#and instead of using it just dangles it over their head for the amusement of their grappling and vulnerability

[mysicklove]

Summary: four-year-old Yuuji didnt mean to bring up Mr. Gojos crush on you, which of course, leads to Sukuna's harsh teasing.

cw: fem! reader (reader gets referred to as girl, pretty, and mommy), curse words, suggestive language, lion king spoilers (lol)

wc: 1.8k

a/n: i love making sukuna an absolute menace. poor yuuji tho. i think i am going to introduce gojo as a character, because I think it would be entertaining to piss Sukuna off lol.

big brother au masterlist

“Su-kuna!”

“The fuck did you just call me?”

“Language,” You scold, not peering up from your book. Yuuji lays sprawled out on top of the both of you – his head in your lap, and practically purring in content when you gently pet the top of his head, while his little legs are on Sukuna’s thighs. 

Yuuji giggles into your shirt, shaking his head mischeviously. “Bad word Su-kuna!”

In an instant, you feel the toddler being ripped away from your lap with a tiny screech. The noise startles you, and you perk up from your book to look to where the boy has gone to. But, you aren't surprised to see him dangling in the air by his ankle – Sukuna’s long fingers skillfully hold onto Yuujis chubby little leg tight enough to not drop him, but gently enough to not cause physical harm. 

The boy doesn't seem to mind this position, being in it so frequently. Giggles and squeals leave the toddler's mouth as he stares at his now upside down brother. “You learning how to speak correctly?”

Yuuji nods his head, and his hands try to reach for Sukunas shirt. You rest your head on the man's shoulder, chuckling at the boy who was squirming in the air. “Uh-huh! F-Fush-i-guro taught me!” The dark haired toddlers last name was hard to pronounce, and it was amusing watching how Yuuji sounded it out.

Sukuna makes a loud groaning noise and you cover your mouth to hold back another laugh. “Of course you made friends with Gojo’s new brat. First he hits on my girl, and now his new kid is gonna manipulate this idiot.” He shakes Yuuji in the air to demonstrate his point, ignoring the squeals. 

You roll your eyes with a laugh. “Just because Megumi taught Yuuji how to say your name correctly, doesn't mean the kid is manipulating him. Y’know Yuuji struggles with words sometimes.” You watch as the child in turn shakes his head in defiance, letting out a “Nu-uh!” that only makes you smile. You turn back over to your lover, kissing his cheek. “Aw, does it make you sad that our little Yuuji is growing up?”

“No,” he quickly rebuttals, “Brat isnt growing up fast enough. I am mad that you're not denying the fact that the white haired idiot is flirting with you.” You know that wasn't the full truth, but alas, Sukuna was extremely stubborn and would never admit that he didn't want his brother to grow up. 

“Fush-i-guro says Mr. Gojo thinks you are pretty!” Yuuji announces, beaming at you from the air. You hold back a wince, smiling awkwardly back at the innocent words of the toddler. You watch as the boys cheeks begin to flush from all the blood rushing to his head, and immediately as if sensing it, Sukuna flips over the boy and instead places him on his lap, holding onto the back of his neck.

The action makes you smile, noticing the thumb that rubs gently at the pale skin. But when you glance at Sukuna, you notice quickly that he was anything but happy. Sukunas dark eyes twitches, flickering to you, and he speaks between his teeth. “Did he now? I may need to have a talk with Mr. Gojo next time I pick the little pest up. Does Fushiguro say anything else?”  

“Sukuna,” you whine, realising that the hold on the boys neck was not out of affection – instead was used to trap the boy while he was questioned. “Y’know Gojo is alot. He just wants to��”

“Fush-i-guro says Mr. Gojo has a crush on Y/N!”

“Yuuji!” 

“B-But, Y/N has a crush on brother,” the boy concludes, furrowing his eyebrows with a small nod. “Right, Ku–um–Su-kuna?” He turns up to his brother, doe eyed with his head slightly cocked to the side in question. 

In response, Sukuna ruffles his hair, nearly sending the boy landing on his back. But, instead he giggles at the rough treatment, shutting his eyes and trying his best to stay upward. “The biggest crush. You make sure to tell the little brat that. Or else Mr. Gojo is going to try take her away.”

Your eyes widen and you push at his broad shoulders. “Sukuna! You're going to get him all worked up!” You exclaim, knowing the very sensitive (regarding you or Sukuna) child very well by now. You turn to the boy, whose own eyes widen as he trying to process the words. “Gojo is not trying to take me away.”

“He is going to take her away if you don't do anything, and little Megumi is going to have a new mommy.” Sukuna was grinning at the boy, as if his brother's fearful expression pleased him. You knew that he was being purposely dramatic – Gojo wasn't even technically Megumi's father, if there was a chance that you guys would ever get together (near zero) you would definitely not be the boy's new mom. But alas, Sukuna continues on with his words. “Thats why whenever you see the two of them talking you have to make sure you to scream as loud as possible.”

You cover the mans mouth before you he can spewl any more nonsense, but it was too late. Yuuji was already tearing himself from the man's lap and into yours – his lips begin to wobble and his eyes flood with tears. “Is-um-is that what you two talk about when I am with Mr. Nanami,” he warbles, thinking back to the multitude of times he has held onto his preschool teachers hand and watched you smile at the white haired man. 

“No, love,” you reassure, turning your attention instead from scolding your lover to consoling the child. “Sukuna is being mean again. Don't listen to him. Mr. Gojo and I are friends.” You ignore the look that Sukuna shoots you, showing how displeased he is at the idea of you being friends with his least favorite person. 

The boy sniffles, wiping his little fists on his face. “I-I dont want you to be Fush-i-guro’s mommy. You have to stay with me and Kuna! P-Please?” He doesn't even attempt to say his brother's name correctly, forgetting how he started the conversation all together. He was focused on trying not to cry, because his brother was sure to tease him, but it wasn't working out very well.

You kiss at his chubby cheeks, shaking your head with an exasperated look on your face, wondering how the hell you got to this conversation. “I am not, promise. I'm not going anywhere. Even if your brother is the worst, brattiest, malicious person alive, I have kinda grown attached to him. Besides, if I left who would I have movie nights with?”

“I am not a–” You shoot Sukuna a nasty glare, and he in return lets out an astonished laugh, but shrugs without care.

Your words make Yuuji perk up from your lap, and his eyes widen with glee. “You like movie nights too?” He was always begging for the three of you to watch movies together, but Sukuna always denies him considering it would end up being a cheesy Disney movie that Yuuji would fall asleep not even twenty minutes into.

“I love movie nights. Do you want to have one tonight?”

“Woah, woah, woah,” Sukuna butts in, and you spare him a glance. “Babe, we have plans tonight, remember?” He tilts his head to the side suggestively and you roll your eyes at him.

“Not anymore. Me and Yuuji are going to watch…”

“Human Earthworm 2!” The boy interjects, completely forgetting about his previous experiences with the movie, not good ones.

You poke at his cheeks, shaking your head. “I was thinking The Lion King.” 

“Yes!”

“No,” Sukuna groans, covering his eyes with his palm.

You look at him with furrowed eyebrows. “No? Why are you putting your input in? You're not watching it with us.”

Sukuna, never have been told this before, looks appalled. “The fuck you mean?”

“Bad word!” Yuuji points to him in accusation, but Sukuna just ignores him.

You cock your head to the side, a sly grin pulling at your face. “You're not invited.”

“Why not?”

The two of you make eye contact for a long second, and after a moment or two, Sukuna sighs. “You're really mad about that?” You don't say anything, just continuing to stare at him. “Okay fuck–Yes that is a curse word, astute observation you brat. I am sorry for making the kid cry again.”

“And?”

Sukuna narrows his eyes at you, but you hold your ground. Then, he turns to the boy with a sigh. “Dont scream when you see Gojo and Y/N talk, alright?” He jabs his finger into the boys chest and Yuuji nods his head rapidly in understanding. But, a foxish grin pulls at the mans face and he says, “Instead…The moment you hear him talk to her, you bite his leg.”

He barks a laugh at the confused face of his brother, but when he looks up to you, the smile falters. “Okay, c’mon it was a jo–”

You point your finger to the door. “Couch.”

“You can't kick me out of my own room!”

You don't move your finger. Yuuji glances at you, cocks his head to the side, and then mimicks your action. “Couch!”

The three of you go silent for a long minute, and at this point the boy's hand begins to tremble from holding his hand out for too long. Eventually when Sukuna realizes that there was no point of reasoning, he lets out a dramatic sigh, before crawling out of bed. 

When he notices your smug smile, he flips you off and you can't help but laugh at that. “I am coming back after the movie is done, ya hear?”

“If Yuuji does not fall asleep,” You tease in return, knowing the boy well, and Sukuna rolls his eyes. 

His eyes flicker to the boy who was snuggling up to your chest, trying to find a comfortable position to watch the movie in. Sukuna chuckles to himself, opening up the door, before turning back to the kid one last time. “Hey brat,” he calls.

“Hm?” 

“The father lion–Mufasa. He is my favorite character, so you'll bound to like him a lot. In fact, I sure do wonder if you'll get attached,” he muses, and your eyes widen when you realize what he is saying. Anything that is linked with Sukuna, Yuuji immediately falls in love with. This was bound to cause hysteria. “Enjoy the movie guys! Y/N have fun!” He calls, before shutting the door.

You pause for a moment, sighing into your hand. “Kuna likes the father lion? I want to see!”

You tried everything to avoid turning on the movie after that. But Yuuji, like his brother, was stubborn, and he desperately wanted to see the lion. He grew attached very quickly in that short period of time.

Deep laughs rumble through the house when Yuuji begins to sob over the animated lion's death. You lock the door, and Sukuna stays the night on the couch. 

[umehaji]

— 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐠 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞;

☾ Pairing: Kaji Ren x f!reader

☾ Word Count: 1.1k

☾ A/N: inspired by satoru nii's note on kaji getting his headphones as a gift also i am simply down bad

“How come he never takes that shit off?” Sakura mutters, mostly to himself, pausing on the uneven sidewalk to adjust the weight on his back. The late afternoon sun casts long shadows over the bustling street, the chatter of vendors and the hum of passing bikes filling the air.

“Hmmm?” The granny—Chiyoko, as she’s always insisting he call her but he can never bring himself to—leans slightly to peer over his shoulder, her sharp eyes following his line of sight. Her gray hair flutters in the gentle breeze, tickling his cheek.

Across the narrow street, past the stalls piled high with fresh produce, ones Sakura knows Umemiya likes to frequent, Kaji and his vice-captains are strolling down the sidewalk in their direction. Kaji's got his hands buried deep in his pockets, mouth set in its usual stern expression, a lollipop dangling lazily from between his lips. His white headphones sit snugly over his ears, their metallic sheen catching the light. They're always spotless, Sakura notes, as if Kaji takes painstaking care of them.

“His headphones!" Sakura grumbles. "He’ll go deaf at this rate.”

“Ah," Chiyoko muses, her voice laced with amusement, "but wouldn’t you also treasure something so precious to you? Young love...so sweet."

Sakura’s brows knit together. “The hell you mean ‘young love’?”

The granny fully ignores him. "I remember back in my day-"

"Hold on, the fuck you mean- sorry, I mean-"

Before Sakura can keep gracing Chiyoko with his colorful vocabulary, something cuts him off.

“Rennn!”

The sound of hurried footsteps and the unmistakable brightness in the voice snaps Sakura’s attention to the source. His head whirls around, and he freezes.

A girl.

You.

You're a pretty thing, pleated uniform skirt hiked up just a tad bit too short for school regulations. It flutters around your thighs, exposing an expanse of skin that has Sakura blushing right down to his toes. He quickly tears his gaze away.

Instead, he watches, stunned, as Kaji slows his pace and reaches up, fingers curling to hook his headphones down to his neck. He stands there, hands dropping to his sides, palms open as if he's expecting something.

And then...the most inexplicable thing happens.

You launch yourself forward, into the notoriously bad-tempered second-year’s arms, your own arms coming up to wrap around his neck.

“Ren! Missed you so much!”

“Huh?” Sakura whips his head around to gawk at Chiyoko to make sure she’s seeing the same thing he is. “Huuuh?”

The granny on his back just beams, eyes crinkling, like this is something she's seen happen a thousand times.

Kaji barely reacts to the impact of you. He plants his feet, arms coming around your waist, steady and sure. If there's one thing Sakura has learned, it’s that the blonde is deceptively strong. From his angle, Sakura can see the faintest hint of color rise to Kaji's cheeks, a subtle shift masked by the tilt of his head.

A soft jangling sound captures Sakura’s attention and he zeros in on the charm dangling from your backpack. It looks vaguely familiar and he squints, trying to place it. Then it hits him- he’s seen it before, a matching charm clipped to Kaji’s rarely-used bag. The trinket is small and undeniably cutesy, in sharp contrast to Kaji's abrasive personality, which is what had drawn Sakura's attention to it in the first place.

“Oi,” Kaji snaps, tightening his hold around your waist, but his voice lacks the usual bite Sakura has come to associate the blonde with. “Be careful.”

You pout, playful and unabashed. “Aw, but I knew you’d catch me.”

“Still.” Kaji eyes you. His fingers brush against the hem of your skirt, tugging it down slightly. “And this—”

You cut him off with a practiced ease, plucking the lollipop from his mouth and popping it into yours.

"Oi!"

“Yeah, yeah,” you say breezily, leaning your head against his shoulder. “It’s too short, other guys will mess with me, blah blah blah. But I’m not worried, because my big bad boyfriend will take care of any problems, won’t he?”

Kaji's lips twitch as though he wants to argue, but nothing comes out. Instead, what looks like the faintest smile slips onto them, though it’s gone in the blink of an eye.

“Hi, Kusumi-chan, Enomoto-chan!” you lean back slightly in Kaji's arms, tilting your head so you can see the other boys who have been smirking at each other the entire time. Sensing their silent amusement, Kaji snaps his head around, fixing them with a pointed glare. Their expressions transform immediately into pictures of innocence and they greet you enthusiastically, clearly charmed by you.

“Good t’see ya as always,” Takeshi grins broadly. “Still keepin’ our captain on his toes?”

“Someone has to,” you quip, swirling the lollipop stick between your fingers before slipping it from your lips. Kaji’s gaze flickers downward, tracking the motion, lingering a beat too long on your lips.

You tug at the headphones around Kaji's neck. “Still taking good care of these, huh? Never takes them off, does he, Enomoto-chan?”

“Well,” Takeshi says with a teasing grin, “they’re special. Given by someone even more special.”

“Shut up,” Kaji mutters, ears faintly pink, though he doesn’t refute it. He's still staring down at your lips, though his gaze flickers back up to meet yours when you reach a hand up.

“Aw," you smile sweetly at him, brushing a finger through the bangs covering his forehead, "I'm glad you're still putting them to good use."

"Tch." Kaji's gaze darts away but returns to you almost just as quickly.

Sakura sputters, completely thrown off by the revelation that the reason behind the permanent fixture on Kaji Ren’s head...is you. Dumbfounded, he watches you continue to shower Kaji—the same boy he's seen coldly pummel opponents to a pulp with the harshest of scowls—with affection. But none of that brutality is visible now. Instead, Kaji holds you with an unexpected tenderness, as if you’re something delicate, something precious to him.

You let out a long, almost aggrieved sigh, and Sakura can’t help but wonder if you’re starting to tire of giving without getting anything in return from the blonde.

“Why're you so handsome?” you pout, sliding a finger down the bridge of Kaji's nose until it rests gently over his lips. “It’s just so unfair.”

Sakura chokes on his own spit.

Kaji doesn’t reply to that at all. Perhaps he doesn’t know how to. The tips of his ears are an unmistakeable flaming red now.

And then, as if on instinct, he leans down. The movement is quick, almost imperceptible. But it's enough signal for you apparently, because you close the gap by pressing your lips to his, winding your arms around his neck tighter and relaxing into his hold.

Sakura feels his brain grind to a complete halt.

“As I said,” Chiyoko hums behind him with a knowing smile. Her short legs swing happily against Sakura's sides. “Young love.”

[heliosunny]

LUCKY EGG

Yandere!Dan Feng x Reader

You stood before the Lucky Egg Dispenser. One pull. One egg. People swore by it, miraculous companions, rare creatures with mystical abilities. Some even whispered about something more. You hadn’t believed it. Not until you got one.

At first, it was just an egg, smooth, cool to the touch, its deep azure surface streaked with faint golden veins. For three days, it sat in your apartment, resting on a pillow beneath the soft glow of a bedside lamp.

Then, it hatched.

And the first thing you saw were cyan eyes, glowing like captured starlight. Most people received small, harmless creatures: foxlike beings, glowing fish, even tiny floating wisps of light. Instead, curled amidst the shattered remnants of the shell, was a man.

His long, dark hair cascaded down his back in flowing silken strands. His pale jade antler-like horns gleamed under the soft light, an ethereal contrast to his sharp, almost inhuman pointed ears. His robes, a pristine blend of white, silver, and intricate teal embroidery, draped over his lean yet powerful frame, giving him an air of royalty, as if he had stepped out of some long-forgotten legend. A single red earring dangled from his right ear, swaying gently.

But what held you frozen were his cyan eyes, sharp and penetrating, gleaming with something unreadable. Something ancient. Something dangerous.

He moved towards you. His grip was gentle yet unyielding as his hand cupped your chin, tilting your face up to meet his gaze fully.

"You are the first thing I have seen." he murmured.

His thumb brushed over your lips. "That means you are mine."

Finally, you got him to sit. You sat opposite him, keeping a cautious distance. The man studied his surroundings with the quiet grace of someone who had seen worlds beyond this one.

"You may call me Dan Feng" he said smoothly, his voice carrying an old-world elegance.

You hesitated before responding with your own name, unsure of what to make of him.

"Do you... have hobbies? Things you enjoy?" you asked, attempting to keep the conversation light.

Dan Feng tilted his head slightly, contemplating the question. "Reading ancient texts. Chess. Refining my abilities. Battle."

That last word made you tense slightly.

Before you could respond, you got up to fetch him a drink, only to trip over your own feet.

Time seemed to slow. A surge of energy crackled through the air, and before you could hit the ground, you found yourself suspended midair, a soft glowing force wrapped around you.

Dan Feng hadn’t moved an inch. Yet, his magic had caught you effortlessly.

"You have magic?" you asked in awe, as he gently set you upright.

His lips curled into an amused smile. "Of course. Did you expect otherwise?"

The moment left you shaken but also intrigued. You had to know the extent of his abilities. So you took him to a weapon shop.

In this world, people trained to farm levels and increase their stats through dungeons. Power meant survival, and you needed to understand exactly what he was capable of. Dan Feng examined the weapons with idle curiosity before selecting a blade—a long, ornate spear. The moment he lifted it, the air around you shifted. With a single, precise swing, the spear cleaved the reinforced training dummy clean in half.

The shopkeeper gaped. You swallowed hard.

Dan Feng lowered the weapon, looking wholly unimpressed by his own strength. As if it was trivial.

He turned to you, eyes glowing softly. "Satisfied? I can use pretty much any weapon in this place."

You weren’t sure whether to be impressed or terrified.

From the moment he hatched, he never left your side. At first, you assumed it was natural. A newly born creature clinging to its first bond. But this was no ordinary attachment. He was always there.

A silent, watchful presence in your home. In your dreams. When you awoke, he was there, seated gracefully by your bedside, watching with an unreadable gaze. When you left for work, his figure lingered just outside, eyes never straying from you.

Your phone? Constantly buzzing. Unread messages. Missed calls.

Dan Feng. Dan Feng. Dan Feng.

You started locking your doors.

They always unlocked themselves.

One night, you tried sneaking out, he found you before you reached the next street.

"Why do you run?"

His voice was calm, almost amused. Yet the air around him grew heavy, pressing against your lungs, making it difficult to breathe.

He stepped closer, slow and deliberate, his robes barely stirring.

"You called me into existence" he murmured, lifting your chin once more. "You do not abandon what you have created."

The next day, you searched for someone skilled enough to play chess with him. A strategic game like that might hold his attention. As he sat, moving his pieces with unnerving precision, you stood behind him, studying his every move, intrigued by his intelligence. His plays were ruthless, methodical. He was brilliant.

When you turned to leave after his next match, you felt his fingers encircle your wrist again. You swore he had been fully focused on the board.

“Where are you going?” he asked smoothly.

You forced a smile. “Just getting you something to drink.”

He hesitated for a fraction of a second before releasing you.

You returned not just with food and drink, but with a friend you had met at the dungeon.

Dan Feng finished his match earlier than expected.

Before you could react, he was by your side, his hand resting lightly on your back as he steered you away from the others. “It’s late” he murmured. “I will lead you home.”

The next morning, you noticed something was off. Dan Feng's usual poised demeanor was replaced with a subtle lethargy, his forehead warm to the touch. A fever?

You immediately took it upon yourself to care for him, dampening a cloth to press against his forehead and making him herbal tea. Though he allowed your ministrations, there was an unreadable expression in his eyes, as if he were watching you, studying you, but unwilling to say something. His breathing grew steadier under your care, but exhaustion eventually took its toll on you. As night fell, you drifted into sleep beside him.

By the time you awoke, he was gone.

Panic surged through you. The idea of someone taking advantage of him or worse, attempting to capture and sell him due to his rare nature propelled you into action. You traced his presence back to a nearby dungeon, where an eerie sight awaited you.

The creatures inside weren’t attacking him. They were bowing. Dan Feng stood among them, his form partially transformed. His antlers glowed brightly, his once-hidden dragon-like tail illuminated by an ethereal light. Power radiated from him in waves, his presence commanding absolute authority. Whatever he was doing, it was deliberate—perhaps an attempt to regulate his strength, to return to his usual form without alarming you.

You confronted him, your voice sharp with concern. “What are you doing?”

He turned to you, unbothered by your presence. “Releasing excess energy. I did not wish to frighten you.”

His nonchalance infuriated you. “You disappeared without a word. Do you have any idea how worried I was?”

Something flickered in his gaze, amusement, perhaps. Then, to your utter disbelief, he chuckled.

“You followed me,” he mused, stepping closer. “Because you were worried.”

You clenched your fists. “Of course, I was! You were feverish, and then you vanished!”

Instead of acknowledging your frustration, he merely brushed his fingers against your cheek, the heat of his touch lingering. “How endearing,” he murmured. “But unnecessary.”

You glared at him, unamused. “You don’t get to decide that.”

For a moment, he simply stared at you, then let out a low, indulgent sigh. “Very well” he said, as if entertaining a fleeting whim. “Next time, I shall wake you.”

You were relieved when Dan Feng eventually returned to his normal form, but curiosity still lingered in your mind. While he was cooking, or at least attempting to, since you had been teaching him—you found yourself watching him closely. His movements were precise, yet slightly hesitant, as if he were still adjusting to the task. The soft glow of the kitchen lanterns reflected in his eyes, making him appear even more ethereal than usual.

Acting on impulse, you suddenly reached out and touched his antler-like horns. The texture was smoother than you expected, but before you could fully process the sensation, his entire body jolted as if struck by lightning. His hands fumbled with the kitchen knife, and a sharp inhale escaped his lips.

“Ah—!” His voice was higher than usual, laced with genuine surprise and something else you couldn't quite place. His ears twitched violently, and his cheeks flushed a deep crimson. He turned sharply, swatting your hand away as his tail flicked behind him with a barely contained shudder.

You blinked, taken aback by the uncharacteristic reaction. "I—I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to startle you," you quickly stammered, raising both hands in surrender. "I won’t do that again."

Danfeng cleared his throat, trying to regain his composure. His eyes remained averted, but the pink dusting his face lingered stubbornly. "Good." His tone was firm, but the way he slightly shifted away from you spoke volumes.

Deciding not to push further, you allowed the moment to pass, though the curiosity still gnawed at you. On a more positive note, Dan Feng had started gaining friends through chess matches, and you were relieved to see him socializing beyond just clinging to you. Still, something about his past lingered in your thoughts, the way he had spoken about ‘battles’ when you first met.

Your suspicions solidified when you both realized you were running low on points for trading. A dungeon run was the most efficient way to replenish them, so you ventured inside together. That was when you finally understood the depth of his strength. The dungeon was teeming with creatures—some of them towering behemoths with godlike power, but none of them stood a chance.

Dan Feng didn’t just defeat them—he annihilated them with terrifying precision. His water magic twisted into elegant but deadly formations, cutting through enemies with almost artistic grace. Massive hydra-like beings fell within seconds, their roars of defiance silenced as waves crushed them into the ground. The air became thick with mist, swirling around him like a deity descending upon a battlefield.

Watching him fight was both mesmerizing and unsettling. His expression never wavered, calm, composed, and yet, there was something disturbingly natural about the way he wielded destruction. It was then you realized Dan Feng wasn't just powerful. He was something beyond that.

As the dungeon’s final enemy fell, the air shimmered, and a chest materialized before you. It was rare to see such a reward, so both you and Dan Feng approached with caution. You hesitated for a moment before lifting the lid together. Inside, nestled within the chest’s velvet-lined interior, were two items: a gleaming sword and an ornate ring.

You both examined the sword first. It was well-crafted, its blade humming faintly with residual energy, but neither of you used swords. After a brief discussion, you decided to sell it to the weapon merchant upon returning to town. However, when you reached for the ring, Danfeng’s hand moved faster, snatching it up before you could inspect it properly.

“I’ll keep this” he stated firmly, slipping it into his sleeve before you could protest.

You let it go for the moment, though curiosity gnawed at you. Dan Feng was not one to act so possessively over mere trinkets, and yet there was a glint in his eyes that you had never seen before.

Later that evening, while he busied himself with something in the kitchen, you caught sight of him turning the ring over in his hands, his thumb brushing over the intricate engravings with something close to reverence. When he noticed your gaze, he merely smirked and pocketed it once more, offering no explanation.

It wasn’t until much later, when the ring’s magic revealed itself—that you understood exactly why he had insisted on keeping it. When you woke up one morning, your wrist felt oddly warm, a faint golden glow emanating from it. You gasped as you realized a faint, ethereal chain connected you to Danfeng, who stood at the doorway watching you with an unreadable expression.

“You belong to me now” he murmured, his voice calm but firm. “This ring binds us together. No more sneaking away, no more hiding.”

The weight of his words settled in your chest as you stared at him, realization dawning. The ring wasn’t just a trinket, it was a claim. And you had unknowingly let him seal your fate.

[bloodnight-blaze]

“ kiss me under the mistletoe! ”

ft. xavier, zayne, rafayel, and sylus w a gn!reader.

synopsis: the holidays are long over, but that doesn't stop you from hanging up a mistletoe as an excuse to kiss your boyfriend.

notes: listen.... listen okay.... i can't wait until december to write this i have to get it out now.... lengths of each section may vary but i tried to keep it to an 8 paragraph maximum.

warnings: canon is vague so you decide, inaccurate timing of mistletoe i guess, very short and sweet and self-indulgent, just a lot of fluff and a lot of kissing, reader wears lipstick in raf's part bc i am desperate to cover that man in lipstick stains, zayne is a menace, sylus is also a menace, pet names used: cutie (r), sweetie (s).

XAVIER — is very confused when he wakes up from a nap to see mistletoe dangling in his face. Last he checked, it was the middle of January so he's fairly certain he didn't sleep the entire new year away. Though, it's not something that's entirely out of the question.

Behind the mistletoe he saw your smiling face, and you pull the plant away from him as he sits up, planting yourself right next to him and looking at him expectantly.

Xavier knew what the mistletoe meant, he just didn't quite understand why you were using it now, weeks after Christmas.

You don't seem at all concerned by the timing of this, just smiling at his confusion and raising the mistletoe up a bit as you speak, "This is the part where you kiss me, y'know,"

And while he might have some questions, he's never been one to deny you what you want.

A small huff of amusement, and then he's leaning in and pressing a soft kiss against your lips. You eagerly kissed back, barely able to contain the giddy smile on your face when the kiss breaks.

The smile on your face, coupled with the look of satisfaction in your gaze has him pulling you onto his lap, pressing a few more quick kisses to your lips before he's burying his face in your shoulder and letting out a small sigh.

His heart felt so warm, and even though he just woke up from a nap, he wouldn't mind falling back asleep like this. Which is exactly what he plans on doing, by the way, so any plans you had after your silly little idea are immediately canceled.

ZAYNE — would pretend not to notice it at first. He's not being mean, he just thinks the little frustrated pout you get when he acts like the mistletoe has always been there is cute, so he can't help himself. He's also curious to see just how far you'd go to get a kiss from him without having to ask.

It even becomes a game, of sorts, with Zayne sometimes acting as though he'd finally kiss you when standing under the mistletoe only to instead pat your head or press a kiss to your cheek.

You took his teasing as a challenge, and soon enough you somehow hung up mistletoe in all of the doorways in both your home and his. You even went as far as to hang one in the doorway of his office at the hospital.

A few of his coworkers had questioned him about it, and he couldn't stop the look of fondness that bleeds through his usual calm and collected demeanor, simply telling them that it wasn't any of their concern.

It all coalesces one night, maybe two or three weeks into trying to get a kiss under the mistletoe with him. He showed up at your apartment with dinner only to find you sitting at the kitchen counter, all the mistletoe you had put up set in a pile. Your arms were crossed, and you were glaring down at the plants as if they'd insulted you in some way.

"I give up," You say, a bit dejected. And Zayne feels a bit bad, admittedly, as he sets your dinner on the counter next to all the mistletoe. He doesn't really understand why you're trying to get an excuse to kiss him when you can just do it, but he'll humor you.

With a small sigh, he grabs one of the mistletoes and dangles it above your head. It's enough to get you to perk up, and you brighten immediately when he presses a kiss to your lips. It was quick, and when he pulled away, he mutters a soft, "Satisfied?"

"Hardly," You exhaled, but he covered your mouth with his hand before you could kiss him again, his lips quirking up in a slight smile at the frustrated sound that comes from you. You weren't getting anymore kisses until you ate dinner, no matter how pretty you looked with your puppy-dog eyes.

RAFAYEL — probably wouldn't even realize you had put mistletoe in the entryway of his home. At the very least, when he does notice it, he'll be far more interested in figuring out what shades of pant he could make with the plant rather than anything else.

You can't say you're shocked when you hurry back to his place after running a quick errand to find him crushing the mistletoe. You curse yourself for not buying a backup in case this scenario happened, but there wasn't much you could do.

