#plain gold nose ring

[nlti2025]

What Makes a Plain Gold Nose Ring the Perfect Travel-Friendly Jewelry?

Traveling light doesn’t mean sacrificing style. The plain gold nose ring is the perfect example of how minimal jewelry can be both beautiful and practical for those constantly on the move. With no gemstones to worry about and a secure fit, it’s made to go wherever you go.

One of the biggest benefits of a plain gold nose ring is its durability. Whether you're backpacking through mountains or attending a destination wedding, its solid 14K or 18K gold build won’t easily bend or tarnish. It's simple, secure, and stylish, exactly what a traveler needs.

This type of jewelry is also incredibly versatile. It pairs well with casual outfits, travel gear, and even more formal evening wear. No need to pack multiple accessories; this one ring adapts to your entire wardrobe.

It also ensures you stay photo-ready with minimal effort. The golden sheen offers a subtle highlight to your face, enhancing selfies and candid travel snaps alike without the need for heavy makeup or accessories.

For travelers who value comfort, reliability, and effortless elegance, the plain gold nose ring is a go-to companion that keeps you feeling polished no matter where you are.

[yeyinde]

hands like barbed wire

John Price x Reader

18+ | dubcon that flirts heavily with noncon. fingering (in public). manipulation. slight corruption kink. sheltered reader forced into a wife-grooming speed run. lotsssssa good girl/sweet girl/baby abound. implied kidnapping.

You meet him in a bar.

He's sitting alone in the corner, body angled towards all the exits. There's a glass of scotch on the table that drip, drip, drips these big, teardrop-sized droplets of condensation down the glass, kept cradled between a thick, grizzled hand. The scabs on his knuckles remind you of ripe, sour cherries when they flex under the coarse dusting of hair.

There's something about his hands that catches your attention first. Keeps it.

Your daddy used to say there was a lot to learn about a man by the shape of his hands. And his, this magnetic stranger's, are rough. Worn. Dangerous. Blistered and torn up. Caution tape in pale peach. Dirt under his nails. Ash on his forefinger. Stay away, it says. Run.

But the flicker of orange sparking up in the gloom draws you in like a moth to a flame. Stupid girl—

(just like daddy always said)

He doesn’t look up when you step closer. Little moth drawn to that orange light, the shift of those fingers wet with condensation. But you catch the slightest shift of his chin from your periphery. A silent acknowledgement, but it’s all you get. He keeps his eyes glued to the newspaper he has spread out on the table. Disregarding you entirely. Ignoring you. 

(and you keep yours fixed on the clench of his hands—)

"Not supposed to smoke in here," you murmur, voice a little slip of a thing when it shudders out of your throat. 

You don’t mean to say it. You’re not sure why you do. The words roll to the tip of your tongue and drip down your chin when your mouth shifts on a small, soundless gasp. Beneath the scabs on his fingers, his skin is all scar tissue—

In an almost laughable contrast, he growls, purring like a tiger, a diesel engine, when he speaks. 

"m'not supposed to do a lot of things—" When you finally, finally, drag your eyes away from his hands (the flex of his fingers, wondering how they'd even fit inside—), you catch a flat, uneven line buried under untameable brown. But he still doesn’t look at you. "But who is gonna tell me that?"

You don't get it. Sheltered girl—little girl, he adds, all ugly and cruel; cold in his mockery because that's what you are to him: little—growing up buried in the mountains, left to rot on the fecund plains where your daddy sowed seeds and mama pickled the wares for the market. Barely scraping by on a farm doomed to fail. Some poor man's burial ground, the locals say. Cursed. But hindsight—the gold band on his ring finger, one half of a matching set belonging to a woman who isn't you; and the patch on his leather jacket, faded yellow and bold, 141 with a twisted skull—bring you to a neat conclusion:

he's a bad man. Stupid girl, daddy would bark. Ain't you know nothin'? Stay away from them folk. Bad news. Nothin' but trouble.

(Mama would laugh. And oh, honey, did trouble find you—)

Between the heavy thud of your heart, the words slip out. “Well, I just did.”

More gall. Cheek. You don't know where it comes from.

Mama would have washed your mouth with soap. Dragged you to the washroom, spitting about respect as she twisted her gnarled fingers into your lips, and tugged. 

You expect the same from him. Maybe worse. Much worse. But he just looks—

His eyes peel away from the article (train robbery down south, it says in bold, ugly letters), finally darting to take you in. There's shock, you think. Stupefied by your audacity. The disrespect. But when he rests his eyes on you—cold blue, like a glinting gem, a lagoon—the slow climb of his brows, drawn up high until three deep lines stretch across his skin, comes to a stop. 

He seems to pause for a beat. Just long enough for an exhale of smoke, twin funnels of dragon's breath, to pour out of his nose. They draw together, but it's not in anger. Scorn. It's a rough sort of contemplation. Eyes narrowing into slits as he stares at you. 

And the weight of his gaze is a palpable thing. Heavy. You try to fight the urge to fidget as he sizes you up, rolling your eyes down the length of his body above the table to skirt around intense, dizzying blue. 

But your avoidance makes him huff, and he leans back, sucking in another breath. 

"C'mere," he demands. Doesn't say, doesn't ask. Just growls the words out between the clench of his teeth buried in that cigar you tried to nitpick him about. "Come sit."

And you do. of course, you do (stupid girl).

But when you reach for the chair next to his, he scoffs. "Didn't tell you to sit beside me."

"Then where—"

He's pushing back in his seat before the words are out, thick thighs open wide (impolite mama would say), stretched tight over a pair of jeans. But even with the wide spread, you can't even see the cheap red plastic in the open v of his legs. When you don't move quick enough—head all thick, syrupy—he grunts. Reaches down mockingly and pats his thigh.

"Come sit, little girl—"

It's demeaning. Embarrassing. But there's something about him that seems to negate choice the closer he gets. Renders it into dust between his fingers. Head syrupy. Empty. No thoughts needed when he'll just think for you—

And oh. 

Oh. That thought does something to you. Static in your veins. An electric shock. Mind reeling, spinning around that single, wayward idea.

Your head is hot. Feverish. Everything inside is melted, liquified, and drips out of your ears to pool between your thighs. 

(Under the white cotton of your modest summer dress, they squeeze together, sliding in the gathering slick—)

When you don't move fast enough for his liking, he grunts. "Ain't gonna tell you again—"

And you listen. Obey. Because that's what you are: a good girl. You do what you're told, don't you?

So you slip onto his lap, letting those big, gnarled hands wrap around your waist. Holding you steady (keeping you trapped) as his thick, warm thigh splits yours apart. Wrenching you open for one of his rough, dirty hands to slide between.

His forearm anchors you to the broad, dizzying spill of his chest, head dipping to nuzzle against the shell of your ear. Shushing you softly as you squirm around the hard, thick press of his thigh against your core—cunt, he bites out, teeth nipping along the skin of your ear; can feel your hot little cunt, sweetheart—and grapple with the strange, dirty-wrong, sensation of sitting in a stranger's lap as he slowly pulls up the dress you wore to church this morning, fingers hot on your inner thigh. Chasing that sticky-slick dampness that makes him groan low in his throat when he first touches it. Softly still, a hoarse good girl—

But this isn't what good girls do.

Mama says no man is allowed to touch this hot, slick little place between your thighs until you're married. A sin, she called it. Wrong. The pastor, too. Only when you're married. Only as a wife.

You don't think he has any intention of marrying you, but he touches you like a man would a wife. Knuckle hard, firm against the thin, worn cotton of your panties. Grazing. Rubbing. All soft and slow. Not even much of a touch—just the whisper, the idea, of one.

The rasp of his smoke-scorched, whiskey-scented voice in your ear, peppering filth, sin, out as he tells you he can feel how wet your little pussy is. Feels it against his finger. And can you feel that, sweetheart? when he pushes a little harder, digging the peak of a bent knuckle into the seam of you. Can you feel him through your pretty little panties?

"Mm," he grunts, pushing harder. Arm tightening around your waist when you squirm, and squirm. "Can you?"

Yes, you think around a long breath. A little stretch. Your legs kick out under the table when he grazes over a spot that blooms a vicious, intense pleasure through your belly. Something that feels so good, that it makes you a little sick. Makes you want to run. Maybe that's why your legs kick and kick, and—

"Be good." It's a snarl. A warning. "Or I'll take you over my knee—"

Be good, he adds again when you whimper, softening the grit in his voice from granite to soot. The same tone Daddy uses when they bring him a broken horse. "Jus' wanna make you feel good, sweet girl, mm. Want that, don't you?"

"We're n-not supposed to do this if we're not—not married."

Shivering it out into the balmy, smoke-dense air of the bar feels almost like a release. Baptismal. Like maybe now you've said it, whatever spell has fallen over the two of you will be broken. He'll blink awake and right the wrong you've committed with a quick, decisive shake of his head. You'll go back to being a good girl, a simple girl from a simple family, and he'll be the stranger in a bar you think about sometimes, like the real man mama loved but her daddy wouldn't let her marry.

(A sweet little fever dream, she'd said fondly. Sadly. And then, scared, tense: don't tell daddy, though, okay?)

He hums around it, but it sounds accommodating. Placid. Like an adult entertaining the whims of a child.

"Want that, mm?" He digs the question in with a slip of his finger over the cheap lace lining the hem of your panties. "Want me to marry you?"

