goldenlevi

[goldenlevi]

hii

I posted the entirety of my Bucky fic here, if anyone wants to check it out! 🦾🔫

[goldenlevi]

Stranger

❀ Summary: You and Bucky take a break. (& you recall going to a bar with him for the first time)

❀ Warnings: afab, implied alcohol

❀ italics and '' for flashback e.g 'Lorem ipsum'

❀ I don’t allow reposts

❀ part one

part two

The rest of the day was spent shopping for things you already had, and eating more of what you didn’t need. At one point, Yelena FaceTimed you and began a speech on how you two were excluding her from girl time. Never mind that she just got back from a mission, and was still in her gear. 

You walked through the street, avoiding running into the busy people that walked past, when Hayden pointed out a familiar bar. You had almost missed it, but it was still there on the same spot — you stared at it for a moment too long, reminiscing. The first time he actually made a move on you was inside those walls. 

Your lips tingled from the memory. 

‘Bucky, despite every aspect of his life training him not to be, could still be oblivious. It was baffling and often left the people closest to him wanting to fight the former soldier themselves. So, when Bucky refused to listen to the three people in front of him stating the supposed obvious - it didn’t come off as a surprise to them. 

Sam rolled his eyes, Steve tried to be patient, but his sighs were becoming more frequent, and Hayden wanted to show him her PowerPoint presentation. “Listen, we are definitely going off-topic here. But, c'mon man, you gotta see the way she looks at you,” Sam said, trying to get them back to the mission debrief. 

Bucky grumbles. “There’s no difference in how she looks at me or you.” 

“Bucky,” Steve interjects, the blond man spared him a firm glance, and it burned as if it was the sun itself. As though he could see straight through his best friend, and to be quite honest, maybe he could. Steve knew Bucky the best after all. “I know this must be scary. It’s uncharted territory now, but admitting that there’s something growing between the two of you, is a good thing.” 

“A very good thing,” Hayden smirks. 

Bucky all but rolls his eyes. “She’s not interested. You guys are seeing things.” 

“She rejected three guys that were exactly her type just last week, are you even aware of how rare that happens?” Hayden leaned forward, squinting her eyes at the stubborn man. “I’m telling you there is a reason.”

The former soldier felt himself close up, the warm feeling that had nested within him (and made itself known every time your name was mentioned) was roaring. Your name kept being thrown in the air, but you weren’t there. It didn’t feel right. “Doesn’t mean that reason is me,” he let out, beginning to feel breathless. “I need to go.” 

The remaining three shared a look, silently agreeing on letting him have a moment to himself. For now. 

Before you and Bucky began dating, you mostly hung out with a third person present; Hayden, Steve or Sam mostly. There was safety in numbers and whenever it was possible Steve was by his side. Nevertheless, everything was still just tolerable, and you still weren’t sure he trusted you at all. 

The first time it happened to be only the two of you, was out of pure necessity. The others were occupied and Hayden had called you in a nervous tone asking for a favor. He had had a bad night, apparently. Steve had been dragged out of the country and for once hearing his voice through a phone wasn’t enough to bring him fully back. The Winter Soldier program was still active in his mind, taunting and waiting for him to break again. They had been out of options, and leaving him alone wasn’t one. And so, not even half an hour after the call ended, you appeared in the safe house he had been in. Bucky seemed ready to leave by the time you got there, and he could have - you weren’t enough to stop him. Sleep still demanded your attention, since all the energy you had was used to actually make the drive there. 

Your sweatpants were too comfortable, your sneakers weren’t even fully tied as you left the house in a hurry, and your shirt was too big – not exactly a fighting outfit. You had been ready to sleep for twelve hours straight, therefore, no match for anyone. Bucky had reached the same conclusion in less than a second, he thought that you were too innocent for the situation you found yourself in. Him. He was the situation. He wondered why out of all people, Steve’s friend had called you. 

All his instincts to run shifted without notice, and the only one strong enough to come through, was to shelter you. Without any words, he shrugged off his jacket and extended it towards you. Your body wasn’t yet fully awake, but you were beginning to feel cold. Not knowing how he figured it out, you simply muttered a quiet thank you that he would undoubtedly be able to hear, and put on his surprisingly comfortable jacket. Your eyes inspected the room as you made your way further inside — it was nice. For a safe house, you supposed, there wasn't a lot of furniture or decorations, but you spotted what you needed. 

 His jacket worked almost like a blanket as you sat on one of the only two big chairs present. “Can we take a nap?” you asked as you tried to fold your legs in a comfortable position. The conflicted man stared at you for a moment before sitting down. Yeah, you were definitely new to this role, although he was far from complaining. “If I fall asleep…will you still be here when I wake up?” 

Something broke in him, or rather fell into place, because when those words were uttered - when that question was asked, Bucky couldn’t lie. He nearly tried, but simply couldn’t. He didn’t know why, and it didn’t matter. Not only that, but he didn’t need to have that knowledge, he only needed to reassure you. So, he nodded, and received a small honest smile in return. Despite all of it, despite that small smile and the one thing that broke or didn’t, inside of him… he still could have run. Run three times over. 

At that moment, it hurt. 

That hurt was the thing that cleared his mind, and he began to return to himself. Bucky felt his eyes water as he watched you sleeping, completely unaware. 

Tonight was different, the rest of the group had backed out at the very last minute, leaving you and him to be by yourselves. It was most likely all planned, and you would be upset if it didn’t make you happy that they trusted Bucky with you. That they trusted you with Bucky. 

Whenever you were in his presence, you breathed better. You were aware of your growing feelings for him, and how they were flourishing in a way that was deeper rooted in you than anything you’ve felt before. Then again, you’ve never met someone quite like him before. 

In the back of the busy bar, Bucky nursed a drink while you two shared a plate of fries. Every now and then he would go quieter and just look at you. As if he couldn’t really grasp the concept of having company on a weekday. Though you didn’t point it out, not wanting to make him uncomfortable nor insecure. No, you just continued your train of thought, or grabbed a fry and put it in front of his mouth until he snapped out of it and ate it directly from your hand. 

It seemed to do the job. 

You were friends, but then again, the word didn’t do enough justice to describe your current relationship. There was an existing pull travelling between the both of you, so effortlessly it was nearly impossible to explain it. So far, neither Bucky nor yourself had the courage to mention it in fear that the other would fight it. Or worse, stare at the other perplexed because they simply didn't feel anything at all. 

You shrugged it off when Steve mentioned it, narrowing it down to ‘some people just click, Cap’.  His expression wasn’t one of concern, just of deep curiosity. Then worked not–so-discreetly; by nudging the two of you towards each other whichever way he found possible. Made you sit together, pretended to forget his things elsewhere so that he had an excuse to leave you two alone. 

“I’m sorry the others couldn’t come,” you apologised yet again, afraid that being just in your presence would be a cause of distress for the former sergeant.  “Please just tell me whenever you want to leave.” 

The man frowned at your words. “It’s not your fault, stop apologising,” he uttered softly at the end. 

“I just want you to be comfortable with me,” you confessed, looking down at the table. 

“I am. Why wouldn’t I be?” Bucky couldn’t fathom not being comfortable near you. Even when he was anxious, he was comfortable enough in it, which was foreign. And you didn’t judge nor made him feel less than. 

You smiled in response, and he thought he was in need of a stronger drink. “I still don’t know how you do it. I admire you, Buck,” you shook your head and your eyes shone due to the lights or perhaps something else not yet quite certain, but Bucky couldn’t feel his body for a second. He opened his mouth, ready to ask you to elaborate, when you spoke. “I’ll get you a refill.” 

You couldn't leave the table any faster, heat burned your cheeks as well as the back of your neck. Why did you say that? He wasn’t ready to hear that, that you admire every single aspect that made himself into the person he was now. It was too intense, too you, and this was someone who was still finding their place in the world. You were going to scare him, and make him not want to be around you anymore. That thought suddenly quietened down the loud noises in your head. That was the absolute worst case scenario, and you were not going down that road. 

There were more people gathered in the bar than you’d like, which made it hard to navigate, but you managed. After reaching the counter and letting the people in front of you order, you waited patiently for your turn, still flustered. 

“You need help there, beautiful?” You heard from an unfamiliar voice to your left. A slightly taller than you man stood beside you now with a smirk that felt too practiced, and unfortunately it looked like it was directed straight at you. 

“Just trying to get a refill,” you responded indifferently. 

It didn’t faze him in the slightest. “I’ll help you,” He offered, eyeing you closely while waving down the busy bartender carelessly. “So, you alone?” 

You shook your head, pursing your lips. “Nope.” He visibly turned disappointed to either the answer itself or the way you’ve said it - although had no problem continuing on. 

“Ah, boyfriend? Girlfriend?” He insisted, his smirk turning into an almost genuine smile.

“Yup,” The bartender finally reached you, confirming your order as he refilled the glass. You quickly paid and got ready to leave, when you felt a touch on your arm. 

The same man stood there, looking more defeated than he had any right to be, “You’re not gonna give me more than that, are you?” 

You let out a small laugh in response. “Nope. Except…thanks for the help though!” Quickly turning on your heels, you left him there before he had any thoughts of following you to your table. “Your drink, Sir.” Bucky took the glass from your hands, carefully, with an all too familiar frown. 

“You okay?” He asked. The sweet blue-eyed man glanced down to his hands, twisting his gloved fingers hoping you wouldn’t notice. But you always did. “Am I keepin’ you from…you know?” It sounded like a loaded question, one that had hidden meanings that were too hard to understand at first try. You tilted your head to the side with an inquisitive look in your eyes. “I saw you with that man. You were laughing.” He explained with a strained voice and your eyes widened in realization. 

“Oh. You’re not keeping me from anything, Buck. I promise,” You wished that he believed your words, and that you could tell him more. More about your conflicted feelings and if he’d notice them, and that he wasn’t the only one who stared. “In fact, I kinda told him you were my boyfriend.” Whilst adding that piece of information, he visibly relaxed. His shoulders loosened as his grip on the glass did the same. A moment passed in silence, he didn’t ask why you had told someone he was yours, and you were more than relieved about that fact. However, you didn’t think he had spotted the short exchange. 

“Then why is he still staring at you?” You followed his glare, and looked behind your shoulder; sure enough the man from before was looking in your direction. He gave you a nod in acknowledgement, and you did the same, unsure how to react. You hadn’t known then, but Bucky was able to detect even the slightest of your movements if he wanted to. How you tensed up when you shared the ‘boyfriend’ comment, and that is why he didn’t push it further. Besides, he didn’t care what others thought, and he was glad you said that. It felt right. 

Your breath hitched in surprise when you turned back to the table and saw his fingers holding a fry out of the blue. His eyebrows raised slightly as he held it closer to your mouth, expectantly. All of a sudden, you felt silly and overwhelmed, yet still parted your lips and let him feed you, the exact same way as you had been doing throughout the night. Bucky’s eyes followed his own fingers and looked at the shape of your mouth for a beat too long. He felt himself letting out a breathy chuckle as you ate, secretly allowing himself to indulge. 

In your presence and voice, and maybe in the hope that one day he could truly have you. 

The tension that had been slowly growing was palpable by now, and then he did something that made your heart ignore your brain for a solid second. When, out of nowhere, his thumb lazily traced your bottom lip for no apparent reason. You were absolutely sure no blood pumped through your veins at that moment. 

You blinked repeatedly. He cleared his throat. You both drank down the rest of your drinks.

No mention of the shared moment was uttered in the next few days.’

Your routine didn’t change, you went to work, went out, and did the exact same things you did before - Just with a permanent feeling of longing. You still checked your phone, just in case. For texts, news that might not have yet reached the media. Sam kept you posted, he was your friend before Bucky appeared, but you admittedly took a step back when the break happened. Sam assured you it wasn’t needed, that sides weren’t going to be taken because it wasn’t like that with the two of you. You knew that, but you’d always make Bucky’s life easier if you had the chance to. Him and Sam are partners, and you want that part of his life uncompromised.

A familiar notification sound rang through your phone giving you an excuse to stop staring at the computer screen.

Checking in. - Sam 🪽

You quickly texted back. All good. You?

We good. Hes grumpy today tho

The corners of your mouth lifted in amusement for an instant. A flash of a grumpy sleepy face took over your mind, and you felt the tips of your fingers beginning to shake. He’s always grumpy

True. Stop by soon please

Sam wasn’t wrong. It was time to visit – it had been far too long. You bit your lip, putting your phone down and tried to focus on the work ahead of you. The two monitors did keep you busy for a good while, and your dry eyes could attest to that.

“Knock knock,” A voice said suddenly, startling you. You immediately raised your head with wide eyes though they quickly softened.

“I’m pretty sure you’re supposed to actually knock and not just say it,” you observed.

The short haired woman shrugged. “Saying it is more fun.” Yelena smirked. She made her way towards you confidently wearing a far from innocent smile, and sat down. “Soooo,” she began as if you were the one who interrupted her.

“What are you doing here?” Your fingers played absently with a pen. “You missed me, or did Sam tell you to come?” He had just texted you, and your friends weren’t usually the subtle type.

Yelena scoffed and threw the first paper she saw towards your figure. “Why don’t you visit us anymore?” she asked impatiently instead, and you’d rather get hit with another paper in the face, than answering it.

“I visit,” you replied, knowing damn well you do not.

She rolled her eyes. “Not for months. If I want to see you, I go to your house.”

“Is that so bad?”

She sighed, beginning to feel bad and maybe also falling for the puppy eyes currently directed at her. “Not bad. But you are distancing yourself. I do not like it.”

The grey door behind the blonde was beginning to look more and more captivating, and you had a hard time deviating your eyes from it. You did not want to have this conversation, but as you concluded earlier, Sam was right. “He misses you. But he won’t be there if you don’t want him to be.” This was becoming too much to handle, and you were afraid that you might be becoming that couple afterall.

“It is n-” you swallowed, before trying again. “It’s not that he can’t be there, but we did take a break for a reason. To give each other space.” You recited those words as if they had been memorised for you. They didn’t, but it did feel like it — sometimes we do things against our wants, because it’s the right thing to do. You had trusted that instinct. That’s why you’re here now, but fuck, if it didn’t hurt like hell.

“I think it’s enough space,” She grumbled with a small pout, and you tried to hide your smile behind your hand. “Space. Ok,” Yelena repeated. “Perfect, he might or not be there and you definitely are.” She joined hands as if she had found a solution to an unsolvable problem.

“Can we get some ice cream?” she asked out of nowhere.

“Sure,” you laughed.

⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘

note: I might just post the two parts here, and everything on ao3 as originally planned.

anyway, If you read this, I genuinely hope you liked it! 🖤

[goldenlevi]

Stranger

❀ Summary: You and Bucky take a break. ❀ Warnings: afab ❀ italics and '' for flashback e.g 'Lorem ipsum' ❀ I don’t allow reposts

part one

‘You could see the hesitation on the woman’s face, and the way her body tensed up when Bucky stepped forward to shield you from them purely on instinct. “You don’t need to restrain him,” you spoke confidently, attempting to stop any possible conflict. 

She halted in her tracks before turning to the awaiting guards. “We need to make sure he doesn’t escape. And doesn’t hurt anyone,” the woman eyed you closely. “Can you assure us of that?” 

You nodded without a second thought, your eyes trained on hers. “Yes.” Bucky moved to intertwine his fingers with yours, you squeezed his hand firmly as if to say ‘I got you’. 

His ice blue eyes barely left your own during the entire trip.’

Your eyes suddenly opened, instinctively finding the pillow next to you, the one that had a baby blue case. The exact shade you loved so, because it reminded you of him, and the eyes who always stared back. Dreaming of him wasn’t uncommon, and you recall the relief you felt the moment it no longer left feelings of sadness -only pure longing. You could handle longing. 

Still, you missed him.

Whilst your body was still asleep, you took advantage and momentarily closed your eyes once again. You breathed in, trying to focus on the fathom feeling of his fingers, still intertwined with yours. From the dream-memory to reality. If you focused just right, his eyes were still right there. You even tried to fall back to sleep, though unsuccessfully.

It wasn’t all bad though; you weren’t working today, and you definitely weren’t training. You weren’t a superhero, so strict scheduling be damned. You stayed in bed for a while longer, scrolling absently on your phone, before getting out of it and starting your day. 

You opened the curtains letting sunlight in, needing the sun to help snap out of your daze. Choosing a playlist that is now unquestionably overplayed, the first song begins, and the familiar tune fills the sunlit room bringing it comfort.

The room was a reflection of yourself. It had a few photo frames of friends and closest family with a mixture of your work. Too many flash drives and notebooks could be found all over your home, even outside your home office. Random books that made it to your bedroom from their space in the living room, now sit on your bedside table. Books that had been recommended to you and contained memories of people who had contributed significantly to your life. 

For now, there were only two. One that had been approved by Tony, frequently praised when you worked for him. Another by Steve, saying he once heard it was both emotional and insightful. Besides them, another two pictures laid; a candid one you took with your phone of him. He was smiling at you and his eyes had a blinding light you couldn’t quite describe, though looking at it always made the warmth inside you spread, until nothing but calmness was left. 

The other was both of you's favorites as a couple. Bucky had asked for copies, and since then kept one in his wallet. The photograph was simple; before you left Wakanda with him, there was a small celebration. In it, the room had been lit with warm lights, making the blue and green in your clothes pop. Bucky was holding you with both arms, while yours wrapped around his neck. There were people surrounding you, yet it was clear to any pair of eyes, the couple couldn’t see them. They turned into blurs, merely background when the two collided. Your eyes were locked with small, soft, and knowing smiles directed at one another. 

On the other side of the four walls, a now untouched bedside table kept the same appearance as it always did. There was a digital clock in the back, the same picture of you two next to it, a watch and a small brown notebook. The dog tags that used to be a part of it, consistently placed in the exact same manner, no longer there.

Sometimes, right after waking up, your body would be facing that same side; and it filled you with a feeling of being stuck in time. Even if things had changed, even if you had made the decision that led to it. 

Hours later, you stared through a window to your right, as your friend sat in front of you finishing a work call. Her long black hair was styled in a single braid and her voice, a very much welcomed familiar sound, filled the small space between the two of you as your mind inevitability wandered. You two had met in a coffee shop near your house. It was a small and cozy place, where the aroma of freshly baked bread always greeted you even before opening the entrance door. There were picture frames decorating the walls, showcasing the family that owned it, as it expanded throughout the years. 

A young woman working behind the counter seemed to find you interesting. Her stare wasn't harmful, simply filled with unwanted curiosity. Curiosity, that you could feel radiating from her body, as much as you tried to ignore it. You briefly looked up to focus on the sky instead; it was a light gray and rain fell steadily in a soothing rhythm. It appeared to be mocking you though, this was the exact weather that always created a sharp pain on your forehead, before beginning to spread.  

He used to help with it. 

He would place his metal hand on your forehead or on your neck, letting the cold embrace your muscles. You once told him that the part that reminded him of being ‘less human’, was as helpful and good as the rest of him. You recall the way the corner of his mouth lifted, and his eyes had a bittersweet look to them. He then wordlessly kissed your hair in response. 

It was as much your fault as it was his.

The moment that led to the decision to take some time apart. It had been a difficult conversation, the words just left you and the way he looked at you, like you’d punched him straight in the gut, had since been carved into the back of your mind. Regardless, part of you still hoped he stayed after it all. 

You’d always prided yourself in being a logical person, sure, it had its pros and cons but staying rational kept you sane. And so, you were aware that taking a break was the right route to choose back then. You eventually emerged from your daydreaming when Hayden began to end her conversation. Her light brown eyes twinkled with amusement and a hint of sympathy as she muttered a ‘Sorry’. Waving her off with a small smile, you gestured towards the counter. 

As you waited in line to pay, your eyes wandered toward the pastries. Stress was always a good enough excuse to have more sugar in your body than you actually needed. You ordered a few to take home, when a voice interrupted your thoughts. 

“Hi. I’m new! But I’ve heard that you come here a lot,” It was the same young woman that had been staring at your table for the last hour. She had short red hair with bright brown eyes that seemed to hold tones of nervousness. You raised an eyebrow slightly, waiting for her to continue. “Right. So, I-I heard that you used to come here a lot- I mean, with The Winter Soldier.” Her voice got quieter towards the end. 

Oh. Of course. 

Gradually, irritation began to show itself in your face, and you could feel the sarcastic response ready on the tip of your tongue. But you reminded yourself that this girl was young, new, and seemingly harmless enough. You let out a short sigh, before replying with a small, practiced smile. “Yes, that’s true. Is there anything you’d like to ask?” 

Her eyes widened, as if she wasn’t expecting the question. “I guess I do have one question,” she fiddled with her apron strings. “Just… How is he? I mean…what is he actually like?” it wasn’t a new question; your neighbors had long asked you the same thing, back when he first began to appear more at your building. And then, shared their pleasantly surprised filled opinions and stories after having small interactions with him. You thought it was sweet. 

However, you didn’t know this girl like you knew your neighbours. There were enemies still out there, looking for Bucky and people like him. “Just a normal man,” you replied with a guarded voice. Lies. She thankfully didn’t push it further; you hope your tone would suffice to hint that he wasn’t a topic you were going to elaborate on. She nodded, muttering a thanks and handed you the bag.

“Whatcha got?” your friend asked animatedly. You opened the bag, and carefully took out the small box, turning it towards her with a ‘tada’ gesture. “Fuck,” You swore almost immediately upon looking closely at the little delicious sugar filled pastries. You definitely didn’t mean to buy all of those. Especially not his favorites – You must have ordered them solely by habit. “Have these if you wanna,” you pointed to the middle. “I don’t like them very much.”

Hayden frowned in confusion. “Then why did you buy them?” she asked. 

“It was a mistake.” you simply shrugged. 

“Liar.” she replied with her mouth full, making you laugh. 

Hayden had been working over at S.H.I.E.L.D prior to the big HYDRA reveal for exactly 7 years. She was strong, determined, and incredibly loyal; which made leaving the job a hard call to make. Although she could and did still get into contact with people like Nick Fury if needed, what truly drove her was the need to turn things around, and finally contribute to something that was just good. Hayden had to hide for longer than desired, as current and former agents alike were still being hunted. One day, whilst attempting to keep herself hidden, Steve crashed her carefully constructed bubble and came to her with a favor. 

It was no secret he was in need of help, and a trustworthy cybersecurity expert was exactly what he was looking for. Which was where you’d come in. At that point in time, the Captain didn’t have many people who he trusted, but Hayden’s word had been enough for him to let you in. She was the main reason as to why you met Steve and then him. The black haired woman in front of you had changed your life in numerous ways, and you knew you wouldn’t be the same without her.

When you thought back to the first meeting, you recollect how bright her brown eyes shone with a different type of spark after you and Bucky first met.

‘The first time you saw him, your body seemingly forgot how to move. It was like you were hit with a temporary shock that tore through your flesh, and it demanded that you stayed still. Still enough so that his ice-cold eyes could ram into you until you were nothing but an open book. One, that he slowly memorized, and began filling with nothing but yearning.

You decided right then, the reason why you loved winter was only a simple pretense to prepare you for him. 

You extended your arm and offered him your hand, patiently waiting for him to make a decision. Naturally, he hesitated at first, it being in his best interest to assess each person before any contact took place. But Steve trusted Hayden, and she trusted you. He still frowned instinctively whilst those thoughts ran through his mind. He hated himself for acting as if your hand could taunt him.

As soon as your hands met, goosebumps filled your arm. A spark that began within you, ran across your muscles to the tip of your fingers that held onto his. Then, it travelled through his own as if it had done countless times before, until it peacefully settled deep within Bucky. Realistically, you knew only mere seconds passed, but in that time he entered your life as much as you entered his. 

An odd look transpired between the two of you. You hoped that it was only due to whatever it had just occurred - part of you screamed that you were nothing but a stranger to him, and nothing truly had happened besides one-sided attraction. 

At most, you were nothing but a stranger that perhaps held his hand for far too long. 

“Bucky,” he gave you his name after a beat had passed, and you instantly stored it in your mind the way his voice sounded as he said his own name. The edge of your lips lifted forming a controlled but safe smile, before you responded with your own. 

On an average Monday afternoon, he felt his heart skipping for the first time in a long, long while. 

All for a stranger.’

[goldenlevi]

Stranger

❀ Summary: You and Bucky take a break. ❀ Warnings: afab ❀ italics and '' for flashback e.g 'Lorem ipsum' ❀ I don’t allow reposts

part one

‘You could see the hesitation on the woman’s face, and the way her body tensed up when Bucky stepped forward to shield you from them purely on instinct. “You don’t need to restrain him,” you spoke confidently, attempting to stop any possible conflict. 

She halted in her tracks before turning to the awaiting guards. “We need to make sure he doesn’t escape. And doesn’t hurt anyone,” the woman eyed you closely. “Can you assure us of that?” 

You nodded without a second thought, your eyes trained on hers. “Yes.” Bucky moved to intertwine his fingers with yours, you squeezed his hand firmly as if to say ‘I got you’. 

His ice blue eyes barely left your own during the entire trip.’

Your eyes suddenly opened, instinctively finding the pillow next to you, the one that had a baby blue case. The exact shade you loved so, because it reminded you of him, and the eyes who always stared back. Dreaming of him wasn’t uncommon, and you recall the relief you felt the moment it no longer left feelings of sadness -only pure longing. You could handle longing. 

Still, you missed him.

Whilst your body was still asleep, you took advantage and momentarily closed your eyes once again. You breathed in, trying to focus on the fathom feeling of his fingers, still intertwined with yours. From the dream-memory to reality. If you focused just right, his eyes were still right there. You even tried to fall back to sleep, though unsuccessfully.

It wasn’t all bad though; you weren’t working today, and you definitely weren’t training. You weren’t a superhero, so strict scheduling be damned. You stayed in bed for a while longer, scrolling absently on your phone, before getting out of it and starting your day. 

You opened the curtains letting sunlight in, needing the sun to help snap out of your daze. Choosing a playlist that is now unquestionably overplayed, the first song begins, and the familiar tune fills the sunlit room bringing it comfort.

The room was a reflection of yourself. It had a few photo frames of friends and closest family with a mixture of your work. Too many flash drives and notebooks could be found all over your home, even outside your home office. Random books that made it to your bedroom from their space in the living room, now sit on your bedside table. Books that had been recommended to you and contained memories of people who had contributed significantly to your life. 

For now, there were only two. One that had been approved by Tony, frequently praised when you worked for him. Another by Steve, saying he once heard it was both emotional and insightful. Besides them, another two pictures laid; a candid one you took with your phone of him. He was smiling at you and his eyes had a blinding light you couldn’t quite describe, though looking at it always made the warmth inside you spread, until nothing but calmness was left. 