That doesn't mean you were any less determined, however. The mistletoe may not longer be a plant, but it was in the paint he was making, and therefore the rules still applied, so.

Deciding to be patient, you would wait until Rafayel actually used the paint to make your move. The painting hung on his wall proudly when it was finished, a satisfied smile on his face as he watched you admire it for a few moments, "So? Would you say this is my new masterpiece, cutie?"

And you feign deep thought for a moment before you pull him down into a kiss. It wasn't heated, but it did last for a good second before you pulled away. Bewilderment in his eyes and a pretty blush dusting his ears and cheeks, you smile and simply nod to the painting on the wall, "Mistletoe."

It takes him a few moments to process your word, and his brows furrow slightly, "It's not even December," He says, though he certainly wasn't complaining when you pull him in for another kiss.

You kiss him until his face is covered in lipstick stains, and your lipstick was smeared. His breaths came out in small pants, a dazed look in his eyes when you finally pull away.

"...You're trying to kill me," He quietly accuses after catching his breath, and you can only laugh.

SYLUS — is rather amused when he steps into your apartment to see a thing of mistletoe dangling in the entranceway. He knew you were planning something from the moment you told him to stop by your place.

His amusement only grows when he sees you standing under the mistletoe, trying to appear as nonchalant as possible as he takes his jacket and shoes off. He doesn't need to ask questions, he's not a fool.

The mistletoe was there for a reason, one so glaringly obvious he couldn't help but feel a bit smug knowing that you were trying to find sneaky ways to kiss him. He was flattered, truly, but you didn't need to go to such lengths.

His hands were on your waist in an instant, and you don't miss the gleam in his eyes as he looks at you. Oh, he was never going to let you forget about this moment, and you were half tempted to pull away before he could get the chance to actually kiss you.

His lips capture yours before you can actually distance yourself from him, and it was much more gentle than you were probably expecting it to be. He kissed you like a man dying of thirst, and yet he controlled himself enough to not make you uncomfortable.

"You don't need to use a plant to kiss me, sweetie," He murmurs against your skin after breaking the kiss, instead taking to pressing light kisses against your jaw and neck.

The attention had your mind faltering for just a moment, and you grumble out a quiet 'whatever' before lightly pushing him away from you. You had to cover his mouth with your hand just to get him to stop kissing you. Not that it worked, because he just presses one against your palm, his gaze never leaving yours.

You're the one who wanted a kiss, even going as far as to bringing out mistletoe in the middle of January to achieve your goal. He's just simply giving you what you were asking for.

[tobesolnelyx]

Fratboy!Lottie fuck you on every car she has in order to christening them. Backseat, frontseat, hood of the car,..etc

— speed drive || fratboy!lottie matthews x fem!reader 🏁

a/n: kay, first of all, i know shit about cars. so we all say thank you to my friend, who also watched yellowjackets, and unlike me, knows something about cars. she helped me to pick them to this form i planned in my head <3

summary: three cars that lottie bought while dating you. three times she fucks you to christening them. smut.

warnings: NSFW — MDNI. g!p lottie. reader!receiving.

You see, Lottie had a thing for cars. If there was anything she liked collecting, it was them. I mean, she could—she had so much money (or at least her parents did) that she could afford to collect cars. And the fact that she sometimes crashed one or two? Didn’t matter. Maybe her dad would scream at her for five minutes, only to buy her a new one the next day.

At least she drove a lot safer when you were in the passenger seat. You had your own place there—definitely playing passenger princess. Your stuff was stashed in every single glove compartment. Lottie would mutter under her breath that you were making a mess, but she never actually told you to stop. In fact, she’d clean up after you.

She didn’t even say anything when you left a sticker on the steering wheel of her Corvette. She just glared, adjusted her cap, and let out a small huff. So yeah—Lottie was pretty much head over heels for you.

Besides, you were the one getting fucked in her cars. She never used to do that. She once complained that some random girl might mess up her seats. But you? She wouldn’t even care if the leather was glistening with your cum.

Ferrari 250.

The first time happened at her parents’ mansion. They were throwing a party for her 21st birthday, so of course you were there.

Like a proud toddler showing off a new toy, she dragged you into the garage, car keys dangling from her hand as she stood proudly next to it.

“What do you think?” It was a new blue one—her dad had bought it as a gift. And okay, sure, it was pretty. You didn’t know much about cars, though.

You finally walked over and stood in front of the hood, fingers tracing the polished surface. “I mean…” you started. Her arms wrapped around your waist from behind, chin resting on your shoulder. You smiled, tapping the hood. “It’s a nice one,” you finally said, eyes flicking to the seats through the front window.

“Yeah?” she murmured near your ear. Her hands slid down to grip your hips, tugging you back against the bulge in her pants. “’Cause I think something’s missing,” she whispered, slipping her hands under the fabric of the dress she bought you.

Your breath quickened. Pulse racing. She pressed teasing kisses to your neck.

“Like what?” you breathed, and she smiled against your jaw. Jesus Christ—her entire family was still in the living room.

“It’s a new one,” she said, and suddenly spun you around. Her hands grabbed the backs of your thighs, and then your back hit the cold hood. You shivered—maybe not just from the temperature. “It needs a… christening.”

“Oh really?” you asked, amused. But your smile faltered when her hands undid her belt. It clattered to the floor. You clenched your thighs, but she pushed them apart firmly.

She dropped her jeans and boxers, glancing once at the garage door. You could still hear her family inside. That only seemed to turn her on more. She was already stroking herself lazily.

You thought she’d just push in, but instead, she leaned down. Her fingers peeled off your panties—already soaked—and she smirked, tossing them aside. “I want you to cum all over it,” she said, locking eyes with you. “Keep quiet before someone starts looking for us.”

You blinked once, twice, then nodded.

“Good girl,” she smirked. She pushed your legs wide—almost too wide—and her hand slid down to stroke herself as her tongue slipped inside you.

You squirmed, muffling your moans with your hand, biting down as she slurped at your cunt, fingers gripping her hair, thighs trembling around her head.

You whimpered too loud when she moaned into you.

One hand was pumping her cock while the other rubbed your clit in tight circles.

You came hard, back arching off the hood, and she pulled back just to watch your arousal drip onto the polished blue surface.

Then she licked it clean.

Ferrari Testarossa 1987.

The next time was in the college parking lot, when she picked you up after class. It was your monthly date.

She had her sunglasses on, scrolling mindlessly through her phone, leaning on yet another new car. You weren’t sure what happened to the last one—maybe she just switched them.

“New?” you asked, approaching and nodding at the car. She smiled, pressing a kiss to your forehead, slipping her phone away and pulling you in by the waist.

“Uh-huh,” she confirmed, peppering your forehead with kisses like she hadn’t seen you in weeks—even though she had. That morning. Not that you were complaining.

“I thought it’d be better for our dates,” she shrugged.

She cupped your face, tilting her head. “Y’know the deal, baby.”

In the blink of an eye, she pushed you into the backseat. She didn’t crawl in with you. She just tugged you down, legs spread open, panties pushed aside. Her hands were already gripping your hips when she pushed herself inside you. The whole length. Her balls smashed against you with a force that knocked air out of your lungs.

She waited for a minute, and then she started pumping into you fast and rough. Making whole car moving from the force of her thrusts.

“Shit,” she breathed. “Fucking take it.”

Her hands finally gripped the car roof as she pounded into you. The parking lot was mostly empty—but someone could walk by. Not like you cared

You both came hard, messing up the seats.

C5 Corvette.

Then it happened in a damn car dealership.

She dragged you along to help her pick a new one. “Come on, you don’t have to know anything. You’ll just pick the prettiest one.”

You agreed—even if you didn’t have a driver’s license—because at least you could choose which expensive car to get fucked in.

The salesman was droning on, trying to push the most expensive model. You weren’t paying attention. You understood none of it.

“This one’s pretty,” you said, pointing to the black Corvette. Lottie looked at you, squeezed your hand, and turned to the salesman.

“We’re getting this one,” she said with a smirk. He nodded eagerly, thrilled to make the sale.

“You can try it out. I’ll get the paperwork ready,” he said with a polite smile before disappearing.

Lottie took “try it out” a little too seriously.

She climbed into the driver’s seat and immediately pulled you onto her lap. Her hands slid down, pushing your pants aside, undoing her jeans. Before you could process what was happening, you were riding her—frantic, breathless, muffling your moans into her shoulder.

She panted into your ear, urging you to bounce faster.

“Good choice,” she said, breathless but smiling. “I think I like it.”

[meinii]

“high school sweethearts”

summary: you and Sylus start dating while in high school ૮꒰ྀི⸝⸝> . <⸝⸝꒱ྀིა

content: fluff, use of nicknames (sweetheart, my girl)

୨୧･｡｡･♡･∴･♡･｡｡･୨୧

the first time you met Sylus, you never imagined he’d become the person you couldn’t live without

he was notorious around school—sharp-witted, effortlessly cool, and somehow always at the center of every bit of mischief. teachers either loved or hated him, depending on the day. classmates admired him, feared him, or wished they were him. but you? you were different. you weren’t caught up in his reputation, nor were you particularly fazed by the smirks and cocky remarks he threw your way

maybe that’s why he liked you so much

“hey, you dropped something” Sylus had said one afternoon, just as you were packing up your things after class

you turned, only to find him standing behind you, dangling your pen between his fingers

you reached for it, but he pulled it just out of reach

“say please” he teased, red eyes glinting with amusement

“Sylus.”

he chuckled, finally placing the pen in your palm. but instead of walking away, he leaned in a little closer, watching you with the kind of intensity that made your breath catch

“you always so serious?”

“you always this annoying?”

his grin widened “only for you, sweetheart”

and from then on, Sylus had made it his personal mission to become a permanent part of your life.

dating Sylus in high school was an experience all on its own

he wasn’t the type to hide how he felt. he was bold, unashamed, and completely, utterly yours

he made sure everyone knew it too

he’d drape his blazer over your shoulders whenever you got cold, despite your protests that he needed it. he’d walk you to class, even if it meant showing up late to his own. he’d lean against your desk during lessons, whispering things in your ear just to see you flustered, all while feigning complete innocence when the teacher caught him

“pay attention, Sylus” you’d hiss under your breath

“oh, I am,” he’d murmur, lips barely inches from your ear “just not to the lesson.”

you swore he lived to tease you, to push your buttons just enough to earn that exasperated look you always gave him

but Sylus wasn’t just trouble

he was also the boy who carried your books when your bag was too heavy, the boy who sat with you on the rooftop during lunch when you needed quiet, the boy who knew exactly how you liked your coffee and brought it to you without fail before early morning exams

he was the boy who kissed you softly when no one was looking, like you were something precious

one afternoon, you found him waiting for you by the school gates, hands in his pockets, looking as effortlessly cool as ever

you raised a brow “waiting for someone?”

he smirked “yeah. my girl.”

your face heated, but you rolled your eyes, already used to his shamelessness. “and if your girl doesn’t want to walk home with you today?”

he tilted his head, stepping closer “then I’d have to convince her”

before you could react, he reached into his bag and pulled out a small paper bag, pressing it into your hands

confused, you peeked inside. your favorite pastries

you looked up at him, skeptical “bribery?”

he grinned “persuasion.”

you huffed, but you couldn’t hide the small smile tugging at your lips. “fine. but only because I’m hungry”

Sylus chuckled, throwing an arm around your shoulders as the two of you started walking “whatever you say, sweetheart”

one evening, as the two of you sat on the bleachers after school, watching the sky turn shades of pink and gold, Sylus nudged your knee with his

“ever think about the future?” he asked, gaze fixed on the horizon

you hummed “sometimes”

he was quiet for a moment, then, softer—“you think we’ll still be together?”

the question caught you off guard. Sylus rarely voiced his deeper thoughts, always covering them with smirks and teasing remarks

you turned to face him, searching his expression

“I don’t know,” you admitted honestly “but I’d like to think so”

his lips quirked up, but there was something different in his eyes. something vulnerable

he reached for your hand, intertwining your fingers with his.

“then I’ll make sure of it.”

Sylus was your high school sweetheart—the boy who stole your heart so effortlessly, the boy who made you laugh, who drove you crazy, who held you like you were the most important thing in the world

and years later, when you looked back, you knew

you wouldn’t have had it any other way.

[aliyahwritings]

THE CONTRACTED HEART — Rafe Cameron (07)

MASTERLIST | Basketball Player & Model!Female Reader

Summary: Rafe Cameron, a basketball star, needs a marriage to fix his image, while Model!Reader needs one for citizenship. They may be the perfect solution for each other.

Warnings: smut, descriptions of violence, jealousy, usage of drugs, talks about body image/ed, angst, and lots of bickering. Reader is confident, a people-pleaser, has a traumatic past, and is a sunshine with an attitude. Rafe is a whore, possessive, cocky, and secretive about his past.

Word Count: 8.1k

Aliyah's Notes: the way i wanted this chapter to be around 5k... but anyw, the ending to that chapter is pretty good so y'all can rest in peace lmaoo but problems are coming hehehehehe

The sound of her heels clicking on the pavement cut through the evening air, each step echoing louder than the last. You barely registered the chill of the evening as her figure came into view—Chiara Romano, arms folded over her chest, her expression a delicate balance of innocence and something unmistakably venomous. A small, mocking smile played at the corners of her lips, her gaze roaming over you with the kind of appraisal that felt like a slap.

Beside you, Rafe tensed, his gaze hardening as he straightened, clearly prepared for whatever barbs she had in store. You forced yourself to stand taller, meeting her gaze with a coolness you could barely muster.

“Chiara,” you said, injecting a polite edge into your voice that you knew was as fake as her smile. “I wasn’t expecting to see you here.”

She tilted her head, her eyes glinting with amusement. “Oh, I just felt like things ended a bit... strange at the party,” she replied, her tone sugary sweet yet laced with something bitter. “Especially after seeing the headlines about you.” She let out a small sigh, as though feigning concern. “I couldn’t help but worry.”

A sharp laugh almost slipped from your lips. The headlines. She was talking about the recent media talking about your “potential” relapse… which were true. News of your recent struggles had been going viral, and she was here to dangle them in front of you. The reality of your relapse was raw, but admitting it—especially to Chiara—was out of the question.

“Did you, now?” You kept your voice light, your smile tight as you watched her closely.

“Of course,” she nodded, her eyes darting pointedly between you and Rafe, her expression softening with feigned empathy. “Us girls have to look out for each other,” she added, a hint of mock sincerity weaving through her words. “I just hope Rafe’s taking excellent care of you. I mean, if he’s able to.”

You fought the urge to roll your eyes or worse—to let your anger slip through. Instead, you returned her smile with a casual shrug. “He is, thank you,” you replied, forcing your tone to stay neutral. “And I’m doing just fine. I haven’t relapsed—.”

“You sure?” she pressed, her voice a touch too innocent. “You look... thinner than I remember.”

You felt a twisted sort of satisfaction creeping in, an internal smile that you kept hidden. It was strange—almost absurd—but her attempt to make you feel small, to jab at your insecurities, did the opposite. She said it to be cruel; she thought her words would cut you deeply. But instead, they landed somewhere softer, failing to sting the way she intended.

Rafe’s voice cut through the tension, his tone sharp and commanding, filled with an authority that even you hadn’t heard from him before. “Alright, that’s enough,” he warned, his words laced with a chill that could silence a room. “Keep talking like that, and you’ll be the one making headlines.”

Chiara’s gaze flicked to Rafe, her lips curling into a sly smile, undeterred by his warning. “Oh, Rafe, always so protective,” she cooed, her tone dripping with mock innocence. “I thought we were past all that. After all, we did come here together.”

You blinked, the words sinking in like a stone dropping into still water, each ripple spreading through you. “You… came here with him?” you asked, keeping your voice steady, though your heart was pounding.

Chiara’s smile widened, a hint of triumph in her expression. “Of course. We just thought it’d be convenient, didn’t we, Rafe?”

Your eyes shifted to him, searching his face for any denial, some sign that this was just another one of her games. But Rafe stayed silent, his expression tinged with guilt, lips pressed together as if he didn’t trust himself to speak.

He had, in fact, come with her.

The air thick, with Chiara’s truth and Rafe’s guilty silence. Every moment he said nothing, the disappointment pooled deeper in your chest, twisting painfully.

You crossed your arms, your gaze hardening as you looked at him. “Convenient?” The word slipped from your mouth, laced with bitter disbelief. “Convenient for who, exactly?”

Rafe opened his mouth, struggling to find the right words, but nothing came out. His jaw clenched, and for a moment, he looked like he might deny it, try to explain. But his shoulders sagged slightly, defeated, as he glanced away.

Chiara’s voice broke the silence, her tone feigning sympathy. “Oh, don’t be upset. It’s not like you’re the only woman in his life, right?” She leaned back with a satisfied smile, clearly relishing the wedge she’d managed to drive between you.

“Alright, you know what?” you said, forcing a calm into your voice that belied the anger bubbling beneath the surface. “I don’t really care what arrangement you two have. But what I’d like to know, Chiara, is why you’re actually here. What do you want?”

Chiara’s smile faltered, just for a fraction of a second, before she recovered, her expression shifting to a mischievous glint. “I’m here to support my father’s event, naturally,” she replied smoothly. “But I couldn’t resist the chance to catch up with Rafe and see how… everything’s going with you two.”

You felt the anger begin to surge again, but you reined it in, straightening and lifting your chin. “Then let’s hope tonight’s as memorable as you’re expecting.” You threw a final look at Rafe, disappointment flickering in your gaze.

With that, you walked toward the car and sat in the passenger seat, forcing yourself to ignore the ache in your chest as you disappeared into the throng of people.

From the corner of your eye, you watched Rafe and Chiara exchange a few heated words. His jaw clenched as he spoke, his eyes narrowed in a way that told you he was holding back the anger simmering just beneath the surface. Chiara, on the other hand, looked anything but apologetic, her expression smug as she responded with an air of indifference. You couldn't hear what they were saying, but every movement, every flash of irritation in Rafe’s eyes only deepened the tight knot of frustration in your chest.

Before long, they finally turned, heading toward the car, and you forced yourself to look away and just focus on the city lights ahead of you. The silence that filled the car was thick, unbearably tense. The engine hummed beneath you, but the weight of everything unsaid made each passing second feel longer. You kept your eyes on the window, refusing to break the silence, even as your exhaustion began to creep in, your eyelids growing heavy.

Just as you started to drift, you felt him lean forward, his breath warm against your ear as he broke the silence, his voice low and soft. “I’m sorry,” he murmured, the apology laced with a vulnerability that caught you off guard.

You exhaled sharply, holding back the initial pang of anger. “You’re sorry?” you replied, your tone dripping with sarcasm as you finally turned to face him, one eyebrow raised. “For what, exactly? For keeping me in the dark? For thinking I wouldn’t notice you driving here with her?”

Rafe’s expression softened, his guilt evident as he held your gaze, searching for the right words. “It wasn’t like that. She… she just showed up. I didn’t think—”

You scoffed, cutting him off. “That’s the problem. You didn’t think. Or maybe you did, and just didn’t care to clue me in.” As his apology hung in the air, you couldn’t help but let out a bitter laugh, shaking your head. “Unbelievable,” you muttered, refusing to look at him. “So what, Cameron? You thought I’d just sit there and take it?”

He shifted closer, his voice strained. “I told you, it wasn’t like that. I didn’t invite her. She just… she knew I was coming here, and it felt easier to—”

“Easier?” You turned in your seat to face him, disbelief and frustration clear in your eyes. “Easier for who, exactly? Because it sure as hell wasn’t easier for me.”

Rafe’s gaze dropped, his fingers tapping nervously on the steering wheel. “Look, I know how it looks, but… she was already in the car before I could even think about it. I didn’t want to make a scene.”

You narrowed your eyes, unimpressed. “So, you thought the best plan was to just go along with her? To let her be seen with you, knowing exactly how that would make me look?”

“Y/N, I know I messed up, okay?” He leaned closer, the regret in his eyes almost palpable. “I was just trying to keep things calm. I didn’t want it to turn into something it didn’t have to be.”

“Oh, so you didn’t want to ‘make a scene’ with her, but now you’re perfectly fine with making me feel like an idiot?” you shot back, folding your arms. “How considerate of you.”

Rafe let out a sigh, rubbing his temples. “Can’t you just trust that I was doing what I thought was right?”

You rolled your eyes, the bitterness evident in your tone. “I don’t trust you.” You turned away, staring at the passing lights outside. "And you’re only apologizing now because you got caught."

He was silent for a moment, the weight of your words settling in. “I don’t want to keep doing this, Y/N,” he said quietly. “I don’t want you to feel like this… like I don’t care.”

You laughed, but it was a hollow sound. “Then stop giving me reasons to feel this way.”

You leaned against the window, arms crossed, eyes fixed on the passing city lights. During the car ride, Chiara, for once, seemed to get the hint and kept her mouth shut, though every so often you caught her glancing at Rafe through the rearview mirror. Rafe, on the other hand, drove with a steady determination, occasionally glancing at you as though he was waiting for you to say something—anything—that might break the unbearable quiet. But you refused to give him that satisfaction, and instead, kept your focus outward, on anything but the two people in the car with you.

As the car rolled to a stop in front of the charity venue, Chiara was quick to jump out, immediately making a beeline for her father, who was waiting near the entrance. The flash of photographers’ cameras lit up the scene, and she threw a gleeful smile their way, basking in the attention as she reached her father’s side.

You took a steady breath and turned to Rafe, letting out a sigh that seemed to carry every ounce of frustration you’d been holding onto. He was watching you, his expression caught somewhere between apology and uncertainty.

“Alright, Cameron,” you began, forcing a professional tone. “Let’s get this over with. We need a story to tell about how we met, so listen to me; we met through a mutual friend at some rooftop party in the city. You were immediately smitten.”

“Smitten?” he repeated, arching an eyebrow. His mouth curved into a playful grin. “Strong word there. Don’t know if I’ve ever been ‘smitten.’”

“Well, you have now,” you said without missing a beat. “We sat at the same table, and you told me some fake, but charming story about how you don’t like crowds and would rather be anywhere else.”

“So, I’m just a liar?” he said with a grin.

“Yes, apparently,” you said, your voice flat as you rolled your eyes.

“That’s deserved, alright,” he shrugged, and leaned closer. “But, let’s make this fun. How about we tweak the story a bit? Let’s say you chased me down after that rooftop party, practically begging for my number.”

“You must be high,” you scoffed, looking at him like he’d just suggested the earth was flat. “No one would believe I’d chase after you. Besides, I’d rather walk across hot coals than let people think I was desperate for you.”

Rafe gave a lighthearted shrug, clearly entertained by your reaction. “Alright, but if anyone asks, I’ll just say I was the reluctant charmer who had to be convinced.”

You couldn’t help the sarcastic laugh that slipped out. “Yeah, because nothing says ‘charm’ like ghosting someone for two weeks.”

He winced but quickly recovered, that easy smirk slipping back into place. “Ouch. Alright, I deserved that one too. But admit it, you’d be impressed if I played hard-to-get. It’d add some mystery to our ‘relationship.’”

You deadpanned, “It’d add some credibility if you remembered the actual story. Try to keep up with the backstory, Cameron. We’re supposed to be in love, remember?”

Rafe placed a hand on his heart, feigning a wounded expression. “So cruel. Here I am, pouring my heart out, and you’re just brushing me off like I’m nothing.”

You stared at him, unimpressed. “How does that feel, huh? To be brushed off?”

His smile dropped immediately. “I’ll stick to the script. Mutual friends, a little bit of rooftop magic, and me falling head over heels. Got it.”

“Good. And try to remember: we’ve been dating long enough that you’d know basic things, like my favorite color and the fact that I don’t like seafood.”

“Got it,” he said with a nod, giving you a mock salute. Then, with a sly grin, he added, “Anything else I should know? Like, if you’ve got a celebrity crush, maybe?”

You rolled your eyes, fighting the urge to smile despite yourself. “This is a charity event, Cameron, not a middle school dance. Stick to the basics, and we’ll be fine.”

He held up his hands in mock surrender. “Alright, boss. Just wanted to know if I’ve got any competition out there.”

You couldn’t help but scoff. “Trust me, you’d know if there was competition.”

The banter fell into a comfortable silence, the tension lifting slightly as you both prepared for the performance ahead. But as you glanced out the window, watching Chiara drape herself over her father’s arm like she owned the place, the humor faded, and a steely resolve settled over you.

Rafe must have noticed, because he leaned forward, his expression growing more serious. “Hey, I know tonight’s going to be… less than ideal,” he said, his tone softening. “But we’ve got this. Just follow my lead if things get tricky, alright?”

You looked at him, skepticism still lingering, but his sincerity caught you off guard. “Let’s just keep this professional,” you replied, but your tone was gentler, almost reluctant.

“Deal,” he said, giving you a small, genuine smile. “Let’s make ‘em believe it.”

With that, he opened his door and walked around to your side, offering you his hand as you stepped out. You hesitated, then took it, maintaining a cool composure as camera flashes went off around you. The crowd erupted in a flurry of clicks and flashes, and you could already hear the low hum of voices speculating about the two of you.

Rafe leaned down slightly, his hand resting lightly on your back as he guided you forward. “Smile like you’re the happiest you’ve ever been,” he whispered, his tone playful but warm. “And maybe… just pretend you don’t want to strangle me for a few minutes.”

You tilted your head, flashing him a fake, overly-sweet smile. “Oh, trust me, that’ll be the hardest part.”

He chuckled, giving the reporters a charming wave as he leaned in, whispering back, “Keep smiling like that, and people might actually believe you like me.”

You leaned in closer, maintaining the smile for the cameras. “Don’t get too comfortable. This is just for show.”

“Right,” he whispered, a teasing glint in his eye. “But if we happen to have a little fun, is that so bad?”

Before you could answer, Chiara’s voice rang out over the crowd, all fake sweetness as she greeted her father, loudly proclaiming her excitement for the event. You caught Rafe’s eye, sharing a look of silent exasperation.

“Stick to the story. Don’t slip up.”

“Got it, boss,” he whispered back, his tone lighthearted as he gave you a quick wink. “Let’s go give them a show.”

You sipped your champagne, feigning interest in the event as your gaze flickered over the crowd, hoping to find something—anything—to break up the monotony. Conversations about Rafe’s latest matches, your recent shoot for Vogue, and even the upcoming Chanel campaign rolled through the evening like clockwork, the same pleasantries exchanged over and over. Rafe played his part perfectly, always flashing that magnetic smile, leaning in as if every word you said was his world. You kept a poised expression, smiling when necessary, but each compliment and question blended into the next, leaving you restless.

Just as you managed to suppress a yawn, a commanding voice sounded from behind. “Y/N Y/L/N, the woman of the hour.” You turned, and there stood Charles Kensington, a CEO of one of the event’s largest sponsors, known as much for his relentless pursuit of younger models as for his cutthroat business strategies. He extended a hand with a smirk that was more predatory than friendly, his gaze sweeping over you with an appreciation that lingered far too long. “I’m Charles Kesington. It’s a pleasure.”

“Likewise,” you replied politely, giving him a polite smile as you shook his hand. “And congratulations on your company’s recent acquisition. Impressive move.”

Charles smiled, clearly pleased. “Ah, you’ve been keeping up, I see. You’re as sharp as they say.” His gaze lingered, a touch too intense, and his hand remained over yours a second longer than necessary. “And I must say, even more beautiful in person. Your upcoming campaign with Chanel is already causing quite a buzz.”

Rafe’s arm tightened around your waist as he turned to face Charles, his smile polite but lacking warmth. “Nice to see you, Charles.”

Charles nodded at Rafe, though his attention stayed firmly on you. “I’ve seen your work everywhere recently,” he said, his voice dropping into an intimate tone. “Chanel made a wise choice—although I’d argue that any brand would be lucky to have you representing them.”

“Thank you,” you replied coolly, catching the faint annoyance in Rafe’s jaw as it clenched. But Charles either didn’t notice or didn’t care.

“You’re too kind, Mr. Kensington,” you replied, ignoring the way his eyes drifted over you. “And thank you. I’m honored to be working with such a renowned brand.”

“Oh, please,” he said, dismissing the formality with a wave of his hand. “Call me Charles. You know, I’d love to see you star in one of our campaigns someday. I’d love to discuss a potential collaboration over dinner,” he added, his voice lowering just enough to feel like a private invitation, despite Rafe’s presence.

You forced a polite laugh, though you felt Rafe’s grip tighten again. “Thank you, Charles. That’s very generous but—”

Rafe cleared his throat, the sound deliberate. “Actually, Y/N’s schedule is pretty packed for the next few months,” he said, his tone friendly but laced with an unmistakable edge. “With the Chanel campaign, her other upcoming works, and our time together, I’m not sure there’s room for much else.”

Charles raised an eyebrow, glancing at Rafe with an amused smile, as if he’d only just noticed him standing there. “Ah, Mr. Cameron. Quite a lucky man, aren’t you?”

Rafe’s jaw tightened, but he managed a tight smile. “I’d say so.”

Charles leaned a bit closer, his attention fixed back on you. “Well, if you ever find a free moment, I’d be more than happy to take you on a tour of our headquarters. You know, just to chat about future opportunities.”

The thinly veiled invitation hung in the air, and you felt a slight discomfort, but you kept your smile in place. “Thank you for the offer, Charles. But as my boyfriend mentioned, I’m quite busy these days.”

Charles’ gaze flicked between the two of you, his smile widening slightly, clearly enjoying the tension he’d stirred up. “Of course. I understand entirely,” he replied smoothly, offering you a final lingering look before excusing himself.

The moment he was out of earshot, Rafe turned to you, his expression thunderous. “What the hell was that?”

You blinked, feigning innocence. “What was what?”

“That guy was practically undressing you with his eyes,” he muttered, his tone low and irritated. “And you didn’t seem too bothered by it.”

You raised an eyebrow, unfazed. “Maybe because I don’t see the point in making a scene over a harmless conversation.”

Rafe scoffed, his hand still firmly around your waist. “Harmless? That guy was two seconds away from asking for your number.”

You rolled your eyes, barely managing to hide your smirk. “Jealous, Cameron?”

Rafe’s gaze hardened, and he leaned in closer, his voice barely above a whisper. “If you think I’m just going to stand there while some old fucker tries to flirt with you, you’re wrong.”

The intensity in his voice sent a flicker of satisfaction through you, though you kept your expression neutral. “Relax, Mike Tyson. It was just a conversation. It’s not like he’s the first man to ever show interest in me.”