You're not sure. You don't know him, but he's touching you in public. Has you sat—spread—on his lap with his hand under your dress, touching you the way a husband would. There's a ring on his finger already. The suggestion of a wife. A life outside of this hovel where nothing grows, and you're just expected to roll over and grow old with whatever man daddy approves of.

"No," you stammer out because he's married already, and that's what daddy will say. "No—"

"Shame," he grunts, and his nail catches on the edge of coifed lace. Scraping it over slick, damp skin. "Jus' lost mine, you know. Been thinkin' 'bout takin' another."

A good little girl to warm my bed is said as his nail drags your panties over your swollen, slick folds.

It's instinctual to want to snap them shut. Keep him out. But his knee lifts like he's expecting that, keeping you spread. Open. His hand is hot on your skin. Burning. His thumb wedges into the hem of your panties, stretching the fabric to tuck the edges together, exposing your cunt to his wandering, blistering fingers.

There's no quarter. No choice. He doesn't let you think. Doesn't give you a minute to breathe. It's just—

Skin on skin.

His knuckle slides between the seam of your swollen folds, parting them as he touches that slick, hot space cradled inside. Groaning, too, when he does; like he touched fire. Like you burned him. Hurt him even though you know you never could.

The noise balms the panic and clots thick tufts of cotton inside your ears. The low, rolling brass trembles in your belly. A small quake. You feel it in your cunt; a strange, throbbing little hum that makes you clench down twice on nothing but the idea of that sound. The echo.

He tells you he feels it. Feels how desperate you are for him.

Needy little thing, he rasps, and it isn't kind. It isn't nice. There's a reprimand needling in against the grain of his praise. An unspoken good girl said in the tone of a man who thinks you're anything but.

"Been thinkin' about takin' a wife," he says again, dragging the rough, scabbed tip of his knuckle across the powder-soft flesh of your folds. It's ticklish. Weird. Something that makes you want to giggle and cry. Pull your blankets over your head. Lean into it more. Spread your legs wider until he touches that spot that made you shake. "But the mistake I made the last time was not testin' 'er out before I married 'er. Turns out—" the tip digs in between your swollen folds, touching where you're hot and sticky and far too sensitive for such rough hands. "She wasn't as sweet as I thought she was."

And it's electric. The rough, calloused scrape of his finger stroking up and down your split seam (your clit, he mumbles into the hollow space behind your ear, giving it a little swirl that makes your toes curl; to your hole, nice and tight and so fuckin' wet f'him, mm?) is a jolt of that dizzying, too much-not enough pleasure. A shock. Mouth open, toes clenched tight. Legs kicking. Muscles seizing as he works you over with just the tip of a finger. Barely even a touch.

"But you're sweet, aren't you?"

It sounds like he's chiding you all over again, but the cotton puffing up against your eardrums, the pleasure buzzing in your belly, between your thighs, makes everything sound so sweet. Enticing. So you agree. Nod feverishly on a gasp when his finger trails down to where you clench tight around nothing, circling your opening with the tip of his finger, nail skimming over swollen, slick flesh.

You're not sure what this is. Don't even know where to begin to articulate what you want, need, but each pass makes you feel every bit of the needy little thing he called you earlier. An admonishment drenched in fondness. Wrapped up so tight in a soft, velvet cloth of amusement that you could barely feel the pricks of barbed wire nestled inside when it rubbed against your skin.

Sweet enough that it makes you turn your head into his bicep, nuzzling against the fabric of his jacket as he works his fingers between your wet, slick thighs. Thumb against your clit. A brand. Pressing down, down, and then softening when your legs kick out, too much. That dirty, awful kind of pleasure that makes you feel like a balloon being pumped too full, ready to burst. His finger slips inside. Just a tease. As gentle as a kiss. Only up to his cuticle. Barely even a knuckle.

He tells you all of his with his beard scraping against the flushed, damp skin of your cheek. Murmuring the words into the pool of blood throbbing against your cheekbones. Reinforces them with a sharp nip of his teeth when the shame trickles in—when the easy pump of his finger, not even a knuckle, makes a wet, sticky noise as it pushes into that pool of heat inside of you.

And it's all good girl, sweet girl against the sticky-slick shine of your raw cheek when your needy little cunt sucks him in deeper. Beggin' for it, and sweet little pussy wants it so bad, mm, needy girl? and don't worry, baby, m'gonna make you feel so good.

Baby. It catches, loops. Makes it easier to ignore the noise spilling out under the thick spread of his palm, finger digging in deeper (the first knuckle is a soft good girl, the second is a rough a doin' so good, sweetheart; and the third, slipped right up to last is a low, rumbling that's it, baby, takin' it so well, ain't you?), and the clatter around you. A semi-crowded bar.

You forgot, you think, squirming suddenly. Stiffening around him, on him, as the world sharpens into a whistle. Glass on worn wood. Thud, thud. Legs squealing against herringbone as a heavy chair is dragged back. Low murmurs. Laughter. Noise spilling out from the front of the room, calls for more beer. Another shot. Hey, bartender, gimme another Jack on the rocks—

"Shush-shush, baby," he coos, finger dragging out a lewd squelch when slides back inside of you, as deep as it'll go. The slap of his bent index and ring finger hitting your puffy, drenched folds when he thrusts. "They can't see you. Can't hear you. Jus' be good for me, mm? My sweet girl."

Nothin' matters except me, he adds, curling that finger inside of you until it hooks on a spot that makes you whimper into his arm, teeth sinking into leather. I own this bar, he promises, lifting his arm up as you cling to him with your teeth. A block against the world. Nothing but faded, aged leather and stale smoke. Gunpowder. The slick glide of his finger inside of you, the sting of the stretch dissolving into a wet, sticky pleasure.

His own teeth dig into the curve of your neck. A pinch. Sucking in a mouthful of skin as his ring finger extends, drags over your messy cunt until it's pushed up against your stuffed hole, nudging inside. A shallow dip. Lemme in, it says as he bites through blood vessels with the hard suck of his mouth. Lemme in because—

"I own this town. This bar. Jus' like I own this sweet little cunt."

A shove and he's in. All the way. To the last knuckle. Quick and sudden, the sting is an afterthought; the burn is a hazy, ephemeral throb in the back of your head. Balmed by the drag of his thumb over your pebbled clit.

It feels like a seesaw. Up and down. Bending your knees, feet planted into the ground, and then kicking up, up. Weightless. Over and over again. An ebb and flow. Higher and higher until you slowly fall down—

(—into his lap. the cup of his palm.)

You tell him as much. Mewled out into spit-drenched leather as he rumbles against your spine, his voice so deep, so full, you can feel it humming in your chest when he speaks.

(feel it drip down your spine like hot wax where it pools between your thighs—)

"Good girl," he says, and you feel like anything but. Less like the girl who sat in the pew this morning, humming along to hymns in a modest, cotton dress and more like gum spat out onto the pavement. Squished down under his heel. Dragged along beneath his boot. Pretty, dizzy pinked up remora. "Bein' so good, mm? Maybe you deserve a reward."

It comes on the crook of his fingers twisting inside your slicked up cunt; blunt nails pressing against soft walls until it stings like the nip of his teeth over your cheek. You're not even sure if it feels good. It's just—

Pressure. A burning stretch. The foreign sensation of something detached from your body squirming inside of you, touching places you've never been able to reach before. Too deep and too full. His index finger is nearly double the width of your own.

It makes you mewl like a child. Twisting on his lap, trying to pull away from the place that parts for him so easily, opens up with just the crook of his finger. Leaks slick down his palm, drenching his pants. Makin' a mess, he growls, and pulls you back down on his lap. Feel it, sweet girl? Mm? Feel the mess you're makin'.

And you hate that you can. That each thrust of his hand between your thighs sounds wetter and wetter than it did before. That it pulls it out of you until it drips down your inner thighs and pools against the back of your dress. Stains his thighs. The hard thing—his cock, he tells you, dragging your ass over it with a grunt—under you that jerks and throbs and flattens up to a size that makes you want to curl into a ball and weep.

(that makes your knees twitch, wanting to spread wider—)

It's a lot. It's too much. You're not even sure you like it ("ain't nice to tell lies, little girl;") but he doesn't stop. Won't. Not even when tears drip down from the corners of your eyes, and you hide whimpers into the damp, sticky leather of his sleeve. It doesn't really matter because—

"mm, you look so pretty when you cry."

You feel drenched. Liquid. No longer a person but a puddle. Melted, leaking. Dripping down his lap and pooling onto the dirty barroom floor. A slippery little thing held together by the cup of his palm, the hook of his fingers sinking into you over and over again.

"Are you watchin'?" The arm wrapped around your waist shifts until his dry, rough hand is cupped under your wet, sticky chin, curling over your throat. "Look at us."

Between the spread of your thighs, white cotton dress rumpled and rucked up around your hips, the sight of his hand—masculine: dangerous; knuckles bruised and scarred, cherry red; big and rough and hairy—is obscene. Ugly. Wrong.

(a grunt: too tight. his fingers flex, spreading open inside of you, scissoring apart. loosen up, love, before you break 'em, mm.)

So, so wrong.

You feel small with that big, grizzled hand between your legs. Insignificant. A toy to play with. A thing to be used. And that's just what he does.

Shows you how he can play with your body when he peels his fingers out of you nice and slow until just the tips keep you open, skin shiny and wet. Glistening in the flushed, low light of the bar. And then slides them back inside, just as slow. The first knuckle. The second. The third. Wiggles them around. Scissors them apart.

Pulls them out faster now, and thrusts them back inside hard.