The other was both of you's favorites as a couple. Bucky had asked for copies, and since then kept one in his wallet. The photograph was simple; before you left Wakanda with him, there was a small celebration. In it, the room had been lit with warm lights, making the blue and green in your clothes pop. Bucky was holding you with both arms, while yours wrapped around his neck. There were people surrounding you, yet it was clear to any pair of eyes, the couple couldn’t see them. They turned into blurs, merely background when the two collided. Your eyes were locked with small, soft, and knowing smiles directed at one another. 

On the other side of the four walls, a now untouched bedside table kept the same appearance as it always did. There was a digital clock in the back, the same picture of you two next to it, a watch and a small brown notebook. The dog tags that used to be a part of it, consistently placed in the exact same manner, no longer there.

Sometimes, right after waking up, your body would be facing that same side; and it filled you with a feeling of being stuck in time. Even if things had changed, even if you had made the decision that led to it. 

Hours later, you stared through a window to your right, as your friend sat in front of you finishing a work call. Her long black hair was styled in a single braid and her voice, a very much welcomed familiar sound, filled the small space between the two of you as your mind inevitability wandered. You two had met in a coffee shop near your house. It was a small and cozy place, where the aroma of freshly baked bread always greeted you even before opening the entrance door. There were picture frames decorating the walls, showcasing the family that owned it, as it expanded throughout the years. 

A young woman working behind the counter seemed to find you interesting. Her stare wasn't harmful, simply filled with unwanted curiosity. Curiosity, that you could feel radiating from her body, as much as you tried to ignore it. You briefly looked up to focus on the sky instead; it was a light gray and rain fell steadily in a soothing rhythm. It appeared to be mocking you though, this was the exact weather that always created a sharp pain on your forehead, before beginning to spread.  

He used to help with it. 

He would place his metal hand on your forehead or on your neck, letting the cold embrace your muscles. You once told him that the part that reminded him of being ‘less human’, was as helpful and good as the rest of him. You recall the way the corner of his mouth lifted, and his eyes had a bittersweet look to them. He then wordlessly kissed your hair in response. 

It was as much your fault as it was his.

The moment that led to the decision to take some time apart. It had been a difficult conversation, the words just left you and the way he looked at you, like you’d punched him straight in the gut, had since been carved into the back of your mind. Regardless, part of you still hoped he stayed after it all. 

You’d always prided yourself in being a logical person, sure, it had its pros and cons but staying rational kept you sane. And so, you were aware that taking a break was the right route to choose back then. You eventually emerged from your daydreaming when Hayden began to end her conversation. Her light brown eyes twinkled with amusement and a hint of sympathy as she muttered a ‘Sorry’. Waving her off with a small smile, you gestured towards the counter. 

As you waited in line to pay, your eyes wandered toward the pastries. Stress was always a good enough excuse to have more sugar in your body than you actually needed. You ordered a few to take home, when a voice interrupted your thoughts. 

“Hi. I’m new! But I’ve heard that you come here a lot,” It was the same young woman that had been staring at your table for the last hour. She had short red hair with bright brown eyes that seemed to hold tones of nervousness. You raised an eyebrow slightly, waiting for her to continue. “Right. So, I-I heard that you used to come here a lot- I mean, with The Winter Soldier.” Her voice got quieter towards the end. 

Oh. Of course. 

Gradually, irritation began to show itself in your face, and you could feel the sarcastic response ready on the tip of your tongue. But you reminded yourself that this girl was young, new, and seemingly harmless enough. You let out a short sigh, before replying with a small, practiced smile. “Yes, that’s true. Is there anything you’d like to ask?” 

Her eyes widened, as if she wasn’t expecting the question. “I guess I do have one question,” she fiddled with her apron strings. “Just… How is he? I mean…what is he actually like?” it wasn’t a new question; your neighbors had long asked you the same thing, back when he first began to appear more at your building. And then, shared their pleasantly surprised filled opinions and stories after having small interactions with him. You thought it was sweet. 

However, you didn’t know this girl like you knew your neighbours. There were enemies still out there, looking for Bucky and people like him. “Just a normal man,” you replied with a guarded voice. Lies. She thankfully didn’t push it further; you hope your tone would suffice to hint that he wasn’t a topic you were going to elaborate on. She nodded, muttering a thanks and handed you the bag.

“Whatcha got?” your friend asked animatedly. You opened the bag, and carefully took out the small box, turning it towards her with a ‘tada’ gesture. “Fuck,” You swore almost immediately upon looking closely at the little delicious sugar filled pastries. You definitely didn’t mean to buy all of those. Especially not his favorites – You must have ordered them solely by habit. “Have these if you wanna,” you pointed to the middle. “I don’t like them very much.”

Hayden frowned in confusion. “Then why did you buy them?” she asked. 

“It was a mistake.” you simply shrugged. 

“Liar.” she replied with her mouth full, making you laugh. 

Hayden had been working over at S.H.I.E.L.D prior to the big HYDRA reveal for exactly 7 years. She was strong, determined, and incredibly loyal; which made leaving the job a hard call to make. Although she could and did still get into contact with people like Nick Fury if needed, what truly drove her was the need to turn things around, and finally contribute to something that was just good. Hayden had to hide for longer than desired, as current and former agents alike were still being hunted. One day, whilst attempting to keep herself hidden, Steve crashed her carefully constructed bubble and came to her with a favor. 

It was no secret he was in need of help, and a trustworthy cybersecurity expert was exactly what he was looking for. Which was where you’d come in. At that point in time, the Captain didn’t have many people who he trusted, but Hayden’s word had been enough for him to let you in. She was the main reason as to why you met Steve and then him. The black haired woman in front of you had changed your life in numerous ways, and you knew you wouldn’t be the same without her.

When you thought back to the first meeting, you recollect how bright her brown eyes shone with a different type of spark after you and Bucky first met.

‘The first time you saw him, your body seemingly forgot how to move. It was like you were hit with a temporary shock that tore through your flesh, and it demanded that you stayed still. Still enough so that his ice-cold eyes could ram into you until you were nothing but an open book. One, that he slowly memorized, and began filling with nothing but yearning.

You decided right then, the reason why you loved winter was only a simple pretense to prepare you for him. 

You extended your arm and offered him your hand, patiently waiting for him to make a decision. Naturally, he hesitated at first, it being in his best interest to assess each person before any contact took place. But Steve trusted Hayden, and she trusted you. He still frowned instinctively whilst those thoughts ran through his mind. He hated himself for acting as if your hand could taunt him.

As soon as your hands met, goosebumps filled your arm. A spark that began within you, ran across your muscles to the tip of your fingers that held onto his. Then, it travelled through his own as if it had done countless times before, until it peacefully settled deep within Bucky. Realistically, you knew only mere seconds passed, but in that time he entered your life as much as you entered his. 

An odd look transpired between the two of you. You hoped that it was only due to whatever it had just occurred - part of you screamed that you were nothing but a stranger to him, and nothing truly had happened besides one-sided attraction. 

At most, you were nothing but a stranger that perhaps held his hand for far too long. 

“Bucky,” he gave you his name after a beat had passed, and you instantly stored it in your mind the way his voice sounded as he said his own name. The edge of your lips lifted forming a controlled but safe smile, before you responded with your own. 

On an average Monday afternoon, he felt his heart skipping for the first time in a long, long while. 

All for a stranger.’

[goldenlevi]

Marilyn Monroe wardrobe fitting and photo for “There’s No Business Like Show Business” , 1954

[goldenlevi]

Get these ai writing assistants out of my face!!!! I don't care if my writing is bad at least it is mine!!!!

[goldenlevi]

Idk what happened, but I wrote probably the longest fic I have ever done for Bucky - I’ll be posting it here because why not - probably in chapters but i’m kinda scared IDJDJDJJDJDJDJD

[goldenlevi]

Mercy Made Flesh

one-shot

Remmick x fem!reader

summary: In the heat-choked hush of the Mississippi Delta, you answer a knock you swore would never come. Remmick—unaging, unholy, unforgettable—returns to collect what was promised. What follows is not romance, but ritual. A slow, sensual surrender to a hunger older than the Trinity itself.

wc: 13.1k

a/n: Listen. I didn’t mean to simp for Vampire Jack O’Connell—but here we are. I make no apologies for letting Remmick bite first and ask questions never. Thank you to my bestie Nat (@kayharrisons) for beta reading and hyping me up, without her this fic wouldn't exist, everyone say thank you Nat!

warnings: vampirism, southern gothic erotica, blood drinking as intimacy, canon-typical violence, explicit sexual content, oral sex (f!receiving), first time, bloodplay, biting, marking, monsterfucking (soft edition), religious imagery, devotion as obsession, gothic horror vibes, worship kink, consent affirmed, begging, dirty talk, gentle ruin, haunting eroticism, power imbalance, slow seduction, soul-binding, immortal x mortal, he wants to keep her forever, she lets him, fem!reader, second person pov, 1930s mississippi delta, house that breathes, you will be fed upon emotionally & literally

tags: @xhoneymoonx134

likes, comments, and reblogs appreciated! please enjoy

Mississippi Delta, 1938

The heat hadn’t broken in days.

Not even after sunset, when the sky turned the color of old bruises and the crickets started singing like they were being paid to. It was the kind of heat that soaked into the floorboards, that crept beneath your thin cotton slip and clung to your back like sweat-slicked hands. The air was syrupy, heavy with magnolia and something murkier—soil, maybe. River water. Something that made you itch beneath your skin.

Your cottage sat just outside the edge of town, past the schoolhouse where you spent your days sorting through ledgers and lesson plans that no one but you ever really seemed to care about. It was modest—two rooms and a porch, set back behind a crumbling white-picket fence and swallowed by trees that whispered in the dark. A little sanctuary tucked into the Delta, surrounded by cornfields, creeks, and ghosts.

The kind of place a person could disappear if they wanted to. The kind of place someone could find you…if they were patient enough.

You stood in front of the sink, rinsing out a chipped enamel cup, your hands moving automatically. The oil lamp on the kitchen table flickered with each breath of wind slipping through the cracks in the warped window frame. A cicada screamed in the distance, then another, and then the whole world was humming in chorus.

And beneath it—beneath the cicadas, and the wind, and the nightbirds—you felt something shift.

A quiet. Too quiet.

You turned your head. Listened harder.

Nothing.

Not even the frogs.

Your hand paused in the dishwater. Fingers trembling just a little. It wasn’t like you to be spooked by the dark. You’d grown up in it. Learned to make friends with shadows. Learned not to flinch when things moved just out of sight.

But this?

This was different.

It was as if the night was holding its breath.

And then—

Knock. Knock. Knock.

Not loud. Not frantic. But final.

Your body went stiff. The cup slipped beneath the water and bumped the side of the basin with a hollow clink.

No one ever came this far out after sundown. No one but—

You shook your head, almost hard enough to rattle something loose.

No.

He was gone. That part of your life was buried.

You made sure of it.

Still, your bare feet moved toward the door like they weren’t yours. Soft against the creaky wood. Slow. You reached for the small revolver you kept in the drawer beside the door frame, thumbed the hammer back.

Another knock. This time, softer. Almost...polite.

Your hand rested on the knob.

The porch light had been dead for weeks, so you couldn’t see who was waiting on the other side. But the air—something in the air—told you.

It was him.

You didn’t answer. Not right away.

You stood there with your palm flat against the rough wood, your forehead nearly touching it too—eyes shut, breath shallow. The air on the other side didn’t stir like it should’ve. No footfalls creaking the porch. No shuffle of boots on sun-bleached planks. Just stillness. Waiting.

And underneath your ribs, something began to ache. Something you hadn’t let yourself feel in years.

You didn’t know his name, not back then. You only knew his eyes—gold in the shadows. Red when caught in the light. Like a firelight in the dark. Like a blood red moon through stained-glass windows.

And his voice. Low. Dragging vowels like syrup. A Southern accent that didn’t come from any map you’d ever seen—older than towns, older than state lines. A voice that had told you, seven years ago, with impossible calm:

"You’ll know when it’s time."

You knew. Your hands trembled against your sides. But you didn’t back away. Some part of you knew how useless running would be.

The knob beneath your hand felt cold. Too cold for Mississippi in August.

You turned it.

The door opened slow, hinges whining like they were trying to warn you. You stepped back instinctively—just one step—and then he was there.

Remmick.

Still tall, still lean in that devastating way—like his body was carved from something hard and mean, but shaped to tempt. He wore a crisp white shirt rolled to the elbows, suspenders hanging loose from his hips, and trousers that looked far too clean for a man who walked through the dirt. His hair was messy in that intentional way, brown and swept back like he’d been running hands through it all night. Stubble lined his sharp jaw, catching the lamplight just so.

But it was his face that rooted you to the floor. That hollowed out your breath.

Still young. Still wrong.

Not a wrinkle, not a scar. Not a mark of time. He hadn’t aged a day.

And his eyes—oh, God, his eyes.

They caught the lamp behind you and lit up red, bright and glinting, like the embers of a dying fire. Not human. Not even pretending.

"Hello, dove."

His voice curled into your bones like cigarette smoke. You didn’t answer. You couldn’t.

You hated how your body reacted.

Hated that you could still feel it—like something old and molten stirring between your thighs, a flicker of the same heat you’d felt that night in the alley, back when you were too desperate to care what kind of creature answered your prayer.

He looked you over once. Not with hunger. With certainty. Like he already knew how this would end. Like he already owned you.

"You remember, don’t you?" he asked.

"I came to collect."

And your voice—when it finally came—was little more than a whisper.

"You can’t be real."

That smile. That slight twitch at the corner of his mouth. Wolfish. Slow.

"You promised."

You wanted to shut the door. Slam it. Deadbolt it. But your hand didn’t move.

Remmick didn’t step forward, not yet. He stood just outside the threshold, framed by night and cypress trees and the distant flicker of heat lightning beyond the fields. The air around him pulsed with something old—older than the land, older than you, older than anything you could name.

He tilted his head the way animals do, watching you, letting the silence thicken like molasses between you.

"Still living out here all on your own," he murmured, gaze drifting over your shoulders, into the small, tidy kitchen behind you. "Hung your laundry on the line this morning. Blue dress, lace hem. Favorite one, ain’t it?"

Your stomach clenched. That dress hadn’t seen a neighbor’s eye all week.

"You've been watching me," you said, your voice low, unsure if it was accusation or realization.

"I’ve been waiting," he said. "Not the same thing."

You swallowed hard. Your breath caught in your throat like a thorn. The wind shifted, and you caught the faintest trace of something—dried tobacco, smoke, rain-soaked dirt, and beneath it, the iron-sweet tinge of blood.

Not fresh. Not violent. Just…present. Like it lived in him.

"I paid my debt," you whispered.

"No, you survived it," he said, stepping up onto the first board of the porch. The wood didn’t creak beneath his weight. "And that’s only half the bargain."

He still hadn’t crossed the threshold.

The stories came back to you, the ones whispered by old women with trembling hands and ash crosses pressed to their doorways—vampires couldn’t enter unless invited. But you hadn’t invited him, not this time.

"You don’t have permission," you said.

He smiled, eyes flashing red again.

"You gave it, seven years ago."

Your breath hitched.

"I was a girl," you said.

"You were desperate," he corrected. "And honest. Desperation makes people honest in ways they can’t be twice. You knew what you were offering me, even if you didn’t understand it. Your promise had teeth."

The wind pushed against your back, as if urging you forward.

Remmick stepped closer, just enough for the shadows to kiss the line of his throat, the hollow of his collarbone. His voice dropped, intimate now—dragging across your skin like a fingertip behind the ear.

"You asked for a miracle. I gave it to you. And now I’m here for what’s mine."

Your heart thudded violently in your chest.

"I didn’t think you’d come."

"That’s the thing about monsters, dove." He leaned down, lips almost grazing the curve of your jaw. "We always do."

And then—

He stepped back.

The wind stopped.

The night fell quiet again, like the world had paused just to watch what you’d do next.

"I’ll wait out here till you’re ready," he said, turning toward the swing on your porch and settling into it like he had all the time in the world. "But don’t make me knock twice. Wouldn’t be polite."

The swing groaned beneath him as it rocked gently, back and forth.

You stood there frozen in the doorway, one bare foot still inside the house, the other brushing the edge of the porch.

You’d made a promise.

And he was here to keep it.

The door stayed open. Just enough for the night to reach inside.

You didn’t move.

Your body stood still but your mind wandered—back to that night in the alley, to the smell of blood and piss and riverwater, your knees soaked in your brother’s lifeblood as you screamed for help that never came. Except it did. It came in the shape of a man who didn’t breathe, didn’t blink, didn’t make promises the way mortals did.

It came in the shape of him.

You thought time would wash it away. That the years would smooth the edges of his voice in your memory, dull the sharpness of his presence. But now, with him just outside your door, it all returned like a fever dream—hot, all-consuming, too real to outrun.

You turned away from the threshold, slowly, carefully, as if the floor might cave in under you. Your hands trembled as you reached for the oil lamp on the table, adjusting the flame lower until it flickered like a dying heartbeat.

The silence behind you dragged, deep and waiting. He didn’t speak again. Didn’t call for you.

He didn’t have to.

You moved through the house in slow circles. Touching things. Straightening them. Folding a dishcloth. Setting a book back on the shelf, even though you’d already read it twice. You tried to pretend you weren’t thinking about the man on your porch. But the heat of him pressed against the back of your mind like a hand.

You could feel him out there. Not just physically—but in you, somehow. Like the air had shifted around his shape, and the longer he lingered, the more your body remembered what it had felt like to stand in front of something not quite human and still want.

You passed the mirror in the hallway and paused.

Your reflection looked undone. Not in the way your hair had fallen from its pin, or the flush across your cheeks, but deeper—like something inside you had been cracked open. You touched your own throat, right where you imagined his mouth might go.

No bite.

Not yet.

But you swore you could feel phantom teeth.

You went back to the door, holding your breath, and looked at him through the screen.

He hadn’t moved. He sat on the swing, one leg stretched out, the other bent lazily beneath him, arms slung across the backrest like he’d always belonged there. A cigarette burned between two fingers, the tip flaring orange as he dragged from it. The scent of it hit you—rich, earthy, and somehow foreign, like something imported from a place no longer on the map.

He didn’t look at you right away.

Then, slowly, he did.

Red eyes caught yours.

He smiled, small and slow, like he was reading a page of you he’d already memorized.

"Thought you’d shut the door by now," he said.

"I should have," you answered.

"But you didn’t."

His voice curled into the quiet.

You stepped out onto the porch, barefoot, the boards warm beneath your soles. He didn’t move to greet you. He didn’t rise. He just watched you walk toward him like he’d been watching in dreams you never remembered having.

The swing groaned as you sat down beside him, a careful space between you.

His shoulder brushed yours.

You stared straight ahead, out into the night. A mist was beginning to rise off the distant fields. The moon hung low and orange like a wound in the sky.

Somewhere in the bayou, a whippoorwill called, long and mournful.

"How long have you been watching me?" you asked.

"Since before you knew to look."

"Why now?"

He turned toward you. His voice was velvet-wrapped iron.

"Because now…you’re ripe for the pickin’.”

You didn’t remember falling asleep.

One moment you were on the porch beside him, listening to the slow groan of the swing and the way the crickets held their breath when he exhaled, the next you were waking in your bed, the sheets tangled around your legs like they were trying to hold you down.

The house was too quiet.

No birdsong. No creak of the windmill out back. No rustle of the sycamores that scraped against your bedroom window on stormy nights.

Just stillness.

And scent.

It clung to the cotton of your nightdress. Tobacco smoke, sweat, rain. Him.

You sat up slowly, pressing your hand to your chest. Your heart thudded like it was trying to remember who it belonged to. The lamp beside your bed had burned down to a stub. A trickle of wax curled like a vein down the side of the glass.

Your mouth tasted like smoke and guilt. Your thighs ached in that low, humming way—though you couldn’t say why. Nothing had happened. Not really.

But something had changed.

You felt it under your skin, in the place where blood meets breath.

The floor was cool under your feet as you moved. You didn’t dress. Just pulled a robe over your slip and stepped into the hallway. The house felt heavier than usual, thick with the ghost of his presence. Every corner held a whisper. Every shadow a shape.

You opened the front door.

The porch was empty.

The swing still rocked gently, as if someone had only just stood up from it.

A folded piece of paper lay on the top step, weighted down by a smooth river stone.

You picked it up with trembling hands.

Come.

That was all it said. One word. But it rang through your bones like gospel. Like a vow.

You looked out across the field. A narrow dirt road stretched beyond the tree line, overgrown but clear. You’d never dared follow it. That road didn’t belong to you.

It belonged to him.

And now…so did you.

You didn’t bring anything with you.

Not a suitcase. Not a shawl. Not a Bible tucked under your arm for comfort.

Just yourself.

And the road.

The hem of your slip was already damp by the time you reached the edge of the field. Dew clung to your ankles like cold fingers, and the earth was soft beneath your feet—fresh from last night’s storm, the kind that never really breaks the heat, only deepens it. The moon had gone down, but the sky was beginning to bruise with that blue-black ink that comes before sunrise. Everything smelled like wet grass, magnolia, and the faint rot of old wood.

The path curved, narrowing as it passed through trees that leaned in too close. Their branches kissed above you like they were whispering secrets into each other’s leaves. Spanish moss hung like veils from the oaks, dripping silver in the fading dark. It made the world feel smaller. Quieter. As if you were walking into something sacred—or something doomed.

A crow cawed once in the distance. Sharp. Hollow. You didn’t flinch.

There was no sound of wheels. No car waiting. Just the road and the fog and the promise you'd made.

And then you saw it.

The house.

Tucked deep in the grove, half-swallowed by vines and time, it rose like a memory from the earth. A decaying plantation, left to rot in the wet belly of the Delta. Its bones were still beautiful—white columns streaked with black mildew, a grand porch that sagged like a mouth missing teeth, shuttered windows with iron latches rusted shut. Ivy grew up the sides like it was trying to strangle the place. Or maybe protect it.

You stood there at the edge of the clearing, breath caught in your throat.

He’d brought you here.

Or maybe he’d always been here. Waiting. Dreaming of the moment you’d return to him without even knowing it.

A shape moved behind one of the upstairs curtains. Quick. Barely there.

You didn’t run.

Your bare foot found the first step.

It groaned like it recognized you.

The door was already open.

Not wide—just enough for you to know it had been waiting.

And you stepped inside.

The air inside was colder.

Not the kind of cold that came from breeze or shade—but from stillness, from the absence of sun and time. A hush so thick it felt like you were walking underwater. Like the house had held its breath for decades and only now began to exhale.

Dust spiraled in the faint light seeping through fractured windows, casting soft halos through the dark. The wooden floor beneath your feet was warped and groaning, but clean. Not in any natural sense—there was no broom that had touched these boards. No polish or soap.

But it had been kept.

The air didn’t smell like rot or mildew. It smelled like cedar. Like old leather. And deeper beneath that, like him.

He hadn’t lit any lamps.

Just the fireplace, burning low, glowing embers pulsing orange-red at the back of a cavernous hearth. The flame danced shadows across the faded wallpaper, peeling in long strips like dead skin. A high-backed chair faced the fire, velvet blackened from age, its silhouette looming like something alive.

You swallowed, lips dry, and stepped further in.

Your voice didn’t carry. It didn’t even try.

Remmick was nowhere in sight.

But he was here.

You could feel him in the walls, in the way the house seemed to lean closer with every step you took.

You passed through the parlor, past a dusty grand piano with one ivory key cracked down the middle. Past oil portraits too old to make out, their eyes blurred with time. Past a single vase of dried wildflowers, colorless now, but carefully arranged.

You paused in the doorway to the drawing room, your hand resting lightly on the frame.

A whisper of air moved behind you.

Then—

A hand.

Not grabbing. Not harsh. Just the light press of fingers against the small of your back, palm flat and warm through the thin cotton of your slip.

You froze.

He was behind you.

So close you could feel his breath at your neck. Not warm, not cold—just present. Like wind through a crack in the door. Like the memory of a touch before it lands.

His voice was low, close to your ear.

"You came."

You didn’t answer.

"You always would have."

You wanted to say no. Wanted to deny it. But you stood there trembling under his hand, your heartbeat so loud you were sure he could hear it.

Maybe that was why he smiled.

He stepped around you slowly, letting his fingers graze the side of your waist as he moved. His eyes glinted red in the firelight, catching on you like a flame drawn to dry kindling.

He looked at you like he was already undressing you.

Not your clothes—your will.

And it was already unraveling.

You’d suspected he wasn’t born of this soil.

Not just because of the way he moved—like he didn’t quite belong to gravity—but because of the way he spoke. Like time hadn’t worn the edges off his words the way it had with everyone else. His voice curled around vowels like smoke curling through keyholes. Rich and low, but laced with something older. Something foreign. Something that made the hair at the nape of your neck rise when he spoke too softly, too close.

He didn’t speak like a man from the Delta.

He spoke like something older than it.

Older than the country. Maybe older than God.

Remmick stopped in front of you, lit only by firelight.

His eyes had dulled from red to something deeper—like old garnet held to a candle. His shirt was open at the collar now, suspenders hanging slack, the buttons on his sleeves rolled to his elbows. His forearms were dusted with faint scars that looked like they had stories. His skin was pale in the glow, but not lifeless. He looked like marble warmed by touch.

He studied you for a long time.

You weren’t sure if it was your face he was reading, or something beneath it. Something you couldn’t hide.

"You look just like your mother," he said finally.

Your breath caught.

"You knew her?"

A soft smirk curled at the corner of his mouth.

"I’ve known a lot of people, dove. I just never forget the ones with your blood."

You didn’t ask what he meant. Not yet.

There was something heavy in his tone—something laced with memory that stretched back far further than it should. You had guessed, years ago, in the sleepless weeks after that alleyway miracle, that he was not new to this world. That his youth was a trick of the skin. A lie worn like a mask.

You’d read every folklore book you could get your hands on. Every whisper of vampire lore scratched into the margins of ledgers, stuffed between church hymnals, scribbled on the backs of newspapers.

Some said they aged. Slowly. Elegantly.

Others said they didn’t age at all. That they existed outside time. Beyond it.

You didn’t know how old Remmick was.

But something in your bones told you the truth.

Five hundred. Six hundred, maybe more.

A man who remembered empires. A man who had watched cities rise and burn. Who had danced in plague-slick ballrooms and kissed queens before they were beheaded. A man who had lived so long that names no longer mattered. Only debts. And blood.

And you’d given him both.

He stepped closer now, slow and deliberate.

"Yer heart’s gallopin’ like it thinks I’m here to take it."

You flinched. Not because he was wrong. But because he was right.

"You said you didn’t want my blood," you whispered.

"I don’t." He tilted his head. "Not yet."

"Then what do you want?"