“Yeah, well,” he muttered, his eyes narrowing, “he should know you’re off-limits.”

You shot him a sidelong glance, amused by his possessiveness. “Is that right? I don’t recall signing any contract that says I’m ‘off-limits.’”

His grip tightened, his face a mixture of frustration and something else—something deeper, something he was clearly trying to suppress. “You’re my girlfriend and about to become my wife, consider it an unspoken rule, then.”

You felt a thrill at his words, but you kept your tone casual. “If that’s the case, maybe you should make it more convincing.”

He leaned closer, his hand brushed against your cheek, fingers lingering just enough to send a spark through you. “Convincing?”

His eyes never left yours, flickering briefly to your lips, and you could feel the heat building between you, a tension that seemed to stretch out endlessly. The hum of the event around you began to fade, and suddenly, it was as if there was no one else in the room—just the two of you, drawn together by something that felt far more complicated than a simple arrangement.

His breath, warm and steady against your skin, made your pulse quicken. You found yourself instinctively closing your eyes as his face came even closer, the space between you narrowing with every passing second. The moment was electric, charged with an undeniable pull that you could no longer ignore.

For the briefest moment, you forgot all the reasons you’d been upset with him in the first place. His proximity, the way he looked at you, the way his lips seemed so close—it was almost impossible to think about anything else. You ached to feel him again, to taste his lips, to feel the weight of his body against yours. All that mattered was the way your skin burned for him, how every nerve in you seemed to come alive at the thought of him touching you again. You wanted him. 

Desperately.

But just before his lips touched yours, a familiar voice cut through the quiet intensity.

"Y/N! There you are!” Aisha’s voice was bright and unapologetic, carrying her trademark liveliness that filled any room. Startled, you and Rafe pulled apart just in time to see her approach, her arms outstretched and a radiant smile on her face.

You could only laugh as she practically tackled you with a hug, pulling you in tightly. Standing just a few inches taller than you, her warm brown skin glowed against the dark emerald of her satin dress, a color that complemented her deeply curly hair that cascaded freely around her shoulders. Her high cheekbones and almond-shaped eyes sparkled with joy, her makeup accentuating her features with a natural, dewy look and a bold cat-eye makeup.

"Oh my God!" you managed through your laughter. "I had no idea you’d arrived already."

She finally released you from the hug but kept her hands on your shoulders, looking you over with a proud, glowing smile. “As if I’d miss this! You look absolutely breathtaking, girl—that dress was made for you. No one else could do it justice.”

You spun around, letting the fabric fan out as you struck a playful pose. “You really like it?”

“Like it? I am in-freaking-love, are you serious?” she squealed, and the two of you burst into laughter, clapping your hands together with giddy excitement. “I’ve missed you so much.”

You pressed a hand to your forehead, sighing dramatically. “I’ve missed you way more—can you believe it’s only been a year and I’m already involved with a white man? Truly, how crazy is that?”

Aisha’s gaze snapped to Rafe, who stood a little behind you, clearly surprised to be noticed so suddenly. You stifled a laugh as he shifted, scratching the back of his neck awkwardly. Aisha's eyes narrowed slightly as she took him in, her gaze appraising and unblinking, as if she was assessing him for every possible flaw.

“Rafe Cameron, meet Aisha Patel—my best friend,” you said, tugging Aisha closer. “Aisha, this is Rafe, my... boyfriend.”

She didn’t say a word, just let her eyes scan him from head to toe with a critical intensity. You recognized this familiar expression—it was her way of warning anyone interested in you that hurting you would come with consequences. She always put your partners through this silent scrutiny, hoping to rattle them and make it clear they had to earn her approval.

Rafe, though clearly aware of her intent, extended his hand, maintaining an uneasy but polite smile. “Nice to meet you, Aisha.”

For a split second, she didn’t budge, letting the moment stretch just long enough to make him shift uncomfortably. You quickly grabbed her hand, easing it into his before she could escalate the standoff. “She’s usually much friendlier, I swe—”

“My dad has a gun,” she said quietly, her tone so flat it made the tension in the air sharpen. “And he taught me how to use it.”

You laughed a little, trying to ease the weight of her words. “She’s just kidding… right?”

But she didn’t break. Her gaze stayed fixed on Rafe, unwavering. “Only one way to find out, Rafe Cameron,” she replied coldly.

Rafe’s eyes flickered, and after a long moment, he dropped his gaze with a tight nod. “Guess I know where Y/N got her threatening techniques from,” he said with a small grin, the usual smugness back in his voice.

His expression, so casual and light, cut deeper than you expected. It felt like he knew exactly what he was doing, toying with a conversation he’d read from a distance and kept deliberately unanswered. He’d seen your texts, read every one of them, and left them cold and untouched. You felt the hurt creeping up in a way that left you exposed, vulnerable in a way you swore you wouldn’t be around him.

You pulled in a slow breath, forcing your face back to neutral, hoping Aisha wouldn’t notice the flicker of pain in your eyes. She turned to say something to Rafe, and you straightened, pulling your walls up as fast as you could, sealing the hurt beneath a calm you’d mastered. Just one more second, and no one would ever know.

Aisha leaned forward, curious but amused. “So… how’d you two meet?”

You shot Rafe a quick look, and he gave a subtle nod, leaving you to tell the story. “We met a few months back at this party,” you started.

“Rooftop party,” Rafe corrected, unable to resist chiming in.

“Right, a rooftop party,” you agreed, giving him a playful look. “And the second he laid eyes on me, he was enchanted—absolutely down bad,” you teased, letting a smirk cross your face.

Rafe raised an eyebrow, giving a mock-serious nod. “Completely leveled me. Could barely walk straight after that.”

“Completely down bad,” you agreed, tilting your head with a smile. “Apparently, my beauty was just too blinding. He had no choice but to come talk to me, and once he did? Well, he realized I was so much more than a pretty face. He was hooked on how charming, funny, and—”

“And how sassy she was,” Rafe finished, his gaze lingering on you for a beat longer than necessary.

Aisha looked between the two of you, raising an eyebrow. “Sassy with you? Really?”

Rafe laughed, running a hand through his hair. “That mouth of hers—I swear, there’s not a single day where she’s not giving me that attitude,” he added with a soft smile in your direction.

“Interesting… Very interesting.” Aisha looked between you two with a grin, shaking her head. “And, what happened after that?”

Rafe leaned back, crossing his arms as he tried to act casual. "Well, after that, I pretty much chased her down just to get a date," he said with a smirk. "The rest is history."

You rolled your eyes, waving a dismissive hand. "Oh, he’s underselling it. He spent weeks trying to get my number, asking me out every day on Instagram, but I wasn’t having it. I kept hearing all these things about him…"

"Like what?" Aisha leaned in, eyes widening in anticipation.

"That he was a total player," you said, pausing for effect, earning a gasp from Aisha that you matched with a knowing nod. Meanwhile, Rafe just chuckled, shaking his head at your theatrics. "I know, girl!" you went on, shooting Rafe a playful look. "But he finally convinced me to go on a date… and he actually wasn’t so bad. So I gave him another shot, and, well…" You shrugged, glancing over at him with a smile. "Here we are."

Aisha took it all in, folding her arms and tapping her fingers thoughtfully.

“Wow,” she said, eyeing him with newfound curiosity. “I didn’t peg you for the persistent type, Rafe. Especially not with someone like my girl.”

Rafe shot her a confident smile, though there was a quiet warmth in his expression that didn’t quite match the usual cocky bravado. “Yeah, she’s special. Knew it from the moment I saw her.”

You couldn’t help the warmth that rushed through you at his words, a sudden rush of affection you hadn’t expected, especially not in front of Aisha. There was something in the way he looked at you that made the air feel thicker, charged with something unspoken. It sent an unexpected flutter through your chest, a reminder that underneath all the tension, the public facade, and the expectations, there was still something raw between you—something that felt real in a way you hadn’t quite anticipated. 

“Smooth talker, huh?” you teased, nudging Rafe lightly with your elbow. “You’re really laying it on thick tonight, aren’t you?”

Aisha’s sharp eyes flicked between you both, her protective instincts clearly on high alert. “Yeah, I’m picking up on that. But just so you know, Rafe, I’ve got my eye on you. You hurt her, and you won’t just be dealing with me, you’ll be dealing with my dad, too.”

Rafe’s lips curved into a smile, but there was something more guarded behind his eyes now, as though he recognized the weight of her words. “I get it,” he said, his voice low and steady. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”

Aisha seemed to size him up for a moment longer, letting the silence stretch just enough to make the air thick with tension. Then, after what felt like an eternity, she gave a slow nod, her stance softening just a little. “Alright, I’ll take your word for it,” she said, her tone easing. “But I’m still watching.”

You felt a strange sense of pride at that. Aisha had always been fiercely protective of you, and while it sometimes grated on your nerves, you knew deep down it was just because she cared. No one had ever had your back the way she did. You weren’t sure if Rafe fully understood that yet, but from the way he glanced at her—slightly uncertain, but respectful—you could tell he was beginning to get the message.

“Enough of the heavy shit,” Aisha said, breaking the tension with a clap of her hands and a sudden bright smile. “This is supposed to be fun, right? I’m here to celebrate, and I’m done with the interrogation. So, let’s have some fucking fun!”

You laughed, the sound light and genuine as you clinked your glass with hers. The champagne sparkled in your hand, and for the first time that evening, you felt a sense of relief. The weight of the conversation had shifted from uncomfortable to just... amusing. Aisha was nothing if not relentless in her approach, but you appreciated the way she could lighten any situation, especially when it felt like the pressure of your fake engagement was hanging over your head like a storm cloud.

“To my best friend and her very determined boyfriend,” Aisha toasted, her grin widening. “May you both drive each other crazy for a long, long time!”

You couldn’t help but roll your eyes, a playful smile tugging at your lips. “Thanks, Aish’. Really. A long, long time,” you echoed, sipping from your glass as she gave you a knowing look.

As the evening wore on, the atmosphere began to shift. The crowd mingled, voices rose and fell in an endless tide of conversation, and the hum of background music seemed to fade into the distance. It felt like the world was in motion, but you and Rafe were standing still, caught in some kind of unspoken orbit that neither of you could quite navigate. 

People came and went, exchanging pleasantries, business deals, and compliments, but you and Rafe couldn’t seem to look away from each other. Even when he was speaking with someone else or laughing at a joke Aisha made, you felt his presence, heavy and undeniable.

You’d told yourself that tonight was about putting on a show for the cameras, about playing the part of the perfect couple, and you had every intention of sticking to the script. But as the night wore on, you realized how hard it was to keep pretending when Rafe’s touch lingered just a little longer than necessary, when his eyes followed you across the room with that possessive intensity you couldn’t quite ignore. There were moments when you caught him looking at you like no one else mattered, and for a brief second, the walls you’d so carefully constructed between the two of you threatened to crumble.

It wasn’t just the way he touched you when no one was looking, or the way he’d half-smiled at you in the middle of a crowd, as if sharing some private joke. It was the small things—the subtle ways he’d let you know he cared, even when he was keeping his distance. How his arm would brush against yours when you stood next to each other, how he’d glance at you in the middle of a conversation, as if checking to make sure you were still there, still paying attention. How he’d subtly reposition his hand on your waist, or how his thumb would brush against your back when you’d lean in close to hear something better.

And then, there were the moments when it seemed like neither of you knew how to deal with the chemistry that crackled between you. You’d both been avoiding it for so long, keeping your emotions buried under layers of professionalism and convenience, but tonight, it was becoming harder to ignore. The closer you got, the more the lines between what was real and what was fabricated began to blur.

A sudden vibration in your pocket startled you, pulling you out of your reverie. You slid your phone out, heart still racing from the interaction with Rafe, and your eyes immediately landed on the name that made your stomach drop: Mom.

Your heart skipped a beat as you unlocked the screen, only to see a simple message that made your blood run cold:

“Y/N, we’ve heard the news. This is a disgrace. This is not how we raised you. You’re nothing but a joke.”

You blinked at the message, trying to process it. News? What news? You hadn’t even talked to them in years. 

Before you could think further, the sickening feeling in your stomach intensified. Without even realizing it, you clicked over to the news app, and the headline that greeted you nearly stopped your heart:

“Rafe Cameron Engaged to Model Y/N Y/L/N: A Surprise Announcement”

Your pulse spiked, your fingers trembling as you scrolled down. The article was filled with blurry images from earlier in the evening, showing you and Rafe sharing moments too intimate for the cameras, your faces filled with a mix of affection and tension. It wasn’t supposed to happen this way. It wasn’t supposed to be this fast.

How could this have leaked?

Your chest tightened as a suffocating wave of panic hit you. You could feel your breath quicken, the world around you suddenly feeling too small, too fast, and you couldn’t catch your breath. You looked around the room, your vision blurring as the walls seemed to close in. The voices around you grew muffled, the lights too bright, too harsh.

“Y/N?”

Rafe’s voice pulled you back to reality, but it was distant, like it came from a far-off place. You tried to focus on him, on his familiar blue eyes, but everything felt off, like you couldn’t quite make sense of what was happening.

The phone dropped from your hand, and before you knew it, your vision went dark. Your breath hitched in your chest as your body trembled with the onset of a panic attack. It felt like everything was spiraling out of control, and you couldn’t do anything to stop it.

And then, in the midst of it all, you felt it—something slipping from your bag pocket, a small metallic sound against the floor. But you couldn’t focus on it. Not now. Not with everything else overwhelming you. Your heart pounded in your ears, drowning out the noise around you as you tried to steady yourself, hands trembling at your sides.

You heard the faint clink again, but you were too far gone, too panicked, to care.

Rafe’s arms were around you before you even realized he was there, his voice low and urgent. “Hey, hey, it’s okay. You’re okay.” His hand was on your back, guiding you gently but firmly as he led you outside, away from the noise and chaos of the event.

“I—I—” Your words faltered, and you gasped for air, trying to calm your breathing, but it was like your lungs had stopped working.

“Shh, just breathe, baby, okay?” Rafe’s voice was steady, guiding you through it like he’d done this before. His hand was pressing into your back in rhythmic motions, trying to ground you. “You’re okay, I promise.”

You leaned against him, trying to steady your frantic breathing, but it was hard. Everything felt so chaotic, too fast. The news. The message from your parents. Rafe. Your relapse. The engagement. The shame. The eyes on you.

“I… I got a message from my parents,” you managed to gasp between breaths. “They already know... the news... I wasn’t ready for this. I wasn’t ready for any of this, Rafe.”

His face softened, but there was confusion in his eyes. He looked like he didn’t fully understand, but he didn’t push it. Instead, he just nodded and gave you a reassuring squeeze, his arms enveloping you in warmth. “Hey, it’s alright. We’ll figure this out. I’ve got you, okay?”

You buried your face in his chest, as if you’ve been doing forever, the tears finally coming, and you didn’t even try to hold them back. Your body shook as the sobs wracked through you. Everything felt like it was falling apart, all the control you’d tried so hard to maintain slipping through your fingers. The fake engagement, the pressure to live up to everyone’s expectations, the constant balancing act—it was too much.

“Shhh,” Rafe murmured again, his voice a steady, comforting presence against the storm inside you. “You’re okay, baby. We’re gonna get through this.”

Still shaking, you pulled away slightly, wiping your face with the back of your hand as you tried to steady yourself. Rafe didn’t push you away. He just stayed close, his hands hovering near you, ready to catch you if you needed him.

“I can’t… I can’t do this. Not like this,” you whispered, your voice breaking as you spoke. “Everything’s happening too fast. I didn’t expect it to go like this, Rafe. I didn’t plan for my parents to know about this. It’s not supposed to be like this.”

He seemed to register the panic in your voice, though he still didn’t fully understand why it was affecting you like this. Still, he didn’t question you further. He just nodded again, that protective instinct rising in him. “Alright, we’ll get you home, okay?”

You nodded quietly as he draped his jacket over your shoulders, the fabric warm against your skin. If you weren’t so caught up in your emotions, you might have found the gesture cute. “Yes, please…” you murmured, your voice barely above a whisper.

“Just relax, okay? I’m right here.”

Before you knew it, he was guiding you toward his car, his hand firmly but gently around your arm as he helped you get inside. The drive home was a blur, your mind a chaotic mess of racing thoughts. You tried to fight the exhaustion pulling at you, but it was useless. As soon as you buckled your seatbelt, your body seemed to give up the fight.

You curled up against the seat, closing your eyes, and within minutes, you were asleep. The quiet hum of the car as Rafe drove was the only thing that kept you tethered to reality.

Rafe glanced over at you every few moments as he drove, the concern never leaving his face. He couldn’t take his eyes off of you tonight, not since the moment the tension between you had grown so palpable. He could feel it in his chest—the fear that something would go wrong, that something would happen to make everything fall apart.

As he looked at you now, sleeping peacefully, he couldn’t shake the worry gnawing at him. He didn’t understand it—didn’t fully understand what was happening between the two of you—but the depth of concern he felt for you surprised him. He couldn’t stop thinking about how he’d wanted to protect you, how he’d wanted to be there for you when you needed it the most.

But now, as you slept, he realized something he hadn’t allowed himself to admit before: he didn’t want to lose you. The idea of seeing you hurt, seeing you break down, sent a pang of guilt through him. He hadn’t planned on this feeling, hadn’t planned on the way he’d come to care about you, but it was undeniable now.

Being away from you for two weeks made him come to a few undeniable realizations. He missed you—more than he’d like to admit. He missed the way your smile lit up the room whenever you looked at him, the playful roll of your eyes when you thought he was being ridiculous. He missed the banter, the little jabs you’d throw his way, always keeping him on his toes. Most of all, he missed hearing your voice, the way it grounded him in ways he never expected.

He regretted everything—the distance, the silence, the mess he’d made—and he couldn’t stop thinking about how much he wanted to make it right.

The car approached your apartment building, Rafe slowed down, glancing over at you one last time. You hadn’t stirred for a while, and he didn’t want to wake you up too abruptly, but he knew you needed to get out. He gently reached over and brushed your shoulder, speaking softly.

“Y/N,” he murmured, his voice careful as if not wanting to startle you. “We’re here.”

You blinked a few times, slowly coming to, the remnants of sleep fading from your face as you sat up straight. For a moment, you looked around, trying to get your bearings, and then your eyes landed on him. You offered him a small, grateful smile, and his heart skipped a beat.

“Thanks for the ride,” you said softly, your voice still hoarse with exhaustion. “I really appreciate it.”

Rafe nodded, watching you with a mixture of concern and admiration. “No problem. You okay now?” His voice was gentle, but there was an undertone of worry that you couldn’t miss.

You gave a quiet sigh, nodding. “Yeah… I think I just needed some air.”

He stayed still for a second, waiting, as you unbuckled your seatbelt and started to gather your things. The quiet moment lingered before you stepped out of the car and made your way to the front door of your building. Rafe stayed in the car, just watching you, his gaze never leaving you. His chest felt tight again, but this time, it was different. It wasn’t fear of something going wrong—it was the simple concern of wanting you to be safe, wanting you to be okay.

As you reached the door, you fumbled through your bag, checking the contents. You muttered to yourself, growing more frantic as you checked again. A few seconds later, you pulled your head up in alarm.

“Shit…” you whispered under your breath.

Rafe’s gaze sharpened as he watched you struggle, a sense of urgency in your movements. He opened the car door slightly, ready to ask if something was wrong.

“Everything okay?” he called, his voice laced with concern.

You turned back, your eyes wide with panic. “I—I can’t find my keys.”

His brow furrowed. “You sure you didn’t leave them in the car?”

You shook your head, feeling your heart pound in your chest. “I’m sure I brought them with me. I always check for them before leaving... but I can’t find them. Oh god…” Your voice trailed off as the panic began to rise again, a wave of dread settling in your stomach.

Rafe’s gaze softened. He could see the distress building in you, and for a split second, he wished he could take that weight off your shoulders.

“Hey,” he called, getting out of the car now, taking a few steps toward you. “Maybe you dropped them inside, or—”

“No,” you interrupted, your voice shaking. “I’m sure I had them when we left the event… Oh my god…” You froze, your hands hovering over your bag again as realization hit you like a ton of bricks. “I dropped them,” you whispered, more to yourself than to Rafe, but he heard you clearly. “When I… when I freaked out. I must’ve dropped them at the event. Damn it.”

You turned around, scanning the ground as if your keys might miraculously appear, but you knew deep down they were long gone. You quickly pivoted and rushed back toward Rafe’s car, your anxiety spiking with each step. Rafe watched you for a moment before following closely behind, his own mind racing as he processed the situation.

“Shit,” you muttered again, coming up to his car and looking inside like you could find your keys by some miracle. Rafe sat there, waiting for you to catch your breath before he spoke. “I’m sorry… I know this is a mess. I just—everything’s falling apart tonight. I didn’t expect any of this, and now… now I’ve lost my damn keys. I don’t know what to do.”

Rafe could see the exhaustion on your face, the mental and emotional toll of the evening weighing heavily on you. The last thing he wanted was for you to feel more alone in this.

“It’s alright,” he said, trying to calm you, his voice soft but firm. “We’ll figure this out. Don’t worry.” He thought for a second, his eyes narrowing in contemplation. “I can call a locksmith, or we can check inside the building for a spare key. Maybe someone can help.”

You were already shaking your head, your eyes glossy with unshed tears. “I… I don’t want to bother anyone. And I don’t want to stay out here all night.”

Rafe saw how visibly shaken you were, how overwhelmed you seemed by everything. The night had gone completely sideways for you, and he couldn’t stand the thought of you being alone, stuck in your apartment, still frazzled.

“You could stay at my place tonight…”

chapter eight

[yuujispinkhair]

Because I need the comfort:

Modern!Sukuna x Reader (female). fluff + mentions of smut. Sukuna manhandles Reader but in a loving way. 18+. Minors don't interact. Divider @/chaefilm

You are a writer/artist or working on an assignment and have a breakdown because you are stuck. Boyfie Sukuna watches that for about half an hour before he gets up, wraps his strong, tattooed arms around you, and, without warning, lifts you up from your chair, away from your work, and into his arms.

You squeal in surprise, followed by a loud complaint as you squirm in Sukuna's tight grip. But Sukuna just laughs at your admittedly weak attempt to free yourself, throws you over his broad shoulder, and carries you away from your computer/laptop.

"Stop struggling, princess. It's no use anyway. If you think I will just sit here and watch my girl cry over work, you are very wrong."

"Baby, let go! I have to go back to my computer!"

But your boyfriend just laughs and shakes his head, putting you down on your feet again, but only to pull you against his side, restraining you easily, even with just one arm, as he closes the door to the living area. You watch with wide eyes as Sukuna locks the door and smirks that infuriatingly sexy smirk at you, holding the key above his head so you can't reach it, letting it dangle mockingly from one of his long, tattooed fingers.

"Sukuna, please! I really have to finish this!"

"No, wrong. I'll tell you what you have to do. You have to put on some outdoor clothes and go for a long walk with me."

Sukuna comes even closer, leaning down to kiss your neck and whisper in an equally amused and seductive voice,

"We'll get some of your favorite treats from the bakery and then drive out of the city. Fresh air will do wonders for your attitude, darling. And tonight, when we are back, I'm taking you out to dinner. And after that, I'll fuck all the rest of your attitude out of you."

His words make your stomach involuntarily flutter, and you stop struggling and instead look up at Sukuna with a small grin,

"I want the red velvet cupcakes and...," you put a hand on Sukuna's firm biceps, giving them a squeeze, and brushing your thumb over the tattooed lines, "maybe I already need a taste of that last part you mentioned right now."

The smirk on Sukuna's beautiful face grows broader, and his large hands slip down to your ass, grabbing it firmly and lifting you up again, making you wrap your legs tightly around his hips as he carries you to the bed.

"Sure, that can be arranged. My princess gets everything she wants."

"Just not my computer."

"Yeah, just not the computer. But my dick brings a lot more joy anyway, so that shouldn't be a problem."

[renegadecreation]

i received an urgent mental telegraph from @liass-21 re: a previous post on Ethan and clothing thievery - behold, my return transmission of gratuitous benthan fluff ^^

---

“These aren’t your underwear.”

Ethan looked up. There wasn’t much privacy to be had in their gutted DC-3 - unless he wanted to lock himself in a lavatory, the best he would get was a bench in the rear of the plane where Benji was methodically disassembling all the equipment they’d used to get him out of the ice. Lucky for him, then, that within grasping distance of Benji was one of his favorite places to be.

“They’re not,” he admitted. “Came with the diving gear a very nice woman on a Navy sub lent me. Kodiak. You’d like her.” He paused for effect. “She looked me up and down and told me with an ass like that hers were probably the only ones that would fit.”

Between the armful of linens Benji had just fished out of the deflated hyperbaric chamber and the scrap of black fabric dangling from his fingertips, he didn’t have a hand free to stifle his surprised bark of laughter. Ethan huddled back into a nest of knees and crossed arms and watched him ride out a fit of giggles with well-earned satisfaction. “I think I’m jealous,” he finally got out, squinting across at Ethan with glistening eyes and a poorly suppressed grin. “Should I be jealous? You’ve never stolen my underwear.”

“It was for the mission,” Ethan told him loftily, poking his head back out for the sole purpose of sticking his nose up and making Benji laugh again. It was an addictive sound. “I don’t just go around stealing clothes for no good reason, Benji.”

Benji snorted. “Tell that to the suit jacket you went haring off in after the party in London. You still haven’t told me what happened to the perfectly good one I sent you in with.”

Ethan wasn’t about to ruin the mood by telling Benji it had been stripped off him. Or that he was going to need a replacement for his false cyanide tooth. “That’s nothing,” he offered instead. “I picked up a whole new outfit on the way to Mount Weather. Then I had to grab a cap and jacket from a locker on the USS Bush so I could get onto the bridge. Didn’t get to keep those, though, they made me trade them with the quartermaster for a wetsuit.”

His amusement dulled a little at the memory of just how much had happened over the past few days - of the brick dust and tears he'd had to scrub off his face on the plane to Mount Weather- and how far they still had left to go. Benji didn’t take the reminder much better. “Still doesn’t explain why you’ve shown up wearing someone else’s pair of pants,” he said pointedly, smile disappearing as he came over to kneel in front of Ethan. “What happened?” 

Ethan sucked on his teeth for a moment. He knew if he wasn’t careful, he’d make it sound worse than it was - but if he didn’t say enough, Benji might think it was the White Widow all over again. “The rendezvous timing from the carrier to the sub was a little vague,” he confessed. “I was floating for a couple minutes before they picked me up, so the crew unzipped the wetsuit and tossed me in a hot shower as a precaution. Kind of voided the whole waterproof idea.”

Despite Ethan's best efforts, Benji looked like he was the one who’d had to cough up a few lungfuls of water back on the pack ice. “You were floating,” he repeated, strangled. “For God knows how long. In the Bering bloody Sea. And then you went skinny dipping in the Arctic Circle, for good measure. Christ, you could’ve-”

He had. Ethan shuffled himself into the space between Benji’s knees before he could be pressed for any more details, tucking his socked feet against snowgear-clad shins. “Mhm. Still pretty cold.”

“I packed you a jacket, didn’t I?” Benji started to get up. “Where’s your bag, I’ll go fetch it-”

Ethan reached out and snagged a hand in his shirt before he could get too far. “It’s not the right one.”

There were only two people on Earth he’d admit any kind of preference on clothing to - one, now. He knew which jacket Benji was talking about, and it wasn’t his. If - when - they made it out of this, he’d have to round up all his go bags and pick out the items he’d collected from Luther over the years to section out between the three storage lockers he kept internationally. They were a finite resource now, too precious now to keep in duffels he had to be able to leave behind at a moment’s notice. 

Eyes stinging, he tugged at Benji’s shirt again. “It’s all right, I don’t need one.”

“No, hold on.” Benji gently untangled himself from Ethan’s hand and stood. It was only fair, they made a point of keeping things professional on missions and he was the one who’d crossed the line, but it felt like the chill of Arctic water all over again. He should stand too, apologize from a safe distance. Or head up to the front with the others - the tightness at the back of his throat burned, but it wasn’t anywhere near warm, and there was no point in being alone back here, not unless he was alone with Benji - 

Benji bustled back over, something heathered and soft looking scrunched into a cylinder around his hands. “Arms up.”

“Arms-?” Ethan looked up at him, startled, until the dots connected. “Is that yours?”

“Not for the next few hours, if you want it.” Benji waggled the sweater enticingly at him, still bunched up like he was trying to dress a child. “C’mon, arms.”

“Oh, I can put it on myself, you don’t have to-”

“I’m sure you can,” Benji interrupted in a voice that brooked no argument. “I said arms up, Ethan.”

The sudden, instinctive flush of warmth in his belly at that particular tone was definitely inappropriate. Ethan put his arms up anyway, letting out an involuntary noise of relief as Benji sank back down and brought the sweater along with him.

He was smiling at Ethan when his head popped out through the high collar, eyes still wet - for a different reason now, Ethan suspected. “We’ll add that to your tally of stolen items, then. An outfit, one cap, one wetsuit, one set of diving gear and underwear, and two distinct pieces of outerwear. Three pieces, now - you renegade, you.”

Ethan couldn’t have wiped the besotted look he knew he was wearing off his face if he’d tried. “And a hug?” he murmured, fixing Benji with his best pleading expression.

Benji turned them around to avoid prying eyes and let him steal a kiss too, for good measure.

[skzophreniic]

⍣ ೋ cw: explicit sexual content. dirty talk. masturbation. voyeurism (?).

⍣ ೋ notes: this one was super fun to write lol. i love cocky hyunjin. mans is fine and he knows it.

🧾 FORMAL INVESTIGATION REPORT Filed by: Concierge Aeryn Subject: Staff Conduct – Housekeeping / Evening Turn-Down Service Staff Member Under Review: Hyunjin Guest Involved: Room 814

[Location: Hallway Outside Room 814, 9:57 p.m.]

Pink clipboard tucked under her arm, Aeryn knocked twice on the door before pushing it open without waiting. She didn’t need an invitation—she’d scheduled this meeting, after all.

Hyunjin was sprawled across the armchair in the corner of the room like it was a throne, legs draped over one armrest, head tipped lazily against the other. A cleaning rag dangled from one hand. The vacuum sat unplugged beside him, untouched.

“You were scheduled for turndown service,” Aeryn said crisply, eyeing the pristine bed and the entirely unbothered staff member lounging like a guest. “And yet somehow, I’m here turning down a complaint instead.”