This cunt belongs to him, he grunts, words nestled beneath the slick, sticky-wet sound of him taking what he owns. Over and over again. That big, bearish hand works at your messy cunt until your thighs tremble, and your head throbs.

The hand on your throat is firm. Tight. And when it pulls away to slip inside your cotton dress, you realise you've forgotten how to breathe without him controlling every breath.

"Come on," he rasps, fingers working harder. Faster. His thumb catches your clit, rubbing small, tight circles; each pass brings a new, terrible pleasure rippling through you. A crescendo that builds and builds. Higher on the seesaw—up, up—

His hand is scorching as it cups your breast, index and middle finger scissoring over your nipple until it's caught between the two. A pluck. A pinch. It buzzes down your chest, sinks like a stone into the wet, muddled mess between your hips.

And that's all you are. Nothing but a soaked, hot mess of a thing in his lap. Putty. Messy girl. Silly girl. Sweet. Stupid. His.

(his low, growling voice in your ear: mine, mine, mine;) "aren't you, little girl?"

The leather between your teeth tastes like ash. Smells of gunpowder. Fresh hide in the summer's sun. Smoke. Tobacco. Potent. Masculine. Grizzled, like his hand between your thighs. The other cupped around your breast, pinching and pulling and kneading flesh you hadn't realised could feel so good when it was touched like this—

By his hands, palms hot enough to scorch, to brand. To melt you from the outside in until you leak all over his lap where you're cradled like a child. Obedient and docile.

Especially when he makes you come on his fingers. Tells you that's what you'll do before it happens—a grunt, a command, in your ear. Do it, sweetheart. I ain't askin' again—

And you do. Pulsing like a heartbeat around the thick stretch of two fingers digging deep inside of you, stabbing into that spot that makes you pant like an animal. Blooms more heat, more pleasure, that thickens inside your navel—molten. Spilling out from between your hips. Up, up, up on the seesaw—

"Good girl. Good fuckin' girl—"

He doesn't even sound like a man anymore. The rough, feverish grit of his voice pitches low into his throat, hums in his chest. Rattles like bones in the wind. Howls. Sharpens in the pit of your belly, another liquid pulse around his fingers. It sounds animal. Primal. Bearish as he claims you as his, as he curls his fingers around the heart of you, and tugs. Leaving you spun around those thick, grizzled fingers like fresh cotton candy, sticky and sweet. His to keep.

And that's what you are,

"aren't you?"

Good girl, he coos when you nod, sniffling into creased leather that smells of cade and motor oil. Too dizzy to make sense of what he's asking for, too incomplete.

Your neck feels cold without his touch, but you don't know how to ask for something you don't even think you really want. Shouldn't want.

You feel feverish, too, and it's an all-over thing. From the space between each toe, to the backs of your ears—everything is too hot, too cold. You're shivering, but you want to sink down into a pool of ice, a blanket of heat and warmth. Wrap yourself around the hot, oozing insides of a chest—like the hunter who slept inside his beloved horse—and bathe in the waters around the polynya. Icy and dark.

Mostly, though, you just feel raw. Wrong. Scraped out and hollowed. Broken into pieces and put back together with mismatched parts.

And it's worse, you think, when he pulls his fingers out of you, and you're reminded of what it feels like to be empty all over again.

"Shush, baby," he's cooing when you whimper. Chiding. "Let's have a taste, mm? Find out if you're really sweet."

His hand is drenched when he pulls it from between your thighs. Thick, clear strands make a bridge between his fingers when he splits them apart, rumbling low and brassy in his chest at the sight. Spits like a burning log, crackling sap in a dry fire, when he says, look, baby, got me all fuckin' wet—

But you can't. Not when he drags his hand up, up, over your shoulder, above your head, and sinks his fingers into his mouth with a groan that raffles through you, all the way down to your toes. Slurps on his hand, on the slick you left behind, like a man half-starved. Grunting at the taste. Cock throbbing beneath you like a heartbeat. Pulsing and angry. Enough that you cower a bit, flinching back into the broad expanse of his chest as his thick, fat cock twitches under you, eager for something you only really know about as an abstract concept. Knowledge gleaned through rummaging around in cupboards when no one was looking. Playground tales; cupped palms against the side of an ear. Stage whispers.

Husband and wife.

And oh, baby—

"you're the sweetest thing I've ever tasted," he rasps into your cheek, lips shiny and wet. Smearing spit and slick across your raw skin. "Looks like I found my new wife."

It doesn't make sense. Another abstract concept. Fragmented pieces. You want to say we can't get married, but all that comes out is a squeak. A whimper. Some shallow warble in the back of your throat that sounds like daddy, please.

But he's pulling his hand away from your breast, and clasping it tight around your neck before the words can make it through the panic clogging your throat. A firm squeeze snuffs those flames as quickly as they formed, and you swallow down the ash in the back of your throat before it can choke you.

Good girl, he says with a paper soft kiss to the bruised, burning apple of your cheek. Sweet girl, baby girl, and when he smoothes his damp hand across the rumpled fabric of your cotton dress, pulling it back over your thighs, you realise you forgot your own name.

(It doesn't matter, you suppose. You'll have his soon enough.)

When it's back in its proper spot, unblemished and pristine despite the ache between your thighs and the way your panties stick, uncomfortably, to swollen skin, he drags his hand back up your leg until his palm swallows your thigh. The warmth of his skin bleeds through the cotton, and his rough, calloused fingers catch on loose threads when he splays them wide, touch firm, possessive—as if he has the right to hold you like you're his.

But his skin is still wet, and when it catches in the light, you feel a sinking weight in your belly. An echo in the back of your head that says you already are.

His thumb strokes over cotton, and it's almost obscene, really: soft, virginal white against marled, cherry red and scarred peach; from his knuckles to the hem of his leather jacket, he's covered in a dense swath of hair. Veins bulge when he flexes, thick lines running down the back of his hand like little rivers of blue beneath raw peach flesh. He's just so—

Different.

Masculine. Big. Dangerous, you think again, and hear that muffled echo in the back of your head that said run, stay away.

(except now it sounds like stupid girl, you're much too late—)

Trapped like a fawn under his paw. One on your thigh, the other on your throat. The phantom burn, the hollow echo, of his fingers tearing through the too-tight space inside of you, making room for the heavy, fat length under you.

Soon, it seems to say, still as angry as it was when he feasted on your sweet taste.

His hand leaves your thigh, reaching up towards the half-drunk glass on the table beneath a puddle of condensation. It, too, is swallowed up under his bearish hand when he curls his fingers around it, tugging it closer, over your shoulder.

You smell whiskey as he takes the last swig, grunting at the burn, the sting. When he's finished, he leans forward, warm chest glueing to your spine, and places the empty glass back in the puddle.

The hollow thud of glass on wood seems to shake loose the cobwebs that spooled around your head. It feels like blinking to life. Waking up from a deep sleep.

The bar is still buzzing with noise, but you can hear it clearly now. A constant, endless press of voices and low hums, words you can't make sense of. You're too far back in the bar for anyone to have seen you—the bulk of his arm is a wall between you and the world—but you wonder just how much your whimpers carried under the static chatter. The wet, messy squelch—

"You're fine, sweetheart." A squeeze and the panic welling in your throat is choked under his palm. Snuffed out. "No one heard a thing."

You're not sure you believe him, but it keeps the embarrassment from eating you alive, and so you let it go with a slow, sleepy nod. A sniffle. Wet, weepy: I want to go home.

"S'right, sweetheart," he soothes, pressing another brittle kiss to your temple, one that feels the sting of a scraped knee. "We'll get you home."

(Chiding. Look at what you've done to yourself. Pitying. Patronising. Poor thing.)

His home isn't the same as the one cradled in the maw of a mountain, where the land is always barren, and your mother weeps when your father isn't around, but you relent when he tugs, pulling you into his arms. Holding you like a small child as he bites down on his cigar, and moves through the blanket of silence in the once rowdy bar. Hands firm, tight like shackles when they close around you.

Your father used to say you could tell a lot about a man by the look of his hands, and when he slips his fingers between the soft brackets of yours, filling the spaces you hadn't realised were empty, you know one thing:

these are not the sort to ever let go.

(bassbround. apodictic.)

and when he slips his ring on your finger and tells you to wear that little white cotton dress for him, you suppose you have no one else to blame but yourself.

[demie90s]

Can you do a nika x reader where nika is and the reader are married and have a babygirl together but the tean didnt know she was married. And she comes to a game with the baby in nikas jersey and so does the reader and everyone is like confused on who she is and stuff and social media goes crazy. The reader went overseas to Croatia for something and they met out there when they were in high school and they both came to uconn together and got married after her sophomore year at uconn.

Yours, Always Was

Nika Mühl x fem!Reader

MASTERLIST | MORE

ꜱᴜᴍᴍᴀʀʏ: No one ever guessed Nika Mühl—the loudest one on court, the calmest under pressure—was married.

ɢᴇɴʀᴇ: Fluff, romance, surprise reveal, slice of life, college basketball

ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ: Mild swearing, emotional reveal, public attention, found family

ᴡᴏʀᴅ ᴄᴏᴜɴᴛ: ~ 0.4k

It was loud in the arena—the kind of loud that makes your chest vibrate, where the court feels electric and the bass from the music thuds right under your feet. But my baby girl? She was knocked out in my arms, little fists curled against my chest like she knew she belonged there.

She was in a custom UConn onesie—white with navy trim—and across the back, in stitched bold letters, it said MÜHL. Tiny jersey number 10 on the front. Her curls were pulled into two little puffs, and I had slipped a matching UConn headband on her. She looked like a damn mascot. My whole world wrapped up in this seven-month-old firecracker who had Nika’s nose and my attitude.