His smile didn’t reach his eyes.

"You."

He said it like it was a simple thing. Like the rain wanting the river. Like the grave wanting the body.

You swallowed hard.

"Why me?"

His gaze dragged down your frame, unhurried, like a man admiring a painting he’d stolen once and hidden from the world.

"Because you belong to me. You gave yourself freely. No bargain’s ever tasted so sweet."

Your throat tightened.

"I didn’t know what I was agreeing to."

"You did," he said, softly now, stepping close enough that his chest nearly brushed yours. "You knew. Your soul knew. Even if your head didn’t catch up."

You opened your mouth to protest, to say something, anything that would push back this slow suffocation of certainty—

But his hand came up to your jaw. Fingers feather-light. Not forcing. Just holding. Just there.

"And you’ve been thinkin’ about me ever since," he said.

Not a question. A statement.

You didn’t answer.

He leaned in, his breath ghosting over your cheek, his voice a rasp against your ear.

"You dream of me, don’t you?"

Your hands trembled at your sides.

"I don’t—"

"You wake wet. Ache in your belly. You don’t know why. But I do."

You let your eyes fall shut, shame burning behind them like fire.

"Fuckin’ knew it," he murmured, almost reverent. "You smell like want, dove. You always have.”

His hand didn’t move. It just stayed there at your jaw, thumb ghosting slow along the hollow beneath your cheekbone. A touch so gentle it made your knees ache. Because it wasn’t the roughness that undid you—it was the restraint.

He could’ve taken.

He didn’t.

Not yet.

His gaze held yours, slow and unblinking, red still smoldering in the center of his irises like the dying core of a flame that refused to go out.

"Say it," he murmured.

Your lips parted, but nothing came.

"I can smell it," he said, voice low, rich as molasses. "Your shame. Your want. You’ve been livin’ like a nun with a beast inside her, and no one knows but me."

You hated how your breath stuttered. Hated more that your thighs pressed together when he said it.

"Why do you talk like that," you whispered, barely able to get the words out, "like you already know what I’m feeling?"

His fingers slid down, grazing the side of your neck, stopping just before the pulse thudding there.

"Because I do."

"That’s not fair."

He smiled, slow and crooked, nothing kind in it.

"No, dove. It ain’t."

You hated him.

You hated how beautiful he was in this light, sleeves rolled, veins prominent in his arms, shirt hanging open just enough to show the faint line of a scar that trailed beneath his collarbone. A body shaped by time, not by vanity. Not perfect. Just true. Like someone carved him for a purpose and let the flaws stay because they made him real.

He looked like sin and the sermon that came after.

Remmick moved closer. You didn’t retreat.

His hand flattened over your sternum now, right above your heartbeat, the warmth of him pressing through the cotton of your slip like it meant to seep in. He leaned down, mouth near yours, not kissing, just breathing.

"You gave yourself to me once," he said. "I’m only here to collect the rest."

"You saved my brother."

"I saved you. You just didn’t know it yet."

A shiver rippled down your spine.

His hand moved lower, skimming the curve of your ribs, hovering just at the soft flare of your waist. You could feel the heat rolling off him like smoke from a coalbed. His body didn’t radiate warmth the way a man’s should—but something older. Wilder. Like the earth’s own breath in summer. Like the hush of a storm right before it split the sky.

"And if I tell you no?" you asked, barely more than a breath.

His eyes flicked to yours, unreadable.

"I’ll wait."

You weren’t expecting that.

He smiled again, this time softer, almost cruel in its patience.

"I’ve waited centuries for sweeter things than you. But that don’t mean I won’t keep my hands on you ‘til you change your mind."

"You think I will?"

"You already have."

Your chest rose sharply, breath stung with heat.

"You think this is love?"

He laughed, low and dangerous, the sound curling around your ribs.

"No," he said. "This is hunger. Love comes later."

Then his mouth brushed your jaw—not a kiss, just the graze of lips against skin—and every nerve in your body arched to meet it.

Your knees buckled, barely.

He caught your waist in one hand, steadying you with maddening ease.

"I’m gonna ruin you," he whispered against your throat, his nose dragging lightly along your skin. "But I’ll be so gentle the first time you’ll beg me to do it again."

And God help you—

You wanted him to.

The house didn’t sleep.

Not the way houses were meant to.

It breathed.

The walls exhaled heat and memory, the floors creaked even when no one stepped, and somewhere in the rafters above your room, something paced slowly back and forth, back and forth, like a beast too restless to settle. The kind of place built with its own pulse.

You’d spent the rest of the night—if you could call it that—in a room that wasn’t yours, wearing nothing but a cotton shift and your silence. You hadn’t asked for anything. He hadn’t offered.

The room was spare but not cruel. A basin with a water pitcher. A four-poster bed draped in a netting veil to keep out the bugs—or the ghosts. The mattress was soft. The sheets smelled faintly of cedar, firewood, and something else you didn’t recognize.

Him.

You didn’t undress. You lay on top of the blanket, fingers threaded together over your belly, the thrum of your heartbeat like a second mouth behind your ribs.

Your door had no lock. Just a handle that squeaked if turned. And you hated how many times your eyes flicked toward it. Waiting. Wanting.

But he never came.

And somehow, that was worse.

Morning broke soft and gray through the slatted shutters. The sun didn’t quite reach the corners of the room, and the light that filtered in was the color of dust and river fog.

When you finally stepped out barefoot into the hall, the house was already awake.

There was a scent in the air—coffee. Burned sugar. The faintest curl of cinnamon. Something sizzling in a skillet somewhere.

You followed it.

The kitchen was enormous, all brick hearth and cast iron and a long scarred table in the center with mismatched chairs pushed in unevenly. A window hung open, letting in a breath of swamp air that rustled the lace curtain and kissed your ankles.

Remmick stood at the stove with his back to you, sleeves still rolled to the elbow, suspenders crossed low over his back. His shirt was half-unbuttoned and clung to his sides with the cling of heat and skin. He moved like he didn’t hear you enter.

You knew he had.

He reached for the pan with a towel over his palm and flipped something in the cast iron with a deft flick of the wrist.

"Hope you like sweet," he said, voice thick with morning. "Ain’t got much else."

You didn’t speak. Just stood there in the doorway like a ghost he’d conjured and forgotten about.

He turned.

God help you.

Even like this, barefoot, collar open, hair mussed from sleep or maybe just time—he looked unreal. Like a sin someone had tried to scrub out of scripture but couldn’t quite forget.

"Sleep alright?" he asked.

You gave a small nod.

He looked at you a moment longer. Then—

"Sit down, dove."

You moved toward the table.

His voice followed you, lazy but pointed.

"That’s the wrong chair."

You paused.

He nodded to one at the head of the table—old, high-backed, carved with curling vines and symbols you didn’t recognize.

"That one’s yours now."

You hesitated, then lowered yourself into it slowly. The wood groaned under your weight. The air in the kitchen felt thicker now, tighter.

He brought the plate to you himself.

Two slices of skillet cornbread, golden and glistening with syrup. A few wild strawberries sliced and sugared. A smear of butter melting slow at the center like a pulse.

He set the plate in front of you with a quiet care that felt almost obscene.

"You ain’t gotta eat," he said, leaning against the table beside your chair. "But I like watchin’ you do it."

You picked up the fork.

His eyes stayed on your mouth.

The cornbread was still warm.

Steam curled from it like breath from parted lips. The syrup pooled thick at the edges, dripping off the edge of your fork in slow, amber ribbons. It stuck to your fingers when you touched it. Sweet. Sticky. Sensual.

You brought the first bite to your mouth, slow.

Remmick didn’t speak. He didn’t need to. His eyes tracked the motion like a starving man watching someone else’s feast.

The bite landed soft on your tongue—golden crisp on the outside, warm and tender in the middle, butter melting into every pore. It was perfect. Unreasonably so. And somehow you hated that even more. Because nothing about this should’ve tasted good. Not with him watching you like that. Not with your body still humming from the memory of his voice against your skin.

But you swallowed.

And he smiled.

"Good girl," he murmured.

You froze. The fork paused just above the plate.

"You don’t get to say things like that," you whispered.

"Why not?"

Your fingers tightened around the handle.

"Because it sounds like you earned it."

He chuckled, low and easy. A slow roll of thunder in his chest.

"Think I did. Think I earned every fuckin’ word after draggin’ you out that night and lettin’ you walk away without layin’ a hand on you."

You looked up sharply, heat crawling up your neck.

"You shouldn’t have touched me."

"I didn’t," he said. "But I wanted to. Still do."

Your breath caught.

His knuckles brushed the edge of your plate, slow, casual, like he had all the time in the world to make you squirm.

"And I know you want me to," he added, voice low enough that it coiled under your ribs and settled somewhere molten in your belly.

You pushed the plate away.

He didn’t flinch. Just reached forward and dragged it back in front of you like you hadn’t moved it at all.

"You eat," he said, gentler now. "You need it. House takes more from you than it gives."

You glanced around the kitchen, suddenly uneasy.

"You talk about it like it’s alive."

He gave a slow nod.

"It is. In a way."

"How?"

He looked down at your plate, then back at you.

"You’ll see."

You pushed another bite past your lips, slower this time, aware of the weight of his gaze with every chew, every swallow. You didn’t know why you obeyed. Maybe it was easier than defying him. Maybe it was because some part of you wanted him to keep watching.

When the plate was clean, he reached out and caught your wrist before you could stand.

Not hard. Not even firm. Just…inevitable.

"You full?" he asked, his voice all smoke and sin.

You nodded.

His eyes darkened.

"Then I’ll have my taste next."

Your breath lodged sharp in your throat.

He said it like it meant nothing. Like asking for your pulse was no more intimate than asking for your hand. But there was a glint in his eye—red barely flickering now, but still there—and it told you everything.

He was done pretending.

You didn’t move. Not right away.

His fingers were still wrapped around your wrist, light but unyielding, the pad of his thumb grazing the fragile skin where your pulse drummed loud and frantic. Like it wanted to leap out of your veins and spill into his mouth.

You swallowed hard.

"You said you didn’t want blood."

"I don’t."

"Then what do you want?"

"You."

You watched him now, trying to make sense of what you wanted.

And what terrified you was this—

You didn’t want to run.

You wanted to know how it would feel.

To give something he couldn’t take without permission.

To see if your body could handle the worship of a mouth like his.

Remmick’s other hand came up slow, brushing hair from your cheek, his knuckles rough and reverent.

"You said I smelled like want," you whispered.

"You do."

"What do you smell like?"

He leaned in, mouth near your throat again, his nose dragging along your skin, slow, as if he were drawing in the scent of your soul.

"Rot. Hunger. Regret," he said. "Old things that don’t die right."

You shivered.

"And still I want you," you breathed.

He pulled back just enough to look you in the eyes.

"That’s the worst part, ain’t it?"

You didn’t answer.

Because he was right.

His hand slid down to your elbow, then lower, tracing the curve of your waist through the thin fabric. His touch was warm now, or maybe your body had just given up trying to tell the difference between threat and thrill.

He guided you up from the chair.

Didn’t yank. Didn’t drag.

Just stood and took your hand like a dance was beginning.

"Come with me," he said.

"Where?"

"Somewhere I can kneel."

Your heart stuttered.

He led you through the house, down the long hallway past doorways that watched like eyes. The floor groaned underfoot, the air thickening around your shoulders as he brought you deeper into the home’s belly. You passed portraits whose paint had faded to shadows, velvet drapes drawn tight, mirrors that refused to hold your reflection quite right.

The door at the end of the hall was already open.

Inside, the room was dark.

Just one candle lit, flickering low in a glass jar, its light catching the edges of something silver beside the bed. An old bowl. A cloth. A pair of gloves, yellowed from time.

A ritual.

Not violent.

Intimate.

Remmick turned toward you, his face bare in the soft light. He looked younger. More human. And somehow more dangerous for it.

"Sit," he said.

You sat.

He knelt.

And then his hands found your knees.

His hands rested on your knees like they belonged there. Not demanding. Not prying. Just there. Anchored. Reverent.

The candlelight licked up his jaw, catching in the hollows of his cheeks, the deep shadow beneath his throat. He didn’t look like a man. He looked like a story told by firelight—half-worshipped, half-feared. A sinner in the shape of a saint. Or maybe the other way around.

His thumbs made a slow pass over the inside of your thighs, just above the knee. Barely pressure. Barely touch. The kind of contact that made your breath feel too loud in your chest.

"Yer too quiet," he murmured.

"I don’t know what to say," you whispered back.

His gaze lifted, locking with yours, and in that moment the whole room seemed to still.

"Ya ain’t gotta say a damn thing," he said. "You just need to stay right there and let me show ya what I mean when I say I don’t want yer blood."

Your lips parted, but no sound came.

He leaned in, slow as honey in the heat, until his mouth hovered just above your knee. Then lower. His breath ghosted over your skin, warm and maddening.

You didn’t realize you were holding your breath until he pressed a single kiss just above the bone.

Your lungs stuttered.

His lips trailed higher.

Another kiss.

Then another.

Each one higher than the last, until your legs opened on instinct, until you felt the hem of your slip being eased upward by hands that moved with worshipful patience. Like he wasn’t just undressing you—he was peeling back a veil. Unwrapping something sacred.

"You ever had someone kneel for ya?" he asked, voice rough now. Thicker.

You shook your head.

He smiled like he already knew the answer.

"Good. Let me be the first."

He kissed the inside of your thigh like it meant something. Like you meant something. Like your skin wasn’t just skin, but a prayer he intended to answer with his mouth.

The air was too hot. Your thoughts slid loose from the edges of your mind. All you could do was breathe and feel.

He looked up at you once more, red eyes burning low, and said—

"You gave yerself to me. Let me taste what I already own."

And then he bowed his head, mouth meeting the softest part of you, and the rest of the world disappeared.

His mouth touched you like he’d been dreaming of it for years. Like he’d earned it.

No rush. No hunger. Just that first velvet press of his lips against the tender center of you, reverent and slow, like a kiss to a wound or a confession. He moaned, low and guttural, into your skin—and the sound of it vibrated up through your spine.

He parted you with his thumbs, just enough to taste you deeper. His tongue slipped between folds already slick and aching, and he groaned again, this time with something like gratitude.

"Sweet as I fuckin’ knew you’d be," he rasped, voice hot against your core.

Your hands gripped the edge of the chair. Wood bit into your palms. Your head tipped back, eyes fluttering shut as your thighs trembled around his shoulders.

He didn’t stop.

He licked you with patience, with purpose, like he was reading scripture written between your legs—each flick of his tongue slow and deliberate, every pass perfectly placed, building pressure inside you with maddening precision.

And all the while, he watched you.

When your head dropped forward, you found him staring up at you. Red eyes glowing low, heavy-lidded, mouth glistening, jaw tense with restraint. He looked ruined by the taste of you.

"Look at me," he said. "Wanna see you fall apart on my tongue."

Your breath hitched, hips rocking forward on instinct, chasing his mouth. He growled low and deep in his chest, gripping your thighs tighter.

"That’s it, dove," he murmured. "Don’t run from it. Give it to me."

He flattened his tongue and dragged it slow, then circled the swollen peak of your clit with the tip, teasing you to the edge and pulling back just before it broke.

You whined. Desperate.

He smirked against your cunt.

"You want it?" he asked, voice thick. "Say it."

Your lips barely formed the word—"Please."

He hummed in approval.

Then he devoured you.

No more teasing. No more pacing. Just his mouth fully locked on you, tongue relentless now, lips sealing around your clit while two fingers slid into you with that obscene, perfect pressure that made your body jolt.

You cried out, gasping, your thighs tightening around his head as the world tipped sideways.

"That’s it," he groaned, curling his fingers just right. "Cum f’r me, girl. Let me taste what’s mine."

And when it hit—

It hit like a fever. Like lightning. Like your soul cracked in half and bled straight into his mouth.

You broke with a cry, hips bucking, your fingers tangled in his hair as wave after wave crashed through you.

He didn’t stop. Not until your thighs twitched and your breath came in ragged little sobs, not until your body went limp in his hands.

Then, finally—finally—he pulled back.

His lips were wet. His eyes were feral. And he looked at you like a man who’d just fed.

"You’re fuckin’ divine," he whispered. "And I ain’t even started ruinin’ you yet."

The room pulsed with quiet. The candle flickered low, flame swaying as if it too had held its breath through your unraveling.

Your body felt boneless. Glazed in sweat. Your pulse echoed everywhere—in your wrists, your throat, between your legs where he’d buried his mouth like a man sent to worship. You weren’t sure how long it had been since you’d spoken. Since you’d breathed without shaking.

Remmick still knelt.

His hands were on your thighs, thumbs drawing idle circles into your skin like he couldn’t bear to stop touching you. His head was bowed slightly, but his eyes were on you—watchful, reverent, hungry in a way that had nothing to do with the softness between your legs and everything to do with something older. Something darker.

He looked drunk on you.

You opened your mouth to speak, but your voice caught on the edge of a sigh.

He beat you to it.

"Reckon you know what’s comin’ next," he murmured.

You didn’t answer.

He rose from his knees in one slow, unhurried motion. There was a heaviness to him now, a tension rolling just beneath his skin, like a dam about to split. He reached up with one hand and wiped the corner of his mouth with the back of it—then licked the taste from his thumb like it was honey off the comb.

You watched, breath held tight in your chest.

He stepped closer. You stayed seated, knees still parted, your slip pushed up indecently high, but you didn’t fix it. Didn’t move at all. The heat between your legs hadn’t faded. If anything, it curled deeper now, thicker, laced with something close to fear but not quite.

He stopped in front of you.

Tilted his head slightly.

"How’s yer heart?"

You blinked.

"It’s…fast," you whispered.

He smiled slow. Not mocking. Not soft either.

"Good. I want it fast."

Your throat tightened.

"Why?"

He leaned in, hands bracing on either side of your chair, body boxing you in without touching.

"‘Cause I want yer blood screamin’ for me when I take it."

Your breath caught somewhere between your ribs.

He didn’t touch you yet—didn’t need to. The weight of his body, caging you in without a single finger laid, made your skin flush from your chest to your knees. Every inch of you throbbed with awareness. Of him. Of your own pulse. Of the air cooling the places he’d worshiped with his mouth not moments before.

You swallowed.

"You said you’d wait," you whispered.

He nodded once, slowly, his eyes never leaving yours.

"I did. And I have. But yer body’s already beggin’ for me. Ain’t it?"

You hated that he was right. That he could feel it somehow. Not just see the tremble in your thighs or the way your lips parted when he leaned closer—but that he could feel it in the air, like scent, like vibration.

You lifted your chin, barely.

"I’m not scared."

He chuckled low, and it rumbled through your bones.

"Good. But I don’t need ya scared, dove. I need ya open."

He raised one hand then, slow as scripture, and brushed his knuckles along the column of your throat. Just a whisper of contact, a ghost’s touch. Your head tilted for him without thinking, baring your neck.

"Right here," he murmured. "Right where it beats loudest. That’s where I wanna taste ya."

You shivered.

He bent down, mouth near your pulse. His breath was warm, slow, drawn in like he was savoring you already.

"I ain’t gonna hurt ya," he said. "Not unless you want it."

Your fingers twisted in your lap.

"Will it—" you started, but the question got tangled.

He smiled against your skin.

"Will it feel good?"

You said nothing.

"You already know."

You did.

Because everything with him did. Every word. Every look. Every touch. It wasn’t right. It wasn’t holy. But it was real. It lived under your skin like rot and root and ruin.

You nodded once.

"Then take it."

Remmick stilled.

And then his lips pressed to your throat. Not with hunger. With reverence. Like a blessing.

"That’s my girl," he breathed.

And then he bit.

It wasn’t pain.

It was pressure, first.

A deep, aching pull that bloomed just beneath the skin, right where his mouth latched onto you. His lips sealed tight around your throat, and then—sharpness. Two points sinking in like teeth through silk. Like sin through flesh.

You gasped.

Not from fear. Not even from the sting. But from the rush.

Heat burst behind your eyes, white and sudden and dizzying. Your hands flew to his shoulders, clinging, grounding, anchoring you to something real while your mind drifted into something else—something otherworldly.

The pull came next.

A steady rhythm, slow and patient, like he was sipping you instead of drinking. Like he had all the time in the world. You could feel it, the way your blood left you in waves, not violent, not greedy—just…intimate. Like giving. Like surrender.

He groaned low against your neck, the sound vibrating through your bones.

"Fuck, you taste like sunlight," he rasped against your skin, voice thick with hunger and awe. "Like everythin’ warm I thought I’d forgotten."

Your head tipped further, offering him more.

You didn’t know when your legs opened wider, or when your hips rocked forward just to feel more of him. But his body shifted instinctively, meeting yours with a growl, his hand gripping your thigh now, possessive and unrelenting.

Your pulse faltered. Not from weakness, but from pleasure. From the unbearable knowing that he was inside you now, in the most ancient way. That your body had opened to him, and your blood had welcomed him.

Your moan was breathless.

"Remmick—"

He shushed you, mouth never leaving your throat.

"Don’t speak, dove. Just feel."

And you did.

You felt every lick. Every pull. Every sacred claim. You felt his tongue soothe where his fangs pierced, his hand slide higher along your thigh, his knee pushing between your legs until your breath stuttered out of you in something like a sob.

It was too much. It was not enough.

And when he finally pulled back, slow and reluctant, your blood on his lips like a mark, like a vow, he stared at you like you were holy.

Like he hadn’t fed on you.

Like he’d prayed.

The room was quiet, but your body wasn’t.

You felt every beat of your heart echo in the hollow where his mouth had been. A slow, reverent throb that pulsed through your neck, your chest, your thighs. It was like something had been lit beneath your skin, and now it smoldered there—glowing, aching, changed.

Remmick’s breath was uneven. His lips were stained red, parted just slightly, his jaw slack with something like awe. The burn of your blood still shimmered in his eyes, brighter now. Alive.

He looked undone.

And yet his hands were steady as he reached up, cupped your jaw in both palms, and tilted your face toward him. His thumb swept across your cheekbone like you might vanish if he didn’t touch you just right.

"You alright?" he asked, voice quieter now, roughened at the edges like a match just struck.

You nodded, though your limbs still trembled.

"I feel…" you swallowed, the word too small for what bloomed in your chest, "…warm."

He laughed, soft and almost bitter, and leaned his forehead against yours.

"You should. You’re inside me now. Every drop of you."

The words rooted somewhere deep. You didn’t flinch. Didn’t pull away. You could still feel the heat of his mouth, the bite, the pleasure that followed. It wasn’t just lust. It wasn’t just surrender. It was something older. Something binding.

"Does it hurt?" you asked, your fingers brushing the side of his neck, the line of his collarbone slick with sweat.

He looked at you like you’d asked the wrong question.

"Hurt?" he echoed. "Dove, it’s ecstasy."

You stared at him.

"You mean for you?"

He shook his head once.

"For us."

Then he pulled back just enough to look at you—really look. His gaze swept your features like he was committing them to memory. As if this moment, this very breath, was something sacred. His fingers moved to your throat again, this time to the place just above the bite, and he pressed lightly.

"You’ll bruise here," he said. "Won’t fade for a while."

"Will it heal?"

"Eventually."

"Do you want it to?"

His mouth curved, slow and wicked.

"No," he said. "I want the world to see what’s mine."

And before you could reply—before the heat in your belly could cool or your mind could gather itself—he kissed you.

Not soft.

Not careful.

His mouth claimed you like he’d already been inside you a thousand times and wanted to do it a thousand more. He kissed you like a man starving. Like a creature who’d gone too long without flesh, and now that he had it, he wasn’t letting go.

You tasted your own blood on his tongue.

And it tasted like forever.

The house knew.

It breathed deeper now. Its wood swelled, its walls sighed, its floorboards creaked in time with your heartbeat—as though it had taken you in too, accepted your offering, and now it wanted to keep you just like he did. Not as a guest. Not as a lover.

As a belonging.

Remmick hadn’t let you go.

Not when the kiss ended. Not when your blood slowed in his mouth. Not when your knees gave and your body folded forward into him. His arms had caught you like he knew the shape of your collapse. Like he’d been waiting for it. Like he’d never let you fall anywhere but into him.

He carried you now, one arm beneath your legs, the other braced around your back, his chest solid against yours.

"Don’t reckon you’re walkin’ after all that," he muttered, gaze fixed ahead, voice gone syrup-slow and thick with something possessive.

You didn’t argue. You couldn’t.

Your head rested against the place where his heart should’ve beat. But it was quiet there. Not lifeless—just other.

He carried you past rooms you hadn’t seen. A library, long abandoned, lined with crooked books and a grandfather clock that had no hands. A parlor soaked in velvet and silence. A door nailed shut from the outside, something heavy breathing behind it.

You didn’t ask.

He didn’t explain.

The room he took you to was nothing like the others.

It wasn’t grand.

It was personal.

The windows here were narrow and high, soft light slanting through the dusty glass in thin gold ribbons. The bed was simple but large, the sheets dark, the frame iron-wrought and worn smooth by time. A single cross hung above the headboard—but it had been turned upside down.

He set you down like you were breakable. Sat you on the edge of the bed, knelt once more to remove the slip still clinging to your body, inch by inch, as if undressing you were a sacrament.

"Y’ever wonder why I picked you?" he asked, voice low as the hush between thunderclaps.

Your breath stilled.

"I thought it was the blood."

He shook his head, his hands pausing at your hips.

"Nah, dove. Blood’s blood. Yours sings, sure. But it ain’t why I chose."

He looked up then, red eyes gleaming in the half-light.

"You remind me of the last thing I ever loved before I died."

The words landed like a stone in still water.

They rippled outward. Slow. Wide. Deep.

You stared at him, breath shallow, your skin bare under his hands, your throat still warm from where he’d fed. The room held its silence like breath behind gritted teeth. Outside, somewhere beyond the high windows, something moved through the trees—branches bending, wind pushing low and humid across the land—but in here, it was only the two of you.

Only his voice.

Only your blood between his teeth.

"What…what was she like?" you asked.

His thumbs drew circles at your hips, but his eyes drifted, not unfocused—just distant. Remembering.

"She had a mouth like yours. Sharp. Didn’t know when to shut it. Always speakin’ when she should’ve stayed quiet." A smile ghosted across his lips. "God, I loved that. I loved that she ain’t feared me even when she should’ve."

He exhaled through his nose, slow.

"But she didn’t get to finish bein’ mine."

Your brows pulled.

"What happened to her?"

He looked back at you then, and the heat in his gaze returned—not hunger, not even desire, but something deeper. Possessive. Terrifying in its tenderness.

"They tore her from me. Burned her in a chapel. Said she was a witch on account’a what I’d given her."

Your heart dropped into your stomach.