Hyunjin cracked one eye open, unimpressed. “Am I in trouble again?”

Aeryn stepped further in, letting the door close behind her with a soft click. “Guest in 814 submitted a formal concern. Something about your language. Your hands. Your breath on the back of her neck.”

His lips twitched. “Sounds more like a compliment than a complaint.”

“‘Good girl,’” she recited, tone perfectly deadpan. “That’s the phrase you used. Sound familiar?”

His grin deepened. “She was doing such a good job with the sheets.”

Aeryn paced, slow and deliberate, her heels clicking against the tile as she approached the bed. The sheets were, indeed, immaculate. Folded hotel-corner perfect. Not a wrinkle in sight. Except…

She turned. “Is this a lipstick stain?”

Hyunjin didn’t even look. “Could be.”

Aeryn narrowed her eyes. “Hyunjin.”

He shrugged. “She liked it. She didn’t tell me to stop.”

She stopped at the edge of the bed, hands braced behind her on the polished wood frame. “And if she had?”

“Then I would’ve stopped,” he said, pushing himself upright at last. He stood slow, fluid, a little too smug for someone under official review. “But she didn’t. She leaned into it. I think she liked when I told her what a good girl she was.”

“And you?” Aeryn asked, voice velvet-steel. “Did you enjoy crossing a line in uniform?”

“Lines?” He stepped into her space now, his body all lazy confidence and dangerous heat. “Aeryn, sweetheart, I don’t cross lines. I erase them.”

She arched a brow, not backing away. “Is that your defense?”

He didn’t answer.

Instead—he reached up, slow and daring, and tucked a loose strand of her hair behind her ear. Fingers grazed her jaw. Not a touch. A challenge.

Aeryn didn’t flinch. She tilted her chin just slightly, eyes still locked to his.

“The guest wants a formal apology,” she said. “Should I send you in again?”

He smiled, wide and wolfish. “Only if you want her wrecked.”

Her smile returned, cooler now. “Then you’ll follow protocol.”

“Oh, I always do,”

Aeryn rolled her eyes. Then she stepped back. Composed. Unshaken. Amused.

“This is going in your file,” she said smoothly.

Hyunjin’s voice followed her to the door, sing-song and smug:

“Make sure it’s in red ink, baby. I like when it looks bad.”

______________________________________________________________

The knock was soft. Two taps, barely more than a whisper against the door.

You opened it without hesitation—you’d been waiting. And there he was.

Hyunjin stood in the doorway in his full uniform: pressed black slacks, silver name tag gleaming under the hallway light, sleeves rolled to his elbows like he was ready to work—or sin. His eyes swept over you once, slow, lingering from head to toe.

“I’m here to apologize,” he said, voice low, lilting. “Formally.”

You arched a brow. “Is that what this is?”

“Well,” he stepped inside, letting the door close behind him with a soft click, “Concierge Aeryn said I crossed a line.”

Your mouth curved. “You did.”

“And you liked it,” he added—not a question, just fact.

You didn’t back away when he stepped closer.

“You said,” you murmured, “that I was doing a good job.”

His head tilted. “You were.”

“You said,” you continued, voice quieter now, “that I could tell you to stop.”

“I did.”

“And if I hadn’t?” Your gaze flicked to his mouth, then back to his eyes. “What would’ve happened?”

He didn’t answer your question.

Instead—he reached for your belt.

Slow. Patient. Eyes locked on yours.

You didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Just let him untie the knot. Let the robe fall open an inch—then two. The fabric slipped from your shoulder, baring skin.

Soft. Warm. Waiting.

He exhaled, low and reverent.

“Tell me again,” you said. “Tell me I was good.”

Hyunjin stepped in, his hands gentle at first—fingertips grazing the curve of your waist, slipping under the robe without removing it.

“You were a good girl,” he whispered against your neck. “So good. So focused. I wanted to ruin those neat little corners you made on the bed. Wanted to bend you over them. Praise you right into the mattress.”

You shivered—not from cold, but from the way his voice pooled hot and sticky in your gut. Every word was deliberate. Every breath against your skin sent your thoughts scattering, replaced only by heat.

“You shouldn’t say things like that,” you murmured, though your body betrayed you—leaning in, hands resting against his chest like you needed something solid to hold onto.

“And yet,” he purred, one hand sliding to your lower back, the other cupping your jaw with that same maddening tenderness from earlier, “you keep opening the door when I knock.”

The robe slipped fully off your shoulders now, pooling at your feet like silk surrender. Hyunjin didn’t move to undress. He didn’t need to. That uniform did more damage on than off—the authority in his posture, the glint of mischief in his gaze, the way his hands stayed gentle while his words set your skin alight.

“Turn around,” he said quietly. Not a command. A suggestion dressed in velvet.

You obeyed. Slowly. Deliberately.

He stepped closer—close enough that you could feel the heat of him at your back, but he didn’t touch. Not yet. Just stood there, letting the tension stretch between you like silk thread ready to snap.

“Hands on the bed,” he said, voice a little rougher now. “Just like before.”

You braced yourself against the edge of the mattress, palms splayed over the pristine, expertly made sheets. 

Hyunjin’s hands found your waist again, thumbs pressing into the dimples of your back. He leaned in, lips brushing the shell of your ear.

“Still being good for me?” he asked, a smirk in his voice.

You nodded.

“Use your words.”

“Yes,” you whispered. “I’m being good.”

He hummed—pleased. And then, finally, he moved.

One hand trailed between your shoulder blades, down the line of your spine, slow and steady, until it curved around your hip and pulled you gently back against him. You could feel him now, hard and restrained, pressed right where you ached for it. Still fully dressed. Still completely in control.

“Maybe,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to the back of your shoulder, “I’ll file my own complaint.”

You arched your back a little more, offering yourself up like a gift.

“Oh?” you breathed. “And what would it say?”

He licked a slow stripe along the back of your neck, teeth grazing lightly before he answered

“…‘Guest was too obedient. Provocatively compliant. Tempted staff into misconduct by being so damn eager.’”

The words were filth, but his voice was honeyed silk, warm enough to melt your knees. You gasped when he pressed closer—grinding into the soft swell of your ass, the sharp crease of his slacks dragging right where you needed it most.

“But it’s not about me, is it?” he sighed, pulling back again like a tease. “This is about you. Being so good the first time that I couldn’t stop thinking about it. About how neat you left the bed…” His palm flattened across your lower back, pinning you there as he stepped back, just enough to reach for the waistband of his slacks.

“…and how badly I wanted to mess it up.”

You turned your head slightly, lips parted, heart in your throat as you watched him undo the button. Watched his fingers work slow, agonizingly slow—like he wanted you to see. Like every motion was a performance.

And God, was it.

The zipper dragged down with a soft rasp. His eyes never left yours.

“Stay just like that,” he murmured, slipping a hand into his briefs. His hiss was instant, sharp, his head tipping back with a throaty moan. “Fuck, you don’t know what you do to me…”

But you did. You saw it—his cock already flushed, already leaking, glistening at the tip as he wrapped his fingers around the base and gave himself a slow, deliberate stroke.

He didn’t touch you.

Not yet.

He stood there behind you, hand working up and down his length in lazy, unhurried strokes. Letting you hear it—that sound, wet and obscene, echoing in the too-quiet room. Letting you see it, reflected in the full-length mirror just to your right.

“Look,” he said, voice rasping. “Go on. Watch me.”

And fuck—you did.

You turned your head just enough to catch the angle, the way his shirt pulled tight across his chest as he rutted lazily into his own hand. The way his abs flexed under the crisp fabric. The way his cock glistened with every stroke, long and thick and angry red at the tip.

You whimpered and he smirked.

“Pretty little thing, bent over and still begging with her eyes,” he cooed. “Do you like watching? Is that it? Like seeing how hard I am for you without even being touched?”

You nodded. Desperate. Eyes wide. Mouth dry.

He stepped closer again—his cock dragging hot and heavy along the curve of your ass now, smearing slick against your skin without ever slipping inside.

“You don’t get to touch yet,” he murmured. “Not until I’ve had my fill.”

One hand pressed between your shoulder blades again, firm but not harsh. The other reached around, stroking himself with just enough speed to make your thighs tremble at the sound. His breathing quickened, harsh and ragged against your ear.

“I thought about you after,” he panted. “Fucking jerked off to the way you sounded when I told you to hold still.”

You moaned—helpless, completely gone for him—and he laughed, sharp and low.

“That’s it. Let them hear you next door. Let everyone know what a mess you are just from watching.”

His hips started to move now, lazy little thrusts that slid his cock between your thighs without actually slipping in. Just friction. Just filth. Just enough to taunt you with it.

“Slick already?” he groaned, nudging your folds with the head of his cock. “Fucking dripping, and I haven’t even touched you.”

“I—I want—” you gasped, but the words wouldn’t form.

“What?” he hummed. “Want me to fuck you? Stuff you full, ruin these perfect sheets just like I said?”

You whimpered, nodding frantically. His hand wrapped around your jaw, tilting your face toward the mirror.

“Say it,” he growled. “Say it while you watch me fuck myself to the thought of splitting you open.”

You bit your lip, trying to hold it in—but Hyunjin twisted his hips just right, the thick head of his cock brushing so close to your clit you jerked.

“I want it,” you cried. “Want you to ruin me—please, Hyunjin, I need it—”

He stepped back.

“Not yet,” he rasped. “I want to finish like this first—watching your greedy little body beg for it while I make a mess of myself all over you.”

He pumped faster now, hips stuttering, breath catching hard in his throat. The wet slap of skin filled the room—so fucking filthy, so obscene—and the heat in your gut twisted into something desperate.

“Hyunjin—”

“God, yes,” he gasped. “You’re so fucking good—standing there and letting me use you like this—fuck, fuck—watch me, baby, don’t look away—”

His whole body shuddered.

And then—you felt it.

The heat. The shock of it. Warm streaks painting your lower back, your ass, spilling down your thighs like sin incarnate. His groan was ragged, guttural, echoing through the room like something unholy.

Then a low chuckle, breathless and satisfied. You felt his lips brush your shoulder, soft and reverent, a contrast so sharp it made you ache.

“…So much for staying professional,” he whispered, voice hoarse.

You huffed a shaky laugh, your body still trembling.

Hyunjin eased back just enough to admire his handiwork—the slick shine of his cum glistening on your skin, the way your thighs pressed together in search of relief. He reached down, fingers dipping between your legs—just a ghost of a touch.

“Still want me to ruin you properly?” he murmured, already knowing the answer.

You nodded, dizzy and breathless.

His smirk returned, slow and sinful.

“Then let’s mess up those sheets together.”

[INTERNAL STAFF MEMO – SKZotel] To: All Departments From: Concierge Aeryn Subject: 🚨 Incident Report: Hyunjin’s “Performance Review” Date: Stop Asking Me the Date. Time Isn’t Real Here.

Hello team, Good morning. Or it was, until Housekeeping turned in a “routine room inspection report” that read like the deleted scenes of a very different kind of hotel brochure.

[INT. FRONT LOBBY – AERYN TO CAMERA]

AERYN: I used to dream about working at a five-star hotel. Now I have to clarify whether “full-service housekeeping” includes ejaculation. (pause) I’m putting in for hazard pay.

DEPARTMENTAL RESPONSES:

Bang Chan (GM): Said “As long as the guest was satisfied, we can’t technically call it misconduct.” Then forwarded me an article titled “Why Sex Can Improve Customer Retention.” He thinks he’s helping. He is not helping.

Felix (Bellboy): Asked if he should start wearing gloves when handling guest luggage “since fluids seem to be a theme now.” Then walked into 1503 whistling. Was in there for 26 minutes. I am not opening that door.

Seungmin (Front Desk): Already updated the “Housekeeping Services” menu to include “Optional Mirror Play.” He said it was a “data-driven adjustment based on current staff trends.” What does that mean? What does any of that mean?

Jisung (Security): Claims he was doing “routine camera maintenance” but had full HD footage of the reenactment with slo-mo. Said, “Honestly? Cinematic.” Then suggested submitting it to Sundance.

Lee Know (Room Service): Delivered cucumber water and a protein bar to the guest after. The note said:

“Refuel. You’ll need it.” I want to be scared. But I’m mostly impressed.

Changbin (Valet): Just nodded solemnly and said,

“That’s my boy.” Then offered Han to “film from a better angle next time.” WHAT NEXT TIME?

Jeongin (Spa): Slid Hyunjin a lotion blend labeled “Performance Recovery – Glutes Edition.” It sparkled. It smelled like sex. I don’t know how to prove that but I do.

[INT. HALLWAY CAM – CAMERA ON HYUNJIN]

HYUNJIN (shirtless, tying his hair back): I just think if you’re going to give a guest towel service... they should need a towel when you’re done. 

ACTION ITEMS:

Hyunjin is no longer permitted to use the phrase “for educational purposes.”

All “guest reenactments” must be approved IN WRITING by a manager, concierge, and my therapist.

Mirrors must remain wall-mounted.

A mop has been dispatched. So has Father Luis from the chapel next door.

HR has stopped responding to my emails. Their last message just said “Girl, good luck.”

[INT. FRONT DESK – AERYN TO CAMERA]

AERYN (clutching forehead): You know when you Google “how to handle workplace sexual misconduct,” and the first article is “10 Ways to Spice Up Your Hotel Fantasy”? That’s what working here feels like.

(beat)

I should’ve worked at a Marriott.

[CUT TO: HYUNJIN, SPRITZING COLOGNE OUTSIDE ROOM 814 AGAIN]

He turns to the camera. HYUNJIN (smirking):

“Housekeeping~” (He winks. The door opens. Fade to black.)

[draconic-desire]

Ad Experimentum

Yandere Dr. Ratio x Reader

Veritas catches you reading one of your dirty books.

Warnings: Implied kidnapping, forced imprisonment, NSFW scenes being read aloud, Dr. Ratio being a dick as always

Within the confines of Veritas’s home, you feel like a mouse in a maze, reduced to a caged animal, always under scrutiny and experimentation.

Escape is impossible. Dr. Ratio has ensured that you’re never out of his reach, even though he acts as if you are the burden and he didn’t kidnap you and imprison you in his home. Sometimes you wonder why he even keeps you; surely he has better things to do than to quip at your inadequacy or lack of genius. But alas, the pretentious prick seems keen on pushing every one of your buttons to see how you tick. You might even call it intimacy if he wasn’t so clinical and judgmental about it all.

Because physical escape is impossible, you’ve turned to escaping within the confines of your own mind.

Books provided the perfect retreat. You’ve since abandoned any non-fiction to focus on fantasy, to worlds that effortlessly whisk you away. Novels that depict true, romantic love, not the twisted ownership you’ve grown used to. Like you’re some pet to be controlled and prodded at, like Pavlov’s dog, waiting and drooling for its master’s hand at the ring of a bell.

So, in your hopes to feel something real, you’ve started to delve into stories that are a bit…spicier.

With the latest read in your hand, your eyes skim hungrily over the pages as the tension between the protagonists builds. The lovers begin to undress each other, the one spreading his partner’s pussy as she grinds into his hand—

Veritas effortlessly plucks the book from your hands, earning a cry of protest. You try to snatch it back, but, with the help of his towering height, he dangles it just out of reach. “What in the heavens is this?”

The way he holds the book between his thumb and pointer finger, as if merely touching it would taint his self-proclaimed perfect set of knowledge, was almost comedic. You would laugh if he wasn’t such a condescending asshole.

Instead, you scowl. “Give it back.”

He merely hums and turns the novel in his hands, inspecting the cover. Licking his thumb, he flips to your bookmarked page and begins reading aloud. “My hand caressed her core as I speared her with two, thick fingers. She moaned and arched into my palm in response, causing my cock to twitch in anticipation. God, I wanted to taste her arousal. Her pussy was perfect, so wet and tight and ready for me to claim, to fuck.”

Embarrassment rages across your cheeks like a burn. You fling yourself at him, pounding your fists against his chest when he lifts the book out of your reach easily. “Stop, just stop.”

Amused, Dr. Ratio continues to narrate the scene in painstaking detail. “I lowered my head, letting my tongue swirl around her clit and rendering her voice to nothing but pitiful mewls. She tasted like heaven, like my own personal feast. I buried my tongue in her, then, and held her hips as she bucked into my mouth, begging for release—”

“I will do anything,” you beg, face in your palms, “just please stop.”

Finally, mercifully, Veritas closes the book and lowers it down enough for you to snatch it back. You cradle it against your chest, heart pounding and palms sweaty with a chaotic blend of shame, anger, and relief that it was over.

“This is what you indulge in while I’m working? Though you are hardly an intellectual exception, I believed you to be above this brain-rotting nonsense, (Y/n).”

In spite of your embarrassment, you boldly meet his golden eyes. “And what do you care? I enjoy it, and it’s not meant for you. Go stick your nose in a dictionary for all I care.”

“At least I’d be learning something,” he sneers in return, looking down his nose at you. He sniffs, tilting his chin up. “What do those books have that I can’t offer you?”

You still, observing his features. Now that the fun of teasing you has worn off, his eyes flare with loathing. With a jolt, you realize it is not aimed at you but at…the book?

Wordlessly, you glance between Dr. Ratio and your novel. Then, a stilted laugh escapes your lips. “Wait.. Are you seriously jealous of a book?”

“Don’t be preposterous,” he scoffs, though you notice his white-knuckled grip against the back of the armchair you were previously lounging in. “I would never stoop so low as to associate myself with that plebeian filth. I simply wanted to ascertain your reaction to it being read aloud.”

You resist the desperate urge to roll your eyes. “Fine, then. Please leave me to my uneducated filth.” You spin around, intent on finding a new place to finish your reading.

“Not so fast.” Veritas is on you quicker than a cobra, large hands gripping both your shoulders. “Perhaps all is not lost. We may yet transform this circumstance into an educational opportunity for you.”

A chill runs down your spine at the heavy touch, and a sudden sense of foreboding warns you to run. You’re all too aware you’re the mouse being fed to the snake in this moment.

Veritas spins you to face him, eyes slowly trailing down your form, as if taking you in with a new perspective. “I believe an experiment is due.”

You go rigid. “I’m sorry?”

“If you’re so intent on reading about all those fantasies in your books, let’s go ahead and put them to the test, shall we?”

At his clear implication, you yelp and make a run for it. In that moment Veritas strikes, fisting your hair with one hand and cupping your chin with the other as he presses your body flush against his own. You can already feel his hard desire digging into your back.

“Here’s my hypothesis,” he purrs in your ear. “I predict that by the end of tonight, you too will be begging for my cum, whether you want to or not.”

His theory, as always, was proven to be correct.

[gold-onthe-inside]

spoil my girl

who? penelope garcia x rich girl!reader summary: you can't help but spoil a sweet girl like penelope, and this time, she's adamant about repaying your generosity content warnings: smut, masturbation, fingering, sex toys, implied sugar relationship, no use of y/n, nsfw, 18+ only, minors dni word count: 2.1k author's note: thanks to @minswriting for giving me a great premise, and rihanna's 'loud' album for getting me through this fic, as well as this playlist by meg to help me get into the right headspace. dividers by @saradika-graphics happy pride xx

You knew you had to have her the second you laid your eyes on her; this beautiful woman with blonde curls, blue fading on the tips of her hair, adorned with a large flower clipped to the side, chunky rings adorning manicured fingers, a dark dress bespeckled with splashes of colour, hugging her curves.

The amount of things in her hand is a disaster in the making — her bright yellow thermos, her keys, her wallet and her phone, a large purse dangling from the crook of her elbow — and she isn’t looking as she tries to put her wallet back in her purse without dropping anything, and it’s as if you knew what was going to happen before it happened.

Her phone buzzed, startling her, then block heels stumbled on a chair, the thermos close to overturning when you rushed to brace her, which kept her from falling, but not from her iced frappe spilling all over her dress. “Shit!” she cried out, staring at herself, ice cold liquid and whipped cream staining her dress.

You can feel the other patrons staring at the both of you and you huffed internally — people really had nothing better to do than watch a girl’s misfortune. The woman’s close to tears as she dropped everything on the table you were standing at, grabbing at paper napkins to clean herself up. “Why don’t we head to the bathroom?” you asked, your voice soft and kind and she nodded, fighting back tears. You scooped up all your things as well as hers, guiding her to the public bathroom, leaving it on the side while the woman grabbed rolls of paper towels to clean herself up.

“God, this just had to happen the day I’m running late,” the woman muttered, wiping herself dry while you fought the urge to stare, counting bathroom tiles instead.

“Murphy’s Law, right?” you asked dryly. “Everything that can go wrong will go wrong.”

“You sound like one of my co-workers,” the woman huffed, glancing at you, and actually took you in — sharply dressed, simple but expensive… “I’m Penelope,” she said, watching you smile warmly.

“Well, Penelope, I hate to see a dress that vibrant ruined,” you said, your voice as soft as silk. “So, how about we get you a new dress, and I can get that dry-cleaned for you?”

“Oh.” She flushed. Adorable. “That’s nice. You’re nice, like really nice, but I’m running super late—”

“It happens,” you countered, tilting your head to look at her. “And I’m sure your boss would rather you come into work without wearing your coffee. Let them know you’re running late, and I’ll take care of the rest. I’ll be waiting out front.”

You deliver your promise in a way that exceeds expectations, driving her home in a sparkling Mercedes that has her internally squealing and also stressing about spoiling the seat, and a fresh frappe in her hand, cutting through lanes to avoid traffic with the radio on. Once at her apartment, you entertain all her caffeine-powered rambling with a small, amused smile as she changed behind a screen, throwing on an entirely new colour-coordinated outfit, and you take the coffee-stained dress in the paper bag she gives you.

A few days later, Penelope came back to her apartment to find her dress dry-cleaned in an outfit bag, and a card with your number on it, laid on her bed by a neighbour who kept a spare key. She sent you a text, thanking you, before settling on her bed and stalking you, her curiosity getting the better of her, and once she figures out your net worth, she slammed her laptop shut, eyes wide.

Her phone buzzed, with a text from you.

You: You’re very welcome.

Penelope swallowed, staring at the text from quite possibly the wealthiest person she knew.

Penelope: How can I make it up to you?

She tried not to think of the last bank account statement she’d been sent, watching the text bubble from you.

You: How about dinner with me? Friday, 7pm?

It hadn’t been done on purpose, and Penelope was in no way using you for your money — in fact, you had been the one to insist on the little gifts. Bracelets that reminded you of her, prescription sunglasses after a vague mention that she was missing a pair in a specific colour, getting more expensive the longer the relationship blossomed. It graduated from little trinkets and flowers to branded bags and precious jewellery, and had finally hit the peak when Penelope had a brand new Mac desktop sent to her office, with a note written in your loopy handwriting — ‘So you don’t have to crane your neck.’

Penelope tried to bring up in conversation at a dinner, but you had simply charmed her out of her discomfort, delicate hands on her hips. “Why have the money if I can’t spoil my favourite girl?” you’d asked, with that stunning smile that made her heart stutter. It always felt like Penelope was floating on cloud nine around you, especially when you brought her gorgeous lingerie in exactly her size, lacy little numbers that made her curves pop and nightrobes that made her feel like a princess in your silk sheets.

She’d never felt more taken care of, and yet all Penelope wanted to do was find a way to return the favour, no matter how many times you assured her that you weren’t doing any favours. It came to her when you were out of town on business, a networking thing for your advertising firm, on the same night she wasn’t working her cute butt off in the BAU.

That was definitely all it was, she told herself, putting on a Rihanna CD and preparing to take an everything shower with candles. Not that she missed the way you touched her like she was something fragile, or the way your eyes tracked every curve of her body as if it was her possession. But no amount of delusion could stop her imagining they way you’d unmake her, gently taking her jewellery off and placing it in the hot pink organiser you’d bought for her, or your slender hands taking the pins and clips out of her blonde curls and running through them, gently untangling knots with care. Brushing it aside to place soft kisses on plush skin, slowly unzipping the back of her dress, like it was something precious. That’s why she sends you that first video, making you almost choke on the champagne at the networking party, instantly lowering the brightness on your phone. To repay the favour.

Penelope: Miss you so much tonight <3

You closed your eyes, sighing, torn between telling her off and disappearing out the nearest exit and back to her hotel suite.

You: Are you trying to get me fired?? You: I can’t believe you wear that pretty a bra to work.

Penelope bit her lower lip, grinning as she ran her bath, one hand checking the water temperature, the other holding her phone, wearing a silk kimono.

Penelope: You know you’re the only one who gets to see it ;) You: God, I wish you were here tonight. You: The things I’d do to you in my hotel room… Penelope: Well, in your absence, I’ll just have to make do with what I have.

You groaned at the message, having to put your phone away for a moment and drain another glass of champagne. Meanwhile, Penelope was busy filming another little video of herself, involving bubbles, candles, rose petals, and a vibrator, laying back in your bathtub, the phone set up on a wall-mount.

She started by touching herself to the R&B music, closing her eyes and imagining your touch, how you’d let her rest her back against yours, and caressed her neck, down her collarbone to her heavy breasts. Her breath grew shallower as she squeezed one, fingers brushing over her nipple, the other starting to rub her thigh.

If she opened her eyes, she could see the disheveled mess she was becoming, with heaving breaths and lidded eyes, flower petals sticking to her glistening body. She desperately wanted you here, eliciting breathy gasps with your lips against her shoulder, touching her exactly the way she was, murmuring sweet endearments that she could only echo in her head.

She started running her perfectly manicured hand through her folds, enveloped in hot bubbly water, her thighs sticking out, a foot against the edge of the tub. She let out a low moan as she slid her fingers over her sensitive nub, aching for you. It was only a couple of days ago that your head was between her thighs, gripping her legs wide as your tongue swirled in that magic way that sent rivulets of cum dripping between your lips. Her fingers couldn’t do you justice, but it did the job, Penelope’s first orgasm leaving her half-sated, like warm honey-like relief releasing the coil that had been building. She took a few moments to catch her breath, drying her hands and sitting up to crop the end of the video and sending it to you.

All it took was the thumbnail of Penelope in the bath that forced you to leave the party early, faking sick to cut across a few blocks and into a hotel, and sitting at a table as you watched the whole thing. The funny thing was how your hips automatically started rutting against the chair to the video, watching your girlfriend get off.

You: Christ, you look gorgeous. My gorgeous, gorgeous girl. You: I want to touch you so bad…

Just sending those two messages had taken every ounce of cognition you had left, but one look at Penelope’s beautiful curves had sent you over the edge, rocking against the plush edge of the chair.

While you were still on the way to your first orgasm, replaying Penelope’s video, your girlfriend had moved on to her toys, recording herself as she dipped her finger into her dripping hole, both from her first orgasm and the bathwater, sliding it in with a soft gasp. It was an intoxicating sight, her perfect plush lips splitting apart, where you would have slid your fingers in, or kissed her, as her finger probed at her g-spot, then curled, just about as slow as you would have gone.

The next finger slid in after that, Penelope’s free hand gripping the edge of the bathtub as her hole stretched to accommodate her fingers. She kept stroking, curling her fingers against that sweet spot, groaning and shifting her hips in water that was growing cooler by the second, incentivising her to finish quicker, crying out your name, until her hand couldn’t work without cramping.

Which meant she was twisting in the tub to reach for her toys, a beautifully long pink dildo that had served her well in the past, that she slowly slid inside her, sinking lower into the water with a groan, hitting just the right spot. The best grip she could maintain was the edge of the tub, instead of your hips, or your hands, as she moved the toy in a slow easy rhythm.

She missed you so much as she touched herself, trying to get back that initial pressure to peak. She missed the way you’d play with her hair, crooning soft things in her ear, about how pretty she was, how you could touch her all day, all while pumping a strap-on inside her, turning her into a soaked, speechless, whining, writhing mess. And so she’s muttering profanities and moaning, the bubbles starting to dissipate as she came for a second time, her toes curling, hips arching uselessly as she thrust the dildo against her g-spot, letting slip a ‘Jesus fucking Christ’ as she pulled it out.

She waited to catch her breath, sliding back in the thumb, the cool water soothing against her over-heated body, slick with water and a little sweat on her brow, before eventually drying off and draining the tub.

Penelope finally lay back in your silk sheets, wearing a feathery pink robe, and all tucked up in your champagne coloured duvet, trimming her ‘short film’ before sending it.

Penelope: Something for you to dream about <3

By the time you got the message, you’d taken a hot shower and settling into bed in your own simple cotton pyjamas.

You: Jesus Christ, woman, do not make me hop on a red-eye and come find you.

Penelope’s grinning at your text, curled up in bed like a lovesick teenager.

Penelope: Is that a promise? You: A fantasy. But you’re definitely coming more than twice when I get you alone. You: That’s a promise.

The anticipation of your return leaves a flutter in her chest, as she inhales the scent of your perfume on the pillows.

Penelope: I’m holding you to that.

And with that, she clicked her phone off, setting the bejewelled device aside (with a brand new cover paid by yours truly), turned out the light, and closed her eyes, wondering if you would dream of her like she was bound to.

comments and reblogs appreciated xx

[bradleysass]

fit - @into-the-jeggyverse - wc: 561

James Potter was lying upside down on the Gryffindor common room couch, feet hooked over the backrest, head dangling off the edge, watching Regulus Black read. He’d been in this position for a solid twenty minutes, and so far, Regulus had only glanced at him twice. This was unacceptable.

Regulus, perfectly composed despite the chaos of the room around him, was settled in the armchair across from him, book in hand, fingers lazily turning the pages as if James’ ridiculous antics weren’t happening directly in front of him. The fire crackled softly in the background, an almost domestic scene—if not for the fact that James was currently considering one of his greatest experiments yet.

“I have a question,” James announced, swinging slightly so his hair nearly brushed the floor.

Regulus hummed, still not looking up. “Do I want to hear it?”

“If we could tempt Peter with cheese, do you think he’d fit inside a tiny box?”

Regulus’ book lowered just enough to reveal his unimpressed stare. “Are you asking me if we can trap your best friend in a box?”

“Tiny box,” James corrected, lifting a finger as if this was an important distinction. “Think about it. He turns into a rat. Rats like cheese. We put cheese in a very small box, he crawls in, we close the lid.”

Regulus blinked at him, expression utterly devoid of amusement. “Why?”

James grinned. “For science.”

Regulus let out a long breath and returned to his book. “I worry about you.”

“I think it’s a valid experiment.”

“You also thought it was a valid experiment to see if you could stick all ten Chocolate Frog cards to your face and walk around like normal.”

