about how it would be alarming if it wasn't exactly how you left it before you went to bed. You did your nightly walk-through to make sure everything was where it was supposed to be, and that there weren't any extras hanging about.

As you get dressed, you think about what the dark voice was about to say. You know exactly what Mister-man would try and take from you if he found you. What all the other men in this fucking place want from you.

It's hard to make any of that matter as you skip to your hiding spot in the rafters above the food court. That's where he always enters from, even though the easier entrance with less glass and boards to climb through is on the other side of the mall.

It's a good thing you set up a trap there too, if he comes in through that entrance, at least you'll hear the snare go off and hopefully get to him in time to get his gun and knife.

Mister-man is a creature of habit, he doesn't like to switch things up, Sug. He'll come through this door.

He might. He might not. Mister-man might be playing your game better than you, kid.

"Well then, it's a good thing I thought of everything," you murmur, climbing up the discarded scaffolding to get into the rafters.

It's not scary up here, you like the thrill of knowing if you made one mistake—

Goner!

Splat!

"I've never fallen though!" You giggle, settling in to the perch just above the now blown out glass doors. It's a comfortable little spot, and you've arranged some blankets and pillows from the mattress store up here so you can nap if you want. There are some snacks, and bottles of water in case you have to stay up here for more than just a couple hours, keeping an eye out for Mister-man.

People must have stayed here in the mall during the outbreak, or right after because the doors are boarded up the best they can be, and the tables and chairs from the food court are set up all around like a barricade.

It was perfect, less work for you to have to do, and no one else bothers to come in here anymore— it's either too far, too hard to get too, or not worth the pay out.

Not for our lovely, handsome, soon to be perfect, Mister-man; the reason he comes every week is so sweet.

You wondered why he kept coming back when there really isn't much to scavenge anymore: every single store had been picked through before you got here, and you went and took the last of whatever anyone else didn't want or need and squirreled it away in a nice hiding spot.

Mister-man came every three or four days-- so that he could sit his ass in a comfortable recliner for a couple hours.

Remember that time he took a nap?

"Of course I do! How could I forget?!"

It's the cutest thing, and you love to watch him relax. Rest. Let his guard down for a little while.

"Slept like a lil baby that day," you mumble, feeling the heat spread up your neck and behind your cheeks. It's impossible to not smile at the memory of Mister sleeping in his chair, arms behind his head, snoring loudly.

His hair was real soft...'n he smelled so..

Why does he let us get so close? It's gotta be a trap.

Oh shut up, maybe he wants us to get close!

"I don't think he can hear me too good," you breathe out to the empty mall. The sun is starting to shine directly in your eyes— which means Mister-man will be here soon. "Always lookin' over his left shoulder. He never looks over his right, me thinks he can't hear outta that ear."

Mister has been coming for a couple months. He first started when the snow started to melt. And he kept coming through the spring when everything was wet and soggy, and he'd traipse mud through the mall like this wasn't your house!

That's how you knew he had been there though, so you waited to see if he'd come back-- and he did.

Mister-Man kept coming, even when the summer got so hot it was almost unbearable. Venturing outside was almost dangerous, but Mister always came.

Just to sit in his chair.

The air is filled with the sounds of birds singing, and insects buzzing in the lazy, summer heat. The mornings aren't too bad anymore, but the afternoon is still sweltering.

The late afternoon's are even worse when the heat finally settles, and everything gets sticky, and feeling all wet even though it's not wet outside! It's hot, but the air feels thick and damp somehow.

Awh, looks like he ain't coming today, Sug.

Good-fucking-riddance.

"He'll show up. If not today… tomorrow…or the next day. Or next week! He always comes, sillies. Gettin' me all nervous for nothin—"

Shhhhhh!!!! He's coming.

Mister-man is coming. You can hear him before he even crawls through the hole in one of the boards. He has to slide the table he sets up every time he comes and goes.

Once he's upright, brushing himself clean of any debris that he might have picked up on his crawl into the mall, he starts to walk.

It's not hard to stay quiet, you know exactly where the spots that creak are, and where things might break and fall apart if you were to put too much weight on them.

It's easier to follow him around as he slinks through the abandoned shopping center than you thought, as long as you stay on his right side. You've been watching and learning, and had a long time to figure him out.

Mister is so cute, walking real slow with his back to the wall, his head on a constant swivel. You wanna call out to him and tell him it's just the three of you in the mall.

He continues to sneak very quietly.

Can't hide from us.

"He sure can't," you giggle, almost silently.

Mister-man pauses, and looks over his left shoulder, as if something caught his attention. He looks all around, head twisting in either and all directions. At one point, he looks right up at where you're standing.

It's like he's looking right at you, like he can see you flitting through the rafters right above him.

Mister-man just shakes his head, as if he was hearing things, and continues onward towards the furniture store.

Fuck, he really can't hear for shit.

"He sure can't."

Mister doesn't make it inside the furniture store today, unfortunately for him.

When Joel wakes up, his head is fucking pounding and— he's upside down. Shit.

Not again.

"What the fuck?" Joel croaks, his hands feel like they weigh a thousand pounds as he tries to lift them from where they're dangling over his head. His shoulders hurt, and his back aches. His ankles feel like they're on fire.

There isn't much he can do but hang here, waiting for his vision to un-blur and for the throbbing in his head to go away.

Probably get gutted like a pig.

Finally, after blinking a million times, Joel can see things clearly.

You- a young woman- with a gun in your hand, another strapped to the outside of your thigh, and a fucking machete strapped across your back.

"What the fuck are you doing!?" Joel shouts, his hands now easily flying to the holster—It's empty. The pack he had been carrying on his back is gone too.

Joel watches as you look at him like he should already know what you're doing: a half smile plastered onto your pretty lips, the crinkle at the corners of your eyes, your head tilted to the side ever so slightly, couching in front of his pack.

"Lookin' through your stuff," you croon to him.

Joel's blood boils. What the fuck are you doing? Who the fuck are you? How did you manage to get him all strung up, hanging from the ceiling?

He says nothing as you stay picking through his backpack, taking out every single thing he has in there. His map, compass, the backup flashlight, the gas-mask— which you're putting on?

Why? There weren't any spores in here— were there?

"This thing is fuckin' cool!" Your voice is muffled, and you stand up straight. Then you hold your hands out at your sides, and spin in a circle.

"Hey!" Joel barks at you, flinching away from the revolving barrel of your pistol with each rotation you make. "Stop swinging that thing around, would ya'!?" Joel shouts as you continue to spin.

You stop suddenly, and stare at him through the big, dark lenses of his gas mask. "You know all about swinging around, don'tchya?" You giggle at him.

Joel literally swings back and forth as you say this, very slowly spinning around as he sways, and the throbbing in his head only makes him more angry.

"Cut me the fuck down, keep what'chya want— I don't got time for all this," Joel grumbles, lifting his head so he can look at the rope tied around his ankles. It's a good knot, and without a knife, Joel isn't going to get down on his own, not without his knife.

He reaches behind him to feel for it on his belt—

"Lookin' for this?" Your still muffled voice questions Joel as his fingers brush across the empty space on his waist where his knife would be.

He tips his head almost all the way back, and then to the side so he can see you— and is greeted by the sight of you, still in the gas mask, and now, holding his knife by the blade with your thumb and index finger. All he can do is sigh, close his eyes and wonder how a trip to sit in his favorite recliner led to this.

"Now, I ain't really wanna hurt'chya— I was hopin' you was gunna say knocked out long enough for me to cut'cya down and—"

Joel doesn't wanna hear anymore. "Just cut me the fuck down— people are gon' come lookin' for me if you—"

You apparently don't wanna hear what Joel has to say anymore either, because you start to talk over him. "—we're just gunna go—"

Joel doesn't care, doesn't want to listen to your muffled voice— he wishes you would take his stupid, fucking gas mask off and talk to him like a normal person. He's gotta be able to barter with you somehow. "—don't let me go. If it's food 'n water ya' want, I can get ya' some—"

The two of you are just talking louder, and louder, until the both of you are shouting over the other, neither one of you actually hearing what the other is saying.

"—let me go!"

"—stay forever!"

The two of you stop and stare at each other in silence for a moment. Joel can't really comprehend what you just said, "Stay forever?"

"Yep!" You exclaim happily.

Did he say that aloud?

"You 'n me, together forever, Mister-man," you sigh dreamily at him.

It's not what you say, it's how you say it— like you really believe what you've just said. Like…it was something you had been thinking about, for a while.

"Huh?" Is all he can say, still slowly swaying and spinning. He has to turn his head almost completely around before he whips it to the other side, he wants to keep his eyes on you at all times. You seem un-fucking-predictable.

"Ain't'chya so excited!?" You squeal, and it makes Joel's head ache.

"Gon' fuckin' strangle you once I get down from here," Joel half grumbles, half chuckles under his breath. He crosses his arms over his chest, watching you rummage around for something in his bag.

"That's why I gotta do this," your muffled voice sounds sad as you pull something out and whip it behind your back, hiding it, and that makes Joel nervous.

"Do what?" Joel tries to see what you pulled out of his backpack.

"Gotta close your eyes," you shrug your shoulders, and rock back and forth on the balls of your feet.

Joel blinks at you, just staring at him through the gas mask. He's not completely unsettled by the sight of you in a gas mask, he's seen women wearing them plenty— it's the fact that you have him completely at your mercy and he can barely see your fucking eyes.

He's so fucking stupid for coming out here alone all the time, Tommy and Ellie both warned him- both told him that something would happen to him out here. He'd hurt his back— or worse. And no one would know where to find him- because this was his secret hideaway. A place to escape the responsibilities of being a dad, a grandpa, and a big brother.

Joel loves Ellie, JJ and Tommy more than he ever thought possible— and loves that he got to be around them everyday— it was just starting to be a lot.

If Joel had the means to move that recliner into his house in Jackson, he would have— but it's too big, too heavy and way too fucking far.

Now look at him, upside down!

"Ya' ain't gunna wanna see it comin'." You give Joel a small warning. "Please just close them," you whine, starting to nervously dance on your tip toes.