I kept my hood up, sunglasses on. Not that I didn’t want to be seen—but nobody here knew I was Nika’s wife. Not even the team. Not officially. She liked having me to herself. Said the world didn’t need to know what was ours. And I never argued—because being hers? Was enough.

But tonight… tonight I wanted her to see us. And not just her. The team. The fans. Everybody.

The moment I stepped into the arena tunnel with our daughter on my hip, a few people looked. I didn’t pay them any mind. I was too busy scanning the court. The second I saw her—number ten, blonde bun bouncing as she dribbled across the floor during warmups—I grinned. She didn’t know yet.

Until she did.

Because she turned toward the tunnel and froze. Just dead in her tracks. Mouth parted. Ball still spinning between her fingers. Her whole body shifted like the wind had been knocked out of her.

I raised my hand in a slow wave and tilted our daughter toward the court. Nika’s smile… God. She lit up like she was seeing sunlight for the first time.

And the team? Confused. Loud. Ashlynn nudged KK. Paige literally dropped her water bottle. Azzi squinted like she was trying to zoom in with her eyes. The camera guy caught wind too, zooming in just in time to capture Nika pointing at us, yelling something in Croatian with her hand over her heart.

The announcers were clueless. But Twitter? Not so much.

@/hoopbabyy: WHO TF IS THAT WITH BABY MÜHL?!

@/courtvisionlive: sooo nika got a whole WIFE & BABY??

@/wnbaforlife: she really a playmaker on AND off the court 😭

After the win, we waited in the private tunnel. I sat on the bench with the baby asleep on my chest again, still holding her little wrist like it was habit. My hoodie was off now—revealing my matching MÜHL jersey—and a soft gold wedding ring glinted when I rocked her.

Then the locker room door burst open.

Nika was the first out. Hair damp, jersey swapped for her UConn hoodie, eyes locked on me like she’d been counting the minutes. She didn’t say a word, just walked straight up, leaned down, kissed the baby’s forehead—then kissed me. Soft. Sure. Deep like she’d been holding it in all season.

Behind her? They wildin.

“YOU’RE MARRIED?!”

“IS THIS WHY YOU SKIPPED MEDIA DAY LAST YEAR?!”

“A BABY?!”

I smirked, still not saying a word. Nika slid onto the bench next to me, looping her arm around my waist, resting her hand over mine as we both held our daughter.

“This is my wife,” she said, proud and plain. “And this is our daughter.”

The room went dead silent. Until Jana clapped slow and dramatic. “Aight. That’s hard.”

“Wait,” Paige said, “so y’all just been playing us like this?”

Nika looked at me. Then back at them.

“I told you,” she said with a shrug. “She’s mine. I just didn’t say how much.”

And me? I just smiled. Because finally… they knew.

[m1rotics]

the act of wanting

seonghwa x fem!reader

word count: 6.6k

warnings: nonconsensual drugging (reader receiving), noncon, sir kink, lil spit play, heavily implied cannibalism, seonghwa's a wee bit mean, trampling, light breath play, masturbation, thigh riding, humping, heavily implied dom/sub dynamics, mouth inspection, red flags all over the place, reader doesn't suspects anything at the end.

the wind bites at your skin, the tip of your nose. it seeps through the thin fabric of the dress. baby blue satin. painfully thin. you suppress a shiver, running your fingers over the goosebumps on your arms. the white fur stole keeps your shoulders warm at best, and the pearls wrapped around your neck are nothing but tiny ice cubes pressed against your skin. the necklace feels too tight, the dress feels too loose, your heels feel uneven. everything feels all out of sorts. all wrong. passer-bys create gusts of wind that leave your teeth chattering as a result.

the city bustles around you. cars passing, headlights blinding. people chattering as you pass, streetlights wrapping everything in a yellow film. the sidewalk is still damp from hours-old rain, puddles drying up in the middle. the air is thick. your feet ache. you wish the bus could just drop you off directly in front of his house, saving you from all this effort.

you're going to be late.

the realization hits you as you stand at the street-corner, waiting for the red light so you can pass. you check your phone as you cut through, narrowly avoiding getting hit by a taxi that races past, kicking up water. you have around twenty five minutes, and you're certainly not going to make it within that time frame. you mutter curses as you continue forward. that could've been you in the backseat of a cab, lounging in the warmth of a heater. however, money is tight, and you blew the rest of your spending money on takeout yesterday.

do you regret it?

a little.

would you do it again?

absolutely.

you check your phone again, joints screaming from the movement, but you need to make sure you're going the right way— luckily, you are.

you're heading into the nicer part of town now. where the houses are all well-kept and they’re surrounded by nice little picket fences. three stories, brightly colored. lawns so damn big, you'd make it less than half-way before running out of breath. their grass is all properly maintained.

the grass truly is greener on the other side, who would've thought?

you still have about ten more minutes till you reach his house.

seonghwa's house.

seonghwa.

the name bounces around in your head, sits in the hollow of your throat. it's a pretty name. still, trepidation coils around your bones. what if this doesn't go well? what if he's crazy and no one sees you again? he seems sweet from what you know through messages and occasionally calling. proper. handsome. he looked well off in profile, but you didn't expect this level of luxury. already, you feel so out of place like someone's gonna come out and order you to go back to where you come from.

soon, his house comes into view and it's different from the rest— it's huge, insanely big. mansion big. far too big for one person. your entire family could fit in there and still have room. it's far off from the rest, isolated. the house is painted a blackish-grey, contrasting from all the mint greens and yellows you saw earlier. it looks antiquated compared to the rest. dreary. his porch is plain. empty mostly. you take a second to make sure you look decent at the door, fixing your makeup, adjusting your dress. you ring the doorbell and take a step back.

it takes him a bit to answer the door, and you gawk when he finally does. he's bewitching; a siren trapped in human skin. straight nose, defined cheekbones, tan skin, plush lips. his black hair reaching his neck, and curling around his face. a gold chain sitting around his neck with a sanguine velvet suit. he looks decadent. regal. money made man.

pictures did not do him justice.

he regards you with mild interest, his eyes black and chamsic. sharp enough to gut you. he gives you a quick once-over.

“you're late,” he notes. curt in nature. you startle.

his voice is molasses thick. molten gold. you shift from foot to foot, fumbling with your purse. uneasy.

“the trip took me longer than expected,” you admit.

he nods, stares for a second, inscrutable, then steps to the side, “come in, you must be freezing.”

you walk in slowly, warmth encompassing you the further you go. you let out a sigh of relief. tension melting off of you.

“your place is really nice,” you comment as you glance around.

it's more modern than you thought it would be, definitely renovated over time. it's huge but that's not surprising anymore. most of his furniture is black with hints of gray. an occasional splash of white to break up the monotony. you don't want to seem nosy, so you try not to look around too much. it's clean, lacks pictures of any friends or family. there's an empty glass on the coffee table, a blanket thrown on the couch. you hear him shut and lock the door behind you. he strolls past you.

“thank you, you can leave the stole in here. i'm incredibly sorry for the mess,” he murmurs, folding the blanket and setting it on the sofa, “i was reading in here before you came.”

“oh, really? what were you reading?” you say, as you place the stole on the arm of his couch.

“a star wars book,” he replies honestly, and turns to lead you through a hall, and you have to muffle a chuckle. not because you're making fun of him, but because it's cute.

“I've heard so much about star wars, but i've never been able to get into it.”

“if you're willing, the next time you come over we could watch one.”

“even if i don't understand anything,” you tease.

“i'll tell you everything you need to know,” he rebuts easily.

“then it's settled,” you agree.

seonghwa leads you to the dinner table and it's made of tempered glass. you were sure it was gonna be some type of expensive wood painted black. the chair is soft, velvety, cushioning you as you settle into it.

“enough about that, you walked here?” he pulls your chair out for you when you reach the dinner table.

“well, not the entire time, I took the bus at first and then walked the rest of the way.” you explain.

he pushes you in, and you expect him to leave, but then his hands drop to your shoulders and he bends down to mutter, “i forgot to tell you how stunning you look at the door, i hope you don't find me rude.”

his warm breath caresses the back of your ear, brushing along your neck and you shiver. he's so close, too close, and he lingers. waiting.

you don't move a single inch, stuck staring at the empty plate laid out before you, counting silverware. gooseflesh threatens to break out over your skin.

“oh, um, it's fine,” you swallow, shaken by the sudden close proximity, “thank you, you look amazing too.”

his hands run over the bare skin of your shoulder and up to skim over the pearls around your neck as he stands up straight, “good, good. I'll go grab something to drink, is wine okay?”

you blink, “um, yeah, it's perfect.”

seonghwa excuses himself to the kitchen and whatever string holding you taut loosens. you slump, hands falling into your lap, hitting your purse with a soft thud. the racing of your heart makes your chest warm. the uncomfortable type of warmth that feels an awful-like fear. you chalk it up to nerves. first date jitters. especially given how drop dead gorgeous he is. he looks like he should be on runways, dripping dior and speckled with gold.

he comes back with a bottle, and pours your drink first. he fills his glass and sits down, puts his arm on the table and rests his cheek in his palm. shooting you a warm smile, you smile back. common courtesy. you take a small sip, and find that it's surprisingly sweet. he has good taste.