James gasped dramatically, placing a hand over his heart. “That was a success.”

“That was embarrassing.”

“Tomato, tomahto.”

“Are you actually going to test this on Pettigrew, or was this just another one of your fleeting thoughts I have to suffer through?”

James considered it, then rolled onto his stomach, nearly toppling off the couch in the process. “I dunno. Maybe. I mean, it’s not like we’d leave him in there forever. Just… long enough to prove a point.”

Regulus sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “And what point would that be?”

“That we can do it.”

Regulus muttered something under his breath about regretting his life choices. Before he could follow up with a scathing remark, a loud crash echoed through the common room, causing both of them to snap their heads toward the noise.

Barty Crouch Jr. stood over what had once been a perfectly good chair, now in pieces on the floor. Evan Rosier, looking neither impressed nor surprised, stared at him with mild exasperation.

Barty dusted off his hands as if he had just performed a noble feat. “Chairs are flimsy.”

“They are when you throw them,” Evan drawled, arms crossed.

“I had to test its durability,” Barty said, completely unbothered. “For science.”

James sat up, pointing at him. “See! Barty gets it.”

Regulus sighed heavily, rubbing his temples. “I think I need new friends.”

James beamed at him, shifting across the couch to flop his head into Regulus’ lap. “Too late, love. You’re stuck with us.”

Regulus groaned, but he didn’t push James away. Instead, he absentmindedly ran his fingers through James’ hair as he turned the page of his book.

[godmadeaterribleerror]

Chapter 21 - If You Want To Survive

Series Masterlist - Main Masterlist

Author's Note: This week on Babylon - long distance relationships!

Chapter Title from Dog Days by Florence + the Machine

Word Count: 18.5k

Chapter Summary/Warnings: You run, and Dean waits. Usual Warnings.

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

Chapter 20 - Chapter 22

Read on A03!

“You’re doing it wrong.”

You know you’re doing it wrong. Your feet are dangling off the edge of the bench, and your fingers are still a little swollen from when you slammed them into the door, and you’re trying but you don’t know how to do it right-

“Hey. Breathe.” Rufus grunts your name, prying your hand from the strings of the guitar. “Nothin’ bad about to kill us right now. This ain’t life and death, it’s a fuckin’ guitar-“ 

He cuts himself off, scanning over your open face with a long sigh.

“Don’t tell Bobby I swore at ya. He’s been reading a bunch of parenting books. They’re all sayin’ swearing is bad for kids.”

“I’m not a kid-“

“Yeah, you are. Or at least he’s tryin’ to let you be.”

“That’s why he won’t let me do hunts, isn’t it.”

Rufus snorts, shaking his head. “No, you’re not allowed to hunts cause no kid should be doin’ hunts.”

“What about the boys staying at home?” You raise your chin, narrowing your eyes. “John’s sons. The older one hunts. I heard Bobby complaining to you about it.”

“You eavesdroppin’ on us now?”

“I- No-“ You get a pointed look, and bow your head to frown at your feet.

You’d liked these socks. They were fuzzy and covered in little rainbows, and you’d always kept them at Rufus’ because they made you feel better. You show up at his doorstep covered in a bit of dirt, with everything prying apart in your body and something dark in your body trying to seep out of your skin into the world, but it’ll be okay. Rufus will help you inside and make you some food, you’ll get a long bath, as much chocolate as you want, and your fuzzy socks.

But it doesn’t stop hurting.

It’s never fucking stopped hurting.

“I- I was.” You swallow, grinding your fingers further into the strings of the guitar. “I’m sorry.”

Rufus only laughs. “I don’t give fu- crap. Good you got away with it, too. Doin’ better than a lot of other hunters already.”

Your eyes widen. “Other-“

“Your family is hunters. You’ve got hunter in your blood.” Rufus sighs, running a hand over his face. “If we get say in it, you’re not gonna need to hunt. But Bobby don’t listen when I tell him that might not be his choice. But-“ Rufus’ voice turns firm, his eyes locking onto yours. “Don’t try nothin’ when you still can’t touch the fu- freakin’ ground.”

He bumps your feet with a small grin, and you return it, even if it’s toothless and nervous. 

And you don’t have hunter in your blood. Rufus knows that you don’t have anything but insanity in your blood. But he’s never treated you like you’re anything less than Bobby’s daughter.

You wish you were. That you’d come from him rather than the darker, twisted horror you were born into, with too clean floors, never enough food—despite the sheets being silk and the floor being marble, you’d never had enough food—and no fuzzy socks.

Still, you didn’t know how to just wait. How to just sit in the fucking pain like it had to be a given—it might be—and wait for your feet to hit the ground. You don’t think they understand how much it hurts. And how if it doesn’t hurt, you’ll make everything else hurt instead. How you can’t be trusted anywhere, and you might not deserve this kindness, and you still have nightmares about big and smooth hands wrapping around your throat and telling you it’s time.

“John Winchester’s sons have hunting blood.” You mumble, glaring back to the carpet, and Rufus sighs, giving you an almost amused look.

“You ain’t droppin’ this, are you?”

“It’s not fair-“

“Nothin’ is fair. And those boys shouldn’t be huntin’ at all.”

“But they do-“

“Only when their Daddy’s got no one better.” Rufus mutters, and you frown at him. “John drops ‘em with Bobby when he’s not looking for company on a hunt. And if he is, he takes Dean like the boy ain’t thirteen.”

Dean. The big one is named Dean.

And somewhere through the swirling fog of the world, there’s an iridescent light that whining and howling and aching. It’s hurts almost as much as the Darkness does. 

Did. 

You’re a little dizzy, and you know that when this happened, Dean was nothing more than a name. You think he was nothing more than a name. You might have felt the White rolling and humming for him, even then. 

“I’m not that much younger-“

“That ain’t the point-“

“And John takes both of them hunting all the time! And I’d know more! I have all the lore memorized, and I- I could fight-“

“You can’t shoot.”

“I could try-“

“No, ya couldn’t. I remember when you just saw Bobby’s gun, kid.”

“But I’d get over it- And if the Winchester’s can do it-“

“It don’t matter what those boys can do. You’re not like ‘em.” Rufus mutters your name, the look on his face almost sad. “And John- You know Bobby don’t want you near him for a reason. And I agree. Even if we were pro baby-hunters, you know you can’t be out there.”

“But- I- I can’t- I don’t-“ You take a shaking breath, the dark thing starts to twist around in your body, all your skin itching with the pain of keeping it down. “It hurts-“

“I know it hurts.” Rufus sighs, guiding your fingers back to the guitar strings. “That’s why we’re doin’ this.”

You shake your head, trying to curl back into your body. “I don’t wanna-“

Rufus grunts your name, giving you a firm look. “We keep doin’ this, or I tell Bobby ‘bout the door.”

You’d swallow, your eyes wide on his and he lets out a long sigh.

“There are ways to deal with it that don’t hurt, kid. I’m just tryin’ to find you some.”

“Ways like drinking?” You wrinkle your nose at him, and Rufus lets out a dry chuckle.

“Nah. I’m not a preacher, I don’t gotta practice what I’m sellin’. Go back to g-cord.”

You shift your fingers, but pause, staring ahead as the light turns in your body. 

It still hurts. Everything always hurts, and you feel small, and you’re safe here but it still feel like you’re being ripped in half. And you love staying at Rufus’, but it hurts, and it doesn’t matter that if you go back home you might get more hurt. You’re already hurting, and you- You don’t know what to do with all this fucking pain-

“I wanna go home.” You whisper, your eyes starting to sting, and Rufus only sighs.

He’s used to the swings. To the way it becomes too much, and you grow small.

You wish you could control it. Be better. Be more than a sick fucking problem, but it’s all you are. All you’ve ever been. And you want to go home.

“I know,” Rufus mutters, squeezing your shoulder carefully. “But you can’t, kid. Not until it’s safe.”

The world starts to shift, the fog around you glowing and bathing everything in a softer light, and your feet can touch the ground again. 

When this had happened, Rufus meant safe for you. That you could go home when it wouldn’t end with John Winchester putting a bullet through your brain. 

Now John was long dead, and you- 

You were still so fucking sick. There wasn’t hunter in your blood, there was power. Power and a long, long line of horrible, wrong creatures that even Heaven hated. You may be holy, but it might be the way the plagues of Egypt were holy. Wrathful and awful and vengeful. Sick and destructive and wrong.

You’re so fucking wrong, so home isn’t safe from you.

Nothing is safe from you, and the horror you bring. 

And you want your feet to go back to being too small. To having little blisters on your fingers from holding the guitar, instead of whatever put them there now. You’d only read books because it passed the time, and you didn’t think twice about the notes you were writing, and home was somewhere you could return to.

You want to go home. 

To return to not knowing that John would’ve been right. Being afraid of him was always so much easier than being afraid of yourself. It would be so nice to go back to this. It was lonely but simple. You were filled with sickness, but it poisoned only yourself.

But Rufus would’ve always said Dean, and you would’ve always felt the White howl.

You miss him most of all. 

“Where are we?”

You sigh, dropping your head to the side on his shoulder. It’s always a little like you summon him, and then he’s there. Warm and Golden and almost real.

Almost.

“I’m learning how to play guitar.” You mumble, strumming a smooth key that comes out twangy and weak, because that’s how it had sounded when this actually happened. 

Dean chuckles, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. “Wow. You’re kind of shit at it.”

“That’s the learning part, Deano.” You twist to prop your chin on his shoulder, and his grin is wide. Strong. Happy. “Hi.”

His grin grows, a hand rising up to hold your face. “Hi, Princess. You look good.”

“You always say I look good.”

“Well that’s cause I’m not a liar, sweetheart.”

You snort. “Shut up.”

“So bossy,” he hums, tracing his thumb over your cheekbones, and everything but Dean is fading into the background. Even your memory of Rufus is being painted in Gold. Just to remind you.

Dean isn’t here. Not really. But you still love him. And it’s still all the way down.

“How do I look?”

You scan over his face, with heavy bags until his eyes and a slightly swollen cheek. 

When you reach up to trace a hand over it, he doesn’t flinch. Dean just lets out a soft sigh, and leans into your touch.

“Tired, De.” You whisper, and he chuckles.

“Haven’t been sleeping good. Fighting with Sammy again.” He pauses, his voice growing a little hoarse. “Miss you. Wish Cas would tell me where he dropped you, so I could come carry you home.”

“I know. I- I do too.” 

And you do. 

Because if Dean tracked you down and tried to carry you home, you’d never fight it. You’d always just go, because you love him, and it’s not indulging or making it about you if Dean’s demanding it. 

“I miss you.” You mumble, and everything is starting to wash away. Leaking with a light that hurts to look at, the bench and Rufus flickering in and out like a mirage on water.

There’s a loud, blaring sound, coming from far, far away, and you have to go. 

Dean must know it too, because his grip tightens. “Come home. I- So much shit is happening and it’s all freakin’ insane, and you’d know what to do. You always know and I fuckin’ miss you, baby, please come ho-“

The alarm rips through the world, crashing through everything you can see, and Dean vanishes.

You shoot up in your bed and let out a loud groan. The frame is so fucking small, and your legs are cramping, and the sound is still fucking going-

“Fuck.”

Your mumble is mostly to yourself.

There’s no one else to hear it anyway.

The month since you left hasn’t exactly been spent making friends. It’s been research and moving and finding ways to keep yourself afloat.

Cas had dropped you in Rome, and apparently didn’t stop to consider that you don’t fucking speak Italian. It had helped that most people here spoke English, but after about a week you’d gotten sick of not being able to read anything, and gotten—technically stolen, with Dean’s voice in your head humming I thought you weren’t a criminal, Princess—an Italian for Beginners book.

It’s mostly been tourist phrases. Where is the bathroom. How do you say taxi. I do not speak Italian.

You’ve used that last one liberally. 

And you don’t talk that much, all together. There seems to be a drastic shortage of monsters to hunt and a beautiful plenty of books to read, so you’ve focus all your energy there.

On looking for answers.

About anything. Lilith. The seals. Heaven. The Magdalenes. Witches.

You.

Everything you learn about yourself is something you had to teach. You can’t feel anything holy, but you can’t really feel a lot right now. It’s all just a lot of fucking pain. And as you force yourself out of bed for the day, your gaze falls to your hands, and you can still see it. 

Pastel blue. Glistening and crystallized on your fingers. The Gold has faded slightly, but the Blue is still clinging to you. Whenever you wash your hands, you’re afraid it’s going to run away with the water. When you wake up, there’s a dread in the pit of your stomach that you’ll glance down, it will fall off like an icicle from a roof. Maybe it will have been wiped away in your sleep, stained on the sheets, never to be returned. 

And then it’s there, and the dread shifts to just more fucking pain. Your eyes sting, and you freeze on the edge of the bed as you stare at it. The last bit of Jo, bled onto you when she-

Bile rises in your throat, and you swallow it back down. 

You don’t deserve it. You don’t deserve to be sad when you did this to her. Made Jo nothing more than a little bit of a mark on your fingers that no one else can see. Ellen didn’t get a little bit of Jo to carry all the time. 

Ellen didn’t even get to be there when it happened.

Jo wants you to tell Ellen something. And you’d cut her off, because you’re a fucking parasite, and you’d been so sure you could fix it. You would’ve done anything to fix it, but the Sky wouldn’t let you, and now she was gone-

A weak, sniffling noise escapes your throat, and this time there’s no bile. It’s only a heavy, crushing weight around your skull, and a searing feeling as your nails dig into your skin.

You need to move.

Most mornings, it takes too long to remember how.

And it’s never anything spurring you into action. You’re numb and hollow and breathing only because you have to, and then it all settles down and you move.

It’s mechanical. Sleep shirt off and in the backpack. Top. Bottoms. Socks and shoes and jacket. Your knife, spin it once in your hands just to move, then tuck it against your body. 

Go. 

You have to move and go, because you promised you’d be okay, and turning to stone is no way to be okay.

You don’t remember how to be okay either. 

But you’ll get through it. 

You always do.

You’d had to leave the city within a few days. There were too many people, too many colors, all of it bleeding together like a kaleidoscope or supernova and making you dizzy. Too many not-smells, giving you a migraine. The countryside was better. Quieter. Sometimes there was golden light reflecting in the rivers, and you got to pretend you could grab it and keep it. 

And there are less people to hurt, if something goes wrong. 

Because something always goes wrong. 

Even when your day is just reading and scratching notes in the corner of a library, something will find a way to go wrong.

Maybe that’s part of the Magdalene curse. Maybe angels and demons can’t kill you, but the world just shifts and rots around you from your presence. You are made of the same thing as Lilith, and she made things as wrong as they could possibly be. Maybe this ends with you either destroying the world, or imploding onto yourself. 

You’re closer to the second. You’re tired, and your teeth hurt, and every shadow is longer than you thought possible. The pencil is heavier than it should be in your hand, and you can’t tell if there’s something in the air or if your lungs simply can’t figure out how to breathe anything but iron. Your skin feels wrong on your body, but you can’t remove it or that final bit of Jo in the world will vanish.

You miss Dean. You miss him all the time. There’s no one here to hold you until you sleep, no one to calm you down when the souls start to swarm around you, and it’s like you’re being drowned. Nobody is making you drink water or eat through the grief, and some days you’ve just been forgetting until you stand up and almost fall over.

Then you have to steady yourself, but no one is as good at steadying you as Dean is. 

You love him. And every time you wake up from a dream—just like this morning—you could swear you could fucking smell him. On the air around you, stronger than the cotton and dry wood of your room. You’ve stopped wearing perfume, so that it can linger on the edge of the air through the day. 

But you’ve stopped doing a lot of things.

It’s why, when something goes wrong, nothing riots in your body to warn you. The most you get is a faint tug from the right of your chest, and then it’s too late.

“Look at what we have here.” A taunting, male voice crows over your shoulder, and your blood goes cold. 

You don’t have to turn to know that it’s something evil. You can hear it in the drawl of his words. Fucking smell it, metallic and rotten on the air, like blood and-

Sulfur.

Fuck-

Two hands close over your shoulders, pinning you down to the chair, and a cold breath fans over your neck.

“Took me so long to find you. Don’t move an inch, darling. We’re just here to have a conversation, and I might not be able to kill ya’, but I don’t think you can kill me either, can you.” The demon laughs. “I think you might be havin’ some performance issues.”

You swallow, trying to force your voice to stay even. “Would you want to bet on that?”

The demon laughs. “Why don’t we find out? I’ve been dyin’ to get my hands on you, princess.”

There’s a prickling, burning, white-hot feeling on wrong over your heart. 

Only Dean calls you that. Only Dean is allowed to call you that, because he says it with a teasing voice, but there’s always something under it that makes your body relax and the Spiderweb glow. It’s made of something soft and a little intoxicating. He says it as if he believes it. As if it’s not just a joking nickname that stuck, but a title. 

The demon says it like he knows how wrong it is. Like he’s slicing you open and driving a poker right into the Spiderweb, then laughing as it whines for something you both know it can’t have. Dean’s across the ocean, and you’re not a princess. Dean might look at you and see more than a monster, but the demon isn’t fooled. 

He knows what you are.

Like him.

Worse than him.

Demons are turned from years of torture. Demons are evil, but at least they were once human. 

You’ve never been anything but sick. You were born twisted. And you’d never asked Cas if Lilith’s daughters were born before or after she became a demon.

You don’t really want to find out.

“Calm down, sweetheart. Can fuckin’ taste your fear.” The demon sneer in your ear. “And there’s no need to get hysterical. You get to be special again. For once, I ain’t here looking for that delicious panic and pain.”

You don’t want to be special. You just want to go home. 

You just want Dean.

“What- Why are you-“

“I just thought I’d come see what all the fuss is about.” The demon hums, rising back up. “I’ve heard so much about you. And darlin’, the stories aren’t doing you justice.”

The demon rounds the table, and your nails dig into the scar on your palm. 

He’s like Lilith.

A little darker of a gray, but smooth. Refined. Nothing bursting out of where he wants it to be, and he’s fucking hideous and hateful and wearing it like a badge. Every shift of him is like a raised chin and a sneer.

You recognize him. You can’t place how, but you do.

“Dean needs to get better at tellin’ stories.” The demon hums, and even his vessel is twisted in a horrible, crude smirk. “Even all his fawnin’ and whinin’ didn’t manage to capture just how perfect you are.”

It’s so fucking wrong. In a way worse than Lilith, every fiber of your existence knows this demon is fucking wrong. And the Spiderweb hates him. It’s crawling and twisting in your body like it’s trying to fucking hide, stinging and whining as if just the demon’s presence makes it feel sick.

And he’d said Dean. 

He knows Dean. 

You do know him. 

The pieces snap together in a second, and you’re moving the next. Grabbing your knife out of your jacket and flying across the table, driving the blade right into the Alistair’s chest. 

Nothing happens. Alistair just laughs, pulling the knife out of his chest and examining it with a smirk.

“This that knife Dean got you, isn’t it.” Alistair raises his brows at you, and sighs when you only glare at him. “I’m tryin’ to have a conversation with you, you know-“

“I don’t want to have a conversation with you.” Your words are spat, and Alistair just rolls his eyes.

“There’s those dramatics I’ve heard about you havin’. Always so emotional,” he hums your name, sliding the knife back across the table. “I was building up to a compliment, sweetheart. Dean had good taste. I can feel a lot of anger and fear on that thing.”

The bile is back. It’s spilling into your voice. “What the fuck are you here for. I’ve stopped interfering-“

Alistair scoffs. “I don’t care about that. I woulda preferred you stick around, but Lilith said it wouldn’t work out in our favor if ya did. Shame. I was really lookin’ forward to killing Dean in front of you, then seeing what type of pain you’re really capable of causin’.”

“I-“ There’s something tight and horrible around your throat. “I’m not-“

“Yeah, you are.” Alistair smirks, scanning you over once more. “You want to know Dean’s worst nightmare?”

You really don’t. You’re only clinging to your knife like maybe it will summon Dean to your side, trying to wait Alistair out. 

The only other option is stirring deep, deep in your body. Starting to pick up and roll around. Shining bright enough to split through that gaping, infinite void of too much and nothing at all that seems to follow you with death.

And you can’t use the other option. So you just have to fucking hold on, and last through this new, awful thing.

“That boy has always been a little more creative than is good for him.” Alistair smiles, almost fondly, and you want to punch out his teeth. “Made him a beautiful subject, and a perfect student. But sometimes he’d get cold feet. All sad and whiny ‘bout hurtin’ people. But all I’d have to do is show him that nightmare of his. Dragged it from his head after about a year, and- Well, why don’t we just look together. Brace yourself, sweetheart. It’s a good one.”

Alistair reaches up, and before you can stop him, his hand is pressed to your brow.

You’re back in Hell. The screams and heat and colors running below your feet.

Not your feet. 

Lower than your feet. 

You’re suspend, on the same rack that you’ve seen before. And Dean’s right there. Golden, but tattered and mauled and frozen. Just staring at you, as something gray and horrible runs over your body, and you want to scream but you can’t breathe, and Dean’s still not moving.

The Gold is rioting, but Dean’s not moving.

Alistair laughs in your ear, and the Gold seems to be trying to press out, to get to you, but then it hits an invisible barrier, and Dean doesn’t move. 

You don’t think he can.

When the library comes back into focus, you’re panting. Every breath is too fast and short, your grip on the table driving splinters into your hands, and you can’t fucking breathe-

“Warned you.” Alistair hums, and his voice is driving right into your fucking brain. 

All you can see is Dean. Frozen, watching you with fear.

Dean was never afraid. He was angry and worried and stressed, but you’d never seen him look only afraid.

The Spiderweb is almost whimpering, shimmering with a soft light and still trying to bury itself deeper than Alistair can hurt it.

But the Silver-

It’s starting to move. To wake up.

Fuck.

“I’m gonna tell you a secret, darlin’. That little nightmare? It always was fun to feed, but it’s never gonna be the plan. I’m thinking, when we win and I get to take you home, we’ll find wherever the reapers stored sweet little Jo, and pull her out. To join the party, you know?”

The Silver rears its head. And you’re drawing blood on your skin, but your nails are short and chipped, and you still can’t really breathe-

“And then I’ll give Dean a choice. He can either torture Jo while you watch, or I’ll make his nightmare come true.” Alistair laughs to himself, and the Silver is starting to climb up. 

Or curve in. Building up by caving in. Like a fucking black hole, crushing down so it can-

“And he’ll choose you. He’ll hate himself for it, but you’re his girl. His Princess. He ain’t gonna do anythin’ that’ll hurt you. Not on purpose.”

The Silver is so close. But there are people here. People and animals, and a- You saw a fucking teenager, and she had a walk that kind of reminded you of Sam’s-

“But here’s the kicker,” Alistair says your name like you’re old friends. “After he finished chopping up Jo, I’d freeze him just like in his nightmare. And I wouldn’t touch you. That’s boring. If I’m makin’ art like this, I’m making it the right way.”

It’s going to fall out of your mouth. You can’t fucking control it, and all the Silver can feel is the pain of the Spiderweb, so all it knows is something’s wrong and you can’t stop it-

“No, here’s what I’ve got lined up instead. Good ol’ Sammy will be walkin’ around up here, well,” Alistair laughs. “His body will be. But point is, can’t use him. And I think what I’m left with will work better anyway.” Alistair’s smoke moves back into that ugly fucking smile, and the Silver reaches a stasis. A silence.

A split second before the storm.

“I’ll drag good ol’ Daddy Winchester out to play. Let him do whatever he wants, while Dean’s watchin’. And maybe it’ll just be what Dean did to Jo, but you never know.” Alistair smirks. “Those men of god never could resist a Magdalene.”

Everything stills. Moves to match the stasis of the Silver, and it’s almost serene. You’re everything, and it’s all waiting for you. The walls will fall to shield you. The wind will turn to a hurricane to protect you. The grass outside will grow and flourish to protect you.

And the Sky is smiling at you. You can feel it, and not just watching.

Over you. Shining with praise, because this, this is that holy wrath you’re supposed to have all the time. 

You don’t fucking want it.

You just want to go home.

Alistair smiles at you again, a second before you lose control.

“There you are.” 

You don’t know how he gets away in time. You can’t tell through how you’re everything, and you can’t see anything but the blur.

All you know is that you explode.

Detonate.

Destroy.

The Silver razes through all it can reach.The building turns to ruin, rivers of blood run under your feet—although, as far as you can see, there are no bodies—and the forests and walls start to bloom with flowers and plants you’ve never seen before. 

They’re beautiful. Strangely shaped and delicate, glowing softly and filled with an iridescent light. 

But it’s all beautiful. 

The apples hanging from the ceiling are beautiful. The small, condensed bits of life floating through the room are beautiful. The countryside, now littered with pastel blue roses, is beautiful. 

And the souls stained on the walls are beautiful, too. 

And you have to go.

The angels will be here soon.

That must be the real reason Alistair was looking for you. He’d taunted you right to the fucking edge, then pushed you over. Forced you to lose control, and send up that loud, neon signal telling Heaven I’m here! Come and get me!

And you’ve been so fucking careful not to draw attention, but it’s not really up to you anymore.

Because the Silver’s been like this since Jo. Dormant and silent until it’s forced to move, and then reactionary. Worse than a live wire, worse than a sickness, worse than a monster.

Damnation. 

That must be why the angels are still after you, even though you did what they asked. Even though you left.

Zachariah had said to muzzle you.

And you weren’t muzzled.

You were feral.

And now you have to run again.

But you don’t want to be the sickness. You don’t want to be what the Sky keeps demanding of you. Blinking down over you and asking doesn’t it feel good, to have this kind of might in your body, to not be burdened by things lower than you are?

Nothing is lower than you are. They might not be talking to the Sky, but it’s lonely. Higher than anything else, but that seems to be more of a curse than a gift. And all the things it keeps telling you are lower are made of more than the Sky is. Every soul spilled on the ground around you is a little dented and tainted, but it’s beautiful.

It’s all so beautiful. 

You need to go. It’s not safe for you to stay. 

But you do. For longer than you should allow, you grab every soul you can and shove it back into its body. And you can’t heal them. Can’t fix whatever damage the Silver has done, because you can’t call it forward to mend what it broke. They’ll be alive, but maybe different. Maybe completely morphed, maybe just a little cracked, maybe shattered beyond repair. But they’ll be alive. And even if you could fix them, the Sky might decide you were overstepping again, and rip them right back out. 

It never stops you from cleaning, though. From finishing your little ritual. It shines in warning, but you flip it off.

“You’ve got something you want from me,” you hiss, narrowing your eyes. “Come and get it your fucking self.”

It doesn’t.

It just keeps watching.

So you run.

You don’t stop until dusk. Until you’re sure you’re far enough away that whatever angels Heaven sent won’t find you. 

And this is how it is now. You move from town to town like some sort of phantom. You miss Dean every second, but you can’t go home. You dodge angels and read in the dead of night, staring at your phone and willing it to-

You jump out of your skin a little, when the screen lights up. 

Possible Spam.

You’ve never picked up the phone faster.

Dean’s shouting your name through the speaker, when the call connects. There’s something strained in his voice. Almost distressed.

You raise your voice, just enough to get through to him. “De-“

“Oh, thank fucking- Son of a bitch, sweetheart, I- Are you good? Safe?”

“I’m fine.” You draw your knees up to your chest, trying to make your voice sound light. “It’s just- Long day-“

“I know about Alistair.” 

You freeze, and Dean’s voice grows a little hoarse. 

“He admitted it. Told me he’s seen you. It’s- We’re working one of the seals and he’s here, and I- He said-“

“He didn’t hurt me.” You whisper, squeezing your eyes shut. “He was just taunting me. Trying to make me- You know. Do the thing.”

Dean’s silent for a long, heavy second. “Happened again, huh.”

“Yeah.”

“Any progress on-“

“No.”

Dean lets out a dry laugh. “You didn’t even let me finish talking.”

“I-“ You swallow, a heavy lump starting to form in your throat. “I’m sorry-“

“Hey, wait, don’t- I’m teasing you, sweetheart.” Dean’s voice is so gentle. You can almost see the slightly panicked look on his face. “Don’t cry, it’s okay, you’re good-“

You’d been trying not to cry.

You really had. 

But you miss him. And you’re so fucking tired.

It’s impossible to swallow the choked sounds or whimpers. The sniffling as you wipe your nose with your sleeve, or the heavy breathing as a weight pressed onto your chest. You don’t want Dean to hear. You know he’s still dealing with the seals, and an angry Bobby—although Dean won’t admit they’re fighting about you, you know they are—and a Sam that’s still working with Ruby. He doesn’t need to hear you cry when you’re the one who fucking left. You’re the one who wouldn’t stay. 

You’d hated Dean so long for leaving you, so many years ago.

But then you fucking left him.

And he’s staying on the phone with you. Not speaking, but humming low and deep as your head drops to your knees, and your breathing evens out.

It’s steady.

Ragged and impossible, but steady. 

“De- I-“ You swallow, wiping your cheeks with your palm. “I wanna go home. I miss Bobby and Sam and I- I don’t know what to do. I miss you, and I can’t sleep, and I-“

I love you.

You’re not allowed to say it.

So you just strangle yourself on the sound, and hold the phone as close to your ear as you can.

“I know.” Dean’s voice is a rasp through the speaker, and it makes a new wave of tears fall. “Just come home, Princess- I- Fuck, I’ll call Cas and he’ll come get you right now-“

“I can’t.” You whisper. “You know I can’t.”

“But-“

“Please. Don’t.”

Dean can’t beg you to come home. 

If he does, just as always, you’d listen.

“Did-“ Dean clears his throat, and you’re grateful. He listened. “What did Alistair say to you? To set it off?”

You can’t tell Dean what Alistair really said. He’d drive himself mad about it. Doing something reckless, get himself hurt. And all of this is always just so Dean doesn’t get hurt.

But you can’t lie to him either. 

“Jo.” You mumble, leaning back and rubbing at your wrists. “You. Sam. Just- What he’d do, if they win.”

“Fucking bastard.” Dean mutters, and you smile into the air. 

You miss his glare. The firm one that he’s always aim at you, but never hurt you. It was always a glare that wrapped around you. Told you he was angry because he cared, and didn’t know how to do anything with it.

He still cares.

Dean knows what the past month has been for you. Nightmares and explosions, souls staining the ground and painted over your hands—although they always fade fast, as nothing but Jo seems to be clinging to you longer than it has to—and never getting more control or answers.