"No." Joel growls, arms still crossed over his chest.

"'Kay!" You exclaim, running over to Joel. "Warned ya'!" You pull the brick Joel had put in his pack for emergencies.

"Wait! Wait—"

Cripes-all-mighty, Mister-Man is heavy as hell!

It takes everything you have inside of you to drag him to the mattress store. By the time you get there, your shirt is soaked through with sweat, your hair clings to your forehead and the side of your face. Every muscle aches and feels as if it's being torn from the bone it's clinging to.

Huffing and puffing, you drag him through the sea of mattresses until you get to the staircase that leads into the basement office.

"Sorry, Mister-Man," you grunt and push him down the stairs—

He's fine! You lined the stairs, and the bottom where he landed with mattresses a couple days ago-- after you brought his favorite recliner down here. All by yourself. Did it just for Mister-Man, because you want him to be comfortable! You want him to feel nice, and relaxed, and safe here with you.

Once you have him nice and secure to his chair— you wait.

He hit his head pretty hard when you snared him— you didn't think of that part. Then he had to go and wake up! Like a dumb idiot! He could have just stayed asleep, then you wouldn't have had to hit him again!

Thank goodness for that brick he keeps in his backpack, which, what the fuck is that about? It's a good weapon, but it's heavy, and made his backpack harder to carry than you would like to admit.

You were also lugging that giant of a man around, ya' did good, Sugar.

Yeah, ya' did good, kid.

You wrap your arms around yourself and sigh, "Thanks."

You wanna tell the voices in your head that you love them, but you don't really always love them. Sometimes you hate them, and wish they would shut up, and sometimes they don't talk when you need them to— finicky fuckers! And they almost never see eye to eye, and it's exhausting. So you just say thanks.

Mister-man is so pretty up close. Even more pretty than you could have ever thought or dreamed of. He doesn't look like he's shaved or cleaned up his beard in the last couple days, and his hair was combed back away from his face when he got here today— but now it's a mess, matted to his forehead in drying blood, falling into his eyes.

"Shit," you whisper, taking in the sight of him all beat up—

Sug, you gotta clean him up— make him pretty again.

The sweet voice is right!

Mister-man looks so sad all bloody and a mess.

"I'll be right back," you murmur and press a gentle kiss to his forehead through his blood stained hair, and then double check all of the ropes around his wrists and ankles. 

He's secure, time to go get him lookin' nice again. 

When you come back, your bag is filled to the brim with supplies from the the multiple stores that still have things inside them. You got him a comb, and a spray bottle that you already filled with clean water. You were able to find some clean clothes that look like they'll fit him. 

He's also awake. 

"Hi, Mist—"

"Let me go." 

"—er-man!" You finish through the interruption. "I'm gunna clean you up now, and then we can have dinner. 'Kay?"

Mister-man stares at you.

"Oh!" You rip the gas mask off and place it on his lap. "Sorry, I wasn't trying to steal it. I promise." You cross your heart with one index finger. 

"Let. Me. Go." 

You wince with each barked word. "I. Don't. Wanna." 

"If I ever get outta here, m'gon' fuckin' kill ya'," he growls. 

You frown, pinch your eyebrows together and mock his thick, country twang. "M'gon' fuckin' clean ya' up real good, 'n then me 'n ya' can have fuckin' dinner." You growl back at him. 

"Shut th'fuck up, untie me—"

"Why!? So you can kill me?" You shake your head at him, giving him a small smirk. "Not gunna happen, Mister." 

His eyes go wider than you've ever seen them, as if he might be nervous. "What th'fuck you gon' do to me then, huh?" 

"Clean. You. Up. Then. Have. Dinner. Did I say it too fast the first time, or can you really not hear too good?" You cock your head to one side, and look at him quizzically.

"Th'fuck did ya' just ask me?" Joel feels his chest going tight-- this hasn't happened in fucking years. It can't be happening right now.

"I talk real fast sometimes, and I don't realize it, and so sometimes all my words come out real jumbled to--"

"'Bout my hearin'?" Joel's working overtime to suck the air in, to bring precious oxygen to his brain. His head is still pounding, and now he can't fucking breathe, and he can't even imagine what kind of sick, twisted shit you're going to do to him.

Joel watches your eyes drop to the ground by his feet, and it's almost like you pull your body in on itself somehow, retreating into a place where you're trying to hide from him in plain sight. "I been watchin' you when you come in here... just act like you can't hear all that good outta your right ear," you say in a voice so small Joel can barely hear it.

"Watchin' me?" Joel scoffs.

Who the fuck are you? How long have you been watching him? How come he's never seen you before? Never even seen a trace of another person around here, just the stray raccoon or possum.

Joel's blood boils when you nod your head at him, still unable to look him in the eye. "Ya' should be ashamed. Whatever it is ya' wanna do to me is probably fucked--"

"I'm not ashamed," your voice snaps, and finally you lift your head to meet Joel's gaze. "Not even a little."

"Actin' like it," Joel's voice is snappier, and louder, and it makes you flinch.

"Maybe a little embarrassed--"

"Ashamed, fuckin' embarrassed, same fuckin' thing." Joel rolls his eyes at you.

"Not really," you shake your head from side to side and raise both of your eyebrows at him. "Not at all, actually."

"Would you shut th'fuck up?!"

"Would you shut th'fuck up..." You mock Joel. "I'm tryin' to do somethin' nice for you, and you keep telling me to shut the fuck up!"

"Do somethin' nice f'me?!" If this wasn't almost thirty years after the fucking apocalypse happened, Joel would think he was on some hidden camera show.

"Yeah!" You hold out the supplies you had brought back from wherever the fuck you had run off too while Joel was unconscious.

"Doin' somethin' nice would be lettin' me go, sweetheart." Joel switches his tone- does something he wouldn't normally do in a situation like this.

Your eyes light up. They crinkle in the corners a little, like they did the first time he saw you, but you're not upside down this time. The corners of your lips are trying to curl up, but you're actively trying to stop them.

"Don't call me that, 'less you mean it."

With the comb, water bottle and first-aid kit in hand, you take your place behind him and inspect the wound. 

It's a surface wound, but dirty from the brick and still very bloody. 

It's a painstaking process, because you don't want to be the cause of his pain anymore. Not ever again if you can help it.

Really, that's up to Mister, but he'll find out on his own soon enough! He just has to play nice, be sweet and kind— be the Mister you want him to be, and he'll be perfectly happy here with you. Life here with you in the mall could be perfect! He just needs to be perfect. He's almost there, he just has to keep his mouth shut. 

He's not quiet, not at all. He hoots and hollers at you to stop, to let him go, that he's gonna gut you like a fish if he ever gets free from here.

The way he talks, his voice feels like the deepest note on a piano, or the thickest string being plucked on a guitar. It vibrates in the spaces between your ribs, and forces all the air out of your lungs when he talks.

He's taking your breath away... how romantic.

The sweet and airy voice in your head is right, he is taking your breath away. You wish he would stop saying those mean and terrible things to you-- they're making you hurt inside, where your stomach is.

Guilt. You should just kill him right now--

"Hurt him?"

Mister stops shouting, and raises one eyebrow at you.

Look'it those big brown eyes. Like a baby cow. All wet 'n big, kinda scared lookin'.

Ugh, shoot him right between those beautiful brown eyes, kid. You can do it.

He ain't hurt you yet, Sug...

Because she tied him up--

As she should, she's gotta feel him out a little, make sure he's really not gonna hurt her.

How is he ever going to hurt her if he's tied up?

"Okay, enough!" You almost shout-- there they go! Never seeing eye to eye, making things harder than they needed to be!

"I'll yell all I fuckin' want," Joel does holler, loudly. So loud. He's going to draw attention.

"Do I need to get the brick again?"

Joel stops shouting.

He really can't hold back the pained sounds coming from his throat as you attend to his wound.

You're being so, so gentle!

He's acting like a giant baby.

"M'hurtin' you?" You mumble as you drag the damp cloth along his forehead carefully, cleaning the moderately large gash you left there with the brick. It's swollen, and bruised now... you feel so terrible.

He'll forgive you, Sugar.

Mister-man doesn't say anything, he just flinches away from your touch for the millionth time.

"M'sorry, didn't mean t'hurt you this bad." You slowly start to work the comb through his hair, spraying it down with water when you needed to. You're careful to never pull on his hair too hard, and work the tangles out meticulously so you don't bring him any more discomfort.

"Got'chu some medicine." You reach into your pocket and pull out two white pills.

"I ain't takin' nothin' y'give me, fuckin' crazy bitch." He grumbles.

Mister watches you walk around to the front of him, and kneel between his legs.

"S'just regular," you hold your hand up to his face so he can inspect the pill on his own. "Nothin' strong like they had in the QZ's," it's a gentle explanation as he studies the medicine in your palm. "Can find some for ya' if you wanted me to, m'real good at findin' stuff."

"Find it in your heart t'let me outta here," Joel gives you the sweetest, crookedest smile that makes you stomach feel like it grows ten sizes, and your heart feels like it's racing something else inside of you.

There are sweet wrinkles in the corners of his eyes, and the lines on his forehead deepen, and he has the softest dimple on his left cheek.

Sug, he's so pretty.

Kill. Him. Before. He. Kills. You.

"So pretty," you catch your bottom lip between your teeth, and rest one of your elbows on his knee, propping your head up on the heel of your hand. The pills are still right in front of Joel's face, and his eyes flash between them, and your face.

"Not takin' them" he grumbles, twisting his head away from your hand.

"Suit yourself," you put the pills back into your pocket, dipping your head down to press a soft kiss to his knee. "M'gunna go get us dinner, I'll be back."

Joel stares at the tray of food you set down on the table you dragged over to be directly in front of him.

"Where's the protein?" Joel looks up at you from the plate of crackers with peanut butter, a small bowl of raspberries, two packets of expired pretzels you would get on an airplane, and a full bottle of labelless whiskey.

"S'in the peanut butter," you say through a mouthful of your own cracker.