"Remmick—"

"She didn’t scream," he said, voice rough. "Didn’t cry. Just looked at me like she knew I’d find her again. And I have."

You froze.

His hands slid higher, up your ribs, his palms reverent.

"I don’t believe in fate. Not really. But you—" he leaned in, lips brushing your jaw, voice low like a spell, "you make me wanna believe in things I ain’t allowed to have."

You whispered against the curl of his mouth.

"And what do you think I am?"

He kissed the hinge of your jaw.

"My penance," he said. "And my reward."

You shivered.

"You said you saved me."

He nodded.

"I did."

"Why?"

He pulled back just enough to meet your eyes, and his voice dropped to a near whisper.

"‘Cause I ain’t lettin’ another thing I love burn."

You didn’t realize you were crying until he touched your face.

Not with hunger, not with heat, but with the kind of softness that had no business living in a man like him. His thumb caught a tear on your cheek like he’d been waiting for it, like it meant something sacred.

"You ain’t her," he murmured. "But you feel like the same song in a different key."

His voice cracked a little at the edges, not enough to ruin the shape of it, just enough to prove that something in him still bled.

You reached up, fingers trembling, and cupped the side of his neck. The skin there was warmer now. Still inhuman, still not quite alive, but it held your heat like it didn’t want to give it back. You felt the ridges of old scars beneath your palm. The echo of stories not told.

"I don’t know what I’m becoming," you said.

He leaned into your hand, eyes half-lidded.

"You’re becomin’ mine."

Then he kissed you again—not like before. Not full of fire. But slow, like he had all the time in the world to learn the shape of your mouth. His lips moved over yours with a kind of tenderness that made your bones ache. A kind of reverence that said this is where I end and begin again.

When he pulled back, your breath followed him.

The room shifted.

You felt it. Like the house had exhaled too.

"Lie down," he said, voice softer than it had ever been. "Let me hold what I almost lost."

You obeyed.

You lay back against the sheets that smelled like him, like dust and dark and something unnameable. The iron bed creaked softly beneath you, and the candlelight trembled with the movement. He undressed with quiet purpose, shirt sliding from his shoulders, buttons undone by slow fingers, trousers falling away to bare the sharp planes of his body.

And when he climbed over you, it wasn’t to take.

It was to be taken.

Remmick hovered above you, breath warm at your lips, hands braced on either side of your head. He looked down at you like he was staring through time. Like you were something he'd pulled from the fire and decided to keep even if it burned him too.

You’re mine, he whispered, but didn’t say it aloud.

He didn’t have to.

His body said it.

His mouth said it.

And when he finally eased inside you, slow and steady, filling you inch by trembling inch—your soul said it too.

His body hovered just above yours, every inch of him trembling with a control you didn’t quite understand—until you looked into his eyes.

That red glow was dimmer now. No less powerful, but softened by something raw. Something reverent.

Not hunger.

Not lust.

Not even possession.

Devotion.

The kind that didn’t speak. The kind that buried itself in the bones and never left.

His hand slid down the side of your face, tracing the curve of your cheek, then the line of your jaw, calloused fingers lingering in the hollow of your throat where your heartbeat thudded wild and uneven.

"Still fast," he murmured, half to himself.

"You’re heavy," you whispered, not in protest, but in awe. Every breath you took was filled with him.

He smirked, the corner of his mouth twitching in that crooked, wicked way of his.

"Ain’t even layin’ on you yet."

You didn’t laugh. Couldn’t. Your body was stretched too tight, strung out with anticipation and need. Every inch of you burned.

He leaned down then, not to kiss you, but to breathe you in. His nose skimmed your cheek, the edge of your ear, the curve of your throat already marked by his bite. His hands traced your ribs, the sides of your waist, slow and steady, like he was trying to learn you by touch alone.

"You’re shakin'," he whispered, voice low, thick with something close to worship.

"So are you."

A pause.

Then softer—truthfully,

"Yeah."

He kissed the inside of your wrist, then the space between your breasts, then lower still—his lips reverent as they moved over your belly, your hipbone, the softest parts of you.

"You ever had someone take their time with you?" he asked, mouth against your skin.

You didn’t speak.

"Didn’t think so," he muttered. "Shame."

His hand slid between your thighs, spreading you again—not rushed, not greedy, just gentle. Like he knew he’d already had the taste of you and now he wanted the feel.

"Tell me if it’s too much," he said.

"It already is."

He looked up at you then, his face half-shadowed, half-lit, and something flickered in his eyes.

"Good."

His cock brushed against your entrance, hot and heavy, and you nearly arched off the bed at the first contact. Not even inside. Just there. Teasing. Pressed to the slick mess he'd made of you earlier with his mouth.

He groaned deep.

"Fuck, you feel like sin."

You reached for him, pulled him down by the back of his neck until your mouths were inches apart.

"Then sin with me."

He didn’t hesitate.

He began to press in—slow. Devastatingly slow. The head of his cock stretching you open with a care that felt like madness. His hands gripped your hips as if holding himself back took more strength than killing ever had.

He moved in inch by inch, his breath hitched, jaw tight, sweat beginning to bead at his temple.

"Shit—ya takin’ me so good, dove. Just like that."

You moaned. Your fingers dug into his back. You were full of him and not even halfway there.

"Remmick—"

"I gotcha," he whispered. "Ain’t gonna let you break."

But he was already breaking you. Gently. Thoroughly. Beautifully.

He filled you like he’d been made for the task.

No sharp thrusts. No hurried rhythm. Just the unbearable slowness of it. The stretch. The burn. The drag of his cock as he sank deeper, deeper, deeper into you until there was nothing left untouched. Until your body stopped bracing and started opening.

You clung to him—hands fisted in the fabric of his shirt that still clung to his back, damp with sweat. He hadn’t even undressed all the way. There was something obscene about it, something holy, too—the way he kept his shirt on like this wasn’t about bareness, it was about belonging.

"That’s it," he rasped against your throat. "There she is."

Your moan was caught between breath and prayer.

He buried himself to the hilt.

And still—he didn’t move.

His hips pressed flush to yours, his breath shaky against your skin as he held himself there, nestled so deep inside you it felt like you’d never known emptiness before now. Like everything that came before this moment had just been the ache of waiting to be filled.

"You feel that?" he whispered, voice thick, almost reverent. "Where I am inside ya?"

You nodded. Couldn’t find your voice.

His lips brushed the shell of your ear.

"Ain’t no leavin’ now. I’ll always be in ya. Even when I ain’t."

You whimpered.

Not from pain. From how true it felt.

He moved then—barely. Just a slow roll of his hips, a gentle retreat and return. It was enough to make your breath hitch, your body arch, your legs wrap tighter around him without thinking.

"That’s right, dove. Let me in. Let me have it."

You didn’t even know what it was anymore.

Your body?

Your blood?

Your soul?

You’d already given them all.

And still, he took more.

But not cruelly.

Like a man kissing the mouth of a well after years of thirst. Like a thief who knew how to make you feel grateful for the stealing.

He found a rhythm that made the air vanish from your lungs.

Slow. Deep. Measured. His hips grinding just right, dragging his cock against every place inside you that had never known such touch. Every stroke sang with heat. Every breath he took turned your name into something more than a sound.

"Fuck, I could stay in you forever," he groaned. "Like this. Warm. Tight. Mine."

You dug your nails into his shoulders, legs trembling.

"Please," you whispered, though you didn’t know what you were asking for.

He did.

"Beg me," he said, dragging his mouth down your neck, over the bite he’d left. "Beg me to make you come with my cock in you."

"Remmick—"

"Say it."

You were already gone. Already shaking. Already his.

"Make me come," you breathed. "Please—God, please—"

His smile was sinful.

And then he fucked you.

His rhythm shifted—no longer slow, no longer sacred.

It was worship in the way fire worships a forest. The kind that devours. The kind that remakes.

Remmick braced a hand behind your thigh, hitching your leg higher as he thrust harder, deeper, dragging guttural sounds from his chest that you felt before you heard. The bed groaned beneath you, iron frame clanging soft against the wall in time with his hips. But it was your body that made the noise that filled the room—the gasps, the breaking sighs, the high whimper of his name torn raw from your throat.

He kissed your jaw, your collarbone, your shoulder, not like he was trying to be sweet but like he needed to taste every inch he claimed.

"You feel me in your belly yet?" he growled, words hot against your skin.

You nodded frantically, tears pricking the corners of your eyes from the sheer force of sensation.

"Say it," he panted, each thrust brutal and beautiful.

"Yes—yes, I feel you, Remmick, I—"

"You gonna come f’r me like a good girl?"

"Yes."

"Say my fuckin’ name when you do."

His hand slid between your bodies, finding your clit like he’d owned it in another life, and the moment his fingers circled that aching bundle of nerves, your vision went white.

Your body seized around him.

The sound you made was raw, wrecked, something no one but him should ever hear.

He kept fucking you through it, hissing curses through his teeth, chasing his own high with the rhythm of a man who’d waited centuries for the perfect fit.

And then he broke.

With your name groaned low and reverent in your ear, he came deep inside you, hips stuttering, breath ragged, body shuddering with the force of it. You felt every throb of his cock inside you, every spill of heat, every ounce of him taking root.

For a long, suspended moment, he didn’t move.

Only the sound of your breaths tangled together.

Your sweat mixing.

Your bodies still joined.

"That’s it," he whispered hoarsely, pressing his forehead to yours. "That’s how I know you’re mine."

The house exhaled around you.

The candle sputtered in its jar, flame dancing low and crooked, like even it had been made breathless by what it had witnessed. Somewhere in the walls, the wood groaned—settling. Sighing. Accepting.

You didn’t move. Couldn’t.

Your body was a temple razed and rebuilt in a single night, still pulsing with the memory of his mouth, his weight, the stretch of him inside you like a secret only your bones would remember. Every nerve hummed low and soft beneath your skin, like your blood hadn’t figured out how to move without his rhythm guiding it.

Remmick stayed inside you.

His body was heavy atop yours, but not crushing. His head tucked into the curve of your neck, the same place he’d bitten, the same place he’d worshipped like it held some holy truth. His breath came slow and ragged, the rise and fall of his chest matching yours as if your lungs had struck the same pace without meaning to.

"Don’t move yet," he muttered, voice wrecked and hoarse. "Wanna stay here just a minute longer."

You let your hand drift through his hair, damp with sweat, curls sticking to his forehead. You carded through them lazily, mind blank, heart full.

He pressed a kiss to your throat. Then another, just above your collarbone.

"You still with me?" he asked, quieter now.

You nodded.

"Good," he murmured. "Didn’t mean to fuck the soul outta ya. Just…couldn’t help it."

You let out the softest laugh, and he smiled into your skin.

His hand slid down your side, tracing the curve of your waist, your hip, the spot where your thigh met his. His fingers moved slowly, not with lust, but with a kind of quiet awe.

"Y’know what you feel like?" he whispered.

"What?"

"Home."

The word struck something inside you. Something tender. Something deep.

He lifted his head then, just enough to look down at you. His eyes had faded from red to something darker, something richer—garnet in low light. The kind of color only seen in blood and wine and promises too old to be remembered by name.

"You still think this is just hunger?" he asked.

You blinked at him, dazed.

"It was never just hunger," he said. "Not with you."

The silence between you was warm now.

Not empty. Not tense. Just quiet, the kind that comes after thunder, when the storm’s rolled through and the trees are still deciding whether to stand or kneel.

You felt it in your limbs—heavy, humming, holy. The afterglow of something you didn’t have language for.

Remmick hadn’t moved far.

He still blanketed your body like a second skin, one arm braced beneath your shoulders, the other tracing idle shapes across your hip as if he were still mapping the terrain of you. His cock, softening but still nestled inside, pulsed faintly with the last of what he’d given you.

And he had given you something. Not just release. Not just blood. Something older. Something that whispered now in the place between your ribs.

You turned your head to look at him.

His gaze was already on you.

"What happens now?" you asked, barely above a whisper.

He didn’t answer right away.

Instead, he ran the back of his fingers along your cheekbone, down the side of your neck, pausing over the place where his mark had already begun to bruise.

"You askin’ what happens tonight," he murmured, "or what happens after?"

You blinked slowly. "Both."

He let out a breath through his nose, the sound tired but not cold.

"Tonight, I’ll hold you. Long as you’ll let me. Won’t leave this bed unless you beg me to. Might even make ya cry again, if you keep lookin’ at me like that."

You flushed, and he smiled.

"As for after…"

He looked past you then, toward the ceiling, like the truth was written in the beams.

"Ain’t never planned that far. Not with anyone. Just fed. Fucked. Moved on."

"But not with me."

His eyes snapped back to yours. Serious now.

"No, dove. Not with you."

You swallowed the knot rising in your throat.

"Why?"

His jaw flexed, tongue darting briefly across his lower lip before he answered.

"‘Cause I been alone too long. Lived too long. Thought I was too far gone to want anythin’ that didn’t bleed beneath me."

He leaned closer, forehead resting against yours, his next words no louder than a ghost’s sigh.

"But you—you made me want somethin’ tender. Somethin’ breakable."

"That doesn’t make sense."

"Don’t gotta. Nothin’ about you ever has. And yet here you are."

You let your eyes drift shut, just for a moment, and whispered into the stillness between your mouths.

"So I stay?"

He didn’t hesitate.

"You stay."

The candle had burned low.

Its glow flickered long shadows across the walls—your bodies painted in gold and blood-tinged bronze, limbs tangled in sheets that still clung with sweat and want. The house had quieted again, the way an animal settles when it knows its master is content. Outside, the wind threaded through the trees in soft moans, like the Delta herself was eavesdropping.

Neither of you spoke for a while. You didn’t need to.

Your fingers traced lazy patterns across Remmick’s chest—over his scars, the slope of muscle, the faint rise and fall beneath your palm. You still half-expected no heartbeat, but it was there, slow and stubborn, like he’d stolen it back just for you.

He watched you. One arm draped across your waist, his thumb stroking your bare back like you might fade if he stopped.

"You still ain’t askin’ the question you really wanna ask," he said, voice rough from silence and sleep.

You paused.

"What question is that?"

He tipped his head toward you, resting his chin on his knuckles.

"You wanna know if I turned you."

Your heart gave a traitorous flutter.

"And did you?"

He shook his head.

"Nah. Not yet."

"Why not?"

His fingers stilled. Then resumed.

"’Cause you ain’t asked me to."

You looked up at him sharply.

"Would you?"

A long beat passed. Then he nodded once.

"If it was you askin’. If it was real."

Your breath caught.

"And if I don’t?"

His gaze didn’t waver.

"Then I’ll stay with you. ‘Til you’re old. ‘Til your hands shake and your bones ache and your eyes stop lookin’ at me like I’m the only thing that ever made you feel alive."

Your throat tightened.

"That sounds awful."

He smiled, slow and aching.

"It sounds human."

You looked at him for a long time. At the man who had killed, who had bled you, who had tasted every part of you—body and soul—and still asked nothing unless you gave it.

"Would it hurt?"

His hand slid up, fingers curling beneath your jaw, tilting your face to his.

"It’d hurt," he said. "But not more than bein’ without you would."

The quiet stretched long and low.

His words hung in the space between your mouths like smoke—something sweet and terrible, something tasted before it was fully breathed in.

Your chest rose and fell against his slowly, and for a long time, you said nothing. You just listened. To the house settling around you. To the wind curling past the windows. To the steady thrum of blood still echoing faintly in your ears.

And beneath it all—

You heard memory.

It came soft at first. A shape, not a sound. The slick thud of your knees hitting the alley pavement. The scream you didn’t recognize as your own. Your brother’s blood, warm and fast, pumping between your fingers like water from a broken pipe. His mouth slack. His eyes wide.

You remembered screaming to the sky. Not to God.

Just up.

Because you knew He’d stopped listening.

And then—

He came.

Out of nothing. Out of dark.

You remembered the slow scrape of his boots on the gravel. The silhouette of him under the weak yellow glow of a flickering streetlamp. You remembered the quiet way he spoke.

"You want him to live?"

You didn’t answer with words. You just nodded, crying so hard you couldn’t breathe. And he’d knelt—right there in the blood—and laid his hand flat against your brother’s chest.

You never saw what he did. Only saw your brother’s eyes flutter. Only heard his breath return, sudden and wet.

And then he looked at you.

Not your brother.

Remmick.

He looked at you like he’d already taken something.

And he had.

Now, years later, lying in the hush of his house, your body still joined to his, you could still feel that moment thrumming beneath your skin. The moment when everything shifted. When your life became borrowed.

You looked up at him now, breathing steady, lips parted like a prayer just barely forming.

"I’ve already given you everything."

He shook his head.

"Not this."

He pressed two fingers to your chest, right over your heart.

"This is still yours."

"And you want it?"

He didn’t smile. Didn’t look away.

"I want it to keep beatin’. Forever. With mine."

You stared at him.

You thought about that alley. About your brother’s eyes opening again.

About how no one else came.

And you made your choice.

"Then take it."

Remmick stilled.

"Don’t say it unless you mean it, dove."

"I do."

His voice was barely more than a breath.

"You sure?"

You reached up, touched his face, fingers tracing the sharp line of his jaw.

"I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life."

His eyes shimmered—deep red now, alive with something wild and tender.

"Then I’ll make you eternal," he whispered. "And I’ll never let the world take you from me."

He didn’t rush.

Not now. Not with this.

Remmick looked at you like you were something rare—something holy—like he couldn’t believe you’d said it, even as your voice still echoed between the walls.

Then he moved.

Not with hunger. Not with heat.

With purpose.

He sat up, kneeling beside you on the bed, and pulled the sheet slowly down your body. His eyes drank you in again, but this time there was no heat in them. Just reverence. As if you were the altar, and he the sinner who’d finally been granted absolution.

"You sure you want this?" he asked one last time, voice soft, like the hush of water in a cathedral.

You nodded, throat tight.

"I want forever."

His jaw clenched. A tremble passed through him like he’d heard those words in another life and lost them before they were ever his.

He leaned down.

His hand cupped the back of your head, the other settled flat on your chest, palm over your heart.

"Close your eyes, dove."

You did.

And then—

You felt him.

His breath. His lips. The soft, cool press of his mouth against your neck. But he didn’t bite.

Not yet.

He kissed the mark he’d already left. Then higher. Then lower. Slow. Measured. Your body melted beneath him, your hands curling into the sheets.

And then—

A whisper against your skin.

"I’ll be gentle. But you’ll remember this forever."

And he sank his fangs in.

It wasn’t like the first time.

It wasn’t lust.

It wasn’t climax.

It was rebirth.

Pain bloomed sharp and bright—but only for a heartbeat. Then the warmth flooded in. Then the cold. Then the ache. Your pulse stuttered once, then surged. It was like drowning and being pulled to the surface at once. Like everything you’d ever been burned away and something older moved in to take its place.

He held you as it happened.

Cradled you like something delicate.

His mouth sealed over the wound, drinking slow, but not to feed. To anchor you. To tether you to him.

You felt yourself go limp. The world turned strange. Light and dark bled into each other. Your breath faded. Your heartbeat fluttered like wings against glass.

And then—

It stopped.

Silence.

Stillness.

And in the space where your heart had once beat…

You heard his.

Then—

Your eyes opened.

The world looked different.

Sharper.

Brighter.

Every shadow deeper. Every color richer. The candlelight burned gold-red and alive. The scent of the night air was so thick it choked you—smoke, soil, blood, him.

Remmick hovered above you, lips stained crimson, breathing hard like he’d just returned from war.

And when he looked at you—

You saw yourself reflected in his eyes.

He smiled.

"Welcome home, darlin’."

[goldenlevi]

Chapter 3 - Wrathful

Main Masterlist - Mini-Series Masterlist

Tags: Dean Winchester/Female Reader, Sam Winchester/Reader (platonic), angst, very light fluff, mutual pining, smut (oral both receiving), time loop!

Summary/Warnings: You try a new method to escape. Usual Warnings.

Author's Note: A little emotional smut for your time?

Word Count: 6k

Read on A03!

Chapter 2 - Chapter 4

“Son of a-“

“Dean!” You don’t wait. You won’t wait. You’ve been here for too long, and you’re done waiting. “I need to talk to you.”

He blinks at you from the stove, the bacon and eggs scattered across the kitchen floor as he clutches the hand you already know he’s burnt. “Uh- Morning, sunshine. You’re up sooner than I thought you’d be-“

“Yeah, it usually takes another five minutes.” You pause to grab ice from the freeze as you stalk over to him, grabbing his hand and pressing it over the line of blistering skin. “Are you ready?”

“Ready?” He frowns as he says your name, looking between where you’re still holding his hand and your firm glare. “You feeling okay? You’re- you seem a bit-“

“I love you.”

Dean swallows, and he looks like you shot him. Like you didn’t just offer your whole heart on a platter for him to take, like you didn’t just jump off a cliff with only a prayer that there would be an ocean the bottom instead of just a gorge. His palms are growing hot and clammy as he grips your hand as if he’s trying to strangle it, and you can’t see any blood in his face, and you’ve never even seen that expression on his face during the worst hunts. Wide eyes and gaping mouths and shallow breaths until you’re worried you did shoot him, and he’s going to fucking collapse and it will all reset—but if he dies, you’re not even sure it will reset, and that thought sends a new rush of fear up your spine—and why is he just staring at you and not saying it back-

“You-“ He swallows, still holding your hand, even as his body recoils away. “What?”

“I love you, Dean.” You repeat it with a softer voice, because maybe you’ve frightened him. Maybe you were too loud, and that’s why he hasn’t said it back, but Dean usually likes loud things and saying it again just makes his body brace like he’s getting ready for a fight. “Is that- Are you okay-“

“’M fine.” He mumbles, glancing down at your hands and recoiling with a shocked, almost feral sound. “Yeah, it’s- uh- I- I think I hear Sammy calling me, and you’re- I-“

Dean swallows, standing a little too tall as you hold his gaze, and half-sprints out of the kitchen.

He left.

You told him, and you’re standing in the center of the kitchen with the ice still in your hands—bacon and eggs still all over the floor, Sam very much still out on his run—and Dean fucking left.

He didn’t say it back.

What the fuck is going to happen when he didn’t say it back, when you’re stuck, stranded in the kitchen as you take care of his mess, not even crying or spilling your guts on the floor because everything is moving too fast and you haven’t been here before, where Dean doesn’t say it, and was that the fucking way out, are you going to wake up tomorrow and it will be Saturday and Dean will never fucking speak to you again and what kind of fucked up monster or deity would pull this shit, this isn’t a lesson, this is just a strange kind of torture where you’re going to alone for the rest of time and Dean maybe won’t even look at you again-

Sam says your name as he walks into the kitchen, and your eyes start to blur the moment you look up at him.

Dean’s usually here with you.

The mess has always been cleaned, by the time Sam got back from his ten mile run. 

You’ve fucked this all up.

“What’s wrong with you? You look like…” Sam trails off, scratching the back of his neck as you remain crouched on the floor. “Uh, bad.”

You don’t get a simile. 

It would be amusing, or at least a little interesting, if you weren’t pretty sure you were about to fucking cry on the floor, in front of Sam, who needs to go take his shower but is going to try and convince you to go for a run first, and you don’t even know how that conversation goes without Dean, and you miss him, and why didn’t he say it back, and you don’t want to fucking run with Sam-

“I-“ You swallow, sitting back on your knees and twisting the rag in your hands. “Ten miles is too many miles, Sam, I don’t want to do it, and I know I eat healthy, but Dean does too, sometimes, and I’m going to get him cherry pie because he doesn’t really like pumpkin, and tricking him is mean, and I love him so I’m not going to do it and I’m not- I won’t pull a hamstring, but I don’t want to run-“

You’re crying. You can feel the sting in your eyes, and every breath is becoming ragged as you press your back to the wall, and you think you’re going to fall over but when you try to steady yourself your hand moves to your thigh, and that’s where Dean had always touched you but he’s not going to touch you there again, and why didn’t it work-

“Woah, uh-“ Sam crouches next to you on the floor, and you can see him scanning over you through the blur of your tears. “You- Did Dean talk to you-“

“No-“ You choke on the words, and you’re going to fucking die here, because you’re an idiot and you broke you one goddamn rule, never fucking tell Dean. “I- He ran away, Sam, you-“ You glare up at him. “You said it would fucking work, you asshole-“

Sam blinks, shaking his head. “I don’t think I did say anything-“

“You did-“ You let out a long breath, wiping your eyes with the back of your hand, even as the sobs continues to shake your body. “It’s Tuesday.”

“Oh.” Sam’s eyes widen when he realizes what you mean, and he let out a low groan as he drops to fully sit on the floor at your side. “Oh, fuck.”

“Yeah.” You whisper, pulling your knees to your chest. “Fuck.”

“How many-“

“Not sure anymore.”

“Aright, then, uh- Do you know your- Did I tell you about reset points-“

“Dean will tell me he loves me.” You mumble, pushing down another sob. “Then it will reset.”

Sam frowns. “He did say he was going to talk to you. Do you, uh, what have you said back-“

“Telling him I love him doesn’t work.” You give him a flat look, your voice flat as the tears start to dry. “Why do you think I’m on the floor?”

“Good point.” Sam runs a hand over his face, glancing back to the mess on the floor. “Dean do that?”

You nod. “He dropped the pan. I- I needed to go grocery shopping with Cas later, but Dean, he ran, he didn’t even- He always says it and he just fucking ran-“

“Well, when has he usually said it?” Sam raises his brows at you, and you frown.

“It changes every time-“

“And is this the first time you’ve said it first?”

“Yeah, but- Sam, what happens if he doesn’t say it back-“

“He’ll- I’ll talk to him.” Sam gives you a grimacing, apologetic look. “I think you should just play the day out. Do whatever you usually do, and I’ll deal with Dean. Okay?”

“Sam-“

“Look,” Sam says your name, giving you a pointed stare. “Dean’s an idiot, and I know he’s been- I’ll talk him. You said you were gonna go shopping with Cas?”

You nod, starting to feel a little like a bobblehead. “We usually get Oreos and honey.”

“Alright, do that, then.“ Sam pushes to his feet, helping you back up with a small smile. “It’ll be fine.”

It’ll be fine.

Sam says that like it’s simple. Like it simply will be fine. 

He’ll talk to Dean.

You’ll go shopping with Cas.

You don’t throw up when you get to the store—eating the apple lost in the mess of the morning—but you still feel sick. Wandering the aisle with Cas muttering about mint Oreos, getting ice cream and honey and pie, these apples and not those one, and Dean will take drastic measures for bacon but you’re going to throw that bacon at his fucking face because why the hell did he just vanish like that-

“You are in distress.”