“tell me about yourself,” he says, “it'll pass the time while the food finishes cooking.

conversation comes easy after that, your nerves calming the more you tell him about working for your psychology degree, specializing in children's psychology, and in the meantime you're working at a little daycare. you tell him you moved further into the city to pursue your education, and that your family lives around an hour away.

“is there a story behind your choice of career?”

“no,” you confess, “i just like kids and i wanted to do something useful. i've always wanted to do something helpful.”

“you're perfect for the job if that's your mindset.” he replies.

he asks about your hobbies, and you happily tell him that you dabble in different types of art. your favorite would probably be drawing, but you also enjoy painting occasionally.

he admits that he writes a little.

poetry, he says, takes a sip of his wine with a little flush to his cheeks.

“I'm not any good, but it's something I like indulging in sometimes,” he mutters.

“well, if you're ever comfortable, i'd love to read some.”

you find out that he's a ceo through family connections. which, you have to stifle a chuckle because how cliche. he makes a point to clarify that he does actually manage things in the office and he does take his job seriously. you giggle, and give a totally-not-sarcastic sureeee which manages to get a laugh out of him.

it's melodical, soothing to the ears, and you wouldn't mind hearing it again.

you find he cooks to pass time, and at the moment, he's making steak. a beep sounds from the kitchen, and he excuses himself to grab it out of the oven.

he emerges with two plates in hand, smoke rising from them. they smell heavenly, you might float out of your seat with your nose pointing up cartoon style. your mouth waters when he sets the plate in front of you. the steak is drizzled in a thin red sauce and peppered with asparagus.

“did someone teach you how to cook?” you ask after taking a sip of your wine.

“I used to cook with my mother,” it's painfully frigid. all that previous fondness lost, bleeding disdain at the edges.

ashamed and slightly embarrassed at ruining the mood this early on, you fall quiet, cutting into your steak. it cuts clean, easily, straight through like butter. medium rare. the meat falls apart in your mouth, tender, juicy. delicious. it's different though. you don't think you've had whatever this is before. when you look up, you find seonghwa already looking at you, smiling. his food untouched. you're just happy whatever that was before is gone now. flushed down the drain, wiped clean. a new canvas. that movement of bitterness wished away.

“is it good?”

“good?” you scoff, “this is literally gourmet, are you sure you're not a famous five star chef, and you're just not telling me?”

seonghwa chuckles, deep and gauzy, “nope, just a corporate worker.”

“i don't believe that,” you snicker, “but if you insist, i'll take your word.”

“i’ll take what i can get.”

it’s silent after that, and you take to finishing your steak, but the more you shovel into your mouth, the more meat starts to taste like meat. fleshy and real and irrevocably meat. you make it half-way before your curiosity gets the best of you.

“what type of meat is this?”

“if i recall correctly,” he drawls, cutting into his steak. his silence stretches excruciatingly long. your fingers tighten around your fork.

“it's beef,” he says, lifting a piece to his mouth.

“for a second, I thought you were going to say human or something,” you quip.

seonghwa cocks his head, amused. blinks at you real slow as he chews. lazy and feline.

“you never know,” he replies.

seonghwa's smile gets eerie after that, the edges too sharp, showing too many teeth. it looks like it hurts. like his cheeks are contorted, stretched thin. uncanny. in the light, it looks like his lips are stained red, you tell yourself, it's just the wine. you can see the flex of his jaw, the slow, deliberate chews. meticulously grinding it down.

the moment drags on. seconds turning to minutes. or maybe a minute, but right now, it feels like hours.

you shift in your seat, stomach churning, a sour taste in your mouth. you take a gulp of wine to negate it. it doesn't work, and it makes you nauseous. it's too sweet. it causes the richness of the meat to stand out, staining your taste buds.

you can see the exact moment he swallows, it's like x-ray vision. you follow it down the length of his throat, his adam's apple bobbing as it works. you watch till you physically have to force your gaze away to look him in the eyes.

you're going crazy, you must be. you don't know why you're so on edge. he hasn't done anything. he made a joke. you can take a joke, it's normal. this is normal. it should be funny.

you suck in a deep breath, eyelashes fluttering.

you give a non-committal hum in replace of an answer. attempting to focus on one problem at a time. your food is good. well, it was, but you're hurtling into that territory where good morphs into bad. it's starting to repulse you, each bite a chore, you chew as little as possible. something about tastes too… you can't describe it. too sweet, too raw, too much. it's not right. you're queasy, there's pressure in the back of your throat. your stomach is pulsing, threatening, begging to hurl everything back up.

“are you okay?”

his voice sounds muffled, distant, like you're underwater and your ears are stuffed with cotton. time creeps by. your eyes dart to his, you swallow, blinking, “I'm not- I don't feel too good.”

a hand touches your shoulder, and you jump.

when did he get so close?

“do you need anything?”

“no, i don't think so,” you mumble, shaking your head.

you try to shrug him off and rise from your seat, planning to excuse yourself to the bathroom for a breather or something. but as soon as you're up on your feet, the world spins and your head begins to pound. you stumble forward, and seonghwa steadies you with a strong hand. you sag into him, forehead pressed against his chest. your head feels fuzzy. your thoughts static, dead line. you can't think straight, but seonghwa's so warm. so, so warm and he smells so good. tangy, citrusy. you can taste it in the back of your mouth, sticking to the back of your throat. his suit is soft against your cheek, and you fist it as you try to keep yourself up.

“sorry,” you murmur, “i’m so sorry.”

you don't realize how silent he's gone until he's shushing you, swaying the two of you. side to side. he's firm beneath you, steely and strong. a pillar propping you up.

there's something buzzing underneath your skin. unbridled energy turning into pure heat. it starts from the outside in, cooking you slowly. you feel gooey inside. center soft, ready to be bit into. sweat pricks at your forehead.

“seong…hwa, I feel hot,” you huff, thoughts foggy, and you feel his chuckle. it rumbles through him like the purr of a cat.

“I think you're getting a fever, sweetheart, do you want to lay down? you can use my bed.”

you nod, and seonghwa guides you through the house on wobbly legs. you're like a new-born fawn, hobbling and tripping over yourself. his room is nice, dark. clean. the smell is clement. neutral, almost. pleasant. he lays you down as gently as possible, and you melt into the mattress. you kick off your heels, and they hit the floor with a small thump. his bed smells like him but fainter, you bury your nose into his pillow. seonghwa clicks on a bedside lamp.

“do you need anything?” he asks, running a hand over your back, tickling your spine, and you squirm.

“I don't think so,” you whisper, hazy and small, blinking up at him.

seonghwa beams, eyes crinkling with sheer delight,“ oh, aren't you a sweet little thing?”

the praise racks through you, glides down your throat like syrup, and you shudder. it makes the heat worse. it turns blistering, boiling, like you're going to burst at the seams.

“seonghwa, don't feel good,” you sob, “make it stop.”

“you want me to help you?” he asks, and you nod with a flimsy mhm.

“get up,” he orders.

you hesitate.

seonghwa clicks his tongue, “I don't have all day. get up.”

pushing yourself off the bed takes tremendous effort. you're trembling, so much weaker than you normally are. still, the heat burns bright, and you're determined to listen because he said he'll help. he said he'll make it better. even if you don't know how exactly he'll do it.

you're wobbly on your feet, weak in the knees.

seonghwa sits on the edge of the bed, leaving space between his legs for you, “come here.”

you shuffle closer.

“on your knees.”

your knees sting from the impact. the hardwood doesn't help.

“you want my help?”

you nod eagerly and seonghwa laughs. the sound ringing in the air like heaven's bells.

“then ask politely, use your words,” he instructs, voice firm.

“please, help me,” you breathe.

“look at how lovely you are,” he intones, and cups your cheek, “you listen so well.”

a low whine crawls out of your throat.

seonghwa tuts, “when i compliment you, you say ‘thank you, sir.’ pretty things like you should always use their manners.”

you try to respond. you really do, but the words catch in your throat. your tongue isn't cooperating. instead some disfigured groan comes out, and seonghwa’s nails dig into your cheeks, punishing.

“spit it out,” he barks.

“t-thank you, sir,” you splutter. more pathetic than usual. too much breath, too shaky.

seonghwa doesn't respond, just hums. pleased. slowly runs his thumb over your bottom lip. he does it leisurely, takes his time, really looks at you. from your eyes, your nose, to your lips, the. back up. he slides his thumb in– you let him, opening wide. his gaze falls back down. his presses his thumb against your tongue, stroking it like he's petting a cat. he does it painfully slow. like time doesn't exist anymore, like the world has come to halt and night will last forever.

you think you try to talk because he shushes you, plush lips pulled into a tiny frown.

two fingers find their way inside your mouth, and plunge so deep down your throat. you can't help but gag. an unceremonious punishment. you take it in stride. seonghwa coos, entranced with how fast your eyes glaze over. you look so brittle, so doll-like. he hooks his fingers over your tongue, and holds them there, letting you swallow around them.

his fingers trail over your molars, lingering on each one.