Begrudgingly, Joel opens his mouth when you hold a cracker up to his lips. "Where's the meat?"

The crackers are dry, and kind of stale somehow? The peanut butter is still nice and creamy, just the way Joel remembered it before the outbreak.

"Where would I find meat?"

Joel pinches his brows together and blinks at you. "Ya' live in the woods, got a gun or two-- fuckin' know how to set a snare--"

You gasp softly, and rest one elbow on the table and point at him with a lazy index finger, "You 'spect me to go out there and kill an innocent lil friend? They ain't ever done nothin' t'me. Why would I go out 'n hurt 'em when I ain't got no reason to?"

Joel continues to blink, trying so hard to keep his eyes on you and not the ropes you have him tied down with so tightly they're starting to dig into the skin on his forearms-- painfully.

"Ya' kiddin', right?" He watches as you place a raspberry directly into the peanut butter on the cracker and hold it out for him.

"Issa good combo, try it." You nod your head at him, urging him to open his mouth.

Joel doesn't want to, doesn't want to give you the satisfaction of knowing he needs you, and is going to keep needing you until you decide to kill him, or set him free.

He opens his mouth though, because Joel hasn't had a raspberry in years and he loves them, and the sight of that plump, juicy berry sitting so comfortably in that pillow of delicious, creamy peanut butter is making his stomach rumble. Loudly.

"Want some?" You hold up the bottle of whiskey, screw off the cap and take a swig. "See, it's safe," you look at him through your lashes, and give him a one-corner-of-your-mouth-smile.

Joel nods his head, because what else was there to do if he was going to be a prisoner here? He tried so hard to free himself of the restraints while you were gone, but you know how to tie a knot, and Joel just ended up giving himself rope burn.

An hour later, Joel feels pretty good, but not good enough to forget the situation he's in, but the booze is making you very chatty, and he might actually be enjoying the conversation.

"'N I get power from the solar things up on the roof, I think."

"Ya' think?" Joel smirks at you, he can't help it.

"I dunno how the solar works," you exclaim, holding one hand towards the ceiling. "It's the sun and black screens," you give the ceiling the middle finger and groan. "Barely works when the sun is out-- I just wanna watch my movies--"

"What kinda movies ya' got?"

He wishes he never asked.

You're sitting between his legs on the floor-- reaching behind you to feed him raspberries, never taking your eyes off the screen.

Joel thing's about biting your fingers off, thinks about taking the tips right off with his front teeth.

What would you do if he did that? Joel is still tied up, and he would just have raspberries and bloodied fingertips in his mouth, and then possibly a crazy, unpredictable, angry woman who would try and kill him.

Joel has seen angry people every day for close to thirty years... he knows what they look like, what they sound and act like--- you don't sound or act angry.

"Love this part," you sigh, leaning back into him, and resting your head on his knee.

Joel looks up to the screen, watching Cinderella transform into her beautiful ball gown.

Joel wishes he could reach out and run his fingers through your hair.

No he fucking doesn't? What the actual fuck? What did you put in the food, or the whiskey to make him feel this way?

Joel clenches his hands to fists on the arms of the recliner, and tenses his jaw-- grinding his teeth in the process.

You continue to drink throughout the movie, and when the credits are rolling-- you stumble to your feet, and then into his lap.

"Get off'a me," Joel gripes as you nuzzle your nose against the side of his face.

"Just wanna cuddle," you murmur, curling yourself up into his chest, yawning sleepily. "F'just a lil bit."

"Get off'a me, ya' fuckin' nut!" Joel shouts, and regretfully, tries to headbutt you.

His cheekbone, the side of his nose and part of his forehead connect with the top of your skull in a dull, aching thud.

You scramble off his lap, and fall to the floor, one hand holding the top of your head where Joel had just whacked you. The right side of his face is throbbing, and he thinks his nose might be bleeding, or he's crying- he doesn't know- he doesn't care. He just wants to go home.

"What the fuck!?" You shout back at him. "Mister, I ain't been mean to you at all, minus the brick- okay? What the hell is your problem!?"

Joel can't help but laugh, it starts off as a chuckle, but quickly matures into full on guffawing. "Y'fuckin' insane, ya' know that?" Joel rumbles through his fit.

Through the tears in his eyes, Joel can see you glaring at him.

Okay, he hurt her, can she kill him now?

Sugar, he ain't mean it... not really... he just needs some time to adjust.

He could have really hurt her, are you serious?

He's just nervous! Give the man a break--

Tired of giving men breaks- tired of letting them get away-

"Both of you, knock it off." It's a stern warning to the voice as you glare at Mister.

He stops laughing and blinks at you. "Huh?" He cocks one eyebrow up high, "Both o' ya?"

His question doesn't register, all you can think about is how disappointed you are in him.

"I was gunna let'chya sleep in the big bed with me," you huff, climbing to your feet. "Ain't gonna do that no more."

"I ain't wanna sleep in the big bed with y'crazy fuckin' ass, anyway!" He screams at you.

"What're ya' bein' so fuckin' mean for? I cleaned ya' up, made ya' pretty again-- fed you dinner 'n shared my drink with you!"

Do not cry! What're you doing!? Don't let him see you cry! Get out of here, right now!

The dark voice is right, the burn in your nose and the sting in your eyes are tell tale signs of tears- and you hate them. Hate the way they make your face wet and sticky, hate how they make your heart hurt, hate how your head feels like it's ten pounds heavier when you get done crying.

He'll come around, Sug. Gotta give him some time. If ya' stay nice-- it'll happen sooner than you think.

"I like bein' nice," you murmur, not taking your eyes off Mister.

"Th'fuck are you talkin' about!?" He exclaims, eyes wide, almost obsidian with rage and confusion.

"G'night, Mister. We'll try again t'morow."

Mister doesn't rest, doesn't relax, doesn't settle down at all.

When you open the door to his room, he's still screaming his head off.

"Hey!" You shout back at him, grabbing his attention. "We got raiders 'round here. We got infected movin' in and outta here all the time-- you know how fuckin' loud you are?"

"Hopefully they all hear 'n come runnin'. I'd love to see you get torn to shred-"

"'Kay, m'real sorry ya' feel that way. Even sorrier that I gotta do this."

Mister doesn't stop fighting you the entire time you shove the bandanna into his mouth. He even bites down on your index and middle finger as you stuff the last corner of fabric between his teeth.

Hit him.

It happens so fast, you don't have time to stop yourself from the back of your hand connecting with his cheek.

"Now, you gunna play that game? I can play, too," you inspect your finger and the deep indentation he left that's already starting to bruise.

The duct tape is hard to rip, and you need to use your teeth to cut a strip to go over his mouth.

Mister is mumbling something around the bandanna, but you can't understand him, and honestly are still mad about your fingers-- they hurt! Really bad!

"Glad I still got that medicine... I'm gunna fuckin' need it!" You dig around in your pockets and look for the two white pills. Your fingers throb while you look, the sensitive skin; tender to the touch as it brushes against the fabric inside your pockets.

Mister glares at you with his almost black eyes.

"I'm sorry!" You find the pills, throw them into your mouth and swallow dry. "I'm sorry for hurtin' you. I do not like doin' it, I mean it." You take a couple steps towards him, and drop to your knees between his legs again.

Mister watches, his whole body still as you rest your head on his knee again.

"Just want ya' 'round. M'sorry," you close your eyes, not wanting him to see them fill with those traitorous tears. "Jus' real lonely out here. Miss havin' someone t'talk with...'n snuggle up to at night."

The fuckin' duct tape makes it impossible for Mister to say anything--which is the worst. You wanted someone to talk with, not at.

"I'll take the tape off in the mornin', and we can try again over breakfast, 'kay?"

Mister doesn't make a single sound for the rest of the night.

Joel is drunk again. Fuck, this is never good.

You're in his lap, knees on either side of his thighs with one arm around his neck, your head resting on his shoulder. There is something about the way your fingers twirl around in his hair at the nape of his neck that feels good. Too good.

"C'mon, get off'a me," Joel groans, but there's no passion in his voice. It's been almost three weeks of just this, and he doesn't hate it. Not when he's drunk.

Honestly, he barely dislikes it when he's sober, but he's better at acting like he doesn't want you on his lap when he hasn't had a drink that night.

How can he not like it just a little bit? You're soft, and warm, and fit so perfectly on his lap it's like you were made to be there.

"Couple more minutes, Mister. Please?" You fucking whimper,

The sound floating through Joel's ear canal sends a shiver down his spine, and directly into his cock. It twitches in his jeans. He's got to start thinking about baseball, and carpentry work, and how he's probably going to die soon.

Nothing works. Joel can feel the heat from your cunt through the thin fabric of your shorts, and his hands have been tied down to this chair every time you're not around. The only time you let him up is to use the bathroom-- and you have a gun while you wait for him the entire time, so he's never horny then!

And, as thankful as Joel is for this- you've never even looked at him like that. You look at him like you're in love with him all the time, but you've never once looked at him like you wanna touch him.

Joel tries to push his hips further into the chair, away from the perfect, searing heat of your middle.

"Where'ya goin?" Your voice purrs in his ear, your fingernails ghost across the skin on his neck and he shivers again, his cock feels it tenfold.

You feel it now, too.

"What're ya'--" you pause to look between your bodies, and then your eyes flash up to his. "That f'me?" You're whispering, and your glassy eyes are wide, and look so flattered.

"Ain't for nobody, stop lookin' at 'em," Joel grumbles, again, not really meaning any of it even though he should mean every single word.

"'Em?" you question him with your big, wet eyes and his cock twitches again.

Joel swallows hard, his eyes falling to your bottom lip clutched between your teeth, and nods. "Him, yeah, whatever you wanna call it-- ain't for you." He sighs softly.

"Why not?" you sink down further into his lap. The thin shorts you have on to wear to bed do nothing to keep your warmth contained. It's almost like Joel can feel what it would be like if you just whipped him out and sat-

He's never drinking with you again. Never again.

"Get off'a me," Joel leans forward gently as you lean into him, the tips of your noses touch softly.