You only find more questions. More reasons to stay away. And Dean should give up on you, but that’s not what he does. You know how pissed he is at Sam, but he’s not giving up on dragging him away from Ruby. He wouldn’t.

Just like how he’s only ever held you when everything became too much. Only ever gone to help, whenever Sammy called. Had held you and tried to make you stay, after Jo.

And he still picks up the phone. Still calls you, even when you know that—wherever he is in America—it’s an unreasonable hour. Talks to you like nothing has ever gone wrong at all. Asks you to come home like it’s not ripping out and healing your heart all at once. 

“You know I’d never let that happen, right?”

You blink, frowning at the wall. “What?”

“Alistair.” Dean mutters. “No matter what happens. He’s never gonna touch you.”

I’ll drag good ol’ Daddy Winchester out to play.

You know. You know I love you, baby.

“I know.” You whisper, even though you both know that’s not really up to Dean. “How was your day?”

“Kinda shit. You?”

You let out a soft laugh. “Kinda shit, too.”

“You could come home, and our days could be shit together-“

“Dean.”

“Yeah, yeah. Alright. Had to try.”

He did. He always does. And he’s nothing more than a voice in a box, but the Spiderweb still lights up under his attention. Still thrives from just to sound of Dean saying your name and telling you about astral projection, and you could fucking swear you smell spice-

“It felt fuckin’ weird,” Dean mutters your name, and you can hear something moving in the background. “I was solid, but it was soupy.”

You smile into the air. “Soupy?”

“Yeah, like chowder-“

“Those are two different feelings, De.”

“No they’re both globby.”

“Globby-“

“It works- Sammy!” 

You hear Sam’s voice grumble something in the background, and wait patiently.

“Being all ghost-like felt globby, right?”

“You sound insane, Dean.”

That breaks through, and you giggle.

“Hey.” Dean’s voice is a little firmer. He’s talking to you. “I heard that. It’s not my fault Sammy isn’t a poet like me-“

Sam snorts in the background. “I heard you say soupy before. Are you talking to-“

“Yes.” Dean snaps. “She’s mine, Sammy. You can’t have her.”

He means the phone. You know he means the phone. 

It still makes the Spiderweb fucking shine.

“I just wanna ask her about a seal-“

“Call her later.”

“But-“

“No. Back off, or I’ll shit on your bed.”

“That’s so gross- Dean-“

A door slams on Dean’s end, and Sam’s voice goes muffled.

“Sorry about that, Princess. Don’t know who let Bigfoot into my hotel room like that.”

You hum, smiling like an idiot at your knees. “You know, one day he’s really gonna get sick of you doing that. It’s the third time this week.”

“Nah.” There’s a pause. “Are you getting sick of me, Princess?”

Sam’s right. He’s insane. “No.”

“You sure? Not finding some other guy with a sweet ride-“

“I’m not looking, De.” You whisper before you can stop yourself. “And nobody’s got a better ride than you, car boy.”

"Thanks.” Dean mumbles, clearing his throat. “I’m taking care of the Firebird. Drive her once a week-“

“He.”

"What?”

“My car. It’s a he.”

Dean pauses. “You, uh- You named him?”

“Not yet.” You shrug. “I’m brainstorming.”

“How about Dean Junior-“

“No.”

You only get a laugh in response, and this night doesn’t hurt as much as the others. You talk to Dean until the sun rises, and he mutters that his phone is about to die, and Sam will kill him if they’re not on the road early tomorrow. You don’t say goodbye, when you hang up. You never say goodbye. 

Instead the line goes dead, you shuffle out to find coffee, and return to your room for the rest of the day. You’re in no rush. You’re safe—for now—and all your work lives in reading and researching. Going over the emails Sam has sent you and responding with what you find. Combing through your own books for some sort of fucking clue. How many other Magdalenes there were. What they brought. How they controlled it, if it was something that could be controlled. So far all you have are a big do not attempt warnings on burnt pages,  a bunch of fake Magdalene spells—like plastic knockoffs of what you’ve found in the book, and made yourself—and the Sky watching you.

Nothing ever mentions the Sky. And it’s not like you’ve found anything explicit about Magdalenes. But you’ve learned to spot patterns. Clues. Draw timelines and pour over history books until you passed out, Dean called you, or something went wrong.

It would be lovely and simple, if you’d taught yourself that.

But it isn’t. And you didn’t.

“I heard you killed an angel.”

You’d spun around, and there she’d been. Standing in the corner of your room, smiling at you with that awful affection.

“That’s impressive, little one.” Lilith had hummed, her smiling growing. “Even I could never have done that, even at my brightest.”

“Cool.” You’d mumbled, rubbing at your wrists as you watched her. “How did you find me?”

“We are the same.” Lilith had shrugged. “You might be more, and but I can still know. You’d know too, if you just thought about it. And it took a little extra effort to find you, but I had to. You put on quite a show, almost locking all the seals. If those fucking uptight featherdicks hadn’t interfered, you might have succeeded. I mean, maybe if I’d sent the cavalry, too. But Ruby was begging me not to send Alistair himself. You did quite a number on her.”

“Ruby-“

“That’s not for you to worry about.” Lilith had waved you off like it was nothing. “I’d be concerned with yourself, little one. The angels are starting to look for their master, and mine- He will be here soon. And you should be ready. And I am reaching my purpose, but I can’t wait to learn, one day, what you do”

“I-“ You’d shaken your head, walking back to the wall. The Sky had flashed out the window.

If Lilith could see or feel it, she didn’t show it.

“I don’t- I’m not going to serve-“

“No, you won’t.” Lilith had hummed. “If you’re smart, they will bow at your feet for all of time to come, and you will never be a toy to those vile fucking animals again-“

“I-“ Your voice had been so small. You’d pushed through. “I’m not a toy-“

“Not now, little one. But you’re still attached to Dean Winchester. I can see him all over you.” She’d shivered. “You’ll get through it. We all have. Even I had a Dean, but- It doesn’t matter. Men of God. Doesn’t matter which one you chose, they are all the same in the end.”

And there it is again. Your hand freezes over your notes—a mindless scribble of Dean’s name in Enochian half-written—as the memory echoes, and you put it together.

Men of God.

Alistair had said it. So had Anna, before you crushed her like some sort of bug. 

And Anna had been an angel. She knew enough to know your name was written in places in Heaven that Castiel has never seen.

Lilith had spoken of them like they were everywhere. She’s said that all of you had one. That yours was another case of being special—more complicated—but you still needed to be stronger. That they always promise freedom, only to try and cut you up and morph you and put you in a cage.

Dean would never do that. He’d set you free. 

He was waiting for you.

You’d worry about that later. Right now, for the first time since you left, you had something.

It’s a good thing Europe is full of churches.

The months start to blur together, the longer you’re away. You didn’t expect it to be immediate, but it has to be something. Lilith, Alistair, and Anna wouldn’t all say Men of God only for it to just be some kind of weird Heaven and Hell phase. It’ll only take time. And you’ll comb through every library and visit every church and do whatever the fuck you need for just one answer.

And it does seem to be a marker. Every Magdalene you’ve found—Lilith had been right, you’d just had to try, and it would call to you like some distorted song—has had someone in their orbit. And there has to be a reason. Even if no one can place what the Magdalenes are outside of danger and change, even if there’s no idea for how you were made or why you exist, it can’t just be a coincidence.

Dean says there are no coincidences in this life. 

He’s usually right about this kind of stuff. He’s usually right about most stuff. 

And whatever Men of God are, Dean isn’t one. Not the way Lilith says, at least. He’s yours, but the Magdalenes you’ve found always ended up betrayed or abandoned by theirs. Dean would never do that. Even if he doesn’t love you, he just wouldn’t. That’s another thing he doesn’t do. 

Run away.

He’s stronger than you are. It’s why, whenever you run, he really has been always so good at catching you. At wrapping you up and keeping you safe, when he should’ve put you down. 

And Lilith had said the one you chose.

Dean’s never been a choice. He just is. You love him because he’s Dean, and that’s better than anything. He’s never been just one star you picked from the sky. 

He’s been full of gravity, like a planet. Not a flower from a garden, but a strong, unbreakable tree that could be split with lightning and still be the prettiest thing you’d ever seen. Not a rock from the ocean, but an island that you’d always returned to, because there’s nowhere better to rest.

And there are more differences—between you and the other Magdalenes—the longer you look. Some of them have been labelled as crazy or hysterical, but none of them are ever mentioned talking about all the colors. None of them ever claim to see demons and angels. 

Not one mentions the Sky. 

That seems to be another horrible, awful, exhausting thing that’s just for you. 

And time keeps passing. You keep reading and reading and finding something that’s really nothing, and nothing that looks like something, but it’s just a trick of the light. Things keep going wrong—a woman grabs your wrist in a coffee shop, you walk into a church and the stained glass begins to glow, you see an angel on the street and wipe them out with the whole block—and the Sky keeps watching. 

It doesn’t seem to mind you looking for answers. It almost seems to hum whenever you find something. A tattered page in a church catacomb, that’s a similar—but less detailed—to your own notebook. Colors and names scribbled in a French, like a personal guide. And then there’s the half-burnt, Portuguese version of the Book, and another Magdalene buried Florence, Italy.

You can go to Florence. 

You can raid a grave, to see if her bones are made of anything that tells you how she controlled it. If she left you anything. She must have. 

She did.

Maps of Heaven and Hell. You don’t know what you’re supposed to do with them, or how she got them, but you know the Sky is happy you have them. 

Lately, the Sky only ever seems angry when Dean calls. 

You always pick up anyway.

“Hi, De.”

“Hey, Princess. You still in-“

“Nope. Nice try, though.”

He sighs. “Had to take the shot. How was your day?”

You smile into the air. “It was… long.”

“Did you eat?”

You’re silent for a second too long, and Dean snaps your name.

“Goddamnit, you need to-“

“I know.” You sigh. “I just- I got distracted, I promise. I got a new book, and it’s just regular witchcraft, but maybe Cas could use it-“

“Actually, uh-“ Dean clears his throat. “We kinda lost Cas.”

“You- How?”

“He’s a human again. We’re working on it, but Sammy-“ Dean lets out a long, heavy breath, and you sigh.

“Is Ruby still-“

“Yeah.”

“Did you tell him-“

“He won’t listen.” Dean mutters. “Thinks you must have misunderstood, or that Lilith was just messing with you.”

“But-“

“I know, Princess. But- I- Can you talk? Please?”

You swallow, staring up at the ceiling. You’d told Dean, what Lilith had mentioned about Ruby begging her. You’d hoped it would be some sort of evidence, to prove to Sam that Ruby can’t be trusted.

But Dean says he went a little off the deep end, after you left. That he thinks he should’ve been stronger and not gotten knocked out, or been more cautious about the ritual, or done more so you didn’t lose Jo. So you didn’t leave.

Whenever you talk to him, he never mentions it. That you left. And it’s not in the way Dean does, where he just knows you’ll come back. It’s a little hollow. His voice sounds heavier all the time, but more determined all at once.

Dean just sounds tired.

And it rips the Spiderweb in half.

“What do you wanna talk about, De?”

He lets out what might be a long breath of relief. “I, uh- I don’t know. What did you do today?”

“Read. A lot. I started looking at a map-“

“A map?” You can hear Dean’s frown in his voice. It’s adorable. “What, you hunting for treasure without me?”

“It’s a map of heaven. And,” you smile into the air, and you hope he can hear it. “I’d never hunt for treasure without you. There is no one else I’d rather treasure hunt with.”

“Damn. Not even Bobby?”

“I don’t think Bobby would be all that good at treasure hunting.” You shrug. “He’d get bored, and say that this kinda shit is pointless anyway.”

“Yeah,” Dean’s soft laugh is a little muffled through the phone. “You’re right about that. How about Sammy?”

“He’d be fine. Do you not want to go treasure hunting with me, Deano?”

He snorts. “Princess, if I ever go treasure hunting with anyone, I’d want it to you.”

“Thanks.” You mumble. “Why?”

“Cause you’re smart, and you’ve seen a billion of those freakin’ treasure movies. You’ve studied, sweetheart. You’re a nerd.”

You scoff. “Well, if I ever need to commit crimes for the good of the community, I’ll call you, Cowboy.”

“Aw, you think I’m a Cowboy-“

“Dean-“

Dean cuts you off with a tsk, and suddenly you can see him. It’s just in your head, but it’s so close to real. Standing in front of you with a boyish, cocky smirk, his eyes alight on yours, every bit of him so fucking Golden, and all focused on you. Handsome. Always handsome. His hair a little spiky and out of place, his nose a little more crooked than the last time you saw him, but his body just as broad, and-

You can feel an ache between your legs, and it only deepens when he drawls your name.

Shit.

“I gotta tell you a secret, Princess.” Dean hums, and you swallow. “Our job is doing crimes for the good of the community. And you’re the best damn criminal I know.”

You flush, and the ache gets worse. “Shut up.”

“Bossy-“

“And I’m not a criminal-“

“Yeah, you are.” Dean laughs. “But it’s okay, we’re all criminals. You and me would’ve run the wild west, sweetheart, I’ll tell you that much.”

Your ditzy, slightly stupid smile is back. “Really?”

“Hell, yeah. Sammy would be the sheriff, and Bobby would run the bar, and I’d be the awesome, lone cowboy passing through the town. I’d stop at the bar look for a drink but instead I’d find you-“ Dean cuts himself off with a cough. “And Bobby. And instead of just passin’ through, I’d plant my roots, and team up with the sheriff to take care of the town.”

He might be the most adorable person on the planet. “You’ve thought about it. Sam might be right about that cowboy fetish, De-“

“It’s not-“ He groans, and the sound doesn’t help your situation. “They’re cool. They’re really freakin’ cool, and they’ve got awesome hats. Is it so wrong to like something?”

“No.” You hum. “But that’s a fantasy, Winchester. You have a cowboy fantasy. And you call me a nerd.”

Dean’s silent. For a little too long, Dean’s silent. And right when you’re about to ask if he’s still there, he mutters your name. “’S nice to have a fantasy, Princess. Something to want. Bet you have them too.”

You do. 

You have two. 

The first one you think of is the one that always slams into you like a blow to your gut. It’s made of Jo. Of what you’d told her, the last night she was alive. Of a world where her fantasy was reality. And that’s what you think of there, and you break down on the phone with Dean—again—and he stays on the line through it. 

The second one makes you feel like a piece of fucking shit. Because you sob to Dean about how you miss Jo, and you want to come home, and you’re still looking for answers but everything still fucking hurts—it always fucking hurts, it never stops hurting, the only way to stop hurting is to stop being and you’ve never figured out how to do that—and then he goes. With a soft reminder to call him tomorrow, or text if you can’t, Dean has to leave and deal with human Cas.

And you’re worse than a monster. 

Because when you’re done sniffling into your pillow, your head wanders back to Dean’s words.

Bet you have them too.

His voice had been so deep—and it’s always been deep, but it only seems to get deeper—and a little like a lullaby. A low, soothing promise that’s vibrated in your bones when he’s held you, and still sparks in your blood whenever you hear it.

And you can still see him, in your head. Broad and strong, soft in all the right places and grinning at you. Always grinning at you, and touching you. Dean’s touched you. He’s had hands skimming right under your shirt and resting on your hips, and he’s held you by your lower back so often, but never on bare skin. 

It lights you on fire. 

And you have fantasies.

You might have a lot of fantasies.

They’re all made of the memory of Dean’s lips on yours, and his taste on your tongue, and the warmth and Gold of him being everywhere. It would feel better than heaven, if he’d hold you right against him, his palm splayed over your lower back, his voice moving right through your body as you grind down onto his thigh. Calling you Princess and his and teasing you until you’re scratching at his back, and he’s just chuckling.

C’mon, baby girl. Just a little more, I’ve got you, you’re doing so good. That’s it, scream my name-

“Dean!”

You cum with a shaking body, and short, shallow gasp.

When your eyes fly open, you realize that scream wasn’t a part of the fantasy. That was loud, for anyone to hear as you’d orgasmed, grinding onto the sheets and pretending your hands on your breast were Dean’s.

The pricking, sickening shame hits you so fast. Jo’s still gone. Dean’s not even here, and you’re turning him into something he might not even want to be. Not for you. He’d been looking for comfort, and you’d made him your fantasy.

But he is your fantasy. 

No matter how you try to push it down, now that the idea has crossed your mind, before you sleep you think of Dean.

Something must be wrong with you. Your days are spent staring at books and rubbing at your wrists, looking over your shoulder to make sure there’s no one behind you. No one to try and hurt you, only for their soul to end up splattered all over the ground. Someone tries to get your attention on the street again, and a redwood shoots out of the ground in Germany. You see a man that looks an awful lot like Ketch in a cafe—already putting you on edge—and then a little blonde girl with the same eyes Jo has starts crying, and a Javan tiger is seen running through Austria.

You don’t know how you’re doing it. Only that the Silver detonates, and everything is destroyed and remade all at once. You can’t find any records of that happening to other Magdalenes—or, really, at all—but you’re still looking.

You’ve found that Men of God is seeming to be a loose term—maybe a title—more than a solid rule. And when the trail runs dry on Magdalenes, you shift back to witchcraft. It’s easy, even without the Silver, and it makes you feel like maybe you’re being useful.

Not just running and destroying and sitting in the dirt near a river, staring at the blue on your hands.

Jo would like it here. She would like all the sun and beer, and she would like how the hotel shampoo smells, and she would love all the stray animals and stupid, fancy wines. She would drawl that all wine is wine, but this tastes like rippin’ off rich idiots. 

You stole a bottle for her, and poured it into the river. Then you just sit there. Ignoring the Sky over you, pretending that when you stand up things will be better.

They won’t.

Jo’s still gone, and it’s still so fucking hollow. You’re trying to eat more, for her. Trying to sleep more too. You’re getting better at it, as the time passes. At not dying from self-neglect.

And she would’ve wanted you to talk to Dean. To let him convince you to come home, so he could hold you until it hurt a little less.

You don’t want it to hurt less. When it hurts it means you’re thinking about her, and if you stop thinking about her—sobbing on the riverbank, watching your fingers because one day the blue will fade and you don’t know what you’ll do—then who will. Someone has to be in pain for this. Someone has to pay, you’d already killed Anna, and Zachariah seems pretty fucking occupied with Sam and Dean. 

Pain, numb and hollow and vast and fucking crushing—pressing on your lungs and head, faint in the background until it slams into you and breathing becomes a labor—is a price you deserve to pay. 

So the days pass, and they’re lonely and repetitive, as the Sky keeps watching.

But your nights are spent collapsing on the bed, and calling Dean.

“Are the souls different? Wherever you are?”

You smile at the ceiling. “I mean, they’re different soul to soul.”

“You know that’s not what I meant, sweetheart-“

“They’re the same as home, De. All souls are the same.”

“Huh. You, uh,” he clears his throat. “You see any other golden souls?”

You can’t stop your laugh. You’ve never seen another golden soul. Not like Dean’s. And even if you did, no soul is made of the same primal, pure thing his and Sam’s are. 

“What’s funny-“

“Nothing, it’s-“ You shake your head. “No. I haven’t seen any other souls like yours.”

Dean grunts, and you can picture his pouting scowl. “Alright. Good. But- I still don’t get why you were laughing, Princess.”

“It’s a soul joke. You wouldn’t get it.”

“Can you help me get it?”

“Dean-“

“C’mon. I show you stuff all the time. Taught you to drive stick, showed you how to clean a gun even though you never use them, explained all the work I did on the Firebird-“

“I didn’t ask you to do that one.”

“Yeah, but you were listening. You liked it.”

You had liked it. But that had been more to do with how—when he’d been talking—he’d been covered in grease and wearing a really tight shirt, smiling at you like there was never anything else to do and bouncing around like there’s never been any pain at all. 

Dean doesn’t need to know that.

“I- Souls are really complicated-“

“I don’t care. Just-“ Dean pauses, sighing into the speaker. “I wanna hear you talk, Princess. It’s been a long fuckin’ week, and I- How about this. If you tell me about souls, I’ll teach you whatever you want, when you get home. Pinky promise.”

You swallow, and suddenly there’s a very clear image of Dean above you, his hand in your hair and his lips curved in a wide smirk as he guides you up and down his-

Fuck.

“I, um,” You pause, trying to regain control over your voice. “What do you wanna know?”

“I dunno. Explain the joke?”

“It’s- It’s not really that funny, I’m just tired-“

“You been sleeping?”

No. You’ve been talking to Dean and drinking coffee and you’re pretty sure you can feel every single nerve in your body, but that’s not the point. “Yes.”

“Lie. You need to fuckin’ sleep-“

You cut of Dean’s snap of your name with a sigh. “Are you sleeping?”

There’s a beat, and his response is so low you almost don’t hear it. “No.”

“Then shut up and stop telling me what to do.”

Dean chuckles. “So bossy, b- Princess-“

“Do you want to hear about the souls or not?”

“Yeah, alright. Go.”

You don’t explain it all. You tell him more about how souls tend to move and blend together, twining with other souls and staining each other in more and more colors until it’s almost kaleidoscopic. You mention the elements, but you’re vague—only that they all made of different things, not that you know what those different things are—because if you explain too much, Dean will ask what element he’s made of, and you’re not even sure what an honest answer would be.

To be fair, you never explain it all. You tell Dean you’re getting more leads on Magdalenes, but not a word about the Men of God, because he’ll freak out. You’ve explained all your outbursts, but never told him about the Sky. You never tell anyone about the Sky, because it makes you sound fucking crazy. Even in this life, saying the Sky is watching me and it hates when I talk to you, Deano would end with a strange look. Just like when you were a kid, telling your mother that the Sky is watching me, and making me promises, and I don’t want them. I don’t. I’m scared and I want to go home.

“Is it ever- Can you turn it off?” You can hear Dean’s frown through the phone. “I mean, that sounds like you’re being shoved into one of the carnival funhouses all the damn time.”

“That’s… Not far off.”

“But it’s gotta hurt your eyes or some shit-“

“I’m used to it,” you mumble, running your thumb over your palm. “I’m a big girl. I can handle it.”

“Yeah, but you shouldn’t have to-“

“Dean. It is what it is.”

“Yeah, but- It shouldn’t be.” He lets out a long breath, and tears start to prick at your eyes. “There’s gotta be something that helps.”

You. You help, Dean. You’re so Golden it’s impossible to think about anything else.

“Maybe start looking for that?” Dean hums, and the lump starts to form in your throat. “How to control the soul-vision shit?”

“Soul vision?” You smile, even though it’s crushing over your ribs. “Creative, De.”

“Shut up. You love it.”

I love you. “I don’t hate it.”

“Good. Maybe work on-“

“But I don’t want to turn it off.” You glance down at your hands, and your voice is far too soft. Dean with be able to hear. “I- I can’t turn it off, Dean.”

He mutters your name, and you shake your head. 

“I- I can’t. She’s still on me, her soul is still on me, and if I stop seeing it, she’s gone.” You’re breathing too shallow. You can’t stop. “I can’t let her be gone like this too, I couldn’t- It’s all I’ve got left, it’s the only piece of her left and only I can see it- And if- I- She can’t be gone, Dean, I can’t let her be gone-“

“I know.” Dean mutters, his voice so low and soothing, even through the choppy speaker. “I know sweetheart, I’m sorry-“

“I wanna come home.” You whisper, and Dean goes silent. “I miss you, and I don’t-“ I’m scared. I’m scared and I want to go home. “Dean, I don’t know- Please.”

You don’t know exactly what you’re asking for. But somehow, Dean does. 

“It’s gonna be okay. I promise it’s gonna be okay. I’ll send Cas out for you right now, if you want-“

You make a strangled noise, and Dean’s voice gets stronger. Firmer.

“Or we can just keep talking. You wanna keep talking, ba- Sweetheart?”

You nod, and even though he can’t see you, Dean still knows. Still understands. It rips another small, weak sound from your throat.

“I ate some pie, yesterday.” Dean hums, his voice still low and careful, and you let out a soft laugh.

“You eat pie every day, De.”

“Yeah, but this was cream pie. You’d like it, it had a bunch of chocolate on the top, and it was fucking full of that stuff they put in the donuts-“

“Cream?” You smile at the ceiling, and you don’t know how he does this. Every single time, even when he’s just a voice, Dean brings you back down. “I think it’s just cream, De.”

“Alright, whatever. Point is this thing is stuffed with cream-“

He can’t be doing this on purpose. You wouldn’t put it past Dean to do it on purpose, but this is the kind of thing he would talk about to see Sam get uncomfortable. But all you can think about is how even his voice is fucking pretty, and he keeps saying stuffed and cream and filled, and your skin is prickling with an aching, pleasant warmth, your thighs starting to press back together.

And Dean does eventually have to go. Once he’s satisfied with your lack of hyperventilation and the steadiness of your voice, he mutters that he has to go deal with Sam.

“Get some rest,” He mutters your name, and you swallow. “Or I’ll track you down and make you.”

The line cuts off before you can respond, and this is the part where something is wrong with you. You’re a fucking mess. Your cheeks are still stained with tears, and you’d been sobbing less than half an hour ago, but now you’re wet. Dripping. Your fingers trail between your legs, and over and over the sound of Dean saying you’d like the cream pie, Princess, replays in your head. The one time in his life that Dean wasn’t making an innuendo, you’re losing your mind with hunger for him.

And there are the fantasies. 

Dean over you in bed—you don’t really care which one, as long as Dean is there—and his fingers shoved into your cunt as he kisses all over your face. And you’re breathless and clinging to him, but he’s holding you just as tight, and when he buries himself fully inside of you, he lets out a low groan right in your ear-

I’ve got you. I love you, baby. You know I love you.

You don’t. Dean’s never said that. But Dean’s voice has. And it spoke with a long drawl and soft affection. Your mind is taking that and running with it. 

You cum with another gasp of Dean, your back arching off the bed, and you try not to think about it when you roll over and gather the blankets until they’re in a vague shape of Dean for you to hold all night.

And the Sky doesn’t get to see it. You always close the curtains when Dean calls, because you’re going to keep picking up the phone.

You’ll keeping missing him, too. And loving him.

And dreaming of him. 

You never stop dreaming of Dean.

“No wanderin’ off.” Bobby grunts, scanning around the room. 

It’s big. Almost as big as the rooms in your family’s house. There’s something different about it, though. Even though the air is colder, there’s a warmth to the walls and a comfort to the floor. 

You don’t tell Bobby that. Not because he wouldn’t want to know, but because he already has enough to worry about. 

“I’m not gonna wander.” You mumble, picking at the skin of your nails. “Promise.”

Bobby snorts. “I wish I believed you, kiddo.”

“Bobby-“

“I trust you.” He says your name carefully, holding your gaze. “But you like exploring and testin’ my fuckin’ blood pressure. I told you not to get distracted by the house, and what did you do?”

You pout at your shoes. “I sang on the staircase.”

“And why don’t we wanna do that.”

“Cause there’s an ubume running around.”

“Cause there’s a-“ Bobby pauses, frowning at you. “A what?”

“Ubume.”

“I ain’t sure what that is-“

“It’s the spirit of a woman who died in childbirth.” You mumble. “They’re not usually violent, but sometimes they try to steal children. And they like rocks, and there are all those rocks outside.”

Bobby blinks down at you, and shakes his has. “Fuckin’-“

“I’m sorry-“

“You’re righ-“ He cuts himself off, frowning down at you. “The hell are you sorry for?”

“I- I don’t-“ You swallow, the Darkness starting to turn out and press under your skin. “I don’t know.”

“Wel, ya shouldn’t be.” Bobby shrugs. “You’re right. The kids have been gettin’ the worst of it, so- They’re called ubumes?”

You nod, and Bobby sighs. 

“You’re not in trouble, kiddo. You can relax.”

“But I- I wasn’t supposed to get involved with the hunt-“

Bobby runs a hand over his face. “I told ya that cause I didn’t want you tryin’ to take on this shit yourself. But if you know somethin’ I might not, always say it. Deal?”

You nod nervously, and Bobby extends his hand.

“C’mon, kiddo. If we can wrap this up by the afternoon, I’ll let ya go back to the staircase.”

Your eyes widen, even as you take his hand. “But the family-“

“They ain’t home. What they don’t know ain’t gonna hurt them.”

“Who aren’t we hurting?”

You blink, and turn to see Dean next to you. 

Once again, you’re a little taller than before. And Bobby seems completely unaware of Dean’s presence, still running through the script of the memory as you walk through the house. 

“A rich family from California,” you explain, Dean trailing behind you. “Bobby heard about their haunting, and he decided to take care of it while they were out of town. I got to come because Rufus was busy, and I’d been having a lot of freak outs, so he didn’t want to leave me alone.”

“Huh.” Dean nods slowly. “Why are you holding his hand?”

“Because right now, I’m eleven.” You pause, and extend your free hand to Dean. 

He takes it without question, falling right into pace at your side and leaning down to whisper in your ear. “Where are we going?”

“To kill the ubume.”

“What the fuck is an abummy-“

“Oo-BU-me.” You hum, and when Bobby settles in the families kitchen—where you’d been keeping all the books and weapons—your hand doesn’t leave Dean’s. “Dead pregnant lady ghost.”

“Huh. And you killed it?”

“Bobby killed it.” You shrug, watching the younger version of Bobby shuffle around the room, asking you questions that in real life you’d answered, but in the dream are only met with an echo of your words as you keep talking to Dean. “I wasn’t allowed to leave the salt circle.”

“Why-“

“She was napping kids. I was a kid.” You sigh, resting your head on Dean’s shoulder. “And if he tried to take me, I would’ve lost it. And if I lost it, I probably would’ve had an even bigger freak out about losing it.”

Dean hums, keeping your hands interlocked as he slings an arm over your shoulder, pulling you right into his side. “Did you? Lose it?”

“Not today, no. This hunt ends with the ubume ganked-“

Dean smirks. “You said ganked.”

“Shut up-“

“Bossy-“

“You gonna listen, Winchester?”

“Sorry, baby.” He’s still grinning, leaning down to press a kiss to your brow. “Keep goin’.”

Baby. I love you, baby.

Fuck.

“It’s not important.” You mumble. “I get to sing the Goodnight song from the Sound of Music on the stairs.”

“Oh, I remember that.”

You frown at him. “You-“

“You told me about it. When we worked that mall case. You said you wouldn’t sing for me, cause you wouldn’t kill for me.” Dean leans down, his lips brushing over your ear, his voice sending a shiver up your spine. “Would you kill for me now, Princess?”