You blink over at Cas in the frozen aisle, and this one is new. “What-“

“I am… more perceptive than most. You have been staring at the frozen peas for fifteen minutes and twenty-five seconds.” Cas shrugs, leaning over your shoulder with a frown. “These peas are not of quality standard. I believe that bag is actually sub-par. And you got Dean cherry pie when the list called for pumpkin-“

“That was on purpose.” You mutter. “Sam is trying to trick Dean into eating healthier. I think that’s fucking stupid.”

“Pumpkin pie is not healthy-“

“Healthier than other pies. And I know about my romantic and sexual feelings.” You shoot Cas a glare. “I tried to have a conversation with him. It didn’t benefit either of us-“

You’re cut off as your phone rings, and Cas just waits with an infuriatingly patient expression as you grab it out of your jacket and glare at the caller ID, because god fucking damnit-

“Is it Dean?” Cas’ voice is a picture of innocence, brows raised and voice casual, and you let out a long breath.

“Yeah.”

“You seem surprised that he’s calling-“

“He’s just-“ You frown at the screen. “He’s early.”

“Early?” Cas blinks at you. “It is past noon-“

“No, I mean- He never calls me here.“ You glance back to Cas with a grimacing expression. “I’m sorry I yelled at you-“

He just cuts you off with a shrug. “I didn’t take it personally. If it helps, I believe you should take that call.”

You give a half nod, shuffling away as you pick up the phone, taking the call you usually get in the bunker in the grocery store.

Dean’s drunk. He’s slurring his words and asking you to pick him up, and if Sam did talk to him, it obviously didn’t go well, because he shouldn’t be making this phone call for another seven hours.

You go to the bar yourself. Having the I don’t believe you should fear rejection conversation with Cas isn’t something you think you can stomach right now, and you do want to see Dean, because you’re stupid and in love and you miss him, even though he’s the asshole who ran out on you.

But he’s so happy to see you. There’s the same wide, boyish grin as always, and he shouts your name for the whole bar to hear, and it’s like the morning never even fucking happened when he pulls you between his legs at the bar, holding your face between his hand as he grins.

“There you-“ He burps. “Didn’t think you’d come, cause I- You’re- Shit, you’re so fuckin’ pretty-“

You let out a long breath, dropping your brow to his because fuck it. If it resets it won’t matter. If it doesn’t, you’re already too far gone. “I know. Let’s get you home, Dean-“

“Hold up- I-“ He leans back, scanning over your face with a clouded gaze. “Need a second- Just- Got you. Need you. This mornin’, you just- son of a bitch, is the room spinning for you too?“

“No, I’m not drunk, buddy-“

He frowns. It’s almost a pout. “Not your buddy. You said-“  He burps again, but his gaze is starting to clear. “You said you loved me.”

You swallow, and his hands are keeping your gaze trapped on his. “I- Yeah.”

“Did you mean it?”

“Of course I-“

“That’s good.” He mutters, and it’s mostly to himself. “‘M sorry I ran, baby, I just- I, uh- Sammy called me an idiot and he was right.”

“Dean.” You whisper, trying to pry his hands off your face, because if he keeps doing this you’re going to start crying again. “Please-“

“Love that.” His voice drops slightly, and suddenly his expression darkens slightly. You still can’t look away. “Love it when you- You always say my name like it’s- Like ya’ love me, but I was always thinkin’ I’d just been losing my mind-“

You swallow, your body almost melting to his. It’s coming. You can’t tell if you want it to. “Dean-“

“Like that, baby.” His grip on your tightens slightly, and you don’t fight it when he pulls you into a long, slow kiss.

He tastes like whiskey this time. And your knees grow weak again, and one of his hands glides down to your thigh to squeeze right over that glowing, raw and fresh wound.

“Love you,” he grunts against your lips, and you let out a weak noise of release.

At least you heard it. Even if it’s still not real, at least your heart is thawing from stone in your chest, and you’re still kissing Dean until the light clicks off, somewhere in the distance. 

And he’s still on your tongue in a sweet and salty aftertaste, when everything fades to black.

——————

You’ve been here before.

Ceiling. Sheetless mattress because Dean put you to bed last night—although it could be a million years ago—and a fuzzy blanket tangled around your legs. 

It didn’t fucking work. That was supposed to be the last one. You were supposed to tell Dean you love him, and then he’d say it back, and you would’ve been free.

But it can’t be that easy. That simple of a solution. And you should’ve known better the first time, but you’ve learned. You just did it wrong, somehow. Dean does still love you, you just fucked up how he was supposed to say it, and maybe this isn’t about doing to right thing as in just being honest. It’s about doing the right thing as in finding the right key.

The exact right way for Dean to say it, and then you say it back.

This time you won’t mess up. If you’re stuck here for all of time, until you find that stupid, perfect key out of this strange cage, you’re going to work out what getting this right means. 

Maybe you just have to play it out like Sam suggested. See it all the way through, then say it at the end, when you should’ve said it the first time.

“Son of a Bitch!”

You’ll just fucking play it out.

It’s like the first time again. When you had an invisible script to run through, only now you knew everyone’s lines just as well as your own.

Dean’s on the floor. “Morning, sunshine.”

“I think it’s more like noon?”

“Nah, eleven. Still morning.”

He’s going to ask you to get the cleaner, and you have to make him say please. He’ll squeeze your thigh where you’re sure his handprint must be branded on your skin by now, and you’ll watch him on the stool as he cleans and then shuffles around for the food that isn’t there. You already know he’s burnt his hand—he’s even trying to hide the long, thin mark from your view, the adorable fucking dumbass—but you have to wait until Sam arrives to help him.

It’s a simile, not a metaphor. Dean dropped the frying pan, and you get to grab his hand and fuss over him until he ices the burn. Sam went on a ten-mile run. Dean’s made of junk food, and you’re out of all the good stuff except for-

“We have Lucky Charms.” There’s your cue. “In the cabinet. And I’m not going on one of your runs, Sam. Stop trying to convince me.”

“That’s my girl.” Dean grins at you, shoots Sam a smug look, and you have pretend it’s the same electricity in your whisper from the first time, instead of stone over your heart, when you swallow, and say your next line.

“I’m gonna call Cas. We’ll go to the store after I get dressed.”

That’s the next scene to play through. Dean will take drastic measures for bacon, and you throw up in the bathroom then find Cas in the Oreo aisle. Same conversations, stand on your marks and make dry jokes, buy the honey and the ice cream and apples, and there’s your next line, you’re getting Dean cherry pie because you don’t want to trick him. 

Cas pushes you on your feelings.

You play along as if you really don’t want to talk about it, when maybe, for the first time, you do. You want to tell Cas in the checkout aisle as he tells you that a conversation would be beneficial to you both that you know. That you do love Dean, so much it makes your heart rattle in your chest, but you can’t say that yet because of the stupid rules of the time loop. 

“I am… more perceptive than most. I know you anticipate rejection, but I do not think the conversation would end as you fear-“

You can’t stray from the script. If you want to be free, you have to cut him off here and then just keep moving.

Go back to the bunker, and Dean tells you you’re an angel, but Cas is in the kitchen, and that joke is somehow worse than the first time you told it, but Dean laughs all the same.

Get into that stupid fight about the Suit from the City, and don’t stop Dean when he stands up and grumbles that he’s going out. When he calls you, send Cas, and then catch him when he appears in the bunker and falls into you without thought. 

“You’re- Look at her, Cas-“ He’s still so warm. At least here, your role is to hold him. Let him cup your face between his hands, and lean a little into his touch. “Son a bitch, she’s pretty- I need- gotta tell her-“

He slumps onto your shoulder, and you want to tell him that he’s pretty, too. That he’s the prettiest man you’ve ever seen, and you’re sorry for a million things but the biggest one might be not saying that sooner.

You’ll tell him later.

For now you have to guide him to bed. Complain when he holds you too tight—even though you never want him to let go—promise not to leave, and try and urge him to sleep.

“Can’t do it… Don’t- you need to be here, baby. Need you.”

“Dean. You need sleep.”

“Need you. Better than sleep. Love you more than sleep.”

“I love you, too.”

Dean blinks at you, eyes clearing and sobering in a second. “What?”

“I love you.” You whisper, your fingers digging into his flannel because you think you just heard the light flick off, but you want to stay here. Where Dean is looking at you with the priceless expression, you’re not ready yet-

“Oh.” He mutters, and it’s lingering a little longer this time. “That’s good.”

“Yeah.” You offer him a small smile, even though you know you’re already done. Gone. 

He won’t remember this in the morning, when you wake up alone, in a sheetless bed and he burns his hand once more. 

But you’re still here. As if the loop is offering more time, just to pretend—for five fucking seconds—that this could be real. 

Dean kisses you, and it’s the softest, slowest one yet. Deep and careful, only ending when he drops his lips to your neck, sucking and nipping at your skin until you let out a long, soft breath of his name.

“Love you,” he mutters against your throat, squeezing your thigh for a second time. 

That time, the sparks and light almost knock you out.

But Dean yawns, nuzzling into your skin, and his hand stills right after he pulls you fully into his chest.

“Too drunk, baby.” He mutters in your ear. “Wouldn’t give you what you deserve. Gonna fuck you in the morning, when I have my head on straight.”

“In the morning sounds good.” You sigh, tangling your fingers in his hair and holding on for dear fucking life as you feel it sweeping in. “I love you, Dean.”

He grumbles something you can’t hear—but you have several guesses to what it means—and everything fades to black.

——————

You’ve been- 

You roll over and scream into the pillow, because you need to. That wasn’t the key. You’re not free. There are no sheets on your bed and the blanket is tangled in your legs, and Dean is singing down the hallway and nothing ever fucking changes-

That’s not fully true. 

You’d changed one thing. 

It hits you, right as your voice becomes hoarse, that you changed one thing. Saved yourself just a little, fixed something just enough for you to not stomp into the kitchen, grab that stupid fucking frying pan that you just heard Dean drop, and learn if knocking yourself out would somehow fix this.

You’d gotten more time. Just a little more time, when Dean had still been kissing you, and his hand had started to wander further up your thigh.

And things have always lingered longer, in every loop, as long as he’d been touching you with a drive. Like he could’ve, maybe, continued if Cas wasn’t right there, or you weren’t in a bar, or he didn’t need to sleep only seconds after the confession. 

You haven’t tried that yet. Sam certainly hadn’t suggested it. And you may not be able to go through the whole dance and script again—two in a row might drive you out of your mind—but there were some loops where you got him to say it before you even had a chance to get him the cleaner. 

You don’t remember how you did that. It’s all started to blur together. 

You’ll have million tries to get it right. To get it where the solution—or at least, the temporary anesthetic—is an option. Sam always gets back at the same time. Cas never shows up until it’s time to go shopping. 

Your bedroom is right down the hallway, and you have nothing to fucking lose.

Might as well goddamn try.

And when you wander into the kitchen, you give Dean a soft, full-lipped smile when he grins up at you. 

“Morning, sunshine-“

“Hi.” You tap him on the head as you walk to the cabinet. “You want some ice for your burn?”

Dean frowns as you pass him the cleaner, glancing down to his palm before hiding it behind his back. “I, uh- It’s alright, sweetheart, I’m fine-“

“No, you burned your hand. Ice it, dummy, or I’ll pin you down and make you.”

He turns a little red, his gaze dropping back to the mess on the floor. “Promises, sweetheart. Gonna get yourself in trouble.”

You only hum, shrugging as you move to the fridge. “You want Lucky Charms?”

Dean grunts, and when you look over your shoulder, his gaze flicks back to the floor with a clear of his throat.

He finishes cleaning, and you set out the bowl and toss the icepack back and forth between your hands as you wait from him to finish up.

“Hand.” You order, the moment he pushes to his feet. “Now.”

Dean lets you take it, lets you hold the ice to his burn as he eats his cereal, and you know you’ve played it right when he finishes all his marshmallows, sets down his spoon, and twists to hold your gaze.

Squeezing your thigh, right on the wound. 

Sparks and sunlight, and he’s looking at you like you’re priceless.

Here it goes.

“You’re an angel, sweetheart, you know that?”

You give him another, soft smile. “No, I’m not.”

He frowns at that. “No, I mean it, you’re freakin’ awesome, and I-“

“You love me.”

Dean blinks at you, the blood starting to drain from his face, but you’re ready. You grab his hand on your thigh and hold it there, squeezing the hand with the ice pack three time.

“I- I love you, too.” You make your voice firm, and you won’t let this slip away. You want to feel him, just to pretend he’s a little more real. “And you- Please don’t run. I love you, too.”

He’s just staring at you. He’s still stronger than you are, he could toss you off and leave if he wanted, and you’d have to wait for at least the grocery store with Cas to get the call and hear the words that will fix this, but fuck, you don’t want you, you just want Dean, right fucking now-

He crashes his lips down to yours, and all of this is new. You’re kissing in the kitchen, in the daylight, and it’s desperate. Dean’s lips are rough and bruising and starved on yours, his tongue jamming down your throat and his teeth nipping on your lower lip as you moan into his mouth.

There are no signs that he’s going to pull back. Signs that he’s going to stop. And when he grabs your hips and hauls you onto the kitchen counter—his lips never fully leaving yours—his hold on your body becomes softer for only a second. He starts to kiss a sloppy line down your neck as steady yourself on his shoulders, and you know what’s coming right before it happens.

“I’m not fucking running.” He grunts, one hand starting to trail under your shirt. “I do love you, and I don’t know if Sammy told your or-“

“You- I worked it out myself.” You gasp as his hand palms at your breast, two calloused fingers find your nipple and start to roll it with impossible, expert precision. “Shit, Dean-“

“I know, babygirl. Gonna make you feel so fucking good.”

That’s new. Babygirl and the pinch of your nipple that makes you squeak before he pulls away, his lips moving over your collarbone before he pulls you back into a long, deep kiss that makes the room spin.

The light went out. You heard it, just over Dean’s growl in your ear and the sound of your own heartbeat. 

But everything else is still rolling. 

So you cling to Dean’s shoulders and arch into his touch, whining when he rips off your shorts and starts to tease those goddamn fingers right over your panties.

“Jesus,” he mutters your name, gaze dropping to where he’s touching you. “You’ve fucking ruined them.”

You nod, past worthless things like shame as you grind into his hand, desperate for a little more friction. “C’mon, Dean, please-“

“Love that.” He mutters, moving his thumb to press right on your clit over the fabric, smirking at the loud whine that escapes your throat. “Love how you say my name, fucking, you don’t have a clue what you do to me-“

“Got some clue,” you whisper, moving your knee to press right into his crotch, not bothering to fight your smile when he drops his head to your shoulder with a groan.

“Fuck-“ He leans back up, eye dark and focus on yours, and you might be drooling.

That’s a little more than the priceless look. 

That might destroy you, if you let it, and fuck, you’re more than happy to.

“Is that how we’re doing this?” Dean raises his brows, staring to move his thumb in slow, strong circles around you clit, but never touching. “That’s how you’re gonna play, sweetheart?”

You nod, and there it is again. 

The grin on his face that could power the whole bunker as he scans over your open, hopeful expression, playing with the band of your underwear as he speaks.

“You like these?”

“Not really-“

The words are barely out of your mouth before Dean’s ripping them off, and you spread your legs without thinking, expecting him to shove those fingers deep into your cunt, to fuck you with them until you’re cumming all over his hand-

“Lay down, baby.” He mutters, pressing his lips onto your brow as he eases onto your back, holding you steady by your thigh. “I’ve got you.”

You blink up at the ceiling as he starts to kiss down your neck once more, then over your collarbone, stopping only to suck on you nipple and squeeze at your tits before moving lower, and lower, and-

“Dean-“

You cut yourself off with a high, desperate moan as Dean settles himself between your legs, squeezes your thighs three times, and starts to devour your pussy with that same starved fervor he’d kissed you with before.

But this is better.

This is so fucking good.

Dean knows what he’s doing. You’ve always guessed he’d know what to do, but this is- This is more. You hadn’t thought someone could eat you out like this. While their whole face, stubbled scraping at your thighs in soft, but slightly rough and perfect pain. His nose pressed right into your clit as his tongue plunges in and out of your cunt, and one hand kneading and pulling at your thigh as the other arm pins your down to keep you trapped right against his face.

Right when you start to hang over the edge, he stops. You gasp and moan and plead, but Dean just kissing and sucks small marks on your thighs until you’re whining and squirming under him, looking up at you with hooded, amused eyes.

“I was-“ You take a long breath, narrowing your eyes at his smug, stupid face. “Fuck, Dean, I was gonna cum-“

“I know.” He shrugs, and he’s lucky he’s so handsome. “Just wanted to tell you that you taste like heaven, sweetheart. Look pretty, too-“

“Dean.” You hiss, trying to grind your hips up, fighting against his arm on your stomach. You can feel it coming. If he stops, it all fucking goes away, and you don’t want this to go away. “I- I love you but-“

“You want something?” He raises his brows, glancing down with a small smirk. “You’re a little messy down there, babygirl, looks like you could use some help-“

“I’m going to fucking kill- Dean-“

He chuckled against your pussy, and the sound rolls through your whole body, almost launching your right back to where you’d been before he stopped.

And he hadn’t offered any warning. He’d just dived right back down and sealed his lips around your clit, sucking and flicking his tongue until you’re in a frenzy, your whole body alight with pleasure and every nerve in your body scream the same noise of good. So fucking good-

“I-“ You cut yourself off with a moan, your every word breathless. “Dean, I- I’m gonna-“

He doesn’t let up. You cum with a scream of his name and a high, light feeling washing over your whole body, and your thighs squeeze around his head, but Dean just groans in your cunt and keeps fucking going.

“Dean- I-“ Your eyes roll back in your head as he drags you to the edge once more, and you’re going to suffocate him. “Dean- Shit- I can’t-“

That’s all it takes for him to pulls away, dragging your knees back apart to release himself, grinning down at your flushed and wrecked body as he rises back over you. 

His face is shining with your arousal, and you’re still aching with need in your core, but you-

You can’t fuck him. Not in here. Not when, the longer he just rubs firm circles on your thigh as watches you come down from your high, the faster this all starts to slip away. You just can’t, it feels wrong-

But you can also feel his erection, pressing into your thigh.

And you don’t want this to go. Not yet.

Dean’s eyes widen as you push up on your palms with an unsteady breath, right before sliding off the counter, falling to your knees before him. 

“You, uh-“ He mutters your name, his fingers already tangling in your hair as you start to stroke hi up and down, steadying yourself with a hand on his knee. “You don’t need to- Fuck-“

You squeeze him at the base of his cock, licking a long stripe on the underside. “Don’t need to what?”

“Christ, you-“ He groans, bracing himself on the counter when you flick your tongue over his weeping, angry red tip. “You’re gonna kill me, sweetheart, wanted to fuck you-“

“But I want to do this.” You hum, squeezing his knee at you smile up at him. “I mean, if you don’t want me to-“

“Didn’t say that.” Dean grunts. “Just- Son of a bitch- Don’t want you to feel like you need to-“

You shake your head. “Want to.”

“You’re-“

“I’m sure.” You stop your movements against him, offering your most pleading, needy expression as you drop your jaw, raise your brows, and wait.

You see it, the moment he understands. He looks like he’s feral, eyes flashing and grip tightening in your hair, cursing under his breath as he guides his cock between your lips.

He offers you plenty of time to stop him, before he’s bumping the back of your throat. 

You don’t.

And when he starts slow, you hollow your cheeks and suck, until he gets it. Until the tether he’s keeping on himself snaps, because you want it to. You need him to fuck your face until you’re gagging on him, until there are tears in your eyes caused by the pleasure of the feeling of Dean, stuffed down your throat and guiding you around his cock. You moan around him until he’s hissing your name, and grind on the air because god, he’s throbbing on your tongue and taste like salt and something heavy that’s just Dean, and when you look up at him under your eyelashes he’s wrecked. Panting and watching you swallow around him, movements becoming erratic as you keep sucking, and-

“Where-“ Dean’s words are pushed through his teeth, his movements slowed slightly as he watches you, swirling your tongue around his cock, still in your mouth. “Shit- Baby- Need to know where-“

You point to your tits, pushing them up for him to see, and that’s all it takes.

Dean’s pace becomes brutal as he drives himself right back to the edge between your lips, and he shouts your name when he tugs you off his dick with a pop, and his release paints over your body. 

You tug his hand away as he pumps himself through his orgasm, replacing it with your own and angling it until a little is staining on your cheeks.

“You’re-“ Dean takes a heavy breath as he twitches in your hand, brushing your hair from your face with a slight shake of his hand. “Son of a bitch, babygirl, that’s-“

“Yeah.” You smile up at him, pressing your thighs together when his thumb swipes a little of the cum on your chin, smearing it over your cheek. “I love you.”

His eyes flash slightly, his voice barely as rasp as he responds. “Love you too.”

“Jesus fucking Christ-“ Sam groans from the doorway, whipping around so he’s facing away from the scene before. “In the kitchen, Dean? Really?”

Dean just laughs, helping you to your feet and moving to stand fully in front of you, even though Sam doesn’t seem like he’s turning around any time soon. “You’re the one who told me to talk to her, dude-“

“I didn’t mean fuck her where I eat-“

“Eat in the war room, then-“

“I don’t want to eat in the war room, you should be doing that-“ Sam gestures wildly to the air. “In the privacy of your fucking bedroom!”

It’s starting to fade again. You don’t bother to fight it, just pressing your face into Dean’s shoulder and wrapping your arms around his body as it all slips away. 

He and Sam are still arguing, and you mumble it, one last time, before it all resets once more.

“Love you, Dean.” He can’t hear you, over the way your words are muffled on his back and how he’s shouting at Sam. But he’s placed one hand over your forearm on his stomach, just to touch you, so you say it anyway. “So much.”

Everything fades to black.

——————

You’ve been here before. 

You’re going to be here forever.

End Note: There will be a happy ending I swear you gotta TRUST <3

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[goldenlevi]

Chapter 4 - Hands Drawn Out

Tags: Dean Winchester/Female Reader, Sam Winchester/Reader (platonic), tooth-rotting fluff, mutual pining, light angst, light smut, Dean's got the Mark of Cain, uh oh.

Summary/Warnings: Dean struggles to fight the betterlust, and you try and talk to him. Usual Warnings.

Author's Note: My prayers were not answered. 6 chapters.

Chapter Title from Love of Mine by Imagine Dragons (don't judge it's a great song)

Word Count: 6.4k

Read on A03!

Chapter 3 - Chapter 5

Dean broke his promise to Sam. He’d really tried not to—to use the laptop for TV, and TV only—but then he’d let his thoughts wander for half a second. Just one, long second, as he’d been replacing Baby’s tires for the third time that day. One moment where his motions were mechanical and mindless and dictated mostly by muscle memory—he’d never tried to, but Dean was pretty sure he could replace a tire in his sleep—and there was a lull in the Dr. Sexy episode, and the betterlust start to crawl into his hands and mouth, demanding more. More more more, this isn’t enough and he needed more.

The betterlust had asked for more, and Dean’s perverted, lovesick, traitorous brain had provided. Drowning Dean in thoughts of Her. Pretty and kind and caring, hands that would glide down his chest and over his scars without disgust, lips that would be pliable and soft under his, eyes that would be filled with the bright joy she seemed to only ever offer Dean, moans and whimpers in that musical voice, saying his name and staying with him through pain and maybe not running when he told Her he-

Dean eyes snapped open as he dragged himself out of the daydream, bile filling his throat. He didn’t know if it was from his own disgust, or from how the betterlust was suddenly howling and setting his skin on fire, but he knew he couldn’t keep this up. He can’t permit himself to think about Her, not for a second, not if he wanted to get this under control.

It’s why he bit his tongue and ignored the strain in his pants. He’s a grown ass man, he can control a boner. He can force all his thoughts to be tools and oil and maintenance, and not think about how adorably clueless She could be when he tries to explain this stuff to her. How Her eyes would grow wide, and she’d make a little pouting frown, but listen all the same. Asks questions Dean knows she never understands the answers to, but still asks because she’s awesome and likes Dean’s car and maybe if he asked Her to go for a drive with him she’d say yes, and Dean could put his hand on her thigh, pull over in a quiet spot, and kiss Her. Kiss her until she was squirming and she’d climb on top of him and bounce on his cock-

Fuck.

Not the car. He could focus on food. Food is great, and the betterlust usually seemed to cool it when Dean ate. He had a burger and beer and pie—all of which usually soothed the betterlust in his throat and spread warmth over his stomach—so Dean could just eat. He could take long bites and savor it—because the betterlust wanted to inhale the food and Dean’s stronger than that—and only think about how this is damn good pie. Cherry pie. Smells like Her, not that Dean’s smelled her, but sometimes she just walks past him and it’s not his fault he’s breathing. It’s a little his fault that he always imagines tangling a hand in Her hair, and tugging it back to expose her neck, and kissing and devouring Her skin and lips and pussy, burying himself somewhere she won’t smell like cherries, but might taste better than pie when she cums on his tongue and he-

Fuck.

TV. All Dean had left is TV. Not Dr. Sexy, that’s inviting thoughts he can’t be having right now, but a movie. The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly, because Dean has that memorized so it would be easy to get through. He could watch it and think about how he’d make a great cowboy, no matter what Sam says. She’d said he’d be a good cowboy. She’d said he had the smile, and Dean hadn’t known what the hell that meant, but she’d said it with an open expression and tone like what she meant should be obvious, so Dean had accepted it. He had a cowboy smile, and She thought he’d make a good cowboy, so Dean could maybe use that cowboy smile on Her to tell her Hey, Sweetheart, if you ever need a hero I’d be happy to be yours. I got a lasso and a gun and I’ll defend you then tie you up and ride you-

That was awful. Dean wasn’t a hero—he’d tried to defend Her from himself and failed a million times in a million ways—and She’d never fall for something that cheesy. And she didn’t even want Dean like that. Want Dean to touch Her or have her in such a vulnerable position, tied up carefully under him with a lust-blown expression, whining his name and trusting him to take care of her and grinding onto his cock as he fucked Her-

That was it. He was rock hard, and losing his damn mind, and he had to take care of it once or he might actually fucking die. The betterlust was crowding his brain, and breathing suddenly felt impossible, and the answer was so easy. Just jerk off, once, and everything would be better.

So now he needs to break the promise to Sam, because Dean can’t keep thinking of Her or his whole body would say fuck it against his will and he’d run into the bunker and find Her. It was late, She’d be getting out of the shower, and Dean could wait outside Her room until she returned, and fall to his knees, and beg like a fucking animal for Her pity. For Her to put him down like some sort of dog, to offer him a cure that he had not right to ask for, to let Dean rip the towel off Her sexy body and let him nip and suck at Her breasts, and shove his fingers deep into Her wet pussy, then stuff her mouth with his cock and let her fix this-

This isn’t Her problem to fix. It’s entirely Dean’s. He’s done this to himself, after all, and—after months of putting Her and Sam through hell, months of blood and violence and anger—he deserves this cruel punishment. He won’t think of Her, either. He’ll have to chase relief an image on the screen, and not allow himself to think of Her.