"Gunna bite me if I kiss ya'?"

Joel is a goner, your breath smells sweet like raspberries and whiskey and every single thing about you is warm and soft-- Joel knows that if he wasn't fucking drunk he'd be fighting you tooth and nail, but he cannot right now.

He can't think about anything but what you'd feel like wrapped around him, milking him.

"Take'em out," Joel is the one to lean into the kiss, his lips aren't hesitant, or tentative at all when they meet yours. He is going to try and bite you- and he does, he nips at your bottom lip, but gently. He pulls back with it still bitten, and listens to you moan softly.

The quickness of your fingers isn't your friend, you struggle with his belt for what feels like an eternity as you push back against his kiss, eagerly slipping your tongue into Joel's waiting mouth.

Joel groans low in his throat when you wrap your hands around his girth, and then chuckles at your shocked gasp when you pull away to get a good look at him.

"He ain't gon' bite'chya," Joel teases, leaning forward, searching for your lips again.

"Might split me in half," you moan, presumably at the thought of Joel stretching you open.

Joel can't contain his own moan as you put the image in his head. "Fuuck, sit on him-- lemme feel ya'."

The sound that leaves you makes Joel throb in your hand, "Ya' want me t'put 'em inside?" You whisper, the silky smoothness of your hands on him, stroking him so slowly is making his head spin.

"Jeeesus, yes-- fuckin' c'mon- do it," Joel lets his head fall back against the recliner, and watches as you pull your shorts to the side, and lift yourself to hover over him. "C'mon..." Joel eggs you on in a whisper. "Y'can do it, crazy girl."

"Don't call--" you pause when you notch the head of him at your entrance. "--me crazy."

Joel groans loudly as you sink down and let every wet, soft part of you engulf him. He throbs again when you whimper and whine, eyes clenched shut, your hands grasping at his shoulders as you inch your way down his length.

"Ow, ow, ow," you whine, leaning forward to rest your head on Joel's.

He could headbutt the shit out of you right now, but fuck, the way you're looking at him, with real tears in your eyes, not just from drinking.

"Hey, ya' doin' real good, sweetheart, keep goin'-- nice 'n slow," Joel encourages you, because he doesn't want it to stop either. "Jus' like that, crazy girl."

God damn, is crazy pussy always this good? He wouldn't fucking know, he wouldn't ever get involved with you if he knew you back in Jackson- but out here, after almost three weeks with you... it's hard to deny the physical needs of a man. And you're so fucking soft and wet.

The two of you groan in unison when you fully seated. The velvet walls of your pussy are fluttering, and clenching around him as you adjust to his length.

"You're so big," you hum, leaning in to press a gentle kiss to his lips. "Didn't think ya'd wanna do this," you whisper into his mouth. "Wasn't gon' take it from ya-- don't like that."

"Take what'chya need from me, whenever ya want it, shit," Joel tries to buck his hips up into yours to give you what you want but you whine in protest.

"Still hurts."

Joel settles his hips and leans into the best he can being tied down, his fingers grip the armrests of the chair tightly, groping it like he would be groping you if he could.

"Untie me," he murmurs while grinding up against you, not pulling out of you at all, just letting you feel him, letting you open up around him so it'll start to feel good.

"No," you nip at his bottom lip now, but you suck it into your mouth and tease him with your tongue as your walls start to rhythmically clench around him.

"Fuck, ya' doin' that on -ur-ose?" Joel groans with his bottom lip still being lapped at, The feeling of your tight, wet sucking him in deeper somehow- like it's fucking bottomless almost makes him come right then.

You pull back, his lip slips from between your with a wet pop "Mhm, ya' like it?" You clench harder around him and then release, and then do that over, and over again.

"Fuckin' untie me, wanna touch you- gotta feel how soft ya' are all over, c'mon," he's begging, he needs to feel the swell of your ass in his palm, or one of your tits spilling between his fingers as he grips you.

"No, you'll just try 'n leave me-"

"No, no, no-- I'll stay 'n... uh.. I'll... um- uh--oh, I'll play nice wit'chya" Joel racks his brain with anything that he could say that would possibly give him a chance at being able to really touch you.

"Lyin' t'me," you moan, and Joel throbs inside of you.

"Not lyin'-"

You pull back from his face at an alarming rate, and you scan his face slowly, as if you were drinking in every feature, savoring the flavor-- Joel watches you swallow hard and imagines that it's his load you just took down--

"Untie me, let me touch ya' a lil bit," Joel whispers, keeping his eyes locked on to yours. "Make ya' feel real good, promise." Joel licks his lips as he watches you struggle internally with the decision. "C'mon... gotta feel how soft ya' are, crazy girl. Just one hand."

"Fine."

You stay seated in his lap, his cock still throbbing inside of you as you work on the knot that will free his right hand. He's trembling in the anticipation of it all.

As soon as the pressure is gone off his wrist, Joel reels his arm back as far as he can, and sends it flying forward with as much force as he can muster after not eating meat for almost an entire month.

You scream as his fist connects with your right eye, and go flying to the floor.

Joel might be completely sober right now, and he knows he needs to move fast before you get up and probably shoot him for lying to you, and then punching you.

Yep. Shoot him. Shoot him right between his perfect, brow, baby-cow eyes. End it.

The dark voice in your head is right, but it's almost impossible to think about anything else but the pain shooting into your brain from your right eye socket.

"You motherfucker," you sob. The pain is electrifying- and you can't even see out of your right eye anymore!

That was your least favorite eye!

Kill. Him.

When you sit up, Joel is working on the knot around his left wrist.

You stumble to your feet, holding your hand over your eye trying to keep the actual ball in, in case it falls out, and walk over to the table with his book bag on it. You rummage around until your fingers wrap around the item you're looking for.

When Joel sees what you're carrying, not even attempting to hide it behind your back, he quickens his efforts on the knot.

Your left hand isn't your dominant one, but your right is busy keeping your eyeball in your head because it most surely got knocked loose or something.

You have to whack Joel twice before he goes unconcious.

"S'what ya' get for almost takin' my eye out!"

While he's still asleep, you take this opportunity to cut the jeans he's wearing off of him. You carefully unbutton the green and red flannel he was wearing and slip that off of him fully intact.

Once he's fully secure, with a new restraint around his chest to keep him fully pinned down to the chair, and the bandanna and tape back around his mouth-- you shut all the lights off, every single one, and leave him down there to think about what he did.

He's gonna learn to play nice, and if he wants to play rough first... so can you.

The air is thick with tension and stench of his sweat and fear.

The big-guy should be kind of scared- you didn't want it to come to this, but he just cannot participate nicely!

You circle your Mister-man slowly, drinking in every detail of him. His broad chest heaves with ragged breaths, muscles taut and straining as he fights against the restraints for the thousandth time.

No matter how hard he struggles, he cannot break free. Oh boy. Mister-man has some big feelings about it, and he's trying to let you know.

He is struggling— like, so fucking hard, against his bonds that tether him to the chair, that are cutting deep into the skin on his wrists. It's unfortunate, but he keeps wriggling around! If he just stopped, it'd all be fine!

You lean in close, pointing to your right eye, which is still black and blue, but thankfully not as swollen anymore, and frown at him. "This hurt!" You exclaim. "It hurt so bad, and you said you were gunna play nice. Why'd ya' lie t'me?"

His eyes are blown wide with fury and desperation. But he cannot respond, not really, his voice is saying things, but it's muffled by the duct tape stretched tight across his mouth.

He's still clad in only boxer shorts, a thin gray t-shirt, and socks, he looks vulnerable and exposed.

It really shouldn't be so hot-- but it is. You can't stop thinking about what he said the other night.

"Take what'cya want from me, sweetheart. Whenever you want it."

You wonder if he really meant that, because he punched you in the face right after.

But... he got excited! He wanted it, Mister-man kissed you first.

Oh Sug, he's down bad.

Please kill him. Shoot him right now, then you can just move to a different part of the mall. It's very simple.

He's really mad; which makes no sense! He punched you right in the eye! What is he mad for!?

"I thought after three weeks you'd be begging me to take you upstairs, Mister," you purr seductively, taking a step behind him, out of his line of sight. "Instead you hit me!?" You give Joel a good thwack against the side of his head with your open hand.

Not enough to really hurt him— that's coming soon— but enough to let him know to cut the shit. It's getting old, and now you want a fun, willing participant to play with you… and not someone who is going to act like they don't like… all this.

The perfect basement office of an old mattress store in an abandoned mall about a two hour hike outside of what used to be Jackson, Wyoming?

There's no spores, there's no mildew or stink! It's clean, you make sure to keep everything so clean for him.

Despite his insessant pestering about meat for some reason, he's well fed! He gets to drink whenever he wants!

Why is he so upset!?

Joel grumbles something from behind the duct tape and it's honestly lost of deaf ears because you don't care for what he has to say right now, it's never nice or sweet. It's always mean— that's why he's got the duct tape on.

Soon.

Soon the big-dumb-idiot will be singing your name, happily, and without restraints.

He's just gotta wear something else first.

You slip the shock collar around his thick neck while you're still behind him.

He doesn't like it, at all. He thrashes and writhes, and makes a desperate, pleading groan from behind deep in his throat.

"Well, you wanna act like all them other dogs out there, you're gon' get treated like one," you press a kiss to the top of his skull, and pull back before he can rear his head forward and smash it against your nose.

He's going to try-- he always does.

Slowly, you wind your way around him, trailing a finger along his sweat-slick forehead and crawl into his lap. He struggles at first, until he sees the remote in your hand.

"Gonna zap all the bad outta you… make you perfect for me." You sigh, wrapping your arms around his neck. "Have an idea...for how you can hug me-- and not hit me."

Joel mumbles something else, muffled through the duct tape. It doesn't really matter what he's saying, all that matters is how warm he is. How he makes you feel so safe and comfortable.

It's easy now, with the threat of being zapped, to rest your forehead against his, and nuzzle the tips of your noses together.