“you did so well,” he sighs, “finished your plate. most people don't even make it half-way, they can't handle it, but you did. you’re so sweet, so good without trying.”

you gurgle a thanks around his fingers. you don't understand, can barely remember what he's talking about, but you know what praise sounds like when you hear it. you feel like you're floating. cloud nine. sky-high. the praise slinks down in between your legs, gathering in your chest. pure warmth. heartburn. you need him to do something about it, you need him to make it better. his fingers press into your incisors, dragging along the length of them. almost like he's measuring each one.

he pulls back to palms himself leisurely, leans all his weight on one hand. crests the outline of it. back and forward, forward and back. keeps the rolling of his hips nice and smooth. he's scrupulous, attentive. teasing. he's tenting his pants, a bit of a wet spot staining the nice fabric. he keeps his breathing steady, worries his lip.

his tongue begins to poke out in concentration, cheeks ruddy.

he pulls back to unbutton his pants, unzipping his fly to take out his cock. it's pretty– that's the only word to accurately describe it, long and a tad bit tanner than him. the tip flushed scarlet, beading pre-cum. your mouth waters, and you lean forward. just to get a taste, but seonghwa tsks and tugs your hair. not enough to hurt, but enough to sting.

“don’t touch.”

you want to protest, to scream and cry, and take him fully into your mouth anyway. but you're too dopey, too dumb, these ideas are fleeting. what's normally achievable seems far fetched now. your limbs are far too heavy to move willingly.

seonghwa extends his hand, and you stare.

“spit.”

you listen, collecting saliva on your tongue and drooling into his palm. his barely lubed fist loosely wraps around it, starting up a steady pace. not too fast, but not slow. seonghwa's groan is strained, trapped in his throat. his hips roll up into his hand. his eyes roam your face, darting around. bouncing from your eyes and your lips like he doesn't know what he wants to look at more. your gaze can't help but stick to the sight of him touching himself. he keeps his touches light. doesn't tighten his fist, barely giving himself enough.

he swipes his thumb over the tip for extra lube. it makes the slide easier, the sound of it wetter. more obscene. his grunts are bitten off and subdued, his mouth parted and slick with spit. strands of hair stick to his cheeks, a few on his forehead. sweat glimmers on his chest, a bead of it rolls down the column of his neck.

he oozes eroticism without even taking off his clothes. he looks deliciously sinful. a painter's greatest muse, someone who people wax poetic about, the perfect model for a sculptor.

true artistry.

you're aching with need, antsy with it, balling up your dress in tight fists. you're half-way as wrecked as he is and he hasn't touched you yet. he's being purposely cruel. he could give you something, anything. you'd happily grind against his shoe. you're a dog waiting for a bone, like a man starving, eyeing a piece of meat.

each pass of seonghwa's hands echoes throughout the room, a lewd squelching sound. seonghwa groans when his eyes lock with yours. they roll up, up, up into the back of his skull. his hips stutter, and they flick back to you.

he looks dazed, damn near delirious. his pupils are blown. shot. two little black holes swallowing you up.

“don't look away,” he demands, but it sounds like a plea. like he's begging you. he keeps his eyes trained on yours, doesn't blink too long, doesn't throw his head back. he refuses to miss a single second.

he's close. you can see it. his eyebrows pinched together, his lips red and swollen, the sweetest moans spilling from them like strawberry lemonade. his tip is an angry red, pre-cum cruising down his knuckles. he's rutting into his hand now. fucking his fist with real intent now. his cock twitches every so often and he chokes out a gasp.

he looks ready to pop like a balloon. cheeks dusted red, the tip of his nose, dipping down his chest too.

the most pitiful whimper escapes him when he wrenches his hand away. his cock twitches longingly, watery cum leaking from the tip like a broken faucet. his hips chase after nothing, desperate for the previous friction, and he whines.

deep from his throat. high pitched and needy.

his eyes clamp shut and he huffs. inhales hard and exhales slow. his cock weeps. small spurts of cum still dripping down, soaking into the fabric of his pants. his hands white-knuckle the sheets. his head lolls to the side.

finally, his eyes peel open.

he runs his fingers through the mess, and lifts it to your mouth, smearing it over your lips. he pushes the fingers into your mouth and you lazily suck on them, eyes shutting.

“i wanna fuck that pretty mouth of yours, but that'll have to wait,” he murmurs as presses down on your tongue. you whine in indignation. why can't he do it now? you want it. you want it so badly.

“you're so desperate,” he sneers and shoves his fingers a little deeper, your throat flutters around his fingers, “be patient. you'll get it soon enough.”

you're yanked off his fingers when he presses a foot to your chest knocking you back. you yelp, catching yourself on your elbows. you're on your back now, belly up like a dog. seonghwa stalks over and presses a foot to your chest before you can get up, holding you down.

“down, girl,” he jeers.

his heel digs into the softness of your stomach. you whimper from the discomfort, and seonghwa presses harder, crushing your ribs. you squirm, grabbing his ankle, trying to weasel away from him, shift his foot a little. it doesn't work, and he adds more pressure. your lungs ache, and your breath feels too shallow. thin. insubstantial. he increases the weight, and you fall limp. a little dizzy, a little sick. your stomach twists.

“hwa, sir, can't breathe,” you rasp.

he waits a beat before he removes his foot completely.

you sigh, chest heaving. your heart pounding in your chest. hummingbird fast. your chest throbs dully. seonghwa hikes your dress up your legs with the tip of his shoe, revealing the white of your panties. dainty and cute with a little bow in the middle.

“you're soaking,” it's said with a laugh, condescension dribbling from his lips like nectar. he rams his foot against your cunt, and your hips buck instinctually.

he pulls away and sits back on the bed, “come here.”

you move to push yourself off the ground, but he interrupts, “no, crawl.”

you're on your haunches, confused, blinking at him, “huh?”

“crawl to me,” he says plainly.

gingerly, you lay your hands flat on the floor and begin your trek to him, stopping in between his legs.

“stand up,” he instructs.

lifting yourself up is hard, you have to use his thighs to hoist yourself up. your knees popping under your weight. you're shaking, unstable on your feet. lightheaded. you sway in place, knocking into his thighs.

he rolls your underwear down your thigh, and you lift your feet out of them. he sets them somewhere off to the side.

seonghwa slots his thigh between your legs, “sit.”

you lower yourself carefully, gasping when you're fully seated. the pressure against your clit feels beautifully agonizing. seonghwa places his hands on your hips, leans in and presses a kiss to your mouth. his lips are petal-soft, smooth. he pulls back before you can deepen it. he places a kiss to the curve of your neck, up the length of it. he lingers at your pulse point, trails his tongue over it, lightly nipping. presses his teeth into the skin around it to leave little indents. he holds you there, face buried in your neck, not quite biting.

canting back to rest his hands on the bed, seonghwa tilts his head, bounces his leg, “hump my thigh.”

you take a moment to balance yourself, resting both hands on his thigh as you roll your hips forward. the glide of your hips is smooth, and you shudder, a pathetic mewl claws its way out of your throat. it's a bit awkward, the movement, the bend of your legs but you make it work.

it's hard to get friction because of how silken his pants are, and you press down hard enough to ache, shuddering at the delicious zap of pleasure it sends to your clit. your cunt clenches around nothing. you're gushing, leaking, dripping over him. a deep red stain growing on his thigh. seonghwa's watching you with that detached look— the one he gave you at the door. the one that looks a little bored and stony. barely held interest. mild amusement. black eyes pointed at you, piercing you. bullet through the heart. you let out a bit-back moan through closed lips.

“s-sir, ‘m so close,” you stammer, “can I? can I cum?”

“so well-behaved,” he grins, “go ahead, I'm not stopping you.”

you're so close. you can taste it on the tip of your tongue. the saccharine taste of relief. artificial sugar. your hips move faster, you grind harder. your nails press into his pants. you need it. you need it. you need it.

almost there– and then, the feeling stagnates. halts. everything stalls.

your vision is blurry, eyes glossy with unshed tears. your bottom lip wobbles. you don't catch the upward quirk of seonghwa's lips, the predatory curl. you're panting, in still recovering from your lack of an orgasm. your hips slow to a stop.

he flexes his leg, and you keen.

“go on, make yourself cum. make a mess,” he croons.

so, you do, or you try.

you rock your hips again, attempting to get more pressure against your clit. more stimulation. you grope your chest, pinching your nipples and rolling them between your fingers through your dress. still, your high remains just out of reach. something elusive. unreachable.

seonghwa doesn't make a move to help besides occasionally tensing his thigh and watching your body shiver. you're a pathetic display. a dumb little thing that he wants to squeeze the life out of.

but he won't— because he likes this more. likes watching you debase yourself like this. it's embarrassing really, but you don't seem to notice. pleasure clouding your judgement. lust-drunk and stupid.

then, a tear falls off your lash line. then another, then two more. until there's a constant stream of them running down your round cheeks, coalescing at your chin.

“you poor thing,” he coos, kisses your wet cheeks, “what's wrong?”

you sniffle, “can't cum.”

“silly girl, you need me to help you feel good?” he asks, “ want me to make it better?”

it comes out small and girlish, “uh-huh”

“manners,” he lightly chides.

“please, help me cum, sir,” you correct.

“there you go,” he purrs, plants a kiss to the corner of your mouth, “lay down for me, and then i’ll make you feel better.”

seonghwa helps you climb onto the bed, lifting your legs and keeping you from falling on the floor.