He lasts a minute. The chick in the video is hot, but she doesn’t have a scar on the back of her neck, and Dean notices immediately. He’s imagined touching that scar, Her scar, so many times, wrapping his hand around it and running his thumb over the line, offering Her pure bliss with his mouth latched to Her’s and his tongue down her throat, and turning that scar into something She loved. Make it more than a reminder of a case gone wrong, make it about how She’d saved Dean’s life, and now he belonged to Her. He’d fuck up into Her until her eyes rolled back in Her head, and she’d be so warm and tight and wet around him, and her fingers would trail over his abdomen before he hit a deep spot inside her and it became all nails sunken into his skin. He’d use his hold on Her neck to keep her eyes on his as she came, and she’d smile at him when they were done-

Something snapped in Dean’s gut, his hips bucking up, and his release spreading over his hand. He’d failed again. His brain had wandered as he’d fucked his hand to the thought of Her, and he’d squeezed his own cock like a vice as he’d pretend it was Her pussy, and he was a fucking asshole.

He needs more pie. And beer. Maybe whiskey, actually. Whiskey will help him forget.

Dean waits until it’s almost midnight, when She’ll be asleep and they’ll both be safe. He sneaks out of the garage, into the kitchen, and flips on the lights without an issue. Now all that’s left to do is get the pie and whiskey. The whiskey’s already out on the counter, which is weird but not that weird—they’re all hunters, after all—and Sam must have just gotten more pie because everything smells like cherries. Cherries and shea butter. Everything smells like Her. Why does everything smell like Her-

“Dean?”

He whips around, freezing as She blinks at him in the doorway, her hair wet from her shower and her body still lined with white cream that hadn’t already in sunken into her skin. She’s so pretty, and looks so worried, and Dean wants to paint Her skin white like that, mark Her and kiss that small, pouting frown off Her face, give her a reason to take a second shower

“Are you okay? You,” Her voice is a whisper, and she takes a small step forward that makes blood pound in his ears. “You don’t look good-“

He doesn’t feel good. He can feel sweat on his brow, the grind of his teeth, the strain of his hands, in fists at his side. But She can’t worry about him, so he just has to lie, get Her to smile, and sprint back to the garage before he does something really stupid.

“‘m fine, Sweetheart.”

She looks him over, Her voice slightly unsteady with doubt. “But you’re really red-“

“So?” Dean’s voice is harsher than he wants it to be, but maybe then she’ll leave and he won’t have to suffer through walking away. “People get red.”

“I know, but I’m, I just, it’s okay if you’re not good-“

He won’t survive this if She doesn’t stop being so nice to him, looking so openly and softly concerned. “Well, I am.” He grunts, forcing a small, jerked shrug. “Just been a long day. Overexerted a little bit.”

“Overexerted-“

“Changing Baby’s tires.” Dean mutters, and something flashes in Her eyes. Something that makes her gaze dart down to his hands, makes Her swallow, and vanishes as she shakes her head.

“She isn’t due for a tire change.” She says, looking back to Dean with a tense expression. “You did that two weeks ago.”

Son of a Bitch, the betterlust loves that. That She knows when he’d last done a tire change, that she’s watching him with such attention, that she’s taken another step towards him and Dean could reach out and touch her if he tried-

He can’t try. He can’t even stay here. He needs to go, just go, just run and tell Sam to tell Her that he’d just really needed to piss or something. Like they were damn teenagers who’d broken up before prom-

“You can tell me.” She says, and Dean’s rooted in place once more from simply the sound of Her voice. “If something’s going on. If you need help.”

She could help. But Dean cannot, under any circumstances, let her.

“Like I said.” He mutters, forcing down the ache of the betterlust in his body for Her, ignoring the almost feral drive to close the space between them and kiss Her everywhere. “Long day. ‘m fine.”

“Dean, I-“

“Said I’m fine-“

“Dean, please-“

Dean snaps Her name, his voice rising to almost a shout. “I’m fucking fine, so drop it.”

His heart turns to lead at Her face. She didn’t flinch or wince, she’s not angry, or afraid, or nervous. She’s just sad. She looks so sad and dejected, like Dean had just told Her she was horrible and rotten, like a cloud had passed over Her body and absorbed all the light from her body.

She isn’t horrible or rotten, She’s amazing. Dean’s horrible and rotten, he’s the cloud, he’s the reason she’s staring at the corner of the counter and there barely seems to be life on her features.

The betterlust feels like poison. It’s white-hot and toxic in his blood, churning in his stomach and stabbing at his eyes. He can’t stand this. He can’t stand this pain and sickness, he can’t stand the silence as she just stands there, he can’t stand how she won’t even look at him but she also won’t leave. Why won’t She just leave, leave Dean to rot and wither away as the betterlust goes foul and kills him right here, in the kitchen, the moment she walks away-

“I,” Dean runs a hand over his face, closing his eyes until he can at least speak words that he’d chosen. “I’m fine, Sweetheart, just-“

“Been a long day.” She mumbles, still staring at the counter. “Okay.”

She doesn’t believe him. And she still looks so fucking sad, and the betterlust is starting to spread something feverish and heavy over Dean’s muscles and organs, and goddamnit he can’t do this. He can’t move or breathe or think until She’s not sad anymore, the whole point of agreeing to this was so She wouldn’t be sad, because Dean could never stand to see Her sad and worried and now that’s all she was, because of him. She was sad because of Dean, and he was going to die if she didn’t look at him-

“I,” She swallows, taking a small step back that makes the betterlust choke in Dean’s lungs. “I’m just gonna go to bed, then. I’ll see you…” She trails off, and now she looks devastated.

“Night,” he mutters, because he’s going to die, and She shouldn’t have to see that. “Sleep well.”

She makes a small sound of acknowledgment, turns to go, and Dean’s skin is going to fly off his body. She can’t walk away, She can’t keep being sad, and he can’t be selfish but She can’t walk away-

Her name falls out of Dean’s mouth in a shout, and when She turns to look at him, she’s looking at him. Really looking at him, with parted lips and nervous eyes, and all of Dean’s willpower becomes about staying tense and rigid and a healthy distance away from Her body.

Which means he can’t control his words.

“Sit with me.”

She stares at him for a second, something passing over Her face Dean can’t understand. “What?”

“In the garage.” He grunts. “I’m going back, just got hungry. You can sit with me.”

“It’s late-“ “You tired?”

She looks over him, Her voice still way too small. “No.”

Dean shrugs, and manages to very causally grab his beer like, if She says no, he’s not going to collapse. “Then come on, Sweetheart.” He winks, and doesn’t groan when Her eyes do that adorable widening thing. “I got Sam’s laptop, we can watch whatever you want long as I get veto power.”

It’s the longest moment of Dean’s life, when She doesn’t answer immediately. When she just keeps staring at him, slightly gaping, hugging her own body and not moving but not looking away and what if he’d fucked up too bad for Her to say yes, what if they’re not even friends anymore, what if Dean had just lost one of the only good things in his life because he didn’t have any self-control and she’d finally realized how he was poison and angry and evil-

"Okay.” She nods, smiles at Dean, and the betterlust morphs in only a second.

Where his lungs had been filled will lead there suddenly clear, the air fresher down his throat and every breath long and easy. Where his blood had felt like ice and sewage, it was warm and smooth through this body. His head feels light, and the world is blurred like he’s drunk, and everything smells like cherries and tastes like sweet pie crust. His heart is fluttering, but it feels damn good, and it’s almost as if it had expanded. Like Dean’s very life was bigger, no longer caving in and no long hollow.

It’s not going to be enough. Her arm brushes his as they walk down the hall, Dean’s every nerve lights up, and minutes later the feeling still hasn’t faded. Now there’s something buzzing under his skin, and it’s not going to stop being wired and electric until She touches him again.

But Dean’s not strong enough to leave Her now.

So he might just be fucked.

——————

You’ve been here all day. Your knees resting on Baby’s wheel as you lean slightly out the open door, keeping Dean company as he worked. He’d put you there—almost guiding you into the seat before flinching back like you’d burned him—handed you his toolbox, and explained what each individual tool did. You’d watched and listened with your best attention—it seemed to make him stand a little taller every time he’d ask a leading question and you’d gotten the answer right—but the boyish smile on his face and ease all over his body was distracting and you hadn’t really processed a word he’d said. But you make do. You’d placed the box in the passenger’s seat, and when Dean asked for something you’d hazard a guess that was usually correct, still getting a chuckle and grin from Dean when you messed up.

And that was the whole reason you were here. To make Dean happy. To be as close to him as he’d allow you to without crossing any sort of invisible line, to talk to him and laugh with him and pretend you couldn’t feel an axe over your head or weight on your shoulders that always told you he’s comfortable here, with you, because you’re his friend and nothing more.

Dean is at ease here because he doesn’t have to flash a special, well-chosen smile that tells you wouldn’t we be fun. He doesn’t have to scan you up and down with a teasing gaze that says you look good, but you’d look better under me, because he’s seen you all over and isn’t interested in your body when he’s seen the blood and guts and bone fall out of it, or stitched up the gashes to leave long scars. Dean doesn’t need to think about what he’s saying because you already know how he thinks, and chose a persona because you’ve seen all of them and you only really like him. He doesn’t need to pull a stunt for you to look at him, because he already has your undivided attention. He always does.

He’s comfortable and laughing because you’re like Sam. Not quite Sam—Dean doesn’t love you—but still someone he talks to easily. Someone he trusts to have his back, or hang over him as he slides under Baby, leaving him vulnerable, but not vulnerable to you. Someone who’s his partner, in every way but the one you dream of.

A way he doesn’t dream of. A way that he wouldn’t dream of, not with you, because he’s seen all of you and you’ve seen all of him and he’d never thought of more. He knows you too well, and it’s cursed you for him to never have any of that sexy, intriguing mystery that makes him smirk and use his deepest drawl and most heated promises. You’re just a cool chick who can annoy him and try to make him watch Pirates of the Caribbean, and he can wave you off and trade sparring easy jokes. Not more, because Dean likes you and your company, but doesn’t love you. And it’s the most painful ache to know that, and you keep staying anyway because almost all of him—save for that last piece, locked away and forbidden from only you—is better than none of him.

“I think you’d like it,” you say, trying not to stare at the slight bulge in Dean’s pants, perfectly in your line of sight. “I’ll bet on it.”

Dean slides out from under Baby, stretching out his hand for you to pass another tool. “There’s no way I’m taking that bet. Spanner.”

You nod, frowning at the box as you try to remember what a spanner is. “You don’t even know what we’re betting-“

“Doesn’t matter, the bet’s a trick.” When you glance back, Dean’s winking at you, and his drawl ignites something molten in your gut. “I’ve got your number, Sweetheart, and I’m not falling for it.”

“I don’t, um,” you gape at him, covered in grease and wearing a shirt that you can see his muscles through, stilling grinning at you like nothing’s ever been wrong in the world. “It’s not a trick-“

“I agree to it, I gotta watch the movie.” He makes a face of mock disgust. “And now I’ve lost no matter what.”

“But you’d like it! It’s got sword-fights, and um, boats. And tentacles! You love tentacles-“

Dean laughs, and it’s deep from his chest and joyful and consuming your every thought. “If tentacles is your leadin’ pitch, you really don’t got shit-“

“Please?” You pout, leaning a little out of the car to hold his gaze, and something flashes in Dean’s eyes that you hope means he’s considering it. “I really do think you’d have fun. It’s not a good movie, but it’s fun. We deserve fun.”

He’s scanning over your face like there’s something inside it he needs to grab. You can see his fingers curling under the car, and a slight tick of his jaw, and you don’t know why. You usually understand why Dean does things, but you don’t understand this, understand why he’s looking at you like a predator, but also like you’re hunting him.

“Spanners got the curve.”

You blink at him. “What-“

“Spanner wrench. Got a curve like,” Dean moves his hands into view, tracing a line through the air. “That.”

“I, yeah. Sorry.” You shake your head in a small, thought-clearing motion, and turn back to the toolbox. 

“’S okay.” His words are quiet, and you have to pause to hear him. “Last one. Then we’ll watch the stupid movie.”

It takes a second for the words to sink in, and once they do, you can’t stop smiling. You hadn’t crossed an invisible line, he wasn’t mad, and you weren’t about to get kicked out of the garage for him to actually focus. If he was still trying to avoid you—you never figured out why he was in the first place, but it didn’t really seem to matter anymore—he would’ve taken the opportunity and kicked you out. But he hadn’t. And now you get to stay with Dean a little longer, and he’s chosen to keep you there, and watch a movie.

You suggest the Dean Cave, as he pushes himself up to his feet and wipes his hands, and he agrees at first. Then you try to stand up and leave the garage, and his eyes widen.

“Where are you, uh,” Dean clears his throat, his words still falling out a little panicked. “Where are you going?”

“To get food? While you shower?”

“I don’t gotta shower. We can watch in here,” he jabs his thumb over his shoulder, to the still-open Impala doors. “Already got Sam’s computer and some beer.”

That look is back on his face as he looks between you and the Impala, and you can’t figure out if you should be worried by it. It’s mostly just worrying because you don’t know what it means, and you know almost all of Dean’s expressions. But you don’t really know anything about what’s going on. Dean’s covered in grease, but he doesn’t want to shower. He wants to sit in the car, on the fresh upholstery that he bitches about you and Sam drinking colored soda on. His whole body is strained, his legs planted wide like somethings going to try and move him, and he’s holding the wrench like it’s a weapon. It’s an expression you’ve seen on countless hunts, during countless fights that end in blood, but it doesn’t feel dangerous. No instinct—hunter or just natural self-preservation—is telling you run, and he doesn’t that glint in his eyes that accompanied the bloodlust.

There is something, but you don’t know what. It’s a little blown out and deep inside his pupils, almost hungry. But that doesn’t make sense, because you’d offered to get him food and he said no. Which is incredibly odd, adding to an infinite pile of what’s going on with Dean, really.

If you weren’t selfish, maybe you’d push him. Demand a really, straightforward answer to why he’d been avoiding you in the first place, why Sam was so adamant you stay away from him, why they’ve both been so suspicious when Dean really seems to be fine. He’s a little off, take long breathes at odd times and flexing his hands like they’re not fully under his control. He’s either not really meeting your eyes are staring at you like he thinks you’re going to vanish, won’t touch you for longer than a half-second, and he seems to be so easily content until he’s suddenly tense and wired. Until the room fills with heavy electricity as he does those long breaths, and he wins whatever war he’s waging with himself.

He’s not fighting down the bloodlust. You’ve watched Dean fight down the bloodlust for months, and it’s similar to this—something shining in his eyes that’s made of self-disgust, a solider-like defense stance, carrying himself as if he’s about to cave in—but it’s not the same. Dean didn’t really talk to anyone during the bloodlust, and when he did he’ used short words and a low voice, his tone furious and filled with loathing for even being able to speak. Whenever you and Sam would walk away, leaving him to wallow and brood, you’d glance back and see his body relax because he didn’t have to fight the Mark when there was nobody around. He never did anything boring or simple, because he was always staring at his hands like they might be suddenly stained in blood.

But he’s agreeing to watch the movie, and when you step back towards the car door, his whole body relaxes. You set the movie up—propping Sam’s laptop on the dashboard and settling into the passenger’s seat—and you can the rigid line of his shoulders and clench of his jaw as he grabs the beers, a tension that seems to evaporate as he slides behind the wheel.

And he won’t shut the fuck up. It starts with little comments and jokes about the movie—he keeps scooting closer to your side without ever actually touching you, and that alone makes it impossible to focus—but then it starts to stray.

“Think I’d be a good pirate?” He asks you, frowning at the laptop screen, and you tilt your head.

“I dunno, what qualities make someone a good pirate?”

He pauses, fidgeting with his empty bottle as he thinks. “Swashbuckling?”

You snort, and Dean’s lips twitch.

“Can you swashbuckler, Dean?”

“No,” he looks back to the movie with a shrug. “But I think I’d pick it up. Doesn’t seem that hard, just swinging around a big metal stick.”

Dean would pick it up. You don’t have any doubt that someone would hand Dean a sword, say swashbuckle, and he’d get it before the day was done. Because he’s amazing, and good at everything, and such an annoying asshole who can’t stop being a confusing combination of adorably endearing and impossibly hot. It’s a clear image in your head, Dean with a sword. There’s a boyish grin on his face, and he’s swinging it around like it’s a toy, and then someone challenges him to a duel. There’s a light of excitement in his eyes when he accepts it—he’d grin at you and say I just got challenged to a real duel, how fucking sweet is that—and then he focus and destroy his opponent in seconds. With careful, shockingly graceful moves, his muscles flexing and his eyes gleaming, and it would be so hot. He’d get all sweaty and focused and smug and God-

He says your name, and you gape at him slightly. “Huh?”

“Lost you for a second, Sweetheart,” he says, scanning over you with a frown, reaching out to touch you then coiling back like you’re covered in mud and grime. “Wanna tell me where you went?”

Dean is not allowed to know where you went. But you don’t want him to stop talking to you, or start sulking, or do anything that isn’t this—his attention all on you, his body close enough you can feel the heat of it, even if he’s not touching you, the movie suddenly nothing but background noise—so you hum, smile, and shuffle in your seat to fully face him.

“Do you think I’d make a good pirate?”

“Nah, your heart wouldn’t be in it.”

You pout at him. “Yes, it would-“

“You don’t like sleeping in the motels.” He says with pointed words, smirking at you. “Gets you on edge, having to share space. You’d hate bein’ in on a ship. No privacy.”

You flush, forcing your heart to slow down and your brain not to get stuck on how Dean’s noticed things about you, because you’re his best friend. Of course he knows things about you. Sam probably knows that too. “I wouldn’t need to share space if I was the captain.“

Dean huffs a laugh. “You could be captain, but that’s just cause you’re bossy.”

“Shut up, I am not bossy-“

“You’re real bossy, Sweetheart. It’s how you keep me and Sam in line. Now,” he wiggles his brows at you. “Imagine a whole ship of me’s and Sam’s.”

You wrinkle your nose. “I’d jump overboard.”

He laughs, full and loud and pushing a grin onto your face, and it goes on like this for hours. The movie turns off, the beers run out, and you’re still talking to Dean. It’s not deep conversation, but it doesn’t need to be. It’s meaningful because Dean is talking to you. He’s himself, and he’s talking to you, and that’s more important than anything. It’s all you’d really wanted, and you have it, so it’s perfect.

“Fuck, marry, kill.” You leaning your head back on the seat, your legs crossed under you. “Crowley, Lucifer, Dick.”

He snorts. “I’m not gonna answer that.”

“Why not-“

“Because I’m not a teenage girl-“

“I’ll tell you mine.” You turn your face, grinning at him. “Please?”

You don’t expect him to cave that fast, but he scowls, and mutters, “Does it have to be those three-“

“Yes.”

“Fucking why-“

“Because. Answer the question, Dean, unless you’re too much of a weak little bitch-“

“Shut up.” Dean rolls his eyes, giving you an amused glare as he answers. “Kill Dick, cause I know how and I’m not lookin’ to get eaten, fuck,” he makes a sour face, but his body doesn’t tense as he continues. “Lucifer. Marry Crowley.”

You grin, and nod in mock understanding. “I get it, because you’ve already married Crowley.“

He scoffs, but you can see the smile tug at his lips. “I told you and Sam to stop making those stupid jokes-“

“Did you? Or are you just touchy about your divorce?”

“Shut up,” Dean says your name, waving you off with a hand. “You still owe me your answer-“

“Marry Lucifer, because I think he could use the win, fuck Dick, kill Crowley.“

Dean’s face twists like he’s smelled something rotten. “Fuck Dick-“

“His name is Dick.” You hum, your smile growing teasing and wide. “I mean. C’mon.”

“Still, it’s Dick, he’s not even a person.”

You give him a flat look. “None of them are people, Dean, that’s the point.”

“You know what I mean, least Crowley’s been a human, why don’t you fuck Crowley-“

“Do you want me to fuck Crowley?”

“Of course not,” he mutters, running a hand over his face. “I just ain’t able to picture you and Dick together-“

“But you can picture me and Crowley?”

Dean glares at you, and there a slight tension in his eyes that sets off churning guilt in your stomach. You don’t know why he’s so adamant about this, but he seems to really, really care that you don’t fuck Dick. Maybe it’s because you could probably survive a Crowley encounter—you have before—but the leviathans famously don’t really play games or toy with their food. Literally.

“I’m not over the hellhound incident.” You move your hand to the back of your neck, your tone slightly apologetic. “So Dick’s the default fuck.”

“Ah. Fine.” Dean grunts, and everything in him seems to relax as his grin growing cocky. “But I think you’re just jealous of Crowley gettin to marry me-“

You flush, shoving his chest. “I am not-“

You cut yourself off, because Dean’s suddenly frozen. Rigid and wide-eyed, staring at you with darkened eyes.

“Dean,” you frown, and his nostrils flare. “Are you-“

“Hey, dude, I was looking at the spell again and-“ Sam pushes the door of the garage open, freezing as he takes in the sight of you and Dean in the car, Dean looking at you like a wild animal, and you looking at Sam narrowed eyes and a frown.

“Why were you looking at the spell?”

“No reason,” Sam says, his voice too passive as he glances between you and Dean. “Can I, uh, can I talk to Dean?”

You both look at Dean, who seems to pull himself out of the odd daze to glare at Sam and snap, “We’re talkin’ right now, Sammy, what’s up-“ “Alone!” Sam blurts, glancing at you again. “We should talk alone. It’s…” He trails off, giving you a half-hearted grimace. “Brother stuff.”

“Brother stuff,” your voice is dry as you repeat Sam’s lame excuse, and the tall dickhead just nods nervously.

“Yeah. Sorry.”

It wouldn’t be hard to fight Sam. Insist on staying here, on them looping you into whatever the hell is going on, and get him to cave. But it doesn’t feel worth it right now. Dean’s not mad at you, he doesn’t hate you, and you are a little hungry, so maybe you can let Sam do whatever brother stuff is an excuse for, then just outright ask Dean later. You think he’ll tell you now—you’re talking again, and he’s smiling again, and he’d been at ease for most of the afternoon so it’s not that he doesn’t trust you—you’ll just need to coax it out of him.

You sigh, still glaring at Sam, but start to roll out of your seat to leave them alone.

Your feet don’t even make it to the ground before Dean grabs your arms, tugging you backwards. You turn to frown at him, but he’s glaring at Sam with an almost violence.

“Whatever you gotta say, say it.” He snaps, using the rough, firm tone he uses during hunts or interrogations. A voice he almost never uses on Sam. “Or go.”

Sam pales, shooting you a desperate look, and all you can do is pull your lips into a line and look back to Dean. His grip on you is tight but not bruising, and he doesn’t seem to be interested in letting go any time soon.

“Dean,” Sam says, words slow and measured. “I can be quick, but you need to hear this-“

“I don’t need anything.” Dean doesn’t look at you, but his thumb starts to move in small circles, and you’re not sure he knows he’s doing it. “We’re good, Sam.”

Sam shakes his head. “You’re the one who told me-“

“I know what I fucking told you.” Dean snaps. “And I’m tellin’ you now, we’re good. Go.”

Sam opens and closes his mouth, giving a strange look where his brow his furrowed but his eyes are soft, and raises his hands in surrender. “Dean just,” he sighs. “I have the, um, thing. If you want it.”

You frown. “Want what-“

“Nothin’,” Dean release his hold on you, and glances down at his hand like it’s covered in something he can’t see. “I’m good, Sweetheart.” He looks back up at Sam. “I’ve got it, Sammy, don’t worry about me.”

Sam’s jaw twitches, but he nods, and leaves.

And Dean doesn’t move. His knee is suddenly pressed to yours, and he’s not looking at you but he won’t stop taking those long, heavy breathes.

“So.” He turns back to face you, the deep gleam in his eyes returned. “You killing Crowley?”

You nod slowly, scanning over Dean’s face as you force yourself to speak words that aren’t Dean, what the fuck is going on. But you’re caught in his attention and his body so close to yours, and how he’s still here. You’re still here.

The conversation continues, and stretches through the day with ease. But you don’t forget the look on Sam’s face, and you can’t escape the gleam in Dean’s eyes. You don’t really want to escape it, because it’s almost everything you’ve ever wanted from him. It’s not everything, but closer. It Dean not letting you go, and not looking anywhere but you, and smiling at you until you’re a little dizzy. You’re dizzy, and Dean’s just smiling at you.

But you’re still worried. You’re always worried about him, and this is so weird. Sam’s words are weird, Dean’s actions are weird, and you’re starting to think you’re going insane because the weird thing is that it’s not that weird. Dean’s been this close to you before, he’s talked to you this long, he’s made all these jokes and comments—or at least similar ones—and it hadn’t been weird. What’s off is how they feel charged. How he’s touching you the casual way he usually does, helping your through doors with a hand on your back or bumping your shoulder when you laugh, but his hand lingers longer than usual—it always does linger, now that you think about it, but not like this—and he always jerks back like you’ve burned him.

It’s weird that he’s just being Dean, fully Dean, but he doesn’t seem to want to be. He’s trying to swallow something, and he won’t say what, and you’re still worried.

And you’re selfish, so you’re not pushing. You’re basking in this, and feeling worry gnaw at your lungs and gut, and drowning it out with Dean.

You’ll fix it later. If you get Sam alone—which seems unlikely right now, given how you say that you’re hungry and Dean’s suddenly starving, trialing after you to the kitchen—you’ll threaten him until he tells you what the hell is going on, and what he had, and what Dean got, and why nobody’s willing to tell you.

But you’ll do it later.

Right now you’ll just stay with Dean.

End Note: I thought way too hard about the fuck, marry, kill answers. That was like, eight minutes of my life.

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@artemys-ackles @brtodd @panicking-outside-the-disco @megara0224

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[goldenlevi]

Chapter 1 - I Saw You In The Water

Mini-Series Masterlist

Tags: Dean Winchester/Female Reader, Sam Winchester/Reader (platonic), angst, very light fluff, mutual pining, Dean's got the Mark of Cain, uh oh.

Summary/Warnings: You and Sam try something new to help Dean with the Mark of Cain. Usual Warnings.

Author's Note: I'm trying to distract myself from life, so here. Have a miniseries!

Title from Cringe by Matt Maeson

Word Count: 3.7k

Read on A03!

“This looks kind of stupid,” you mutter to Sam, and he makes a small nod of agreement, neither of you looking away from the scene before you. Rowena reciting a bunch of words that don’t sound real, and Dean sitting in a kiddie pool, scowling with his eyes screwed tight.