"You gunna be good for me, Mister-man?" It's a purr as you press a kiss to the duct tape covering his mouth. "Or am I gunna have to train you how to be good?"

omg this might be the longest tag list i've ever done let me know if you want me to take you off, add you, if I forgot you-- I'm SORRY!!!

TAG LIST: @pedrospookie @gothcsz @joelmillerisapunk @sp00kymulderr @paleidiot @goodvampykitten @rosebuds-and-moonlight @diabaroxa @zhazy-blog2 @almostempty @xdaddysprincessxx @tobethlehem @lilac-boo @xkyxkyxxlylcylulucuflfluclu @rav3n-pascal22

[imfoive]

Crystal Bird - Chapter 11

Crown Prince! Chan x Princess (fem.) Genre: Royal au! Angst, Romance, Historical, hidden identity, slow-burn Warnings: mentions of poison, subtle gender discrimination, death, war, assassination, somewhat proofread WC: 7.8k A/N: happy new year everyone! This story is about to progress aLOT, so buckle up and stay prepared for this ride 😚 Feedback, Reblogs, Likes are greatly appreciated! Happy reading! ── MASTERLIST

Synopsis: The Crown Prince is saved by the Princess of a rival kingdom, and he swears his second life to his savior. A forbidden friendship no one knew of, grows deeper with every secret meeting. As the two are kept apart, memories of their sunset playdates by the serene river, begin blossoming into something beautiful. Cheeks blushed, stomach butterflies fluttered at the thought of each other. Years of yearning and imagining had only made them crave a sweeter reunion. And finally meeting at a Royal banquet, he could only stare at the now grown Princess, taken by her beauty, while she only watches as he gives his heart to the wrong princess.

Missed a chapter? - Prologue / Chapter 1 / Chapter 2 / Chapter 3 / Chapter 4 / Chapter 5 / Chapter 6 / Chapter 7 / Chapter 8 / Chapter 9 / Chapter 10

CHAPTER 11 ───────────────────

The people of Elysium had long been taught that the Nightshade Realm was their enemy. A kingdom that would press down on its people. A kingdom that would attack them, the enemy. Murder, ravage, take everything they have.

It was the fear that kept them settled. Their ruler would protect them. Their king would provide them with the best life. 

So then why were they feeling pressed down? Why were they feeling unprotected, unprovided of the best life? 

The Kings of Elysium had always preached what their first ruler had fought for. Yet as the crown got passed down, those core values seemed to have gotten twisted. Tangled around greed, power. Those values had diminished somewhere along the way. 

And now, it seems that with this new disease. The Fading Ill, that had taken the poor, the lower class into its nasty grasp, the people became unsettled. 

But the king, either too busy catering to the nobles or ignorant of their suffering, seemed to not notice the anger, the turmoil, that seemed to churn within the people. 

On the brink of boiling over.

And suddenly after Ian’s wedding, during the viewing parade, where the citizens of the kingdom were supposed to come together. Joyous, wishing the new princess consort and the crown prince a happy life, there was tension. The anger the people felt, the complaints that went unheard, all shouted together. A facade of a nation harmonious, shattering with their voices. A sight that both shocked and intrigued the foreign princes. Especially the Nightshade Prince, who suddenly understood why Elysium was making foolish plans for war.

The Nightshade healing methods and ideologies. 

The rare medical herbs that littered the expanse of the vast kingdom shrouded in darkness and mystery. And it seemed that Elysium wanted it.

Apparently in search of a cure for a disease that seemed to render its people restless.

────────────────────────

Two days prior after the enemy princess had trampled on his hopes. On his desires for the two of them to accept the painful pull they had felt for each other, the disheartened Nightshade Crown Prince had trudged back defeated into his chambers at Ruby Hall.

It took one glimpse of his face, that Han instantly understood. This man had lost. Holding back his anger, his frustrations simmering beneath his cold facade. The kind of expression Han had seen plenty of times up in the White Mountains.

The Second Princess seemed to be afraid. Clear from the distress Chris caught in her glances, the ones she tried to mask, with her hurtful words, and expressions laced with disgust. A part of him understood, well, tried to understand. Unlike him, the heir to his father’s crown, the future King of Nightshade, Princess Y/N had always lived with herself guarded. One wrong move, one wrong action of hers, could have left her at the lowest rungs within the palace. Lower than she already was.

He wanted to understand. But he could only recall the image of her calling him a predator. Something filthy that wasn’t worthy of touching her, let alone loving her. He wanted to understand, but a bitterness tugged at his heart. The anger that simmered within, the frustrations that churned below.

The Nightshade Prince had always been one to hold grudges.

He would give her exactly what she wanted.

No more lingering glances, no more pained gazes.

He would no longer be tugged by her pull, the flame that seemed to have him drawn. The flame that threatened to consume him in its fiery blaze.

Y/N was well aware, painfully aware that Chris had decided to hate her. Determined to hate her. As he said so himself, relenting to her wishes, barely sparing her a glance. Yet she couldn’t even wonder why, couldn’t even allow it all to prick her heart because it was all her fault. The coldness in his demeanor, the stoic, guarded stance that the Warrior Prince had kept up with every other person he encountered within the palace, had returned.

Even the way he engaged with Sienna was reserved. A smile no longer curling at the corner of his lips, his gaze no longer gentle.

The smiles and gazes had been reserved for his childhood friend. One who no longer existed.

The wedding hall had been shining, glimmering, with all sorts of crystals and gems. Flowers, and colors that made you stare with fascination. The vibrant red and gold carpet in the center of the hall that led to the altar had stood out amidst the pure white of everything else around the grand room, captivating the gathered audience.

Crown Prince Ian wore his finest attire, his hair styled neatly, a slight flush in his cheeks either from the emotions that coursed through him, perhaps shy, or from the alcohol he had downed before the ceremony. Y/N didn’t really care, her eyes raking over to the audience. The nobles, the guests, the foreign delegates that sat across on the other side of the room. 

Y/N’s gaze met Hyunjin’s, the dark-haired prince who grinned at her with pleasant smiles. She had easily returned it, but as her eyes continued to wander, in search of the face of the man she supposedly hated. The man that she wanted to hate but couldn’t get herself to, her eyes broke away at the sound of the grand doors opening with an echoing creak. 

The future princess consort walked in gracefully. The pure white of her dress, the embroidered flowers seemed to have captivated the crowd, who almost gasped at how beautiful she looked, how poised and perfect she seemed to be. 

How lucky she was to wed into the royal family. The future Queen of Elysium.

Yet, Y/N’s gaze lingered on her expression. On her downcast eyes that seemed to stay settled on her bouquet. The slight smile that didn’t seem as bright as ones she had seen the Duke’s daughter wear whenever she sat with Sienna at tea.

The First Princess’ words from that day at the garden surged back from her memories. The ones about princesses marrying for better alliances. For the greater good of their nation. She guessed it was the same for noble children. Especially the daughters of the higher ranked nobles. Such as the Duke's eldest daughter.

And although the lower princess had never been close to Prince Ian’s fiancee, a pang of hurt had crossed her heart for her. Aware that this young lady didn’t love Ian. That she had no choice to love at all.

Y/N’s eyes settled across the hall. At Chris who’s gaze seemed to meet hers. It was a fleeting moment. Their eyes locked for a few seconds, gleaming with similar emotions, 

Perhaps he imagined his own wedding. Marrying for the greater good of his nation.

The future Queen of Nightshade should be perfect, should be a figure looked up to. Someone who matched well with him. Someone who could aid him with her familial ties, her even sharper intellect.

Someone who wasn’t a lowly, illegitimate princess of an enemy nation.

Prince Christopher’s jaw had tightened, his expression unchanged as he tore his gaze away. Turning back to face the bride and groom who stood at the altar. The King of Elysium between the two, officiating. 

The Second Princess’ intuition seemed to be correct, as watching these two marry all he could think about was marrying Y/N. Think about taking her away from here. From the terrible circumstances, from the conflictions that seemed to tie her back, the fears that she shouldn’t have to bear.

He imagined her at the altar. 

With another. 

Someone who was decided to be her husband by the crown, one she had no choice but to marry.

He tasted bitter. His fist balling at his lap. His eyes met Hyunjin who briefly glanced back at him.

And all Chris tasted was bitter.  He'd probably kill that man if he were called to witness such a scene. Take her away even if by force. Like the true beast she claimed he was.

The thought of it all made him shudder. 

The Warrior Prince inhaled, in an attempt to soothe the anger that threatened to surface on his expression. Soothe the manic thoughts that fogged his mind. Pressing his eyes shut for a moment, Chris’ fingers reach for the crystal bird.

Except he didn’t grasp it. His hand faltering, hovering over the fabric of his blazer. 

He suddenly remembered Sienna. The oblivious First Princess who had no recollection of him, their friendship or this bird. 

His savior, but not his princess.

His eyes flitted over to Y/N. The woman that his heart was drawn to. No matter how much she pushed him away.

A princess, but not his.

The wedding ceremony had ended rather quickly. With so many other ceremonies that followed, according to Elysium traditions, it seemed that the tying-of-the-knot wasn’t the main spectacle to witness. Or at least that was what the foreign delegates had grasped.

After Ian and the Duke’s daughter were wed, yet another royal dinner seemed to follow, the evening sky lighting up with fireworks for the whole nation to stare up at and celebrate with. There had been dancers who performed, musicians who serenaded the couple. Then as the night drew on, everyone else joined the ballroom floor.

The Duke was the happiest man present it seemed, being tied to the royal family through marriage now, to the future king and queen seemed to be the greatest thing that had happened to him. He had downed yet another glass of wine, his words slurring as the night wore on. Although everyone seemingly loosened up well into the celebrations, forgetting all the political talk, and easing into every bit of it.

Except Prince Christopher, who seemed to be taking in the revelry in an entirely different light. 

He had instructed Han to scope out Ruby Hall and the Warrior quarters while everyone celebrated. Although the younger guard was reluctant to do so, urging for Minho to be tasked with that instead. Ultimately, with a promise that his prince would not ingest anything suspicious, Han had seceded. Although it was mostly because Minho wasn’t even on palace grounds to overtake his tasks.