“on your back, sweet girl.”

you flip over, and seonghwa crawls in between your legs. he can't help but survey, take a second to admire. dress rucked up past your stomach, the straps falling off your shoulders. eyes glossy and wide. you're as dumb and docile as a sheep. your chest rises and falls. your fruity perfume tints his sheets. all soft at the edges. a cotton candy wet dream. you look… delectable. enough to make his teeth ache in anticipation. you'd be a wonderful dessert, but not now, not yet. he won't get ahead of himself and ruin it. he can wait. he'll always wait it out. his hand splays over your stomach, and he groans.

you're so soft. squishy. there's so much give when he pushes down. you're warm, too. like a living pillow, like a plushie that's been thrown in the dryer for a few spin. he lifts his hand to grab your hips, watching his thumbs dimple the skin there. so malleable. so fucking pilant. his eyes land on your plump lips and he bets you'd taste sweet.

leaning forward he captures your lips with his, and god was he wrong. you aren't sweet, you're cloying. literal honey on his tongue. your strawberry lip balm fills his mouth, and it takes a minute for your silly head to catch up because you just lie there. you don't kiss him back, and he presses harder, tugs your bottom lip with his teeth, jolting you into action. your lips part and your spit tastes like wine.

you are addictive. pure heroin– seonghwa is nothing but a slave to his vices.

seonghwa wrenches his lips from yours, and tugs his cock out, bucks his hips forward. it nudges your hole, and you start trembling like a sopping wet cat.

a small, soft bleat leaves your mouth, and seonghwa cock throbs. he gets a little lightheaded from how hard he is. you're so brainless. foolish. his hand wraps around your neck, but he doesn't squeeze. simply holds it there, pinning you in place. it seems like you've gone laconic, mouth parted but unspeaking, looking at him with starry eyes. your hips are moving, but there's nothing happening in that empty head of yours. seonghwa drags his hips back, and snaps forward bumping into your clit. he shouldn't tease so much but it's fun to watch you hiccup.

seonghwa presses a thumb to a clit, and your back arches like a woman possessed. garbled pleas spew out of you. your scramble against his hold, and seonghwa gives your neck a slight squeeze, and you melt. your hips rut into his hand. you're a messy little thing. slick is dribbling out of you, thick and viscid, sliding down your ass crack and pooling down onto his bed. it turns the sheets a stormy grey beneath you. he traps his tongue between his teeth, holds it hostage, a little awestruck at the sight of you. his cock aches, pre-cum dripping off onto your cunt, but he doesn't push in.

he won't. not tonight at least.

he rubs circles on your clit, watches how your face screws up. noting that more pressure makes your eyes shut and you suck your bottom lip between your teeth. incomprehensible gibberish spilling out of your mouth, babbling like a baby. your hands are clasped over your chest like you're in prayer. you're close. he can tell. your pussy is clenching around nothing, thighs twitching, your breath speeding up. your hips moving so fast that occasionally his finger slips off your clit.

drool trickles down your cheek, and seonghwa coos. he angles himself forward and spits on your clit, letting it slowly drop so that it cools by the time it hits your clit.

your back stretches as you kick out your legs. your thighs attempt to slam shut, but seonghwa's body stops it, and this god awful squeal forces its way out of you. then, you still. your body shivering like you've seen a ghost. you're gushing. bursting. geyser. monsoon. catastrophic. horrible sobs ripping through you. seonghwa guides you through it, keeps rubbing your clit, other hand on your throat.

keeps you there like a pinned butterfly.

“what do you say now?”

your eyebrows pinch. you can't think. you don't know. you don't know anything. you only the euphoria overtaking you and the feeling of seonghwa's thumb on your clit.

“I don’, I can't,” you slur, fucked dumb.

“you're so ungrateful,” he hisses. spits it through his teeth, and you shake your head, rattling your brain.

“no, no” you warble, reedy, “I'm sorry, so sorry. ‘m thankful, very thankful. thank you- thank you, sir. feels good.”

he keeps his thumb on your clit until your shakes ebb away, until your breathing is mostly back to normal. your chest gently rocking instead of heaving. seonghwa latches onto your front, burying his head into your neck. his cock pressing into your stomach. slowly, he grinds his hips into the warmth, into softness. his pre-cum smearing over your skin. he's a living furnace against you. blazing sun. it's tacky and wholly uncomfortable. too hot, too cramp. seonghwa's heavy, leaning basically all of his body weight on you but you can't push him off. you don't really try to, you just let him take what he needs.

blinking slow, your eyelids feel like lead; your body a bag of brick, or maybe that's seonghwa. he's essentially crushing you. his thrusts lack any finesse. small little bunny humps that feel odd, a little slimy, a little dry. skin against skin. too much friction to possibly feel good, but seonghwa's groaning, panting, whimper. his arms somehow snaked around you and are now pushing you further into him. he's muttering something into the skin of your neck, too muffled to identify words.

he only pulls back when he cums, just to watch his cum paint your skin, pooling in your belly button and running down your sides. luckily, none of it reaches your dress. your eyes close, and seonghwa's scratches your head, crooning, “go to bed.”

the bed shifts, a light clicks off. sleep plucks you under after that.

you're uncomfortable.

you're parched. your throat burns. your head is pounding, throbbing, sharp needling pain. your entire body feels like a pulled muscle, taut and sore, like you've done a ten hour work out. you need water, some food, and a deep tissue massage. scratch that, you need a new body. you roll over, kicking out a leg. sprawling yourself across it. your foot doesn't reach the edge.

this bed is too big to be your own. your eyes twitch open. this is not your room. panic doesn't flood you like it should, it comes in waves. you're too worn out to be emotionally overwhelmed right now. every swallow burns, you really do need a glass of water.

recollection happens as you come to your senses. you were on a date with a rich guy named seonghwa.

speaking of, where is he?

gingerly, you rise to your feet, shivering when they make contact with the cold ground. you don't pull your heel back on because you already know you'll fall. you fix your dress, pulling it to sit correctly on your chest, smoothing out a few wrinkles. you're sweaty but not too sweaty. however, you don't stink and that's what matters.

you exit the room and look down the hall. on the left there's a door, and on the right there's light. you follow it into the kitchen area, where you stand at a counter. seonghwa’s on the other side, back facing you, stirring something it seems.

“sorry for hogging your bed,” you say, sheepish.

“don't worry about it,” he hums.

you don't know what to see now, so you don't say anything. you let the silence ruminate, but it's not awkward so you can't complain. seonghwa turns around and places a glass on the counter, sliding it towards you.

“what's this?”

“water with some supplements,” he explains. you nod and accept it, taking a quick swig then setting it back down. the relief is immediate.

“do you feel better?” he inquires as makes his way to the fridge.

“nope,” you reply, popping the p.

“then stay a little longer, I'll drive you back home. I don't think it's good idea for you to walk by yourself in this state,” he pulls out a container of grapes, and turns back to you, planting on the counter.

you contemplate saying no, but he is right. walking here is what got you like this in the first place, and he hasn't killed you thus far.

“fine.”

“actually, i'd prefer if you let me pick you up from now on, you scared me last night.” he chuckles, but you can hear the concern. the seriousness imbued into it.

you fluster at that, “sorry for ruining the date.”

“you didn't,” he assures, “I still had a great time.”

“me too,” you mumble.

“so, you'll let me pick you up next time,” he asks, expectantly.

“fine,” you sigh.

the smile he flashes you is blinding and smug. it's cute in all the worst (best) ways.

[s-4pphics]

errrr……. hey…

uhhh this is awkward hey what do we do when we’re grieving? write ab arranged marriages slayyyyyy errrr yeah here’s that see yall next month or year or whatever

—

“I want a divorce.”

Your tone doesn’t waver nor break, voice engulfed in plainness.

It was one of the issues Ellie’s had since your marriage: an act to combine assets initiated by your parents. They never intended to have a daughter — you told Ellie the night of your honeymoon — but when your mother laid eyes on you, warming you with the skin of her chest for the first time, she painted your entire future in her mind. An object. The finest to be drenched and drowned in riches and diamonds, only living under multi-million dollar homes owned by your husband’s family name. Just as long as you played your role. A silent, unopinionated, docile baby-making machine.

Your parents nearly had a heart attack when they found one of your diaries filled with pictures of naked women, either hand drawn or torn from pages of your father’s filthy magazines. Your mother told you she should’ve aborted you, just when you thought you’d finally have a normal birthday party. The heavy breaths of your sobs extinguished the flame above your 18th candle.

But you’re 22 now; fabulously wealthy, married and…

Staring at your wife… plainly, even though the flames in your eyes rages war. The dining table is a battleground and a red dot punctures right through Ellie’s forehead. She’s not sure what you are.

Your marriage was not ideal. Not only was it forced and filled with shame, but Ellie grew resentful rather quickly. Towards the man that brought her into such a shrouded lifestyle, towards the heavens above for cursing her with life, but when she couldn’t attack, she brought it to your bedroom. You suffered, she’ll admit. It only took two weeks into your marriage for her to find an escape through other unassuming women while you laid in your shared bed with a tear-soaked pillow. You never knew when she’d come home, but when she did, she never failed to berate you. It carried on for months, the blame; blaming you for everything that’s happened to her thus far, despite her knowing that you’re a victim just as much as she is. You were her only emotional outlet. Or punching bag.

But despite every torment she threw your way, you never failed to smile at her the next morning with her coffee in your hands.

You always remained silent. Until now.

The delicious meal you prepared has soured on her tongue. All she can do is stare at you in disbelief.

She takes in the polite fold of your hands, 16 carat, rose gold, wedding band still on your ring finger. Her eyes rush over the plumpness of your lips, the delicate curve of your nose, the rise and fall of your chest… the way your breasts expand in your flowery dress with each breath.

Ellie swallows, nearly choking at the sudden dryness in her throat.

“… What?”

“I want a divorce.”

Your tone raises. Not aggressively; that wouldn’t fit you. You wanted her to hear you.

She huffs despite the burning tips of her ears. “I’m sure.” She mocks with a smirk.

Your eyes squint. “I’m not joking.”