“It’s not just stupid,” Dean snaps your name, and you flush. He wasn’t supposed to hear that. “It’s pointless, and I am not getting adult baptized. You know what? screw this-“

He starts to stand, but Rowena pushes on his chest and sends him back into the water on his ass.

“No moving, or you’ll make me have to start over. And none of us,” Rowena looks Dean over with a dramatic shudder. “Want that.”

“Does it, um, does it have to be an inflatable pool, Rowena? Can’t we just put him in the shower?“

Rowena scoffs, dismissing Sam with a wave of her hand. “That is not how magic works, Samuel. We’re already making a gamble by hoping the spell counts this as a communal bath filled by the clean of soul, and a motel shower would be far worse.”

“Clean of soul-“

“That wee little bellhop.” Rowena gives you a sweet smile, a glint in her eyes that makes your stomach turn slightly. “Only dirty thoughts in his head were about you and your lovely breasts.”

“What.” Dean’s head shoots up, his scowl somehow more violent. “What do you mean, her breasts-“

“I mean her tits, you dimwitted boy.” Rowena gives you a disbelieving eye roll. “Men.”

“Who the fuck was looking at her tits-“

“The bellhop, Dearie, keep up-”

“Can you just do the spell, Rowena?” You cross your arms over your chest, half folding into yourself in a play to get the conversation off of your boobs. “Now?”

Rowena rolls her eyes, but nods and goes back to all her incoherent mumbo jumbo as Dean begins to look violent.

You bump Sam’s shoulder, standing slightly on your toes to whisper, “What if this doesn’t work?”

“It will.” Sam shakes his head, and his hair hits you slightly in the face. “Rowena’s the best in the game, and we’re only stretching a few of the ingredients. It’ll be fine.”

Neither of you believe that, but you’re also running out of options. You’ve lost all your leads on the Book of the Damned, and Dean can’t keep killing people. It’s killing him, and Sam, and you, and also the people. And this is, in a roundabout way, a solution. And Rowena says it will work, and you’re not stupid enough to trust her, but you’re also desperate enough to make a deal with her. She’ll do a spell to make Dean’s bloodlust refocus—make it more about things that make him happy, and less about murder—and you and Sam will stop trying to kill her for three whole months.

If it works, it’s a win for everyone. Rowena doesn’t get shot, you and Sam get Dean back, and Dean can maybe, hopefully, be happy again.

Rowena draws back up from Dean and walks over to you and Sam, extending her hand. “Hair.”

“What-“

“Hair, lass. The spell needs your hair.”

“Sam’s hair?” You frown. “Or my hair?”

“Preferably, both.”

You and Sam exchange a look of what the fuck, and Sam keeps his voice low—inaudible to Dean—as he mutters, “Why our hair?" Why not the, uh, the bellhop guy-“

“The bellhop is of no significance to Dean’s life. You two are the people he loves most in the world, so unless you want him to remain under the Mark’s corruption,” Rowena flexes her hand, her voice becoming stern. “Hair.”

Sam pulls out his hair quickly, but you’re a little slower. You’re not someone Dean loves. You’re someone Dean cares about, but you’re not Sam. You don’t belong on the spell’s weird ingredient list, you barely belong in this room. Watching Dean in such a strongly vulnerable position, making decisions about his life for him. He’d resisted this, you’d said please, and he’d caved almost immediately, but you mostly think he just didn’t want to argue. You've all been arguing a lot lately—Sam and Dean arguing about most everything, you and Sam arguing about next moves, and you and Dean arguing about you sticking around, near him, through this—and it’s getting exhausting.

But Rowena gives you an impatient look, and you pass your hair into her hand. If it doesn’t work, you can just start over and only use Sam’s hair. He has a lot of it to spare, he’ll be fine.

When the spell finishes, Sam and Rowena go outside to talk and you sit on the bed, watching Dean in silence. He’d insisted on wearing his clothing in the pool—jeans, boots, flannel and all—he’s cross-legged in the water, and he still hasn’t opened his eyes.

He still looks good. There’s an expression made of deep lines and tense frustration on his too-handsome face, and you want to touch him. You want to touch Deanwherever he’ll let you. Run soothing hands over his frown, find out of his grown-out scruff is soft or prickly, kiss his full, pink lips until he smiles, and drift down his body. Over his chest, his stomach, lower and lower until you’re wrapping your mouth around him, and he knows that you care. You really, really care about Dean, and he’s not a burden, and if this doesn’t work, you’re going to stay right at his side until you find something that does, because you like to think you’d look up at him under your lashes and he’d see that you love him, and throw his head back and groan, and maybe his hands—big and rough and so carefully skilled—would touch you-

“Be honest with me, Sweetheart.”

His low, deep voice pulls you out of your fantasy, and you blink at him with a flush that you pray he won’t notice. “What?”

“Be honest,” he repeats, and his eyes open right onto yours. He doesn’t look to be in pain anymore, he mostly looks tired, so you nod.

“Yeah, okay. What-“

“This is dumb.”

You huff a soft, dry laugh. “It’s a little ridiculous. But it will work, Dean.”

“No spell that I know of calls for an inflatable kiddie pool.”

“Well, you’re not a witch.” You shrug. “And think of it this way, we bought that forever. We bring it back to the bunker, that’s fun.”

“Bought my ass.”Dean drawls your name, giving you a pointed look that makes you squeeze your legs together a little. “Don’t think I didn’t notice that you and Sam stole this thing.”

“It was like, $40.” You mumble, staring at the floral patterns of the motel carpet. “I am not paying that much for some plastic.”

“Even for a spell to save my damned soul?” Dean’s teasing, but there’s something in his voice you hate. Something that make you look up at him with a frown, unable to hide the slight desperation in your voice.

“You’re not damned, Dean.”

He just shrugs, refusing to meet your eyes, and before you can push it Sam returns, tossing Dean the keys and announcing that it’s time to figure out what the Mark wants.

So now, in an old, dusty bar, Dean’s smiling. He hasn’t really, really smiled in a few months, and it’s incredible to see.

It aches a little that he’s smiling away from you. Across the bar with his I can show you the world, sweetheart stance and expression. The one where he’s leaning the counter with one arm, and his eyes have a promise of fun while his every word is charming and drawling and teasing. You think he learned it from movies—he’s told you he likes the charisma of old western heroes, and there is something about his whole show that says cowboy—but there’s a pretty strong chance it’s just Dean. It’s how he is. Who he is. All he does is be handsome and stupid and annoying in a way that makes you want to punch him and then immediately kiss him after.

He’s hasn’t been Dean like that in a while, though. It’s been mostly frowns that turn in on his face, and a refusal to look in the mirror that he tries to hide, but you’ve still noticed. But right now, this is your Dean. The Dean who follows you into countless dreams with his pretty lips and eyes and strong hands and body, the Dean who’s managed to haunt you while you're awake and plant an ache in your heart when he’s in pain, and the Dean who you might know a little better than you know yourself. It’s why you ordered a cheeseburger when he went to sulk at the bar, and why you’re facing the door in the booth—Dean always faces the door—and why it hurts something deep and hopeless inside you that the grace of Dean’s smile is all focused on a pretty girl that isn’t you.

“Are you sure you’re okay with this?”

Your attention turns to Sam—who’s looking at you with a sympathy that is not welcome—and you give him a flat glare. “What am I supposedto say to that.”

“Um, the truth? I think?” Sam turns in his seat to look over at Dean, and you kick him. “Hey!” He yelps your name, whipping back around with an almost pout. “That hurt-“

“Don’t look at him.” You hiss, jerking your head to Dean. “He needs this.”

“Yeah, but-“

“No but, Sam. The spell is supposed to make him crave things he likes, he likes sex, let him have sex.”

“I don’t…” Sam sighs, shaking his head. “It’s weird. I read the spell-“

“Of course you read the spell-“

“Shut up, I always read the spells, it’s safer. And this one,” Sam looks you over with a frown and tight-lipped, grimacing expression. “This one’s odd.”

“Oh no,” your voice is sarcastic and cold, and it makes Sam flinch a little. “An odd thing. If only we knew some people who knew how to handle odd things.”

“This is why I wish you would just talk to him.” Sam mutters, giving the waitress a kind smile as she hands out the food. “You get mean when things like this happen. And I don’t think it would be as horrible as you’ve decided it would be.”

You pull the cheeseburger to your own side of the table in a blatant Dean-trap. “That is very easy for you to say, Sammy. Worst case for you, you become a child of divorce.”

He shrugs, poking at his salad with a fork. “I think that’s the worst case for Dean. You’d win custody.”

“Fair.” You look back to the cheeseburger, small smile threatening to pull at your lips. “I do have a higher rate of income.”

“No, you don’t,” Sam frowns. “You make exactly what he does. Nothing.”

“Wrong. I’m a better pool hustler than he is, so my return rate is higher.”

Sam laughs, shaking his head. “Don’t let him hear you say that, we’ll be stuck here until he beats you in a game.” He makes a mock face of disgust. “We’ll die here.”

You let yourself fully smile, even as you mutter, “kiss ass.”

Sam just shrugs, grinning himself as he takes a long drink. You really miss smiling. You really miss easy jokes, and you really miss making fun of each other without being consumed by too much grief or pain to do so.

You really miss Dean. He’s just across the room, but you still really miss him. And you want him—your Dean, the one that’s a little ridiculous and overly charming and the strongest, best man you’ve ever known—back. Over here, smiling at you, teasing you, or saying something shockingly genuine that makes your heart his even more than it already has been.

You look back to him in the bar—you can’t really help it, you think Dean and you always start to look for him in any crowd—and for a second you could’ve sworn he was looking at you. His smile has faded a little, and there are lines on his forehead, so if he was looking at you it wasn’t because you’re something good to him. He probably just saw his food, and then saw you, and now he’s antsy. His foot is tapping on the floor, and he’s fidgeting with the cuff of his flannel, so either Rowena’s terrible at her job, or the Mark is eating at him again.

You’ll fix it. Whatever Dean needs you to do for this, for him, you’ll do it silently and without asking for anything in return. No matter how many lectures Sam gives you about being selectively observant and kind of an idiot, you’ll just help Dean, and he won’t have to think twice about it. Helping Dean is what you do, it’s what you’ve done. Your whole life, in some way, has become how can I help Dean. How can I do something for this person who does everything for everyone else, and maybe he’ll turn his attention to me, and maybe he won’t, but no matter what I’ll have helped Dean.

It’s not like he doesn’t help you. Dean opens doors and saves your life and patches your wounds, and he never asks for anything back. But that’s why you want to help.

And this is helping Dean. It might be killing you a little, but it’s helping Dean, so you’ll still fix it, and then drown your sorrows with ice cream, strong drinks, and small moments of his joy when he’s better.

——————

Dean is really, really conflicted. It’s ripping him in half, because he knows he’s supposed to be polite to chicks—like the one in front of him, with the sweet smile and sweeter words he doesn’t deserve to hear—but her voice sounds like nails on chalkboard. She doesn’t feel right, she doesn’t feel good, and the bloodlust inside him doesn’t want her.

Bloodlust is the wrong word. It was the right word, but over the past few hours it didn’t feel like it anymore. Dean’s not great with words—he’s great with guns, and cars, and sometimes drawing, but not words—and even he gets that bloodlust really isn’t the correct word for wanting something in a way that’s clean. Pure and raw, but not innocent. It’s still a craving, it’s still insatiable, but it doesn’t feel tainted. It’s driving Dean to things he couldn’t really hate being dependent on. It had started softer and abstract, right after the spell, with drinks and food, so he’d driven to a bar. Then it had asked for care and love, and Dean didn’t have either of those things readily at his disposal, so he looked where he usually found something close to it. In a pretty girl, with a big rack and unburdened smile.

Then his attention had wandered for half a second, and now it couldn’t come back. The not-bloodlust—that wasn’t a good term for it either, he’d need to come up with a better, catchier one later—had tugged his gaze over to Her and Sam, and suddenly everything had been sharper and a lot more specific. Dean should go back to the booth. The booth had beer, and a cheeseburger, and Her and Sam. Mostly Her, but Sam was cool too. Dean was allowed to love two people.

And that’s where the conflict came in. Dean needed to be over there. His stomach was turning, and his skin was growing itchy and hot the longer he wasn’t there. But if he went over there, not only would he not only be leaving this very sweet girl, who seemed fine, but he might be in real danger of telling Her things he was not supposed to tell her. Things Sam kept telling Dean to tell Her, and things Dean kept having to remind Sam weren’t any of his business. He would not lose another good thing because he couldn’t keep himself in check. He would not poison something that didn’t deserve it, no matter how much the bloodlust kept telling him to. Kept telling him that She was caring and lovely, so Dean should drag her down to his level and kiss her in the grime and guts.

The not-bloodlust wanted Her too. The not-bloodlust really liked the idea of just being closer to Her, because she usually helped things. She helped everyone—Dean wasn’t special—but the not-bloodlust seemed to think that simply breathing air that had been inside her more recently would fix a lot of things that were boiling and cracking and hissing in Dean’s body.

That’s what won the conflict. He wouldn’t have to say things for this to be better, they just would be. So Dean gave the pretty girl an apologetic goodbye—she’d be fine, there were other men who were better than Dean and weren’t overtly craving their best friends in the bar—and almost ran back to Her and Sam.

She looks up at Dean as he scoots into the booth, her brows furrowed and mouth tugging down. “You’re back.”

“Well done, sweetheart, I am back.” Dean grins at Her, and that only makes her frown more.

“Did you, um,” She looks over to Sam, who shrugs. “Did you strike out?”

“Nah, just hungry.” It wasn’t a lie. Dean had been hungry. Dean had been starving, but he felt better now. He’d still eat the cheeseburger, but the hunger had dulled from a mind-numbing desperation and withdrawal to just a growl near his throat of cheeseburger. Cheeseburgers are good.

“Well, how are you feeling?” Sam’s voice is insistent, and Dean rolls his eyes, because he knows where this is going. “Do you want to kill someone? Rowena said the spell might take a few hours to work-“

“Workin’ now. I feel good.” Dean takes a large bite of his cheeseburger, and She and Sam exchange looks.

“Good?”

Dean nods, shooting Her a wink. “Real good,” he says Her name through his mouthful—crumbs falling out of his mouth—and she sighs. Her hand twitches on the table, and Dean wants to hold it. He can’t hold it. He’s not even supposed to be talking right now—that was the deal he’d made with himself—so holding hands if defiantly off the table. It would probably freak her out, too, and that’s the last thing Dean wants to do. He’s freaked Her out enough for a whole lot of lifetimes, so she should be smiling instead.

Dean’s usually really good at making Her smile. He’s proud of that, because She worries more than Sam and has more nightmares than Dean, but he can always make her smile.

She’s not smiling now. She’s tense, and she keeps looking between Dean and the girl at the bar.

“You’re good.” She repeats his words slowly, but it doesn’t sound like she believes them. “And you think the spell worked.”

“Did work.” Dean swallows, and immediately takes another bite. Cheeseburgers are good, the not-bloodlust had decided, so Dean should eat more cheeseburgers. “Don’t think it did, I know it did.”

“How do you know?” Sam asks, pulling the cheeseburger across the table, away from Dean.

“Hey!” Dean reaches for his plate, and Sam moves it away faster. “What the fuck, Sammy, do not touch my burger-”

“It’s distracting you, Dean, and this is serious. We really need to know if the spell worked-“

“It did work. I don’t want to gank anything, I just want my cheeseburger and-“ He has to cut himself off, because that is exactly why he wasn’t supposed to talk. “Look, man, it worked. Trust me, I feel good. No bloodlust, just, uh, not-bloodlust.”

Sam glances at the cheeseburger, then at Her, then at Dean. Dean gives him a very winning grin—all teeth and bright eyes, and give me back my burger, I’m not going to kill anyone—but Sam’s attention just moves back to Her. She mostly looks confused and tired—Dean still needs to make her smile—but she nods, making a loose gesture of surrender, and Sam, finally, slides the food back to Dean.

“If he’s really good,” Sam’s pretty clearly talking to Her, but Dean listens anyways. They’re a team, he’s allowed to hear this stuff. “We should get back to Kansas tonight. It’s not smart to linger in a town after a hunt finishes-“

“I know,” She glances back to Dean, and he offers her his widest, most reassuring smile. She doesn’t smile back, but her face relaxes a little, so Dean counts it as a victory. “Do you want to finish that, or-“

“Gimme three-“

“Chew, Dean.”

He does, holding up three fingers in a silent signal, and inhales the rest of his cheeseburger.

“Holy crap, dude.“ Sam blinks between Dean and the empty plate. “That was really fast, even for you.”

Dean shrugs, standing out of the booth. “Don’t blame me, blame the not-bloodlust. Cheeseburgers or murder, Sammy, gotta be one.”

Sam rolls his eyes, starting to the door, and Dean lingers until She’s on her feet and they can follow Sam together.

“Not-bloodlust is a bad name,” She mutters, staring at the floor as she walks. “What about, uh, what’s the opposite of blood?”

“Dunno.” Dean watches Her carefully, raking his brain for a good answer. “Water? Waterlust?”

That gets him a small, huffed laugh. “That doesn’t make sense, Dean.”

“Doesn’t have to. It’s my lust.”

“It is.” She meets Dean’s eyes, and her attention is soft, but it feels strange. Like she’s trying to find something on Dean’s face he doesn’t know how to get for her. “And if you really want, we can call it waterlust, but I like betterlust.”

“Betterlust?“

“Starts with B,” Her attention turns back to the floor, and Dean feels something sour twist around his heart and forearm. “Fun to say. Makes sense, too, you’re lusting after better stuff.”

Dean was lusting after better stuff. It was a good name—better than not-bloodlust—and he was willing to concede waterlust to Her. It was, overwhelmingly so, the least he could do.

“Betterlust it is, Sweetheart.” He tried his most charming, cocky, look at me, I’m a cowboy and I can be yours if you offer me just a few kind words because I’m a pathetic, worthless wet dog that barks and bites, but man am I good at sex, smile on Her, and this time, he got a real smile back.

End Note: Wow what's this something I write that's actually going to be short? We'll see!

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@artemys-ackles @brtodd @panicking-outside-the-disco @megara0224

[goldenlevi]

one of the best fics for zoro that i’ve seen so far. thank you for sharing 💚🗡️

The comfort of them

a/n: sort of a continuation of this thought, also just an excuse to write domestic/dad!zoro :)

tags: roronoa zoro x f!reader, post-canon, fluff, domestic, family dynamics, dad!zoro, family bliss, just cute stuff tbh Kōji means prosperous, peace and happiness. Kiyomi means beautiful

Gentle rustling of leaves against the wind silence the thoughts in his head, matching his slow concentrated breathing as he centers is mind, body and soul. Zoro had the rare morning off from teaching, no students causing a ruckus out in the courtyard as he attempts to refocus them to the lesson. Life had been so unnaturally slow since succeeding in his goal to become the greatest swordsman, deciding after years of adventure he was ready to settle down. And thank goodness you took him up on his offer, returning with him to Shimotsuki village so he could take over the dojo from his old master.

Over the years, the dojo earned itself a name, students from around the world clamoring to secure a spot to learn the art of the sword from the world's greatest swordsman. Despite his new title, Zoro was humble, never boasting or revealing who he was in the rarity someone didn't know. The fame wasn't what he wanted, never was, but knowing he fulfilled his lifelong goal in honor of his childhood friend made it easier to enjoy the life he was given.

The dojo wasn't the only thing that grew over the years, now instead of one Roronoa, there were few newly added additions. Shortly after taking over the dojo, Zoro asked for your hand in marriage, fulfilling another goal of his in making you his wife. He worried you would decline due to the new title bestowed upon him and the target that came with it, but you embraced it, taking on his last name and solidifying the missing piece to the other half of his heart permanently. Everything he could've ever wanted was right here, within his grasp and protection.

Peaking his one good eye open, Zoro took the stick of incense and extinguished the flame, concluding his routine meditation. The air wafting around him reminded him of his life out on sea, a familiar citrus and salty smell that kept those memories alive. He could admit that he did miss those times, the fun and the danger that came with Luffy being the captain, but he had something so much sweeter now.

Rising from the floor and grabbing his dark blue haori from the hook on the wall to drape over the plain black yukata, Zoro quietly shuffled out of the room and down the hall to check on everyone else living in the compound that connected to the dojo. Truthfully, Zoro wasn't fan of having such a large home for just him and you, but that mindset changed when a certain addition was added to the family.

Checking the room his boisterous son was supposed to be in, discovering it was empty like most mornings, Zoro let out a sigh and turned down the way he just came. Kōji was five now, born a year after he married you and took over the dojo and Jesus he was a force to reckon with at times. Koushirou constantly reminded Zoro that his son was just like him when he was that age, but Zoro didn't want to acknowledge that fact, at least not to his old teacher. Ever since Kōji turned five earlier this year, he's been begging Zoro to let him enroll in one of the classes he taught, having such an affinity for his father's swords and wanting to be just like him. You melted every time Kōji tried to find a new way to ask, but he was still a year too young to enroll and Zoro wasn't going to make an exception just for his son.

"Have you seen Kōji?" Catching one of the staff members for the dojo and asking if they've seen his son by any chance.

"Last I heard he was out by the cherry blossoms with a couple of practice swords." The man responded simply, giving a small bow to Zoro before slipping down another hall.

Zoro couldn't help but groan aloud, not that he despised the idea of his son wanting to take after him, but because he knew by the time he reached Kōji, he'd have a new bruise or scrape from trying to "practice".

Soft grunts and whistling of wood blades cutting through the air came into earshot, a strong willed figure with dark teal colored hair moving erratically like they were trying to copy someone else's movements. Zoro hung back for a moment to watch, unable to help the small smile seeing his son wield three swords exactly how he did.

Kōji lunged forward with a battlecry that was so muffled by the practice sword in his mouth, Zoro chuckled. Though the humor quickly disappeared as he watch his son trip on his feet and land face first in the grass with a whine and a small sob. Sighing rather loudly, Zoro made his way over to where Kōji now sat slumped with the three swords resting by his side and in front of him.

"Let me see."

Surprising the boy with his sudden appearance and hand on his shoulder, moving to hold under his chin to see the busted lip he earned from slipping face first with a sword in his mouth. Kōji frowned and almost scowled at Zoro trying to wipe some of the blood away, whining under his breath that he was fine and to let him get back to practice. Zoro laughed at his weak attempt of a declaration, scooping him off the ground and into his arms.

"Let me practice!"

"Not with a busted lip, your mother will kill me."

Kōji crossed his arms and pouted, glaring at Zoro while held in his arms, making his way back inside to doctor up the very noticeable split in his bottom lip. Zoro empathizes with his son and his insistence in wanting to learn and train, but he also wasn't going to bend the rules just for him. In the big picture, this served as one of the many lessons Zoro taught to his enrolled students: patience.

"Can't join the class and now you won't let me practice."

Zoro shook his head to hid the smile and chuckle at his son's irritated rambling, Koushirou may have been onto to something when comparing his younger self to Kōji.

"How about this?" Proposing to the boy as he sat him on the bench in the bathroom, watching his eyes light up with interest. "You can come with me to the afternoon classes today and watch the older students."

"Really? Okay!" Answering instantly and sitting up straighter with a smile that pulled at the wound in his bottom lip, causing a new trail of blood to run down his chin. Zoro smiled endearingly, wiped it away with his thumb and grabbed the damp warm rag to clean the split, holding the back of Kōji's neck to keep him still, knowing it would sting. He winced maybe once, trying to keep the little tears forming in the corner of his eyes from falling in front of Zoro. Something warmed his heart a little to see how much Kōji was trying to impress him when he didn't have to, his son didn't have to go to great lengths to impress him but still a little flattered that he did.

Leaving the bathroom together, Kōji took off down the hall to presumable go find you and tell you about getting the opportunity to join him for the afternoon classes, Zoro not far behind. Most days you hung out in the compound with the youngest Roronoa, his daughter who was just shy of turning six months old.

Finding you in the bedroom with the shojis open to let in the cool spring air, you smiled and opened your arms in an embrace to Kōji. The sleeves of your dark blue simple kimono that matched his haori, draped and engulfed around his son as you held him tightly to your chest to annoy him, pressing smothering kisses to the cheek that wasn't tightly pressed to your body. You had embraced the traditional clothing from Wano after coming here with him and after the discovery of Shimotsuki village's history. Even while in Wano, all those years ago, Zoro had an inkling that the name of this village and one of the clan's daimyo were connected and not just a crazy coincidence. And he was right, Koushirou revealing the history of this village and the connection it had to Wano, and even Zoro's connection to the Shimotsuki clan, and the direct line he had to Ryuma. Of course, both you and him had days where you wore regular clothing around, but most days comfort was found in the soft fabric of the kimonos and yukatas.

"Dad's going to let me come to the afternoon classes today!" Kōji excitedly exclaimed, sitting in your lap and looking so proud of himself. You were nodding absentmindedly to the statement, focused on the new injury your son had, brushing your thumb over the split in his bottom lip.

"Oh? Today?" Processing your son's words and looking up to Zoro who now cradled his daughter in his arms, pecking a couple of kisses to her forehead.

"Yea, just watching. Why?"

Deciding to join you on the floor, adjusting his hold on his daughter and faintly smiling as she further began to wake up from her nap.

"I forgot you had afternoon classes." Dividing your gaze between Kōji and your daughter Kiyomi in Zoro's arms.

"Yea, you can have a girls day or whatever with Kiyomi." Joking with a smile. Having his son with him during the class wouldn't be a big deal, the students attending today didn't need to be herded or watched like a hawk, all around thirteen-fourteen years old.

"Are you sure?"

"It's afternoon classes, baby, I can teach and watch my own son" Scooting close enough to kiss your cheek, letting out a little laugh to his own words and also to Kōji's soft sound of disgust at the display of affection between his parents.

There were still a few more hours left until the students would begin to arrive, giving Zoro some much needed uninterrupted time with his family. Kōji attempted to get Kiyomi to laugh by doing tricks that consisted of acrobatics, which had you gasping and clutching onto the sleeve of his haori. Having a son, that took after him, you were accepting the fact that he was going to get hurt and just not have as much care as you'd like, but you or Zoro were always there to comfort him when he scraped his knee or elbow, or hit his head a bit too hard.

Both of his children adored him, Kōji using him as inspiration for who he wants to be one day and Kiyomi always finding security and safety when in his arms, Zoro truly wouldn't trade any of this for the world.

After instructing his son to go change into the jumper worn by the students during class, Zoro hung out in the bedroom with Kiyomi while you changed to head out for the afternoon. She gurgled and cooed back at his whispers, smiling when Zoro would barely kiss her forehead and melting his heart. His daughter's hair was dark, but not black like either of you assumed when it started to thicken over time, Zoro swearing she had undertones of green like him and Kōji but you weren't as convinced, insisting it were closer to a brunette color more than anything. Only time would tell.