The Warrior Prince had his eyes peeled the entire day. From the ceremony this morning, to the customs that followed, and now at this royal dinner, Chris had enough conflictions that darted through his mind, scrutinizing each and every passing thought for something that could have meant more. 

Take Lord Miller, the older man who had approached the table of the foreign princes sometime into the evening, his eyes settling over Prince Christopher’s untouched drink, his plate that lay bare and pristine, clearly uneaten from. The old man had chuckled, the alcohol in his system making him sound a little freer than usual, though his whole demeanor seemed loose, as if it was his daughter that had gotten married into the royal family. He had even dared to pat at Prince Christopher’s shoulder, an action that would have had Han draw his sword if he were here. But Chris only stared at his fingers, his cold gaze piercing that drunken haze that fogged Lord Miller, enough for him to clear his throat and retreat his hand rather quickly.

   “Does the food not suit you, Prince Christoper.” He cleared his throat instead, hoping he hadn’t truly offended the stoic Nightshade heir.

Chris’ eyes flicked over to his plate, to his untouched chalice, before they returned to settle on the man that appeared to have been tipsy of sorts. 

The Warrior Prince had been cautious to not drink and eat all evening just in case. Especially knowing that Lord Miller had been in and out of the Elysium King’s study the past late nights. 

As his departure neared he had been even more guarded. The rest of his delegation ensured to do the same, he wondered when this man had noticed, when he was the one that had been observing all evening.

   “You have a sharp eye, Lord Miller.” Chris curled his lips into a subtle smile instead, glancing over at his untouched cutlery for a speck of a second.

   “I filled myself up with bread unfortunately.” He lied with a shake of his head, uncaring if the excuse came out unbelievable.

And even if he didn’t take his word for it, Lord Miller didn’t question the Nightshade Prince’s words.

   “You journey back tomorrow don’t you?” Lord Miller had changed the subject.

Chris nodded, glancing toward the center table where the new bride and groom sat.

   “Yes, after the viewing parade. It has been an eventful trip these past weeks. I’ve learned a lot.” Chris’ faux smile continued to linger on his unreadable expression.

The tension between the two men was palpable, yet no one around them seemed to say anything even if they had noticed.

There was a slight commotion at the center table that broke their pointed gazes away from one another.

   “—Ah, it seems Duke Wenning has had much too much to drink. That man must be on cloud nine today.” Lord Miller had chuckled, finally bidding Chris farewell.

The older man had made his quick exit, the Nightshade Prince watched as he walked toward Duke Wenning, the Princess Consort’s father, who seemed to have fallen out of his chair from his drunken stupor.

Chris wanted to leave this hall. He wanted to find Han, Minho, and question if they had uncovered anything else, secret meetings, devious plans, things that would most likely occur amidst the celebration. Minho should have scavenged the Grand Forest for any messages from his midnight warriors, perhaps he was back on palace grounds. Maybe he could slip away. Come up with some other lame excuse about feeling spent. 

But he couldn't, it seemed. Not when his eyes kept flitting across the hall. Over to Y/N, the quiet Princess who had arranged much of tonight's dinner, now blending into its shadows. Keeping him rooted here with her magnetic pull. The one he swore he would forget all about. 

His legs refused to move, heart insisting he sit right here where at the correct angle he would see her behind the obstruction of the column between them.

He had convinced himself, attempted to convince himself, to control his wandering eyes. To remain cold and unbothered. Refusing to meet her gaze. Give her exactly what she wanted from him.

Which was nothing. 

Yet like the lunatic he was, he watched when she wasn’t. Stealing glances all throughout the day, taking in his fill of her before he had to leave. If he was even able to leave safely at all.

He could sense Lady Katherine’s gaze on him, his eyes darting away from her daughter before they settled on the older woman who he had only exchanged greetings with during his entire stay. Maybe her motherly intuitons had sparked, seeing as she glanced between her daughter and the Warrior Prince who had coincidentally been stealing glances of her every time she caught him.

But her expression seemed rather composed. 

He had heard much about the commotions Lady Katherine was known for. Seen what she was capable of in the healing bruises that had been discovered on Y/N that night of the first banquet. 

Lady Katherine wasn’t much of an observer. Unlike her daughter who’s ears perked up at things that deserved not a second listen giving her status, her mother was one who was cautious. Someone who found suspicion in the tiniest bit of change. Which was slightly humorous since her daughter’s importance had seemingly changed over night all those months ago. A grand change that she was willing to overlook. Perhaps she had truly been desperate. Restless. For that golden life she had been promised, chasing ever since she was a young maiden.

Lady Katherine might not have been the greatest mother there was. Her morals were anything but pure, another stark difference between her daughter and her. 

But Katherine knew that look that seemed to gimmer in the Nightshade heir’s eyes. 

It seemed that Prince Christopher wore his heart on his sleeve. 

Rather surprising for someone so brusque and frigid.

She should have been furious. Should have reacted in the typical fashion that she would usually, perhaps grip at her daughter’s wrist and lead her out the hall. Discipline her for seducing such a beastly enemy prince. 

But then she remembered what she had overheard last night. 

Or rather, what was said in her presence. Because The King didn’t deem her worthy, important enough, uncaring of whatever he spoke in front of her.

She was not threatening. Simply his foolish mistress who warmed his bed.

Lord Miller had visited the King’s private study last night, outside the ruler’s bedchamber where Katherine was, fiddling with her hair. Their conversation was not hushed, rather casual for whatever was so dire for his advisor to seek him out this late into the night.

   “The poisons are ready.” Lord Miller’s words had carried through, making Katherine blink at the strands of hair in her grasp, unsure if she heard correctly.

She wondered which fool had angered the king and his court enough to get poisoned. 

   “What about the Eastern Sea Prince, has he agreed to join us?” The King’s question had broken his mistress away from her thoughts.

   “He had declined. Politely so.” Lord Miller had chuckled, as if it was the wrong decision, laughing at Prince Hyunjin seemingly.

The King fell silent for a moment, his hand rubbing at his jaw as he pondered.

   “I thought he would be tempted by my offer. Perhaps it’s because he isn’t in line for succession, his values are lacking.” The Elysium ruler’s eyes narrowed into a frown, as if he had recalled something.

   “Much like Prince Ian. Except that fool is in line for succession.” He almost grunted, his fingers gripping around his glass of liquor, downing it.

He grew angered by the day. Especially after the whole arrow incident with the second princess. Ian clearly hadn’t learned from the incident last year. The one where he had killed a servant playing these childish games of his. He had been sent away while the king had dealt with it.

   “He’ll beg for your mercy soon, your majesty. We’re almost there, once we get rid of the Nightshade Prince, everything will fall into place.”

   “I hope you're right. That fool can’t wait to get rid of the Nightshade Prince…But I suppose, that’s better for us, we can easily pin it on him.” The laughter that echoed was sinister almost, making Katherine flinch.

Her eyes shot to the door, just outside which the two men sat. Their devious schemes bare for her to hear. 

   “My king, about my daughter…” Lord Miller spoke up after the laughter had subsided, clearly hesitant.

The Elysium Ruler waved his hand in the air, as if trying to comfort him.

   “Yes, don’t worry. She will be the new consort.” 

A response that made Lord Miller grin widely, almost giddily reaching out to refill the King’s empty glass.

Katherine had gasped sharply to herself, staring at the intricate patterns on the grand door. Confused, shocked. She was unsure what kind of plans these men had drawn, but clearly it was a grand secret that had been in the making for the past year.

Suddenly the drawn out celebrations made sense. The guise of keeping the foreign enemy on their land falling into place as she connected the dots. She didn’t know much about Nightshade or how they will fare without their crown prince, but it seemed Elysium was prepared for the aftermath of it all.

Handing over Ian for assassinating the Nightshade heir.

The Queen will be furious once she learns of this.

A sudden thought darted through Katherine’s mind, her eyes flicking back to the door with more unease.

Then what of her daughter? 

The princess who was on the forefront of preparing all the celebrations. The one responsible for overseeing the foreign envoys. What was her role in all this?

The mother stared, her heart beating fast.

Now however, amidst the music and the dancing, the loud cheers and laughter of the nobles that celebrated the newly weds, another thought flashed through the mother’s mind.

Perhaps he could protect her.

This Warrior Prince. This beastly prince that seemed to exude a shuddering aura, his sharp gaze piercing into hers before she looked away.

Yet the eyes he looked at her daughter with were filled with longing.

A look she had once been very familiar with.

But would that longing gaze be enough to protect her daughter?

Lady Katherine turned to her maid, leaning in to whisper a command.

   “Procure me a dagger.” 

Her personal maid blinked at her, confusion evident in her slightly shocked gaze.

   “Be discreet.” The mistress muttered, turning away.

The maid hesitated for a moment more before nodding, slowly making her way out of the hall.

The sound of Duke Wenning trashing after his fall had stolen back the King’s Mistress’ attention, her eyes following along as the Princess Consort’s father was slowly led out in the midst of the celebration to settle. He had truly gotten carried away in his elation.

That poor bastard. 

────────────────────────

The night was supposed to be a joyous one. Celebrating the marriage of the crown prince, the first of the royal children to wed. The occasion had called for endless revelry. Yet the tensions simmering beneath, threatened to surface.

The Queen of Elysium had retired earlier than usual, her smile graceful, but the anger within her flickered in her eyes, betrayed by a twitch of her brow. She scanned the room, her gaze finally landing on the King. At the ruler who had just backstabbed her.

Or rather.

The man who had betrayed her long ago, and she had only just discovered.

She shouldn’t have been surprised, the fickle King, that husband of hers, was never one that she thought of as loyal. She had known that long before their marriage. But she had believed, foolishly, that he at least respected her position as Queen of this kingdom.

But perhaps that too was a naive hope. Especially when the man had invited his mistress onto the palace grounds. A figure whose presence had undermined her authority for the past twenty-odd years.

She wasn’t just angry. She was furious. She stormed into her parlor, the doors rattling violently against the walls as she flung them open. Her maids, trailing behind her, flinched at her force.