“I-“ You swallow, turning your head to meet his gaze.

Mistake.

He’s so close. And even though you know this is a dream, he still looks so fucking real. Golden and pretty. All you’ve ever wanted. 

All you ever could want. 

“I think I would’ve killed for you then.” You whisper, and he blinks.

“And now?”

“I’d do anything.” You can tell him that. This isn’t real, so you’re not breaking any rules by telling him. “You’re- I-“

“I know.” He mutters, and he doesn’t kiss you on the lips. Dean just wraps his arms fully around your body, pulling you right into his chest and combing his fingers through your hair. “Me too. I- I miss you, Princess. I need you to come home.”

Your fingers curl in his shirt. “I want to, De. I- I’m so tired. And it hurts. It always hurts. This fucking sucks.”

He lets out a dry laugh. “It really fucking does. But life’s a bitch, sweetheart. Always gonna hurt. Better to have each other for it.”

“Alright.” You giggle into his body. “When did you get so wise?”

“When I started missing my girl all the time.”

You sigh. “She misses you too.”

“I know. But I hope she knows-“

There’s a bang on your door, and it rips you away from your dream. Away from Dean.

And the Silver is stirring. Nothing has happened but another loud, almost violent knock, but the Silver is already starting to hum and writhe.

That can���t be anything good.

You lay flat on your back, holding your breath until you’re a little light-headed. If it’s nothing, and the Silver is just going haywire, the knocking will stop. Whoever’s on the other side of the door will give up and move on.

But you’ve never been that lucky.

A bored, taunting voice says your name, and the sound is muffled through the door, but you still recognized the fancy, stupid accent.

Fuck.

“We know you’re in there, darling.” Ketch hums from outside. “It’ll so much easier for everyone if we cut to the chase, and you let us take you in.”

You stay silent, but your hands move to your wrists. You’ve been rubbing them until your skin was a little red and raw, and it stings to the touch, and the Silver is starting to turn and turn. It might not be the worst thing to explode on Ketch and whoever else he’s brought. But you’re in a cheap inn, and you’d passed a family when you were checking in. You won’t be in enough control to stop the damage from hitting them too. 

But if Ketch tries to grab you, you’re not going to be able to stop yourself, either. 

If you were a little better of a person, you’d let Ketch take you. You should be locked up. Contained. Kept where you’ll never hurt anyone, ever again.

But you’d never see Dean again, either. And you’d vanish, and he’s think you’d abandoned him. That you’d given up, or really run away, when it was supposed to be all the way down.

You’d promised Dean all the way down.

You’d promised Jo you’d be okay.

So you can’t go without a little some sort of fight. You’ll try and keep the Silver down, but if Ketch thinks this is going to go in his favor, he’s disgustingly wrong.

God, this is still going to suck.

Ketch repeats your name, and you take a long, steadying breath.

You can do this.

“You’re just dragging it out,” he calls. “We’ve got you surrounded, and we’re well prepared. You won’t be getting away this time. I promise, darling, it will be better if you come quietly.”

You almost laugh.

He has no fucking idea what he’s in for.

“I’m busy!” You call, slowing pushing up out of bed, your knife already in your hand. You’ve been sleeping with it. Just in case.

Plus, it reminds you of Dean.

“Can you come back later?”

Ketch laughs, and Jesus, it’s not a pretty sound. “I’m afraid we’re quite busy later. And you are not the type of girl one wants to take a rain check on. You might lose her after.”

You roll your eyes, spinning your knife in your hands. “I think you’ll find that you’re going to lose me anyway.”

“Wrong. We lost you last time because you left our jurisdiction. But now? You’re in our territory. And we’ve been watching you.”

“Of course you have,” you mutter. Your jacket is on, your bag is packed, now you just need to get out.

“You’re quite the fascinating little creature,” Ketch drawls your name, and you wonder—if you punch him hard enough—if you could make all his teeth fall out. “If we can figure out how to tame you, I think Mick would be right. You’d be quite the addition to our organization.”

Organization. You’d guessed they weren’t just a team of fancy fuck hunters, but that confirms it. “I think I’ll pass. But thanks for the offer.”

“I’m afraid it’s not an offer, darling-“

“Oh, well in that case,” you swing the door open, and give Ketch a wide, mocking smile. “I’ll just say suck my dick.”

It’s good to see that he hasn’t fully recovered from the ceiling you dropped on him. He’s holding his gun differently than before, and there’s a slight, forced slump to his shoulders.

He’ll probably get better eventually. But you hope it’s a long, grueling journey until he can fully throw his shoulders back again.

“You always have been so vulgar.” Ketch sighs. “We’ll work on that.”

“No.” You shrug, keeping your smile plastered on your face, even as the Silver grows. “I’m going to recommend you let me past, Ketch. It’ll be easier for all of us.”

He laughs. “Always so overconfident, too. I told you, we’re ready. I’ve got snipers trained on you, in case you try to use that cute little blade. This place is warded, darling. Your magic tricks are useless.”

“Oh no.” You drawl. “It’s warded. What am I going to do.”

“Well, you-“ Ketch’s eyes narrow. “You are being sarcastic.”

“I have never been sarcastic in my life-“

Ketch snaps your name. “You are not working this in your favor, by being uncooperative.”

“I think you’ll find I’m being incredibly cooperative.” You shrug. “I’m trying really hard not to kill you all.”

“Oh, are you-“

“Yep.” Your eyes narrow. “Stand down. Now.”

“I think I’ll pass.” Ketch says, his voice bored, and you sigh. 

“Alright,” you swallow, glancing up to the Sky. 

Silent. Uncaring. To it, Ketch is nothing more than a firefly. More than just a bug, but still disposable. 

“Your funeral.” You give Ketch a grimacing smile. “Let’s dance.”

There’s a moment—as you watch the men behind Ketch raise their guns to your head and your spin your knife in your hands—where you think you might be able to get out of this the normal way.

Then Ketch grabs your wrist, and you’re gone. Tearing through the world once more, growing out and out and out until the Silver is satiated, and the ground doesn’t want to move up and protect you. 

It crashes back into you, the blur clears, and it’s such a fucking mess. Another building in ruin. A fucking jackalope hopping around in the strange, black and golden flowers, and a white stag prancing on the high way. 

When you sweep the damage, it looks like you got lucky. Most people were out for the day. There’s only a rose-pink receptionist to hold and push back into her body, all of Ketch’s men—they might have had guns aimed at you, but they’re still people—and Ketch himself.

A muddied orange on the pavement. And you could leave him. Dean would tell you to leave him, that he’d tried to kill you and kidnap you, and he has tortured you, so it’s not unjustifiable to just leave him for the angels to find. And they will find him. You’ve already lingered too long, and the angels will be here soon.

But you can’t stop thinking about Jo, draining of all her blue. Growing hollow, just like how Ketch’s body is passed out on the ground.

Before you can think about it too hard, you’re grabbing Ketch’s soul, and shoving it back where it belongs.

You might regret that. You know you’ll regret that.

But it’s done. You aren’t going to take it back.

And you have to go, and not look back.

You’re getting better at not looking back.

Except with Dean.

You’ll always look back for Dean.

He hasn’t seen you yet. Dean’s attention is all focused on John. Shouting at him and raising his hands, high enough that Dean flinches, but never landing a hit.

Dean looks young. Younger than you remember knowing him. His face is softer, and his nose is still crooked but his hair is a lot lighter. While John yells, he’s bowing his head in a way you’ve rarely seen before. There’s no fight in him. He seems to be absorbing every verbal blow John throws at him, only fidgeting with the cuffs of his sleeves as he waits for it finish. 

“He could be hurt, you fuckin’ dumbass- He could be goddamn dead and it would be your fault. I give you one fuckin’ job, and it ain’t makin' him happy-“ John groans, running a hand over his face. “If you don’t tell me where the hell your brother ran off to, Dean, it’s gonna be your fuckin’ head-“

“Why is he mad?” You whisper in Dean’s ear, and he starts slightly.

“Son a bitch, Princess. You scared the shit out of me.”

You grin at him. “Aw, are you jumpy-“

“I don’t get jumpy.” He grumbles, and before you know what’s happening, Dean’s arm is looped around your waist and his face is buried in your neck. “I’m tough, sweetheart. Just didn’t think you’d be here.”

“Right.” You let your fingers wander up to his hair, glaring as John just keeps shouting like nothing’s different at all. “Of course you’re tough, Deano. You’re a cowboy.”

“I know.” He mutters into your skin. “‘M your cowboy.”

“Yeah. You are.” You sigh, glaring at John over his head. “Why is he yelling at you?”

“I let Sammy have a sleepover, while Dad was on a hunt. He got back early. He wasn’t happy I let Sam out of my sight at all, but then I refused to say where he went. That made him pissed.”

“You lied to your dad?”

“Sometimes, yeah. When I had to.”

“This was a have to?”

Dean grunts into you. “Was a sleepover with a girl. Sammy had just turned sixteen.”

You laugh. “Right. Obviously.”

“And I lied to Dad for you, too.” He grumbles, his arms tightening around you. “Never told him about our hunts.”

“I- Why?” You ask before you can stop yourself, and Dean just shrugs.

“He woulda stopped me seeing you. Never wanted to stop seein’ you.” He takes a long breath. “You always smell so good. Drives me fucking insane.”

Jesus. “I don’t smell like anything, De-“

“Wrong. Smell like fucking heaven, I don’t even- Wish I could figure out what it was. Spent so much time trying to figure it out.”

“You lied to John to smell me?”

“Kinda.”

“Oh.“ You swallow. “Did you ever lie so you could have a sleepover?”

“A sleep- You mean to fuck someone?”

He’s so all around you. It’s just a dream, but Dean’s still Golden and surrounding you and almost folded over your body, and you’re not sure how you remember to speak. “Yeah.”

“Never needed to. Only to see you. And I didn’t get laid for that.”

“You didn’t ask to get laid.” You mumble, and Dean chuckles.

“Would you have said yes, baby?”

Baby. I love you, Baby.

“Don’t answer that.” Dean mutters before you can even open your mouth, pulling back with an almost sheepish grin. “Already know the answer.”

You don’t think he does. Even the Dean in your head doesn’t seem to know that you love him. That you’d do anything for him. But he’s holding your gaze, and he’s your Dean again. A little taller, small scars littered on his face that make him look even more like that Cowboy, skin more tanned and eyes far heavier. When his hand lifts up to trace over your features, it’s calloused and rough, and his lips have gone chapped, but he’s still so pretty. And his Gold is still strong.

“I think I woulda run away with you.” He murmurs, and his voice is like a spell. You couldn’t move away if you tried. “Met you a year after this, and- Son of a bitch, Princess, I wish I’d stayed, that night. Pushed my luck with the smartest, prettiest girl I’d ever seen. Missed you then, too. Always missed you. Shouldn’t have listened to Dad. He- I knew he didn’t like me, but I never thought he’d hate me that much. Taking you away from me.”

You let out a slow breath, and shake your head. And you hate John. You hate him more than anything, for what he’s done to you, and Sam, and Dean. But you never want Dean to think anyone hates him. If Dean thinks John did all this because he hated him, Dean will make it his own fault. Make himself a failure, when it was John who failed him. And John—in his own, horrible, selfish, fucked up way—had cared about Dean. You wish he hadn’t.

But he did.

“He didn’t hate you, Dean.” You whisper. “He was just a piece of shit, and he hated me. There’s a difference.”

“Yeah, well, hating you is hating me. You the awesomest part of me.”

You flush, and Dean’s grin widens. “Awesomest isn’t a word.”

“Could be.”

“No-“

“There’s no a better word for you, Princess.” Dean swoops down, kissing your cheek and squeezing your hips until you giggle. “And I don’t care if Dad hated me. You like me.”

“I do.” You whisper, your stupid, ditzy smile returning. “I really do.”

You wake up slowly. Blinking as light seeps through the windows, your blanket still wrapped in your arms as a crude mockery of Dean.

And the better days are like this. Moving slowly through your gathered books—often finding nothing, but sometimes coming across a new spell or ritual or empty clue—and picking at your food, Dean’s voice in the back of your head humming eat, Princess. You need to eat.

You really have gotten better at it, over the months. You register when you need to go to the bathroom, and don’t fight it until it’s unavoidable. You eat less than you maybe should, but enough to not grow dizzy when you stand up. You keep water next to you all the time, and when your hand starts to cramp, you let it rest a little longer than one flex. You’d promised Jo you’d be okay.

And you’re not. You’re still tired, and breaking down, and you want to go home. But at least nobody will look at you, and see a girl that’s really more of a ghost. 

Today is one of those better days. Good might be too far a stretch, but it’s better. Simple. Read and eat and drink, go for a walk because fresh air is good for the pain over your skull, take a shower because it’s nice not to feel grime on your skin.

And you could swear the Sky is growing brighter. 

All day, it seems to be somehow building brighter and brighter. 

And growing. It seems insane, but the Sky seems to be fucking growing until it’s wrapped around more than you. Like it’s bracing you for something you don’t understand.

But everything is peaceful. No demons crashing into your motel room. Nothing from Ketch or his organization since your last detonation. The grass shifts easily in the wind, but the flowers seem to be holding their bloom. You haven’t seen a bird all day. You’ve seen people, nothing else. No bugs, no rabbits, no spiders.

Only a snake in the flower bed, and a dog who whines as he passes you.

It’s strange. Eerie.

Wrong.

Something is, in a way you don’t know how to articulate—but sits and shifts deep in your bones and intestines—wrong.

The Sky is so big. It’s still only watching, but it still seems to be reaching for you.

Not to swallow you.

To veil you. 

Hide you.

When the sun sets, the Sky is still shining. Nobody can see it but you, and it’s not making the world luminated, but the Sky is pure white and glaring with danger.

You don’t know from what.

But you know that the Silver is waking up. Nothing has even happened, but the Silver is rolling around inside of you. And you know Dean’s not picking up the phone. You try him, when you can’t sleep under the white of the Sky, but he doesn’t pick up.

He always picks up.

You’ve called him when it was the dead of night for him, and he’s answered with a muffled grumble and sleepy grunts. You’ve called him in the middle of a hunt, and he’s picked up just to tell you he’ll call you back. Once you called him during a movie, and he turned it off to talk.

Dean always picks up. 

Something is really fucking wrong.

You try Sam, and you know he’s been put in the panic room for demon blood reasons—although you’re still worried about how long the infection will take to clear his soul—but maybe he has phone privileges-

Nothing. 

Bobby. He always picks up after three rings, but this goes all the way to voicemail. You’ve never heard Bobby’s voicemail before. It’s brisk and says nothing more than if you’ve got this number, you know what to do, but Bobby has never been anything if not efficient.

You didn’t leave Sam a message. 

You leave one for Bobby.

“Hey, It- It’s me.” You mumble your name, drawing your knees up to your chest. “I’m sorry, I should’ve been calling more, but I thought you’d be mad at me for leaving. I know you’re mad at Dean about it, but he was just trying to- Please don’t be mad at him. I miss you, and-“ You swallow down a sob. The point. You need to get to the point. “I think something’s really wrong, Bobby. It’s- It’s just a feeling, but somethings wrong. And Dean’s not picking up the phone, and I’m really worried, so please just call me back and tell me everything’s okay. I need to know you’re okay, and I- I’m sorry-“

“Fifteen seconds left.” A cool, automated voice hums, and you take a sharp breath. You’re going to fucking cry again.

“I’m sorry. I miss you and I’m sorry and please tell me you’re okay. Something is really wrong, Dad, and I need to know you’re okay, I’m so-“

The machine beeps. You wipe your nose with your sleeve as the message sends, and the feeling of wrong only grows, the Silver pushing up with it. It’s shrinking, like it’s trying to hide in the darker corners of your body, but still gnashing with sharp teeth for when things go wrong.

Things are going to go wrong. Something so fucking primal is rolling over your every nerve, telling you something is wrong. And the wind is howling a warning, and the earth is pressing up to try and guard you like the Sky, and when you turn on the tap water, it’s singing you a soft song. It’s almost soothing. Not like a sedation, but a comfort. 

You hole up in your motel room, closing the curtain to try and block the Sky. You pray to Cas and he doesn’t answer, and you try Dean two more times with no luck. Your knife is clutched in your hands, and you’re curled right against the wall, and the water is still singing in all the pipes through the building, and it hurts but the comfort seems to be an anesthetic, and-

You’re not sure where you are. Only that its’s dark and cold and lonely. And high. You’re so fucking high up. 

Or low.

You can’t actually tell. 

The whole word seems like it’s folded into itself. The sky is at your feet but it’s also above you and at your side. Like an illusion, keeping you contained with smoke and mirrors and light.

There are shadows, creeping forward and trying to touch you. But something always makes them recoil, as if you’re a toxic or poison or feral or-

Silver

It’s the Silver.

You’re only the Silver, and the shadows can’t stand it. They hiss and sneer at the feeling of it, but still try to touch you. Then after they retreat, they try again, Like maybe this time, they’ll be strong enough.

Or you’ll be weaker.

But you’re not growing weaker. The more the Silver is poked at, the bigger it gets. 

The bigger you get. 

You are the Silver, and you’re more than glowing. You’re bioluminescent and blinding, but still filled with every space between the starts and all the colors colliding and shimmering through you. 

Somewhere in the shadows, there’s something red. Bloody, electric red and shining like a black light. 

It has more eyes than you can count, and a billion fists, and a million wings. But it’s not made of fire.

It’s made of the same gleaming, wrathful light as Sam and Dean.

And when it smiles at you, the earth shakes.

“Wow. You’re prettier than he deserves.” It hums. “Don’t worry. I can help you fix that.”

You swallow, but before you can respond, everything splits open. All of it. A crack leaking through the mirage, filling with light.

The light of the Sky.

“This is me.” The Red smirk at you. “I’ll see you soon. Don’t worry. We’ll have a lot of fun.”

The Red bursts up, and then it’s gone.

But you don’t move. You’re not trapped. You could follow the Red thing through the crack, but you don’t know how to move. You’re all Silver, and it’s too much. There’s nothing to tether too. Nothing to shrink back into. You just everything and nothing all at once, and it’s as if you’ve been turned into mist and filled with iron all at once, then told to run. 

You don’t know how to do anything but sit here. The Sky is watching you, through the crack, and you can’t tell if it’s urging you to move or demanding that you wait for it to grab you by the scruff of your neck-

It yanks you out of the paralyzing sleep. The blaring sound of some screaming part in a Led Zeppelin song. 

Sam and Dean don’t to ringtone, but they’re also both legally dead and criminals. You’re a ghost. You don’t run scams, and as far as the government is concerned, you’re a stale missing persons case. 

So you get to do ringtone. 

And you’ve never been more grateful for that than now. 

You grab the phone and answer without checking who it is. You already get to know.

“Dean, fucking- God I was so worried-“

“You were worried about me, Princess?” Dean rasps, and you don’t miss the exhaustion leaking through his voice.

“Of course I was worried about you.” I love you. “Are you okay?”

He sighs. “I’m in one piece. So is Sammy, and Bobby- He will be.”

Will be.

Your stomach twists.

“Something happened, didn’t it.” Your voice is barely a breath, and leaving was a horrible idea. You know something’s wrong, and breathing is starting to become a labor as your skin itches off your body, but there’s no one here to hold you.

Dean’s not here to hold you. 

“I-“ You take a shaking, unsteady breath. “I don’t know what’s going on, but something’s wrong. I know something’s wrong, Dean, I can feel it-“

“I know.” Dean whispers, and your hand moves up to hold your throat. 

The Silver is dormant. But it’s still too much, and old habits don’t decay when you don’t know how to plant anything new.

“It’s- We- Son of a bitch.” Dean clears his throat. “We kinda fucked up.”

You can’t breathe. “What?”

“We failed.”

“Dean-“

“The cage.” Dean mumbles. “It’s open. He’s out. Shit it- It’s bad, sweetheart.”

“Oh.” You whisper. “Fuck.”

“Yeah. It’s- Son of a bitch, you were right,” he mutters your name, his voice almost hushed. “It was Ruby. She’d been working with Lilith the whole time, and she tricked Sammy, and he’s such a fuckin’ idiot but I’m worried about him-“

“Dean.” You whisper, and you wish you could touch him. Move his face into your neck, like in your dream. Maybe fold yourself around him and be that damnation for him. “Are you okay?”

“I- Yeah. We got out, everything intact. Something sent us away. We lost Cas for a minute, but turned out something wanted him to stick around. Some demons went for us in Bobby, and he got hurt-“

“Bobby-“

“He’s fine, Princess. Gonna be fine. Stable. We’re actually about to go see him right now. And Sam’s fine too. Detoxing. He’s angry, and we’re- We’ll be fine.”

“Okay.” You take a shaking breath, keeping your eyes fixed on the ceiling. “Dean?”

He grunts, and try not to let the strain in your whole body grow audible.

“Are you okay?”

“I told you-“

“You told me Cas and Bobby and Sam are fine. I’m asking about you.”

There’s a long moment of silent static, and you know by now to wait. The line’s not dead. Dean’s just thinking. 

And when he speaks, his voice is barely a rasp.

“I- I need you to come back.” He mutters your name, and it’s too soft. “Son of a bitch, I- I can’t keep worrying about you and doing this.”

“Dean.” You sigh. “You know I can’t, they’ll-“

“I don’t give a shit what they do. Heaven or Hell or any of them. Demons rip me up and the angels will just pull me right back out. They need me. Some bullshit about Michael wanting to use me as a condom-“

“What-“

“Long story.” He mutters. “But I don’t fuckin’ care what consequences there are, Princess. Come home.”

There’s another silence as a lump forms in your throat, and you need to speak but words feel far away-

“Please.” Dean’s voice is so low and exhausted. “I need you.”

There it is. What you’ve been asking him not to do for months. 

He needs you.

Dean needs you.

And you don’t think you could say no if you tried.

“Okay.” You whisper. “Is Cas- Will he hear me?”

“Think so. Are you-“

“I’m coming home.”

You can hear Dean’s sigh, and it’s filled with relief. 

You’re really don’t think there’s anything you wouldn’t do for him.

“See you soon, Princess.”

“I- Yeah. Bye, De.”

It’s quick, to pack up. Most of your possession now are old, fragile books that better fucking survive angel travel, or you’ll punch Cas in the face. You don’t pray immediately, though. While there was no destruction, whatever had happened last night—Lucifer escaping, you’d been responding to Lucifer escaping, and you don’t know what the fuck that means—the wall are covered in vines and a little waterfall has formed from the window edge, falling down on to the floor-

Ground. You’re standing on the ground. Grass and flowers and tiny trees, and it’s buzzing with life below your feet. Like a little ecosystem, confined to your room.

That’s something the angels will probably be able to track. 

You can’t call Cas here. 

It’s a short walk than usual, and you stop at a Church. If the angels are sweeping the area, they probably won’t think to find you here. It’s hiding in plain sight.

You close your eyes, and pray. 

Cas. Help. Please.

There’s a whoosh, almost immediately. 

But it’s not Cas’ low, gravelly voice that comes from behind you.

“You should be careful, sweetheart. Praying in a church.” The bright, almost cheery voice laughs. “You might attract some unwanted attention.”

When you turn, the voice belongs to a shorter man, with longer, blond hair and bright eyes. 

But that’s not what makes you stumble back a step. 

He’s blue. 

He’s so fucking blue. 

Like the blue of Cas, turned up to a million. And he has an uncountable amount of eyes shoved into two, a billion fists curled into the same, and a million wings pressed to his back-

“You’re an archangel.” You whisper, and the Blue laughs. 

“Wow. That was fast. You know, everything I’ve ever heard about you said you’d be pretty, but smart? Don’t think he planned for that. In for a big surprise.”

You swallow. He can’t smite you. Or hurt you. Zachariah said nothing was allowed to hurt you. 

So you raise your chin, and hold the Blue’s gaze.

“What do you want?”

It doesn’t seem to faze him at all. “Damn. Moxie, too? They don’t know what they’re getting with you! A little spitfire.”

You frown. “Moxie?”

“Sorry, forgot you’re only what, thirty?”

“Twenty-six.”

“Shit. Even younger. Basically a fetus.” He shrugs. “Well, kid, moxie means you’re headstrong, little bit sassy-“

“I know what moxie means.” You mutter, rubbing the scar on your palm. “And that’s not correct. I just haven’t heard anyone use the word seriously.”

“Who says I’m serious?” The Blue winks. “I’m the fun one. I’d ask if you wanted to see, but I don’t think that would end in my favor. Already pushing it just by bein’ here.”

“I-“

The Blue cuts you off with a tsk. “I’ve got something to say, sweetheart. Something you’re gonna wanna here, before you do anything stupid.”

Your eyes narrow. “I’m not doing anything-“

“You’re trying to go home.” The Blue shrugs. “And it is stupid. I know what tree you’ve been barking up, sister, and it’s not the right one.”

“Sister-“

“No.” The Blue cuts you off quickly, shaking his head. “Just a nickname. You’re not my sister. That would be…” He wrinkles his nose. “So fucking gross. Like, we’re a fucked-up family, but not that fucked up. There’s gotta be a line, y’know? I think it’s there.”

The Blue speaks in circles and riddles, and it’s worse than Cas. At least Cas is amusing, and simply doesn’t know better. This guy just seems to be trying to set you off-

“That won’t work.”

You blink at him. “Wha-“

“Your little magic trick. The bam.” He makes a crushing gesture, raising his brows. “Afraid you need to have a little more control and self-love than you’ve got now, to take me out. I mean, the other thing you’ve got, the boom-“ Another gesture. “That might work, actually. Not sure. Let’s not find out.”

Now you’re just too confused, and you’ll hand it to him. The Blue’s vagueness seems to keep the Silver only brimming in your body.

“Look, I’d love to talk with you forever, but we’re kinda on a timer.” The Blue sighs, his tone suddenly falling into something serious. “That tree? The one where you’re trying to work out what you are and how to control it? Stop it. Stop barking.”

“I-“

“You don’t understand what you’re doing.” The Blue says your name, and it’s a little distorted. Louder. Musical.

Enochian.

“You’re changing things. Things that shouldn’t be tampered with, let alone moved around and rearranged however you want.”

“No- I-“ You shake your head, your hands drifting up to rub at your wrists. “I left. I stopped interfering, I promise-“

“You already interfered.” The Blue sighs, giving you an almost sympathetic expression. “Just your existence, just by letting them into your orbit, you’ve done more than you can-“

“But I stopped.” You’re almost pleading. You’d left to stop. To make sure nothing you did hurt anyone you loved. That was the fucking point, you’d stopped-

“Look.” The Blue run a hand—hands?—over his face. “We’re behind schedule, because of you! Little Sammy Winchester actually held on longer against Ruby and the blood, because you planted a little extra doubt in his head! Because he and Dean were fighting, but they fought all the time! He just knew you’d always end up with Dean, and he didn’t want to lose you with his brother, so he held on!”

“I- I don’t-“

“They’re ahead, too! Sam and Dean aren’t fighting as much because of Sam trying longer, and Dean’s thinking about what you would do! And you turned sweet, hopeful Castiel over to their side too soon, and now they’ve got some extra steps on everyone, which is going make this drag. People are gone that should’ve stuck around, and some of them are early, and you’ve made a mess that’s going to take forever to get in order!”

The Silver is still silent, as the Blue throws his hands in the air. 

You wish it would turn in, and rip you to shreds.

“I didn’t mean to.” You whisper, your hand returning to your throat. “I promise I didn’t mean to-“

“I know you didn’t.” The Blue shakes his head, and there’s that fucking sympathy again. “But you’ve gotta stop, kid. You’re making this even more complicated than those chuckleheads ever could.”

“But I- I want to go home.” You sound like a child. You don’t care. “I’ll just lock myself in my room, I promise, I but I- I need to go home-“

“Sorry,” The Blue says your name, in Enochian once more. “No dice. He’s looking for you, and that’ll make this all worse-“

“He-“

“My brother.”

“Oh.”

The Sky flashes over you.

The Blue doesn’t seem to see it.

“It’s better if you get some sleep, I think.” The Blue frowns, and it sounds like he’s mostly talking to himself. “Yeah. Sleep will be good for you.”

You don’t want to sleep. You need to get home. Back to Dean. You’d told him you’d come home, so you need to come home-

“Probably won’t hold, but it’s better than the other option.” The Blue raises one of his bursting, electric hands. “Don’t worry. I’ll make it feel good. Send you someone nice.”

You want to scream, to run, to fight, but the Silver hasn’t built itself up, and you’re frozen. 

And before you can call for Dean, the Blue presses to your brow, and the world goes dark. 

“What don’t you think is real?”

You blink at Dean in the dark of the Impala, and a little bit of chocolate milk is smeared on his upper lip.

He’d grabbed a beer, insisting that he didn’t want anything else. But you’d grabbed two chocolate milks, because you know him.

Love him.

Miss him. 

You know this is a dream faster than usual. The whole world—even in the dark of midnight—is bathed in gold, just like when you dream about Dean without you. You remember what’s supposed to happen here.

You don’t really want to stray from the script, though.

You love this one.

“What do you mean?” You reach up to wipe the milk off Dean’s face, and he grins at you.

“Y’know. Some of this shit has to be fake.”

You hum, watching him carefully. “Like what?”

“Unicorns.”

“Unicorns are real-“

“I- No they’re not-“

“I’ve seen one.”

“Ah.” Dean grumble, taking another large drink of his chocolate milk. “Of course you have.”

You giggle, scooting a little close to his side to grab the jerky from his lap. His arm goes around the bench. Your shoulders. Casually keeping you pressed against him. 

It had never even crossed your mind to move.

“What don’t you think is real?” You ask, and he shrugs. 

“I believe what I can see. What I can kill. Monsters, ghosts, me, you-“

“Me? Should I be worried you’re going to kill me?”

“No.” He scowls. “You know that’s not what I meant. And I’m being serious-“

“I know you are, Deano.” You give him an amused look, reaching up to wipe the milk off again. “Do you believe in me?”

“Course I believe in you-“

“Do you believe in Sam?

“I-“ He sighs. “Just say it, sweetheart.”

Okay. You’re being dramatic.”

He’s almost pouting. “No, I’m not-“

“Yes, you are.” You sigh. “It doesn’t matter what might be real or not. I’m real. You’re real. This,” you poke him, and his gaze never leaves yours. “Is real. And I know it.”

“You know it?” Dean shakes his head. “How-“

“I just do. Do you know I’m real?”

He sighs, and nods. “Yeah. Guess I do.”