"Are you sure you're okay with having Kōji for class?"

Hearing your voice draw closer as you exited the room connected to the bedroom used to store yours and his clothing, looking up to see you dressed in loose fitting trousers and a blouse and smiling at how effortless you always looked.

"Yes baby, he'll be fine. Plus today's class isn't anything rigorous."

Standing up and balancing his daughter in one arm to wrap the other around you, bringing you in for a soft kiss. His calloused hand held the side of your face and brushed across your cheekbone, smiling at you in adoration.

"Okay." Whispering back and taking Kiyomi from him so he could grab his swords from the locked display in the bedroom. Rarely did Zoro ever find himself walking around the compound with them on his hip, proving over time to just get in the way, instead he chose to wear them to the classes he taught and when out and about. Taking all three of them and placing them on the futon, he went to fetch the holster for them and adjust the sash of yukata to hide the holster, not liking how bulky it looked.

Handling them each with care, Zoro secured his blades in order, securing wado ichimonji last. Taking Kiyomi back from you and leaving the bedroom together, neither of you bother to check if Kōji was in his room, knowing he would be patiently waiting for him out in the courtyard. And the assumption was correct, finding Kōji sitting at the top step with his hands in his lap and staring at the gate the students would come in.

"Say bye to your mom." Instructing the boy and smiling when he perked up to his feet to hug you around the legs, muttering a goodbye and accepting the kiss to the top of his head as you bent down.

Zoro stood beside his son, handing Kiyomi over to you after gently pressing a kiss to her cheek and muttering a hushed goodbye watching you leave, giving you a lingering look that read only of the three famous words constantly repeated.

"C'mon, we've got a few minutes until everyone gets here." Tipping his head back inside for Kōji to follow, leading him down to the same room he had been meditating in earlier. Zoro could tell his son was nothing but nerves and excitement, absentmindedly holding onto his fingers as they walked down the hall together. This would be the first time Kōji would be joining him for a class, having not been allowed to in the past. And not because Zoro didn't want him too, but because when he first started to show interest in swordsman ship, the students at the time required all of his attention and didn't need the distraction of his overly excited son there.

"Mom says you like to have sake before class, is that what we're doing?" Asking once in the room, a low table now placed in the center with a reasonably sized jug and a single serving cup. There was also tea, which was hardly touched by him ever, but allowed Kōji to partake in the little pre-class ritual of his without feeling left out.

"Mhm, helps me focus." Giving him a little smirk as he let go of his son's hand and sat on the opposite side of the low table. He poured the tea first for Kōji and then sake for himself. With a little nod, they downed their respective drinks, letting out similar sighs and placing the cups back down.

"Now, during class I want you to stay by me and listen. My students are here to learn and I don't want you distracting them." Letting his tone fall serious, watching his son's face do the same as he listened.

"Yes sir."

"Good, this will give you an idea of what it'll be like for you some day so make sure you're paying attention."

Kōji nodded again, only with a little smile now at the mention of him getting to join the classes his father taught. Zoro smiled softly seeing his son's smile, pouring another glass of sake and throwing it back quickly, knowing the students would be here any minute.

"Master Zoro, the students are arriving." One of the assistant teacher said, poking their head into the room. It didn't go unnoticed how their eyes widened seeing his son with him, but kept his comments to himself.

Zoro gave a nod, standing up, Kōji returned to holding tightly onto Zoro's middle and ring finger as he walked beside him, walking closer and closer to his side as they approached the courtyard once again. A few more glances at his son accompanying him were give by the staff and assistant teachers, and again none of them saying a thing on the matter.

Out in the expanse courtyard, twenty or so students around the ages of thirteen and fourteen stood in lines of fives, stiffening when Zoro walked through the open shoji door, standing in the center with a neutral expression. Kōji did his best not to cling to his father's side, standing tall and tightening his small hand around the fingers he held onto still.

"Begin with your stretches." Commanding in a sharp tone, his demeanor flipping like a switch now that he was teaching a class. Kōji stiffened at the new and unfamiliar tone used by his father, looking up at him and briefly smiling at the wink Zoro gave him, a little gesture of affection that soothed the nerves of his son.

All the students began the routine drilled into them from the very beginning of their enrollment, staying within their own space and staying mindful of the other's around them. Zoro let go of Kōji's hand to cross his arms over his chest, watching with a careful eyes to ensure there were no stupid mistakes being made with the simple instructions.

"Master Zoro, we know your wife left just a few minutes ago, would you like one of us to keep Kōji entertained?" An assistant teacher asked in a low voice, probably taking notice of the students wandering eyes and trying to firgure out who the young kid standing up by their teacher was. Zoro led a private life, people knew he had a family and was married but only ever saw you on occasion, some of the students completely unaware that their teacher had children.

"No. He's with me for the entirety of the class, and won't be an issue."

Firmly responding to the assistant teacher, who meekly bowed at the response, returning to where he stood a little behind Zoro with the second assistant teacher and watched the children out in the yard warm up their muscles before class.

Stretching concluded with the students standing tall with their hands behind their backs, waiting for further instruction. Zoro took a seat right where he was, Kōji doing the same, sitting in a criss-cross position, mirroring Zoro the best he could.

"Last class each of you were given a blade and instructed to care for it, by cleaning and polishing it for this class." Pausing as he unhooked a part of his holster and set his own three blades out in front of him. Kōji stared in amazement, never getting to see his father's blades this close before, subject to looking at them in the display. Carefully, Zoro unsheathed Sandai Kitetsu from the guard, holding it at an angle where the sun would catch the blade and bounce.

"Your blade is an extension of yourself, and must be treated as such." Straightening his arm out in front of him with Kitetsu facing horizontally towards the students. "Treating it just as a blade will never get you as far as you think, wielding it as an extension grants you a higher possibility of winning a match against an opponent."

Kōji was enraptured with his father's words, even if he couldn't quiet grasp exactly what he was saying it didn't negate the fact that Zoro was speaking with such passion and truth about the blade he now held vertical in front of him. Zoro glanced at Kōji, wide eyed and lost in the amazement, flashing him a small soft smile before speaking again.

"One by one you will present the blades to see if they match the standards that I keep mine." Proclaiming sternly, moving the other two unsheathed swords in front of him back to the side his holster was on, placing Kitetsu down in front of him. The students gave an in sync response to their teacher, grabbing their blades from the ground next to them and filing into a line to present the weapon to Zoro to inspect. The assistant teachers moved to help, until Zoro held up a hand for them to stop, wanting to conduct this all on his own, very particular on this sort of matter.

Kōji tried to sit up straighter, tried to exude the commanding presence of his father, despite being five years old. He watched the first student approach, bow at the waist and hand over the sheathed blade to his master. Zoro carefully revealed the weapon, holding it at the hilt and looking it over thoroughly.

"Good."

The one word response was give to the student, sheathing the blade again and handing it back, glancing at the next student to come forward. Kōji didn't exactly know what his dad was looking for, the first few looked shiny and clean from his point of view and wondered why Zoro spent longer than a few seconds examining it.

Student after student presented their blades, some passing the assignment, others coming close if it weren't for the few missed imperfections that were spotted. When they were spotted, Zoro would only frown and name what he saw, either it be a smudge of the smallest streak of leftover polish or dirt, and leave it at that. The student wouldn't necessarily fail, but they didn't pass either.

One of the students towards the end of line was next, proud smug expression written on his face when approaching Zoro, confidently passing over his sword. Kōji saw the way his dad's neutral expression falter to irritation for the briefest second, his curious mind wondering why it shifted for this particular student only.

Thumbing over the blades edge, turning the hilt in his hand, Zoro's frown deepened immensely, narrowing his gaze at the student.

"What is this?"

"The polished and cleaned sword Master Zoro." Increasing the effort on his end to keep the confidence present in front of his teacher.

"Who polished this?" Almost snapping at the student, causing Kōji to jump a little while watching the interaction.

"I did Mast-"

"Lie again and you'll be expelled."

Confidence completely drained from the student, swallowing the nervous lump in his throat, and managing to keep his gaze centered on Zoro who scowled angrily.

"My Father."

"Why? The assignment was for you, not your father." Rising from where he sat, sheathing the sword he loaned to his student and handing it to one of the assistant teachers.

"Because he is a swordsman like you, and wanted to show me the correct way to clean and polish a sword." Words carrying a slight tremble as he spoke, trying to resist in picking at his fingers in nerves.

"Then why are you enrolled? If my methods of teaching are incorrect then there's no reason for you to be in my class." Zoro watched as the student shrunk where he stood, realizing the depth of his actions and the consequences that were sure to follow.

"yes I-"

"You're dismissed for the day." Speaking over the student's stammering in a surprisingly calm tone. For a moment, Zoro thought he would protest further, instead bowing at the waist and grabbing the last of his things and shuffling out of the courtyard. Everyone watched with wide eyes and nerves, never witnessing such a thing before. Zoro wouldn't expel the student, but lying and not even completing the task that was assigned got him sent home from the class. There was no success in letting others do the menial and somewhat pointless tasks, the path to mastering the art of swordsmanship was all up to you.

Zoro didn't waste anymore time on what had just happened, sitting back down and waving forward the next student. She was one of the few girls in the glass, introverted but picked up on things fast. Zoro tried not to play favorites with his students, wanting to remain fair in honor of his journey and the person who set him on the path in the first place, but there obviously the students who advanced more quickly than others.

"Well done." Handing the girl her blade back, glancing at the last two students. Kōji's eyes followed her as she walked to joined the others, the girl giving him a small wave out of view of her teacher and Kōji giving one back.

Now that all the student's blade have been inspected, Zoro stands, walking down the steps, looking back at his son and holding out his hand for him to take. Together, with Kōji holding onto to the two same fingers from earlier, they walked over to where the students had gathered, awaiting further instructions.

"We'll be going over footwork first and focused, precise moves." Taking Enma out of the cover, Zoro dropped Kōji's hand to give a brief demonstration of what the students would be doing. Placing one foot behind the other, bending his knees just enough, Zoro spotted his target out of the peripheral of his good eye, inhaling deeply.

Kōji and the other students watched, some never having seen the world's greatest swordsman use his blades and some anticipating the excitement of witnessing it again.

Turning on his back foot, Zoro's waist twists in the direction of the practice dummy, Haki flowing furiously down the arm that held the Enma at the hilt, swinging his arm just enough and speaking the name of the famed blade. In an instant, the top half of the dummy was cut diagonally, top half sliding down and hitting the dirt. Nothing else besides the dummy took a damage, Zoro now possessing years of control and practice with this specific sword to center his attack on only what he wanted, a feat he worked hard to achieve.

Gasps and murmurs followed the single move, students exchanging looks with one another in pure amazement, the title of their master living up to its name.

"One person explain how I was able to achieve that" Tucking Emna back into its scabbard and returning to stand in front of his students. Kōji quietly made his way to stand closer to Zoro, shuffling his feet in the dirt and looking up at him as he waited for the answer to his question.

"You centered yourself first, then chose a target to aim for." A student answered, clutching the scabbard of his own blade to his chest.

"Good. Foot placement may not always be achievable in certain situations, but it's a way to center yourself before an attack. Throwing out unfocused and sporadic attacks could land you at the other end of the blade, which is why treating your sword as an extension of yourself and centering your being will get you results and not on the wrong end of blade."

Zoro allowed himself a small smile seeing the slow nods from his students, experience mingling into his words as he spoke and feeling confident that his students were absorbing every word.

"Find a dummy and practice some of the basic moves from previous classes. Aim for precision, center your mind, body and soul."

Immediately the students broke off from each other, following instructions and unsheathing their blades from their scabbards.

Zoro took a moment to make sure everyone was where they were suppose to be, before turning his attention to Kōji. He was awestruck still, blankly staring out where the students were and leaning into Zoro.

"Having fun?" Asking with a chuckle when his son's head popped up, a smile breaking out on his face.

"That was so cool! How did you do that? Can all of your swords do that? Will you teach me-"

"Slow down," Laughing under his breath at the influx of questions pouring from his son, the amazement and pure excitement swelling the organ in Zoro's chest. The excitement from his students just didn't feel the same as his son's excitement, the admiration Kōji held for him was so dear and special.

"All of my swords are different and used for different moves and attacks. And someday, when you're old enough, I'lll teach you, with your own."

Kōji let out a lengthy gasp, stars forming in his eyes. This was the first time his dad had ever given him an answer to his constant request for him to teach him. Zoro palmed the top of his head, brushing back some of his hair and continuing to give Kōji the promising smile.

The remainder of the class, Zoro corrected students who needed it and indulged in his son's occasional questions. He could picture doing this with Kōji, and was kind of excited to pass down his passion to his son, completely different than passing it down to students.

By the time the last student had left with their parent, Zoro could see you approaching with Kiyomi and a few additional items. Kōji was already inside getting washed up for dinner by the time you got back.

Before you could even ask how the day had gone, Zoro was taking his daughter from you and ushering you inside, to discuss about the excitement that took place while you were out. Kiyomi smiled wide now that she was carried by Zoro, gurgling as if she were saying actual words back to him as he made similar hushed noises in return.

Within the bedroom, Zoro kept Kiyomi occupied as you changed and put everything away.

“How was he?”

Hearing you ask, sauntering out of the closet in one of your more simpler kimonos, reaching for Kiyomi as if you hadn’t been with her all day. Zoro sighed, like he were defeated at his daughter being “stolen” from him, but laughed under his breath at how enamored Kiyomi was at the moment.

“He’ll be counting down the days till his birthday, the day he’ll want to enroll.”

You hummed, holding out your free hand for him to take so the two of you could grab Kōji from his room and head down for dinner.

“And I’m assuming you’ll let him?”

“Why wouldn’t I? He was so excited to just sit in on the class, a kid in a candy store sweetheart.” Shrugging as if he weren't just as excited at teaching his son the passion that's had him in a chokehold since he was Kōji's age.

The cooks had things set up in the small dining area of the compound, where the four of you would eat every night. But the setting sun and the cherry blossoms swaying in the wind made it all the more enticing to eat out in the garden. Giving a quick request to have everything moved to enjoy the nice evening, Zoro felt content run warm through his body. All those years out at sea, pondering what would become of his life after he achieved his goal now seemed so, minuscule. Look where he was now, Master of his dojo and holding the title of "greatest swordsman" and married to the woman he would stay up late at night admiring, hoping the feelings he held for you would always be reciprocated.

"I finally got to see dad use his swords in class and, and, it was so cool!"

Kōji excited exclaimed while sitting on the blanket across from you and Zoro, holding and onigiri in one of his small hands, looking at both you and Zoro with the widest eye either of you have ever seen.

"Which sword was it?" Indulging your son, adjusting your daughter on your lap as she playing with some of the food within reach.

"Um, it was...oh! Enma, right dad?" Sounding kind of confident but then second guessing himself and looking to Zoro for confirmation.

"Mhm, my most famed blade, received that one in Wano, as a gift sort of."

Kōji somehow looked even more entranced, like what Zoro was saying were that of legend and fairytale, but to be fair, Enma was a legendary blade by all standards. You leaned more into his shoulder after giving Kōji an answer, nostalgia and reminiscing coming off of you in waves at the mention of where and how he received that particular sword.

"One day, I'll be just like you dad, or better." Kōji now stood, shoving the onigiri into his mouth and reaching for a rice ball now, smiling proudly with a full mouth, making Zoro swell with pride and maybe something even greater than pride.

"We'll see, you haven't even been enrolled into classes yet." Leaning back on his palm, welcoming Kiyomi, who had now crawled from your lap to his, bringing her to his chest and kissing the top of her soft hair.

"I'm going to practice."

Breaking off from the small blanketed area to go grab his practice swords, almost tripping over his feet but catching himself before managing a repeat from earlier. Zoro could hear you sigh sweetly, feeling your body come to press against his, running a hand through the longer hair towards the back of his neck.

"God I can only imagine what you were like his age."

All Zoro could do was hum humorously, lean over and kiss the top of your head, as if he were agreeing with the statement and thoughts you hadn't voiced yet.

"Much worse baby."

Now you laughed heartily, smacking his arm and moving to lay your cheek on his chest, placing a hand on Kiyomi's back and focusing your attention to the horizon where the sun teased to dip behind. Zoro sighed again, contently, looking in the same direction you were. All his life he was zeroed in on one goal, a goal that led him to now, which he came to realize much later in his journey this is all he could've wanted. the title bestowed upon him was nice, Zoro would admit, but all those nights on the sunny where you and him were curled up in the small cabin, where he worried if once he achieved his goal and helped Luffy achieve his you would still want to be with him. The thrill part of it all is what Zoro swore is what held your love for him together, but god was he relieved to be wrong for once.

"I'm going to try to do what dad did earlier, watch." Kōji declared, now having returned to the garden with three swords, carefully placing the two he didn't need at the moment to the side, trying to mirror the stance Zoro had earlier during class.

As Zoro watched the wooden blade cut through the air with a whistle and a small excited squeal from his son, he looked down at his daughter and then to you and thanked the universe and every god out there that this was his reward for the end of his adventure, the comfort after a long journey of achieving his goals and honoring a close friends. There was nothing more he could've asked for, and Zoro wouldn't dare ask for anything else unless it was more of this.

[goldenlevi]

to everyone who is thinking or has written about these two men; thank you.

[goldenlevi]

trump dies of congestive heart failure before being sworn in charge to like cast to reblog

[goldenlevi]

every time you make freezer food for dinner instead of buying takeout like you actually want you should earn two hundred dollars cash and a round of applause

[goldenlevi]

Dear everyone who is currently working on a Thing, whatever that Thing may be,

Good luck with the Thing. You can do the Thing. You will do the Thing. You just have to do the Thing.

Best wishes,

Someone who is also doing a Thing

[goldenlevi]

zoro x mihawk daughter! reader 👁️👁️

⛥ﾟ・。 nurse

synopsis: a mysterious man crash lands on your gloomy island, and you patch him up... unaware of his odd relationship with your father.

cw: part 1/3, fluffy fluff, comfort, zoro is a lovable idiot, reader's a bit soft spoken, reader is FIONE, i imagine she dresses like morticia addams but its not explicitly described, mihawk clocks zoro's tea a lil bit

a/n: what i would give to bandage this man up myself

"Never thought I'd see the day..." you sighed, grabbing a vase of water off the end table.

The sound of clanking and pouring echoed throughout the room, slowly waking the swordsman up.

"A man on this island..."

Zoro fluttered his eyes open, the golden rays of morning light ushering him back to the land of the living.

'I'm... alive? ...But where am I?'

"Morning," you greeted, softly, a warm smile on your face as you approached the bed. "You scared me for a moment. With the rough shape you landed in, I thought you were dead for sure."

Suddenly, his eyes shot wide, memories from Sabaody all rushing back.

Pacifistas.

Sentomaru.

Kizaru.

The crew.

Now fully awake, he greeted the world with a deafening yell, you letting out an equally loud shriek of surprise.

And, in your fear, you dropped the entire vase and fell backward, too occupied with trying to back away from the screaming man.

Hearing the commotion, Zoro shut up, weakly turning to see its source.

You had managed to retreat into the shadows, hiding yourself from the intruder.

"Who are you?" he asked, sharply, eyes zeroed in on your silhouette. "Where am I? And why are you here?"

"I could ask you he same..." you replied, warily. "And don't scream like that again. You're not dying, I made sure of that."

Painfully, he swung his feet over the edge of the bed, letting out a few winces and curses as he attempted to stand up.

He was missing a familiar weight on his hip.

"What did you do with my swords?!" he barked.

"I'm keeping them hidden until I can ensure you're not a threat."

Brows furrowed deeply, Zoro grit his teeth, thoroughly pissed.

"I'm warning you..." he stood on shaky legs, attempting to step forward, only to fall on his knees.

Guilty, you let out a sigh, suddenly feeling sorry for his poor shape.

"Sir, please, get back in bed. You'll re-open your wounds," you sighed, imploringly, moving forward to help him up.

Annoyed, Zoro scanned the area, eyes landing on your figure as you emerged from the shadows, widening at the sight as your hips swayed side to side.

Long, (h/c) hair...

Plump lips...

Heavenly curves, made evident by your long, black dress...

Smooth brown skin...

Alluring, (e/c) eyes....

Goddamn.

'Curlybrow'd lose his mind...'

You were dripping in beauty and mystery.

Zoro, so mesmerized, didn't even realize that you'd already cruised your way over, and were now standing directly in front of him, helping him up.

"I found you laying in a crater in the woods, unconscious," you explained, pulling him back to the bed. "You looked two steps from death's door... so I brought you back here, and tried to fix you up the best I could."

It was almost funny.

You had little to no medical knowledge at all, so majority of the first few days was spent teaching yourself how to do it all.

With a smile, you sat him down, "I'm glad to see you're alright."

But Zoro didn't register a single word.

He couldn't help but allow his mind to drift to the way your lips moved, enunciating each syllable so smoothly.

Though, when he realized you'd stopped speaking, his eyes found yours, an embarrassed glow rising to his cheeks.

"I... uh... can you repeat that?" he replied, bluntly.

This was the first time he was talking to you, and he wasn't even paying attention.

It was easy to say you were a little irked.

"I'll get you your swords," you sighed, flatly, giving up on any hope of conversation as you turned around to exit the room.

Without giving him a chance to speak, you walked away, hair swishing across your back as you moved.

Zoro, on the other hand, still sat there, more flustered than he'd been in a long time.

He thought back to how close your body was to his, your breast slightly rubbing against his back as you helped him up.

Watching you strut out the room, his gaze drifted to your backside, internally cursing himself for being so pervy.

Something about you flipped a switch in him—be it your mystery or your unspoken grace—and he had never found himself so entranced and intrigued in all his life.

And all you did was talk to him.

'The hell's wrong with me?'

This was the type of behavior one expected from Sanji or Brook.

Not him.

Not the cool-headed swordsman.

Not the Roronoa Zoro.

Hand rising to his face, he roughly shook his head, snapping himself out of it.

"I gotta get the hell out of here..."

"Father, please, I—"

"Not only did you bring an unknown man into our home while I was away..." Mihawk started, tone sharp as he cut you off.

You flinched, instantly piping down as you took a step back, hanging your head.

He hadn't taken such a tone with you since your teen years.

"But you nursed him back to health... and returned him his weapons before confirming that he was of no threat."

Hearing it laid out like that, you sounded stupid.

But in the moment, you swore that Zoro meant you no harm, your observation haki not sensing any malice or ill-intent even when he was yelling at you.

"He's not unknown to you, Father, you've met him before," you attempted to plead your case, albeit quietly. "And from what you've said about him, he's perfectly honorable. He wouldn't have hurt me."

"You didn't know that," he corrected, brows furrowed. "For all you knew, he could've slit your throat the moment you lost sight of him."

"That's a little extreme..."

"That's the world."

After returning Zoro's swords, you left to go make him something to eat, but returned to find that he had escaped.

Frantic, you searched the castle for hours, combing through every nook and cranny in an attempt to find the swordsman.

But, of course, it would be your luck that your father would find him upon arrival—somehow he had found his way through the woods and to the ruins where he attempted to fight off some of your monkey friends.

Safe to say, when your father finally arrived home, he was less than pleased.

Even still, you patched up the swordsman once again, unable to leave him in such a precarious state.

"Father, please try to understand. I was only trying to—"

You stopped in your tracks, both you and the warlord sensing a new presence.

And, like clockwork, the man of the hour weakly pushed open the door, heaving, as he seemed to be struggling to keep himself upright.

Worried, your brows furrowed, concerned for his health.

"What are you doing out of bed?" you asked, softly, "You're hurt... bad."

But Zoro pressed forward, using the sheaths of his swords as walking sticks as he approached your father.

"You shouldn't be walking in this condition... you can barely stan—"

Suddenly, he dropped to his knees, bowing his head before his arch rival, much to your surprise.

"Will you... train me as a swordsman?" Zoro asked, fervently, pressing his forehead into the stone floor.

He'd managed to take a look at the News Coo you left on the end table, discovering Luffy's message to reunite in two years.

Which meant that the whole crew would have to get significantly stronger if they wanted any hope of surviving in the New World.

Him included.

"You disappoint me," Mihawk stated, brows furrowed. "Stand up."

He turned away from the sight, annoyance dripping from his tone.

"I can't believe you would ask your enemy for instruction... Have you no shame?"

He rolled his eyes, swirling around his wine glass.

"Get out of here. This is pathetic," he scoffed. "A pity, perhaps, but I overestimated your worth."

'Father...'

You felt bad about his harsh words, not wanting him to kick a man while he was down.

But the swordsman didn't budge, remaining in his exact position without fault.

"I said stand up... you're making a fool of yourself."

"Please help me!" Zoro tried once again, not moving an inch.

"First of all, the baboons beat you... and even after that, you couldn't make it to sea," Mihawk shrugged, taking a sip of his wine. "I can't help you. It's hopeless."

"They didn't beat me."

The two of you froze for a moment, shocked.

'No way... did he really?'

"You're the only one left to take down... but, I'm just not good enough to win against you the way I am now. Anybody can see that."

"I don't follow," Mihawk stated. "Clearly, you still consider me your enemy, yet here you are bowing down, begging for my help."

Zoro lifted his head, his expression one only attributed to a man on a mission.

"What do you mean to do?"

The swordsman's glare sharpened, not a doubt in his mind.

"Kill you, of course."

With that, your father let out an amused laugh, a rare smile cracking on his lips.

"You admit you want to kill me, and you expect me to assist you in that?" he asked, knowingly. "You're strange. What a ridiculous request. Aren't you the least bit embarrassed?"

Though he was quick to reel it in, a new question popping into his mind.

"Perhaps... your priorities are different now, Roronoa?"

Zoro's breath hitched at the insinuation, slightly surprised by his perceptiveness.

"(y/n)..." you father turned to you by his side. "Tend to his injuries."

(y/n).

'So, that's her name...'

It was oddly fitting.

With a quiet nod, you stepped forward, silently heading toward the door.

"We start your training once you've recovered."

At that, Zoro's face lit up, gratefully.

It was finally time to get stronger.

Throughout the entire two years, he poured his blood, sweat, and tears into his training, working diligently to become the reliable swordsman Luffy knew him to be.

But, little did he know, those two years would bring him ever closer to you, as well, as you acted as his personal nurse and cheerleader on the sidelines.

You two would become inseparable, spending your days together as you watched him train, cooked him dinner, did his laundry.

Your presence and company became as constant as he air he breathed.

So, when the day finally came for him to depart, it was safe to say that both sides had a particularly hard time letting go...

To be continued.