Then came the vase.

The delicate vessel shattered into a thousand pieces as she hurled it at the wall, a scream of rage escaping her lips. Her eyes burned with frustration, her fury unleashing.

She had just uncovered the hidden web of deceit her King had spun right under her nose.

While she was busy keeping an eye on the pawns that could be used in their schemes, the King had sacrificed his Queen.

Sacrificed his crown prince.

Lord Wenning had been intoxicated, escorted to a quieter lounge to regain his composure. Yet, as he sat alone, still giddy with the thought that he could soon have the future king in his pocket, if his daughter could hold him firmly enough, the doors creaked open. Lord Miller stepped inside.

Equally giddy, equally intoxicated by this point of the night perhaps. Yet, elated for different reasons.

The secrets spilled easily. Though vaguely. Lord Miller’s grin was menacing as he leaned in, whispered words that drew out this reaction from the princess consort’s father. Knowing the Duke would likely forget much of this conversation by morning. Yet, the Duke stared back, stunned, absorbing each word.

The secrets had been heard easily. 

With the walls of the palace having ears of their own, and the Queen of Elysium having her spies lingering in most parts of the court, the schemes swiftly reach her. And yet, amidst the festivities of her son’s wedding, all she could do was smile. The mask of benevolence and grace that she had perfected over the years, donned on her face.

And now here she was, in the solitude of her parlor. Breaking things. Shattering objects as if doing so could rid her of the bitter truth she couldn’t fully grasp. She had been swindled. Betrayed by the man to who she had whispered the very idea to in the first place.

She had suggested it. The plan to use the growing sickness to stir unrest among the people of the kingdom. Riling them up enough to justify their attack to a nation that had the cure.

With the Nightshade Prince out of the picture, the enemy kingdom would be thrown into chaos, leaving an opening for Elysium's army to strike.

It was a well sought out scheme. Slightly foolish, she was aware. Knowing well about the history of Nightshade known for their defensive tactics. And if all went awry, the one to take the blame would always be the ruler of the nation. 

Nightshade would want the Elysium King’s head on a stake. 

It seemed the Queen wasn’t loyal herself either. Perhaps what truly upset her was that the King had struck first, making her taste bitter at the mere thought of being back-stabbed.

The Queen of Elysium sank into a chair, her breath steadying as she fought to regain control over the storm of emotions that had clouded her mind. Her thoughts raced, sifting through the endless, fragmented pieces of information she had kept to herself. Bits of gossip, fleeting conversations, reports form her spies, whispers in the dark. She picked through them, trying to discern which might aid her in creating a new, more cunning scheme.

She must do something, anything, before her son takes the fall. That useless son of hers.

Prince Ian, the crown prince she had once hoped would be her puppet. A king in name, but truly a figurehead, with the Queen Dowager advising from behind the scenes. 

Her gaze hardened, and her mind sharpened as a recollection flickered in her memory. Something that had been relayed to her just the night prior.

From a certain guard from the West Wing Palace that had come to her parlor, reporting on the Second Prince’s suspicious activities.

Of her purchasing poison.

The Queen of Elysium was the most powerful woman of the Kingdom.

She was beautiful, she was gracious. She was forgiving.

She was an actress. She was clever. Conniving.

The Elysium Queen was the most powerful woman yet found herself falling behind a mistress.

It’s true that royal marriages rarely involve love, though the young maiden who wed the then-crown prince of Elysium never sought it in the first place. She believed that once married, she could hold her husband’s reins, keep him in check. 

But, of course, that didn’t work.

After she gave birth to a son, she became expendable. Her husband, now king, slowly turned away, no longer visiting her unless needed. Instead, he was consumed by a certain young lady. 

Supposedly beautiful, supposedly radiating. The kind of woman men fawn over, their eyes captured at her every glimpse.

Like the eyes of the King, who was just a man after all.

It grated on the young queen's nerves.

Watching her husband who she didn’t have any real interest in, prepare carriages laden with gifts for some humble noble girl.

And once the queen had gotten a good look at Lady Katherine, she understood.

That the two were made of the same cloth. The two were after power, attaching themselves to the most powerful man of the nation.

Yet the Queen was humored. Because how dare a pretty girl eye her place. How dare a pretty poor girl think she could challenge the queen of the nation, a well-brought up lady of high-society, picked by the former king himself.

The Queen despised the competition, the thorns in her side. But there was little she could do when word spread that the King had fathered an illegitimate child. 

The lower nobles caused a ruckus and the Crown had no choice but to accept her as his mistress.

Fortunately, the child was a girl.

When the Queen saw the look of panic in Katherine’s eyes upon hearing the news, she found herself amused. The mistress’s desperate hope to give birth to a prince who could rival her son’s place vanished in an instant.

Instead, Katherine began to fear the Queen.

The Queen didn’t hold any particular animosity toward the bastard child. She was pretty, lively, much like her mother. And when standing next to her own daughter, the girl seemed rather dull. 

But there was one thing about the Second Princess that intrigued the Queen, something she didn’t realize until it was too late. 

The child was an actress.

That girl was clever, conniving.

And when the Queen glimpsed her younger self in Y/N, she knew she would have to keep a close watch on that illegitimate princess.

It was a good thing she did so too, seeing as she now had a perfect solution to this mess that became a thorn at her side.

   “Bring the Mistress to me.” She ordered

────────────────────────

Princess Y/N warily glanced between her maid and her knight, the suddenly stoic guard who was leading her, rather than protecting her from behind as he always did.

But she could only guess that he had finally grown tired of pretending to guard her, especially now, in the Queen’s palace. The silent corridors felt eerily empty to the Second Princess and her young chambermaid. With the palace bustling with celebrations, there wasn’t a soul in sight. And even if attendants lingered nearby, they stayed out of sight.

Queen Mother had summoned her, a call that shouldn’t have been shocking, seeing as Princess Y/N had been in and out of this palace over the course of preparations. Yet fear gnawed at her, a fear she forced down, hoping no one would notice it. Not Anna, the young girl who was already terrified on her own. Not her knight, who looked at her with much more disdain than he had last. 

Not the Queen Mother who had eyes everywhere, making Y/N worry if she had discovered the Nightshade Prince sneaking around the palace, slipping into her bedchamber.

But, what she was greeted with was the sight of a different Nightshade.

The tube of the shriveled plant. The poison she regretted ever learning about. The same poison she had foolishly smuggled into the court.

Her eyes widened instantly, her gaze darting to the Queen, who stood almost nonchalant by the roaring fireplace, its flames casting vibrant hues across her face.

Princess Y/N’s knight bowed as he completed his task, turning to exit. The heavy doors thudded shut behind him.

The silence that stretched between the three remaining women in the parlor was suffocating. Anna, her head lowered, trembled. The sight of which pained her princess.

   “I thought you to be much sharper than this, Princess Y/N.” The Queen’s voice cut through the heavy silence.

Finally turning, she acknowledged the bowed stances of the lower-princess and her maid, waving her hand to get them to rise.

Y/N’s eyes instantly darted back to the poison at the center table. The one you could grind, mix or ingest as it is.

The woman of highest authority picked up the tube, inspecting the small thing that was apparently quite deadly.

   “I know you had no ill intent. You’re much too good-natured for that. It seems your curiosity has landed you in some trouble yet again.” She shook her head, feigned disappointment crossing her face.

She glanced over at Anna, the young maid who’s loyalty seemed harder to break than she had presumed. Such a young thing, yet had more morality than some of those older, experienced servants that bowed down to bribes.

Like that knight that stood outside. Loyalty not a concept he seemed to grasp.

   “Do you know its uses?” The Queen’s gaze returned to the poison, her fingers tapping the glass tube lightly.

Y/N’s heart hammered in her chest, her fingers trembling slightly. But she was not worried for herself. No, it was Anna she feared for. The young maid had no idea about the Nightshade poison Y/N had in her possession.

   “It’s used to kill.” Y/N replied, her voice steadier than she felt, hoping her tone would mask the nervousness beneath.

The obvious answer made the Queen let out a soft, amused laugh, her eyes glinting with a mixture of amusement and something else. 

   “Yes, as most poisons are. But I imagined you might be aware of its medicinal uses as well.”

Y/N inhaled sharply, wondering exactly how much the most powerful woman of the kingdom knew. How much she pretended to not know. How much she ignored it until it was useful to her.

The Queen seemed to sense the turmoil in Y/N’s thoughts, as if reading her like an open book. She flashed a knowing smile, as though seeing her younger self reflected in the princess. It was an unfortunate thing, that she was the daughter of a mistress.

   “The Nightshade realm knows its uses. From the leaves to the seeds. Every part of it is used for medicine rather than poison. Or so I read about a long time ago.” She couldn’t help but let out a bitter laugh.

   “Ironic for a Kingdom named after such a thing.”

Y/N was at a loss for words. Unsure of what to say next. Whether her words could be used against her, although it truly was her fault that she was in such a situation. No one but hers.

The curious Second Elysium Princess knows how to sneak away. Known to act impulsively before considering any consequences until she stood in the middle of the aftermath. Her eyes glanced over to the terrified young maid.

The Second Elysium Princess, always putting others in danger.

“Forgive me, your Majesty. There was no ill intention behind my possession of this vial. I was simply curious. It—” She gripped at her dress, inhaling as she made a decision. “It was smuggled in by me, and me alone. No one else besides me knew about it.”

Princess Y/N could feel Anna’s shocked gaze boring into her, the chambermaid who had truly known nothing about it indeed, yet couldn’t understand why her princess would confess such a thing.

Would protect a lowly maid like herself.

The Queen blinked at Y/N’s words, her expression momentarily unreadable before she burst into hearty laughter, a sound that echoed off the walls of the silent parlor.

   “Oh, Princess Y/N.” Queen Mother began, her laughter subsiding into a soft chuckle.

   “This is one thing I dislike about you. Never considering the fact that you have no power to protect anyone, yet always jumping forward to do so.” Queen Mother’s laughter settled.

   “Although perhaps it is one thing about you that makes you nothing like that mother of yours.”