“Oh, you guess-“

“Shut up.”

You giggle, and Dean grins at you again.

“I’m glad you’re real, Princess. Would suck if you weren’t.”

You smile up at him, and you look stupid, and nothing has ever felt better. “I’m glad you’re real too, De.”

What you want to say—what you always want to say—is I love you. Dean Winchester, you perfect, Golden idiot, I could never love anyone but you.

But you can’t be allowed to. Not even in a dream.

So instead you just lean press your face into his chest, breathe him in, and hope that this moment lasts forever.

End Note: introducing new lore mechanics is always very special to me because I get to share about something I’ve been keeping secret for MONTHS and also you guys get to be confused.

Thank you so so so much for reading!! If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3

Buy me a coffee!☕️

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@brtodd @artemys-ackles @sthefferrete @lyarr24 @deansbbyx

@bakugotypecrashout @kittycain @foolinthera1n @globetrotter28 @lordofthunderthr

@youdontknowe @nyrtopia @zuberweirrd @iloveeveryoneyoureamazing @panicking-outside-the-disco

@ambiguous-avery @elle14-blog1 @impala67rollingthroughtown @dumb--blonde @heyimolive

@itsdearapril @speedypersonawhispers @apobangpo-0613 @alwaystiredandconfused @kamisobsessed

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@godhelpthisbtch @ilovedeanwinchester4 @wecangetlostinthepurplerain @sleepykittycx

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@lovelywebber @salemslostwitch @winchester-whiskey @and-i-wish @ghosth0ney

@funkenniffler

[ravens-bird]

Yours to Keep - Sylus.

Pairing: Sylus x F!Reader.

Tags: Boyfriend Sylus, fluff, smut, kissing, fingering. this was supposed to be like soft sex (and it is) but I almost got carried away. Blame the man not me. Not Beta'd we die like Caleb. MDNI‼️

Nicknames used: Sweetie, Kitten, Sweetheart.

Note: Based on the prompt "Making love, except it’s on the bedroom floor" (link)

wc: 3.6k.

Sylus had long since stopped being surprised by your tendency to do random things on a whim. By now, he knew better than anyone to not question the little things that you did just because they felt right.

Like when you decide that having a whole block of cheese as a midnight snack was completely normal, or when you apply random products and make questionable concoctions in the name of skincare and then drag him into it while calling it a ‘spa day’.  

Sure, watching you Do Your Thing was quite amusing to him, but sometimes he wished he could take a look inside your head and Understand.

Case in point, he wasn’t sure why you were sprawled out on the plush carpet beside the bed, akin to a cat that curled up and napped anywhere it deemed a worthy spot. His red eyes flicker with quiet amusement as he stood in the doorway of the bedroom, watching you.

“You do know we have a bed and a desk in this room right, Sweetie?”

You don’t bother looking up, shrugging in response as you spread out your haul from the gift shop — a thick leather-bound scrapbook, three different types of decorative tape, a set of colourful markers — and Sylus stopped counting.

His eyes furrow. “What are you doing?”

You finally glance up at him, blinking at him as if he was being silly. “Scrapbooking? Duh.”

His lips twitch at the corners, though the sigh he lets out is equal parts amused and exasperated.

“I can see that,” his tone is dry. He straightens up, pushing off the doorframe as he saunters towards you, a little curious. When you pat the space next to you, urging him to join you, he doesn’t hesitate.

He lowers himself onto the floor beside you, stretching his long legs out in front of him as he leans his back against the bedframe, taking in the mess— ahem, the arrangement of art supplies. The carpet is warm, and the faint evening light streaming in through the window paints the room a warm gold.

You scoot closer to him, nudging the scrapbook towards him. “Wanna help?”

He hums in thought, reaching for one of the photos from the pile you'd set aside — probably to include in the scrapbook, he assumed.

It was from one of your first public dates together, taken at Café Destiny — with you striking a peace sign, half out of the frame, while the camera had caught him mid-sip, eyes on you instead of his drink.

He smiles, picking up another one.

This one was from the new year celebration, taken by the twins — you were beaming, while Mephisto perched on your hand, with a tiny white ruff around his neck — an imitation of the Grumpy Crow plushie, looking thoroughly affronted and a touch betrayed, with his head turned towards Sylus who was standing out of frame.

Sylus hummed in amusement, flipping through a few more photos. His sharp eyes softened as he took in the little snapshots of your time together — laughing over coffee, wandering through night markets, you dozing off on his shoulder in the back of a car after an auction. Most were candids.

He briefly ponders how much you might have bribed Luke and Keiran for these.

“You’re really into this, huh?” His voice is softer now, more curious than teasing.

You smile, turning back to the task at hand. “Of course. It’s our memories.”

There’s a warmth spreading through him that he doesn’t quite know how to react to. So instead of trying, he just picks up the Polaroid camera beside him, aims it at you, and snaps a picture.

The flash makes you startle. “Hey!”

His crimson eyes gleam with mirth as he shakes the developing photo in front of you like one would dangle a feather-toy in front of a curious cat.

Once it clears, he holds it up for the both of you to see. For a quick picture, it had come out rather well, but it looked a little silly - because he had snapped it right as you closed your eyes.

Your pout lasts all of three seconds before you’re giggling, reaching for the camera yourself. Sylus doesn’t resist when you take it from him, instead hooking an arm around your middle and pulling you to him.

You squeak at the sudden movement, instinctively grabbing onto his arms as he settles you into his lap with ease, resting his chin on your shoulder as he keeps a lazy hold on your waist. Trying to ignore the way your heart flutters, you lift the camera, angling it so both of you fit in the frame. “Alright, smile.”

Sylus huffs but obliges, a half-smile tugging at his lips.

You press the button, the camera clicks, and as the photo develops, you glance down at it with satisfaction.

“See?” you say, turning the picture toward him. “We look cute.”

You glance up at him, still in his arms, expecting him to study the image but instead he leans down, pressing a soft kiss to your lips. You let out a small, surprised noise before melting into it, reaching up to touch his cheek softly.

When he pulls back, your smile is dazzling.

Sylus has always wondered how it would feel like for his heart to race — either out of fear or excitement. Lately, he’s been experiencing it often, thanks to you — though, oddly enough, it seemed to be due to a secret third thing.

Which was not much of a secret, anyway.

Everyone around him — at least, those he considered relevant — knew he was smitten with you. But still. His chest feels full.

So full that, when you giggle again, he doesn’t think — just shifts the scrapbook and the photos aside, guiding you gently down onto the carpet with him as the camera slides out of your grip, falling into the carpet with a muffled thud.

You let out a small gasp, eyes wide, as he flops you down, one arm bracing the back of your head as he mindlessly shoves the camera aside.

His name barely leaves your mouth before he’s pressing his lips to yours, fingers grazing your waist with his free hand. He kisses you slowly, deeply, and you lose yourself in his kiss, his touch, the scent and feel of him, that you forget entirely about what you were doing.

He pulls back a little and your breath is shaky as he nips at your bottom lip, before he swipes his tongue over it, soothing the sting. His hand slides up, cradling your jaw with a tenderness that makes your heart stutter. His thumb traces just below your eye, slow and deliberate, as if memorizing the shape of you.

His face is so unguarded, so open, that words fail you.

Sylus despised vulnerability.

The mere thought of giving someone that kind of power over him had always been unbearable. Not that it was a common occurrence or anything — but with you, it was different. You made it feel less like a weakness and more like something he could surrender to — something safe.

He may not always find the right words to tell you how he feels, but in moments like this, his touch speaks for him.

Desire sings in his veins as you tug lightly on his collar, kissing him again. When his tongue teases the seam of your lips again, you open your mouth, and the noise of satisfaction that escapes your lips has his ego soaring.

He was determined to drag out more such sounds from you.

He goes easily when you flip him over, relaxing under you as you straddle his waist, feeling the press of his hardening erection against your heat. He watches you with a quiet intensity as you settle yourself over him, taking the lead, and his sharp intake of breath when you roll your hips gives you immense satisfaction.

His hands trail up your thighs to rest on your hips. “I’d rather take the initiative,” he speaks, red eyes sparking. “But I must admit. It is quite nice seeing you on top like this sometimes, kitten.”

You roll your eyes playfully, tipping forward to kiss again. He sighs against your lips, squeezing your side in response, before his fingers begin fidgeting with the material of your shirt.

You splay your palm against his chest, right above his heart, while resting the other on his shoulder, letting him hold you up and his hand sneaks beneath your clothes, caressing the skin underneath. 

Before long, he starts moving his hips too, jerking upward to grind against you and you gasp into his mouth, and his responding groan sends a spark of desire straight down to your cunt, and suddenly, there’s just too many layers of clothing separating the two of you.

Sylus seems to be thinking the same, because when he tugs at the hem of your shirt, you pull back, pulling it off immediately so that the only thing covering your upper half is your bra. When you reach for the buttons of his shirt immediately, he chuckles lightly.

“You’re rather impatient today, Sweetie.” 

You ignore his comment, unbuttoning his shirt and pushing them off his shoulders, and the amusement vanishes from his eyes when you run your hands down his front, all the way down to the waistband of his pants. 

He sits up then, pulling you into him as he presses hot, wet kisses against your lips, your cheek, your jaw, and your neck, trailing down to the swell of your chest before he unclasps your bra in one quick movement, baring your breasts.

You feel a wave of heat wash over you, tinging your cheeks red — not in embarrassment, but because of the way he looks at you. His eyes rake over you slowly, and the quirk of his mouth tells you that he's enjoying it immensely.

That, and the way his cock hardens further underneath you.

His voice is a quiet rumble as he cups one breast and gives it a little squeeze, “You’re so beautiful, sweetheart.”

“Sylus—” His name is barely out of your mouth before he rolls a pert nipple between his fingers, and you whine. “Stop teasing.”

He chuckles again, “Your wish is my command, kitten.”

And when he takes your other breast in his mouth, his wet, hot tongue pressing against your nipple, your nails dig into the smooth, pale skin of his shoulder. His shirt was shoved off one shoulder, resting at the crook of his elbow and the sight of him like this, with his mouth on your chest, a faint blush on his face, is truly one to behold.

Your fingers get lost in the strands of his hair, tugging at them as he worries the sensitive flesh with his teeth, when his right hand trails down to the waistband of your shorts. You lift your hips readily when he tugs, and he pulls back to slide your shorts off you with ease.

“So eager,” he murmurs teasingly, as if he wasn't the one who started all of this. You don’t get to retort, because his hand is on you again, rubbing you against the fabric of your damp panties.

Sylus's fingers ghost over the material, teasing the sensitive skin beneath, before applying just the right amount of pressure that sends a surge of warmth pooling low in your belly, and your breath catches in a soft whimper as he finally pushes your underwear aside, dragging his fingers up to circle over your clit.

When you buck your hips against his hand instinctively, craving more friction, impatient and a little desperate for him to just touch you properly, god damn it all, he gathers some slickness in his fingers, slowly pressing into you.

A delicious mix of relief and tension flooding over you.

He thrusts his fingers in and out slowly at first, and you moan at the sensation, clenching around him. when he curls his fingers ever so slightly, and finds that one spot that has you crying out and grinding into his hand, he picks up his pace. Soon, you start to feel the waves of pleasure heighten, and you wrap both arms around him, holding on.

When Sylus gently presses the pad of his thumb against your clit, keeping his pace steady as he breathes against your mouth, you could do little except cling to him, and you come hard, drenching his hand, lap and your panties as well as your thighs.

He flips you over gently, letting you rest on the carpet on your back and you immediately try to stop him. 

“We’re going to ruin the carpet—!”

“I don’t care about the carpet, Sweetie.” He presses a kiss to the tip of your nose, pushing you back down gently. “Not when I'm on top of you.” 

He pulls your panties off easily, and you help him take his shirt off, running your hands down the swell of his muscles appreciatively, and gasp in pleasure when he presses his clothed erection against your core.

You reach down, palming him through the material of his pants, as he kisses you again, and with great patience, he kneads the softness of your body, running his hands up and down teasingly yet carefully, as if he was trying to etch the memory into his mind.

“Sylus, please.” You whimper, empty and needy, already starting to feel aroused again, and he caves, letting you unzip his pants and take them off along with his underwear. 

He reaches for the nightstand and takes a condom out. You bite down on your lip in anticipation as you watch him roll it onto his fully erect cock. Despite the number of times you’ve done it before, the Moment Before was always a little intimidating. 

He lines himself up at your entrance, breath quickening as he looks down at you, gaze soft yet burning with anticipation.

"Are you ready, Sweetie?" His voice is low, laced with desire and affection.

You nod, heart racing as he presses a gentle kiss to your brow as he begins to slide inside. Your breath hitches as he sinks deeper, burying himself to the hilt.

"Tell me if it's too much," he murmurs as he stills for a moment, letting you adjust.

You nod quickly, urging him to move. "Mmm, you feel so good."

"You're so tight," he breathes against your lips as he kisses you sloppily.

When he starts to move, your toes curl with the sensation and you wrap your legs around his waist. His breath shudders as he picks up the pace, and the wet squelching sounds of his dick sliding in and out of your cunt, paired with the sounds escaping you both, adds a layer of lewdness to the whole ordeal.

“Shit, you feel so good, Kitten,” Sylus’s praise unleashes a swarm of butterflies in your tummy, and you grip his shoulders harder, your head falling back. 

Just as you feel your climax start to build, Sylus slows down, making you whine but he merely hushes, uncurling your legs from around him and shifts.

“Patience, sweetheart.” Despite the commanding tone of his voice, his eyes and touch are gentle. But what you wanted was not gentle. Not right now. 

However, your protests are once again thwarted as he lifts your right leg up, pulling you closer by the hips, still inside you. 

You’re about to ask him what the hell was he trying to do — though you have an inkling as to what it is, when he slinging your leg over his shoulder and moves again, thrusting inside you. Deep. 

Your garbled moan gets a devious smirk in response, as he tilts his hips just enough, angling himself to hit your G-spot, his cheeks splotched red to match his eyes. Strands of light hair stick to his forehead, while beads of sweat dot his brow and temple. 

There are four red half-moons on each shoulder, from when your nails dug into him, and the half faded hickeys on his collarbone begs for attention.

He looks so sexy like this.

Your breath stutters as you catch his eyes, and the way he’s looking at you — the intensity of it, makes you wonder what you must look like to him. Naked and flushed, panting as your breasts bounced with the momentum of his thrusts, the sight of him moving in and out of your wet cunt… 

“Lost in your head again, Kitten?” The huskiness of his voice carries a hint of warning in it — something dangerous. “When I’m still inside you?” 

You quickly shake your head, but he’s unconvinced as his pace slows down yet again. 

“Sylus—” You gasp as he presses his thumb against your pussy again, rubbing your clit with just enough pressure for you to whimper. You try again. “Please.”

Sylus chuckles, low and dark, the sound vibrating against your skin. He watches you with sharp eyes, drinking in every little reaction as he drags his thumb in slow, torturous circles.

“Please, what?” His voice is a whisper of sin, teasing, coaxing. His hips barely move now, keeping you right on the edge, just out of reach.

You squirm beneath him, fingers digging into his arms, nails biting into his skin in frustration. He loves that—loves how desperate you get for him. But he’s not done playing.

“You get lost in that pretty head of yours so often,” he murmurs against the side of your calf, pressing a lingering kiss to the bend of your knee. “Maybe I should fuck you hard enough to remind you exactly where you are.”

His crass words send a shiver down your spine, anticipation crackling through your veins. Your breath catches when he pulls out nearly all the way—only to slam back in with a force that steals what little air you had left.

“Is this what you wanted?” he growls as he turns his head to bite your leg slung over his shoulder, leaving an imprint on the skin, setting a brutal rhythm that has your body arching off the carpet, your moans spilling freely now. His fingers don’t stop either, overstimulating you and pushing you closer and closer to the ledge.

And this time, there’s no room for wandering thoughts—only him, only this.

Not that your thoughts ever strayed far from him to begin with.

But now, your mind is blissfully blank, lost in the waves of pleasure as your body tenses and trembles beneath him.

Your release crashes over you just as he continues his pace, dragging out every sensation, every spark, until he follows soon after — burying himself deep inside you with a low, shuddering groan as he too chases his high.

You sigh a little as he pulls out, feeling the sudden emptiness in you as he rolls off of you, laying next to you, breathing a little heavily. You both lay there for a moment, with you being drowsy after coming twice. 

You’re only half aware when he gets up to dispose of the used condom, and don’t protest much as he scoops you into his arms, holding you to his sweaty torso. 

He breathes you in, his lips ghosting over your ear as he whispers softly, "I don’t think I’ll ever get enough of you."

And in the silence that follows, you feel your heart swell. The words come out before you can rethink them, breathless and full of warmth. "I’m all yours to keep."

Which is true. You don't think anyone else could quite make you feel the way he does, and anything else couldn't compare.

So when you smile, holding onto him like he’s your whole world, he finally understands why people compare love to the sun, the moon, and stars.

Because here, right now, having you in his arms—he has them all.

“Have you caught your breath yet, Sweetie?” His fingers rub lazy circles on your back as you nuzzle into his side. You hum sleepily in response. 

Then he chuckles, voice dark with intent. “Good. Because I’m not done with you yet.”

Your eyes snap open. “Sylus, are you serious?”

He tilts his head, amused. “What? You look so pretty all wrecked like that. How could I resist?”

“No way! First, you interrupt my scrapbooking, and now you want to continue?” You scoff. 

“That’s not a no,” he drawls in response, before sneaking his hand down and giving your ass a quick, teasing squeeze. You yelp, swatting at him as he grins against your temple. 

“It is,” you wag a finger in front of his face playfully. “Let’s just clean up and get dinner already!”

Sylus sighs, clearly reluctant to let the... session end, but after a moment, he gives in. “Fine, fine.” He pushes himself up, then effortlessly scoops you into his arms, making you squeak, before he carries you to the attached bathroom. 

But as the warm water starts to stream down your bodies, his hands find your hips, his lips find your neck, and well…

Who’s to say that you both will only shower, though?

The night is still young.

Note: found the Praying Mantis position quite hot, despite its name being very... yeah. I think it's Sylus for me (get it??? 🤣)

Masterlist.

[bunji-enthusiast]

Could you possibly write more for Peni Parker!Reader? I like the idea of her becoming unknowingly Mark's unofficial little sister that is honestly more wise and responsible than him due to having to be so independent from a young age. Like, brushing off his praise and platonic affection as they get closer before it just becomes assumed.

𝐔𝐧𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐁𝐨𝐧𝐝

Mark Grayson x Peni-Parker!Reader [Platonic]

Summary || There always seemed to be the strangest bonds in unfamiliar situations.

Note // I hear you, and I got you. my heart is bursting with so much serotonin \(^ヮ^)/

A rooftop in Chicago at twilight, with the cityscape humming below. SP//dr rests nearby, powered down but glowing faintly, perched like a sleeping guardian. Mark hovers a few feet above the ledge, suit still dusted with scuffs from a recent scuffle. [Name] stands with her back to the wind, arms crossed, backlit by the crimson of the setting sun.

"You know," Mark says, floating down to sit beside her on the ledge, "You’re kinda ridiculous."

[Name] doesn't look at him, still watching the city. “That’s rich coming from someone who face-tanked a collapsing train today.”

He chuckles, but there's an ache in it. “I had it under control.”

“You were unconscious for six minutes.”

He makes a face. “You timed it?”

“You weren’t breathing for two of them.”

“Okay, okay,” Mark sighs, brushing the back of his glove across a smear of blood on his goggles. “But you—you took out half the Doomsquad's drones with just the snare. And those mines? I swear, you’re turning this whole ‘defensive support’ thing into an art form.”

“Someone has to play smart when you’re out here playing ‘punch first, get hospitalized later.’” Her tone’s dry, but there’s a flicker of something warmer in her voice.

He leans back on his hands, looking up at the sky instead of her. “You know, if I didn’t know better, I’d say you’re trying to look out for me.”

[Name] finally glances over, one brow raised. “Try living with a psychic spider in your head for years. It teaches you patience. And responsibility.”

There’s a long pause before Mark speaks again, voice lower now. “Still. You’re always there. You patch me up, cover my back, chew me out after. You're like—"

“Don't say it.”

He grins sideways. “—like a little sister.”

[Name] groans, turning her face away again. “Older. I’m clearly the older sibling here.”

“Maybe in maturity.” Mark bumps her shoulder with his. “But I’m the one who has to make sure you’re not working yourself to death.”

She scoffs, brushing him off with a half-hearted flick of her fingers. “I don’t break. I just bend.”

“But you shouldn’t have to bend alone all the time,” he murmurs.

That catches her off guard, if only for a second. SP//dr's core pulses softly behind them, reflecting the brief silence.

She exhales slowly. “...Guess I just got used to doing things solo. Back in Tokyo Webworld, no one flew in unless it was a crisis or a convergence. I didn’t have a team. I was the team.”

“Well,” Mark says with quiet certainty, “you’re not alone here.”

She glances at him again, not scoffing this time. No quip. No brushing it off.

Just a soft, “...I know.”

Another beat. The breeze tugs at her coat. Then—

“I’m still calling the shots when we’re surrounded.”

Mark grins. “Deal. But I get to call you ‘Spider-Sis’ now.”

“Nope.”

“C’mon! What about ‘Sis//dr’?”

She gives him a deadpan stare. “...I hope Conquest breaks your other rib.”

Late afternoon, the city skyline bathed in gold. A tall, mostly-abandoned telecom tower looms over Chicago. At the top, a figure dangles off the side, boots propped up lazily on a railing, hands behind their head, the cockpit of SP//dr open like a relaxed metal lotus. From far away, it looks precarious. Up close, it’s just [Name] doing [Name]-things.

Mark’s voice crackles over the comms first—half exasperated, half amused.

"You know you’re gonna give Cecil a heart attack if you fall off something that high again, right?"

[Name] doesn’t even flinch, her body dangling in that loose-limbed way of someone who trusts gravity not to mess with them. She lazily lifts one hand and wiggles her fingers at him in greeting.

SP//dr stirs slightly behind her—never fully asleep when she’s nearby, its core casting rhythmic light across the rusted steel around them.

"He should be more worried about you flying into buildings."

Mark slows in midair, arms crossed, hovering just above the platform. “That was once. A low visibility incident.”

“You flew into a billboard that said 'Hero Insurance is real!' Ironic doesn’t even begin to cover it.”

He rolls his eyes and lands, boots clinking against the metal. “You’re lucky I like you.”

“Most people are.”

SP//dr’s cockpit closes with a hiss as [Name] pulls herself up with practiced ease, plopping down on top of the mech’s shoulder, letting her legs swing. The wind ruffles her hair, but she looks calm—comfortable, like she belongs up here. Above the noise. With the city at her feet and the stars slowly crawling into the sky.

Mark steps beside the mech and bumps his elbow against its knee. “So what are you doing up here anyway?”

She shrugs. “Waiting. SP//dr likes the view. Says the city buzz feels different at this height.”

Mark raises an eyebrow. “It said that?”

“It thinks it,” she smirks. “I translate.”

A soft ping echoes in both their comms before Cecil’s voice cuts in, sharp and sterile as usual.

"Grayson. Parker. We’ve got reports of a rampaging tech-mutant in the lower financial sector. Big. Ugly. Crashing things. Possibly Mauler-adjacent."

Mark groans. “Every time I think we’ll get one day without a mutant crab-thing climbing out of the sewers...”

[Name] is already sliding into SP//dr’s cockpit as it locks around her, systems flaring to life. Her voice is more focused now, clipped but steady.

“Deploying Arachno-Nest and drone protocols. Let’s drop in quiet before your fists start making headlines.”

He lifts off the platform in one smooth motion. “No promises.”

SP//dr jumps after him, launching off the edge with an elegant, bone-shaking leap. It hits a building side mid-fall and crawls along it like a metallic ghost spider, [Name] deploying her Cyber-Bond line to slingshot onto a rooftop and drop her first cluster-web into position.

Mark glances over mid-flight, his voice softened by static and something else.

"Y’know… you looked peaceful up there."

She responds without looking at him, focusing on her HUD. "I was. Then you showed up."

"You’re welcome."

A pause.

Then, like she’s giving just a little ground—

"Thanks, Mark."

"For what?"

"Showing up. Even when I don’t ask."

A beat.

"Yeah, well... little sisters don’t always have to ask."

Then the roar of twisted metal cuts off the moment, and the two launch into the smoke-clogged sky, ready to crash into battle with banter still buzzing in their ears.

The streets are chaos—cars overturned, storefronts demolished, a huge tech-mutated creature tearing through the gridlocked traffic like it’s nothing. It’s a hulking fusion of steel and flesh, Mauler-blue glow pulsing under its skin, arms like jackhammers and a face like an exposed circuit board.

Mark rockets in first, blue and black suit streaking past falling debris. His fists smash through a piece of rebar that would've pinned a cab beneath it, then he plants himself between the monster and a group of fleeing civilians.

“Hey ugly!” he shouts. “I’ve got a billion reasons you should stop wrecking the city—but let’s start with me!”

The creature snarls and charges.

Then—thwip—crash!

A glowing Cyber-Web Snare latches onto its ankle, yanking it back mid-sprint. It stumbles—then BOOM, it faceplants into a building wall just as [Name] swings overhead on a webline, deploying her Cyber-Web Cluster around the perimeter like a glowing net trap.

“You’re welcome,” she says coolly over the comms.

“Hey, I was distracting him!”

“From who? The building?”

Mark grits his teeth and blasts forward as the mutant rips free, only for a series of Arachno-Mines to click and beep quietly as it stumbles into the webbed area.

“Wait—mines?! [Name]—”

“They’re stealth mines. You’ll be fine.”

“You sure?”

“...Fifty-eight percent.”

“WHAT?!”

The mines detonate just as Mark flies over the blast radius, sending the creature skidding backward while he barely clears the concussion wave. He spins in mid-air and lands hard, sliding across the pavement.

SP//dr drops down beside him with a seismic clang, and [Name] steps out of the mech for a second, hands flicking in tight, practiced gestures as she repositions her Spider-Nest. The city street beneath them glows faintly with layered Cyber-Webs connecting across windows and lamp posts.

“He’s not stopping,” Mark says, spitting a bit of blood. “It’s like someone duct-taped a tank to a blender and gave it a grudge.”

“That thing’s core is exposed,” [Name] mutters, eyes flicking across her HUD. “Right there—center of mass, between the cybernetic plating. The rest is reinforced, but that’s tissue. If we can immobilize it long enough…”

Mark grins. “You thinking what I’m thinking?”

She side-eyes him. “I deploy. You punch.”

He’s already floating, cracking his knuckles. “Classic combo.”

“Go loud.”

SP//dr slams down a secondary Nest that webs across the entire intersection. The creature roars and charges again, but this time it hits nothing but traps—snaring its legs, slowing it just long enough for [Name] to leap from the mech, swinging overhead on a Cyber-Bond line.

From above, she rains down a flurry of Cyber-Web Clusters, blanketing the target until it’s pinned like a fly in a digital cocoon.

“NOW, Mark!”

He barrels forward, a sonic boom trailing behind him, and hits the mutant dead-center with a punch that craters the street. The shockwave pulses outward like thunder, blasting dust and sparks in every direction.

The tech-mutant shudders once, lets out a warped, gurgling scream—and then collapses.

The street is silent except for the crackle of broken streetlights and the faint beeping of [Name]’s cooldown timer.

Mark exhales, straightening his posture as he brushes cement dust off his arms. “That was awesome.”

[Name] swings down beside him, SP//dr clambering up behind her like a loyal sentinel.

“You didn’t fly into any webbing this time,” she says, mock-impressed.

“You’re never letting that go, are you?”

She smirks. “Nope.”

Then, a softer beat. “Nice punch.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Nice trap.”

There’s a moment—quiet, settled, mutual respect thick in the air.

Then Cecil cuts in over the comms, as dry as ever.

“Nice work, you two. Parker, debrief and scan the core for Mauler signatures. Grayson—stop cracking the pavement, city budget’s already in flames.”

Mark groans. “He lives to ruin the moment.”

[Name] chuckles. “And you live to fall for it.”

They walk off together toward the wreckage, SP//dr crawling behind them like a massive metal dog.

Banter and beatdowns. Just another day on the job.

The Grayson household. Cozy, lived-in. The smell of something warm and familiar cooking drifts in from the kitchen. It's evening now—Mark and [Name] just cleaned up after the mission, bruises hidden under bandages, dust traded for soft clothes. SP//dr is parked in the garage out back, recharging in low-power mode.

[Name] sits cross-legged on the couch in borrowed sweats and one of Mark’s oversized high school T-shirts (it says “Vel Johnson High Eagles: Science Bowl 2nd Place” and she refuses to take it seriously). A heating pad is draped over her shoulders, and she’s nursing a mug of tea with spider bots sleeping peacefully on the floor near her feet.

Mark enters from the kitchen, tossing her a wrapped granola bar. “Protein. Not optional.”

She catches it one-handed. “You’re lucky I like these.”

“I’m lucky you’re not half-robot yourself. The way you tanked that explosion? I thought you glitched.”

[Name] snorts. “Please. You’re one to talk. You went through three walls and still had the nerve to flex after.”

He shrugs, flopping down beside her on the couch with a low grunt. “It was a good flex.”

“Your arm was shaking.”

“Yeah, with power.”

They sit in silence for a moment. Comfortable. Familiar. Debbie clinks plates in the kitchen but doesn’t intrude—just offers a little wave through the open space and a “Dinner’s almost ready, kids.”

Kids.

It settles between them like warmth off the tea mug.

[Name] finally breaks the quiet, her voice softer now. “Didn’t think I’d ever get this again.”

Mark glances over. “What? Dinner?”

She shakes her head, not quite smiling. “Normalcy. Somewhere to crash that doesn’t smell like motor oil and ozone. People who ask if I’m okay... and actually mean it.”

Mark doesn’t answer right away. He just nudges her knee with his. “Well… you’ve got it now. Like I said—little sisters don’t always have to ask.”

She looks at him, eyes narrowing just slightly. “You really gonna keep calling me that?”

He smirks. “Absolutely.”

“Even if I web your room shut?”

“I’ve punched a guy through a volcano. I can handle a few webs.”

“...What if I put stealth mines in your cereal?”

He pauses. “…Okay that’s just cruel.”

A beat.

Then both of them crack up, laughter echoing through the room until even Debbie chuckles softly to herself in the kitchen.