The Queen’s voice grew quieter, more contemplative, as her amusement slowly faded. A brief flicker of silence settled between them, thickening the tension in the room. Then, she spoke, her words chilling.

   “I’m going to pin this poison on your mother.” 

Y/N’s eyes widened in shock, her breath catching in her throat. She looked up at the Queen, who met her gaze with an unreadable gleam in her eyes. Tears welled in Y/N’s eyes, and her lips trembled at the gravity of the proclamation. In an instant, Katherine’s daughter crumpled to her knees, her head bowing low in desperate submission.

   “Y-your Majesty, please!” She pleaded, her voice shaking. 

   “I’m the one who deserves the punishment. My mother—she knew nothing about it.” The words spilled from her lips, frantic, desperate.

Beside her, Anna also sank to her knees, her head lowering to the ground, following Lady Katherine’s daughter.

The daughter who had grown distant from her overbearing mother. The illegitimate child who had always accepted her mother’s fury, the scornful words, the strikes that left bruises. And yet, despite it all, the princess still loved her mother dearly.

The most powerful woman in the kingdom stared down at the scene. A slight twitch in her brow gave way to her irritation. Or rather her amusement, seeing as though both mother-daughter seemed to be more alike than she had thought.

   “The Mistress had begged for something similar. Earlier when I presented this shrub to her.”

Once again, Y/N’s stunned gaze shot up to meet the Queen’s slight scowl, the older woman crossing her arms over her chest.

   “She agreed to take the blame. And that is quite final. Unless you intend on poisoning someone instead.”

Y/N was lost, her tears sliding down her cheeks as she attempted to wrap her head around whatever she had heard. Whatever had transpired between her mother and the queen. Before she had arrived.

Perhaps it had all been her fault. Her mother was going to kill someone because of her. For her.

Suddenly she gasped sharply, her mind spinning. Her eyes darted back to the Queen, a desperate question escaping her trembling lips.

   “W-will she poison the Nightshade p-prince?” Her words had left shakily, her fear evident in her tear-stricken expression.

The sight of which made the Queen raise a curious brow.

   “Oh my…” The amusement was evident in her tone, fingers covering her lips as she caught the glint in the princess’ eyes, something that echoed an affection she hadn't expected at all.

   “It seems you are your mother’s daughter after all.” The Queen mused, a smile tugging at her lips she laughed softly, shaking her head in disbelief.

   “And here I thought he was enthralled by Sienna.” She muttered to herself, her gaze far off as if lost in thought. 

But the amusement faded as quick as it came. With a sharp tone, she called for the princess’ guard, standing outside the door.

The doors cracked open, but Y/N didn’t have an answer to the question that still hung in the air, her fear gripping her chest tightly.

   “Do you believe Elysium has a sliver of a chance against Nightshade?” 

The Queen Mother’s words had made the guard, the maid and the lowly princess stiffen, a confession to attacking the enemy nation made so casually.

Yet she only awaited. Waiting for the ever-curious, ever-knowledgeable second princess to voice her opinion.

Y/N inhaled. A bitterness coursing through her, an anger simmering beneath her teary eyes. Her voice was steady, despite the tremor in her chest.

   “Elysium will fall.”

Words that settled like a heavy stone. Words that had her guard shouted out in anger, as if she had cursed them all with her prediction.

   “How damning!” Yet even before he could truly get riled up, the Queen settled him. 

Her expression was calm, as if it were an answer she expected. An answer she knew herself. A likely outcome for a greedy kingdom. For a King, who she wanted nothing but to fall.

   “Enough. I appreciate your honest answer.” Her final words to Y/N were curt, facing her guard, and a few more knights who seemed to be standing out in the hall now.

   “Confine the second princess to her chambers.” The Queen glanced at a terrified Anna.

   “Send her maid away.”

────────────────────────

The Nightshade Prince wasn’t sure how he ended up walking beside Prince Hyunjin, the Sylvancrest Prince’s taller figure falling into his steps, as they made their way through the hall. Hyunjin’s ever-present grin was on display, the same warm smile that Chris had grown used to seeing on his face.

Except for the day of their chess game, which Hyunjin pretended to forget all about.

   “Are you excited to return back home?” Hyunjin’s question broke him away from his thoughts.

Chris inhaled, slipping his hands into his pockets as he gave a curt reply. “Yes.”

But the words didn’t quite match the unease in his eyes. Unable to quite convince himself, much less Hyunjin.

   “Are you returning as well or do you plan to stay a few days. Perhaps… secure that Queen you had been rambling about.” The Warrior Prince’s jaw had tightened, a slight furrow in his brow.

A sight that amused Hyunjin plenty, making the Sylvancret Prince widen his smile even moreso.

   “I don’t think I ever mentioned securing anyone, forget a Queen.” He chuckled, glancing around the chatter and clamor of the hall. 

   “She has already settled on a King.” His tone had softened, muttered between them.

Words dripping with a knowing edge, his expression nothing but warm.

A confession, a sight that should have settled his inner jealousy. Should have made Chris fall into wonder. Should have made him curious, questioning why this pretty prince knew so much. Yet he could only feel bitter.

   “It is you, Prince Christopher. The King her heart has settled on.” Hyunjin’s voice dropped to a murmur, the shift in tone clearly signaling his slight confusion. 

It was clear that he expected something more from the Warrior Prince in response, perhaps a shift in his demeanor, but Chris’ reaction was nothing like what Hyunjin had anticipated.

Prince Christopher’s gaze flickered downward, the weight of the words sinking into him. He glanced back up, meeting Hyunjin’s eyes, whose gaze flickered with worry maybe?

Instead he curled his lips into a soft, bittersweet smile.

   “I know.”

His eyes swept across the hall, searching for the second princess, but she was no longer in the spot where he had last seen her. Chris' heart clenched at the empty space, a hollow ache settling within him that he couldn't hide. The kind of pain Prince Hyunjin easily noticed.

But it seemed that more than just the princess was missing tonight. Something felt amiss, like in the deep shadows of the Grand Forest.

Minho's eyes swept across the unfamiliar expanse of greenery, his mind suddenly uneasy. A sense of urgency gripped him as he scanned for signs of the hoard of guards. The brigade of Elysium knights that had been assembled in secret at the border. Elysium's army, raised in secrecy, was nowhere to be found. In their place, only the usual knights remained, stationed at the wall that divided the two kingdoms.

It was as if the sighting of the large number of armored knights had been nothing but a hallucination. Something Prince Felix had imagined, something the Midnight Leader had conjured up. 

The Midnight Leader who now stood amidst the dark foliage of the Grand Forest at a loss for words. He had been tasked to find out if Nightshade had gotten his message that he had left a few days prior, in search for any response that could bridge the King’s court and the special envoy here on enemy territory. Yet, what he didn’t expect was to easily slither around in the shadows. Where once he was wary, about the large number of Elysium guards scattered around the dark greenery of the forest, climbing the tall, towering trees, concealing at every rustle and snap, now he was greeted by an unsettling silence.

An eerie stillness that made him feel uneasy.

It seemed that his midnight team had gotten his message, the carving now clawed out of the bark. His senses seemed to be heightened, head darting around for clues. For footprints, subtle signs of where such a large force of knights could have diverged. 

Perhaps they were still in the forest. With the Nightshade warriors unfamiliar with enemy territory, unfamiliar with the dense expanse of the Grand Forest on the Elysium side, the knights could have easily covered their tracks. 

It seemed his Prince had been right about the enemy nation’s “hidden weapon” indeed. Perhaps an ambush was exactly what they planned. A thought that made the Midnight Warrior clench his jaw in anger.

Minho could hear the loud roar of the river in the distance. A river that didn’t run through his kingdom, a sound that didn’t belong to Nightshade. Yet he suddenly recalled a certain story he had heard about this river. His prince’s bittersweet memories spilled out amongst the warriors he trained with back in the White Mountains. 

About a certain princess who had become his friend. One he couldn’t wait to meet.

An enemy princess. Minho had long figured that much out.

Princess Y/N, who he had followed that night amidst the pouring rain. Her staggering figure as she gripped at her shoulder, the faint sobs escaping her lips in the dark corridors of the West Wing Palace, all seem to come back to him at this moment of ponder.

It should have been a hassle. Rendering some personal knight unconscious, just to allow the enemy princess to slip back into her chambers without being seen. It should have been a task he could have stepped away from, but the pain in his prince’s expression, illuminated by the bolts of lightning that night, had made him act. 

And surely, he would do it again. A thought he didn’t particularly hate.

King Bhang had once said that every king has his own loyal people. And it was in this instance that the future king’s power shone. With the loyalty of his midnight warrior, who should have been loyal to Nightshade and not just his master, Prince Christopher was effortlessly gathering those who would stand by him. Already beginning to forge his own people, his own authority.

But as Minho wandered through the dark forest he seemed to worry about something more pressing. 

The missing army that would surely ambush them. A foolish move that seemed easy enough to figure out. 

But he couldn’t help but wonder if there was more to it.

This joyous night of the Crown Prince and Princess Consort’s wedding celebrations, the last night the foreign princes were to be in the Kingdom of Elysium, it seemed to be such a bittersweet moment. For new friends like Prince Hyunjin and Princess Y/N, who promised to keep in touch through letters. For another pair of friends who had a promise once upon a time.

Prince Christopher and the ghost of his childhood friend, lost friends with one sided memories. A farewell, never to be said, yet never to be undone.

Bittersweet goodbyes seemed to echo beneath all the revelry.

For yearning lovers. The Second Princess of Elysium, the less-than royal princess, who cried for her mother. Who cried for the enemy prince she had swore would return safely, locked in her chambers.

And for the yearning lover on the other side, the Nightshade Prince, the future ruler, who’s eyes searched around for the glimpse of the enemy princess that refused to admit her feelings.

Glancing over his shoulder, the Nightshade heir felt the burning gaze of the sly Elysium King on him, watching him closely.

What a joyous night it seemed to be, indeed.

A night ending with the loud boom of fireworks. 

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━ to be continued.

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