“You know who else wasn’t?” She leans across the table, pinning you with her gaze, “Our parents. They don’t give a fuck about what we do and don’t want. We’re lucky they put us together.”

“I…”

Ellie flinches when your voice cracks to a whisper. Never once has the shell you mask yourself in cracked. Not once. Not in front of Ellie, your parents, her family, even strangers. You’ve never failed to put on a dazzling smile for the spectators.

“I want to be in love.” Tears free fall from your eyes and your chin trembles, “There’s no… I don’t have anyone. I never did.”

“I thought we could… at least be friends. I know you didn’t want this, I know — b-but… I can’t keep doing this. I feel like I’m dying—“

Ellie knows you’re talking about her, and guilt swallows her whole. It’s a shame, really; you’re gorgeous when you cry. Why’s her heart pounding this madly?

“I want someone to treat me like I-I’m alive, no one sees me, I d — don’t feel real —“

Ellie stands when your often assembled appearance begins to crumble. She’s never seen you so shattered, gasping for air like it’s limited. She recognizes this. You’re breaking, just like she did the night before she signed her life over to your family.

“Hey—“

Your seat goes flying back when your heeled feet plant on the marble floor, manicured nails clutching at the skin of your chest raw. She rushes over when your sobs crack, desperately trying to get air in your lungs with pleading and fearful eyes.

“Hey, hey, look at me, c’mon—“

Your fists pound against her chest in between wails, makeup streaking down your face, clumping your fluttery lashes. She calls out to you with hands on your soaked cheeks, tells you to count, to spell your name for her, but you can’t hear. You can’t function. Have you ever been this close?

Ellie curses before her hand flies into the jug filled with sphered ice cubes, shoving them into the side of your neck. They melt instantly from the heat of your skin, but you gasp and flinch from the cold.

“Yeah, feel that? Feels nice? Focus on that.”

Her hand delves into the jug until your jerky breaths calm into spluttered exhales. She’s sure she’s frost bitten.

You’re quiet again. Docile again. Anxious. Embarrassed. Heartbroken. And so fucking angry. Ellie’s getting whiplash looking into your eyes. They’re speckled with gold and… something foreign. She can’t place it. The hand on your cheek swiftly falls to her side.

“You—“ she clears her throat when you wobble, vibrating form pushing up against her, nose almost brushing hers, “You alright?”

But you say nothing, eyes distant. You simply step out of your heels with tightly clenched fists and jostled hair before walking towards the staircase.

“I’m very tired.” You say plainly over your shoulder before trekking up the steps. She watches cautiously until a door slams shut. She, after minutes of gawking at the staircase, takes in the scenery around her. Everything is where it should be… minus your plate is cold and untouched. But your wine glass is empty. She's not sure where the bottle is. Since when do you drink?

Her mind is unsettled and there’s a stutter in her chest. Your home is silent. A heaviness that weighs her down.

She assumed that the uncomfortable twist in her gut was from her own wrongdoings since your marriage.

Not at all.

Ellie’s concerned. There’s something off about you.

More off than usual.

[deanbrainrotwritings]

— SEMPITERNAL

SUMMARY : part II of gimme half. vanilla is a basic flavour. but sometimes it’s just the right thing for mornings like this.  

PAIRING : dean winchester x fem!reader

CHARACTERS : none

WARNINGS/TAGS : explicit(18+), p in v, smut, unprotected sex, fluff

WORD COUNT : 2.2k

A/N : bring me the horizon song title. ah, the second day of January, getting closer to Dean’s bday, it will be the best day of my life or the worst. I have ocd (so does my mom) so idk what’s normal lmao Xxxx

It must have all been a dream. 

She would never go to her neighbour’s house. Not when they were supposed to hate each other. Not when it was freezing cold. Not at night. Not close to Christmas…

He was very pretty though, in her dreams. Still, so pretty. Irresistible. Hot. Frustrating. Adorable. A million lovely things. It felt very real. So real. 

His lips. All pink, warm, soft, and sweet. His hands. Rough, warm, calloused, and skilful. His skin. Freckled, covered in scars, tattooed, hot. God… she wanted that in reality, too. To feel it against every inch of her skin once more. She especially wanted what’s between his legs. 

Were her sheets always this cold? This thin and… not downy at all? 

If she could return to her dream. That would be nice. Making friends with her enemy, Dean… Well, making love is more what it was. Very rough, desperate, hot love. 

She grumbled sleepily, lifting the sheet up her body. Trying to get her arms warm, to stop the cold from getting through the openings. Something stopped her, something hard behind her, and she didn’t want to wake up. 

And wait… why was the window in the opposite direction? 

She rubbed her bleary eyes and looked around the unfamiliar room, the beige and white bed sheets that were definitely not hers. The pictures and posters on the walls were unfamiliar…

She sat up on the bed slowly and twisted her body cautiously to peek at whoever was sleeping beside her. 

Her eyes widened, her jaw dropped slightly. 

Dean. 

She shut her mouth and smiled, trying not to laugh at the events that occurred the night before. They were definitely not a dream. For her bravery, she deserved a treat. Maybe six.

He really did look pretty. 

Those muscular arms holding his pillow, skin freckled and lightly tanned. The sheets clung tightly to his hips, that tiny, narrow waist of his. So jealous. And… oh, God, he wasn’t wearing anything. 

His lips were parted slightly, pink and swollen from sleep, maybe from all the kissing they were doing the previous night. He had the prettiest lashes, so long, thick, curled naturally. What even was he? Those gorgeous freckles scattered across his nose and cheeks. His messy hair looked so soft. 

Peaceful. Relaxed. 

The sunlight made him look even more divine. Honey and gold, a verdant forest, a soft flower in a meadow. Springtime in the winter. That was Dean.

She looked around his room, she was completely naked. Some warm clothes and fluffy socks to keep the cold at bay would be nice. 

She opened his drawer to look for some socks, sliding the top drawer out. She blinked at the contents inside. A vibrating cock ring stood out from the other things inside, in rose pink. She chuckled. There were a few candy wrappers, jolly ranchers, unused condoms in the front, a steel gun over books. Cute. There were old movie tickets, a Bob Seger cassette tape, Crime and Punishment, Persuasion, The Lord of the Rings, and 11/22/63. He’s so hot.

She closed it quietly and opened the second one. One half had perfectly folded, plain black t-shirts and the other half had only white t-shirts. She pulled out a black shirt from the top and put it on carefully. She took a deep breath of the scent of the softener that remained and sighed. Yum.

She opened the third and final one. Finally socks. They were neatly organised, folded, tightly fitting in rows and columns. Blue penguin socks caught her attention, but so did the pink ones with otters, the purple ones with avocados, and the green ones with giraffes. Could he get any more endearing?

She picked the boring black ones at the back. What if the fun socks were special to him? 

She got out of his bed, walking quietly across his very cute bedroom, and into the bathroom. His very clean bathroom. 

She looked at her reflection in the mirror. Thank God for the shower she took with Dean last night. No raccoon face from her eyeliner this morning. But she was definitely sore. Good sore. 

He’s so… hospitable. And a billion other things, too many lovely things to list. She laughed quietly to herself, turning the water on in the sink to wash her face. 

Maybe she shouldn’t get too ahead of herself with these thoughts and feelings. Last night was fast, blurry, heated, and emotional. Things could change, she knew that better than anyone. Morning clarity. After sex clarity? Who knows.  

It would be impossible not to have marks over her body after the night they had. She turned the water off, gently shook her hands in the sink, and used the shirt to pat her face dry. Curiously, she kept the shirt up, and stared down at her body. 

There were bruises on her hips the shape of his fingers. And Reddish-purplish marks on her breasts, sternum, and stomach, even higher up on her collarbone. There were bite marks on her shoulders that stung to touch-

“Sorry about those,” Dean’s raspy morning voice made her jump. She dropped the shirt and crossed her arms over her chest, smiling timidly at Dean. She didn’t know why. After the hot night they had together, being seen naked the next morning should be the last thing to make her this flustered. 

“I’m not getting in the way of your secret escape, am I?” He changed the subject, teasingly smirking at her. He pushed himself off the doorframe. Unfortunately, he was wearing a soft grey robe tied loosely around his waist, some grey slippers, and his hair was a cute-slash-sexy mess. 

“No…” she replied softly, running her fingers through her somewhat messy hair. It still felt wet… maybe she should have stopped Dean from throwing her into his bed after their shower, but he seemed more than thrilled to bury his face between her legs. God, that stubble on his jaw felt amazing between her sensitive thighs. 

“Good,” he mumbled tiredly, smiling down at her. 

He was irresistible. She could already feel heat forming between her legs, wetness seeping from her entrance, and her heart pound quickly in the casket of bones the closer he got. 

Maybe it was those pretty green eyes of his, the burning fire in his gaze simmering deep within the golden specks. He checked her out from head to toe slowly, shamelessly, devouringly. Why would he have any shame after the night they had?

Her body reacted to him embarrassingly fast. Like two atoms, she ached to be fused together with him. Being in his presence just felt right. It felt fiery, more now than last night, more than when he was asleep. When he was asleep, he was more than adorable, but now… She wanted him on her again. 

Her skin burned like acid rain had dripped down over her body, but it was just his hungry eyes. It was the memory of his mouth, his tongue, his lips, and his teeth. All marking her, making her his own.

Her lungs ached for slower, deeper breaths as he sucked the oxygen from the room with that deep, husky voice of his. He left her breathless, with those soft eyes and tender smile.

All he did was put toothpaste on the brush he gave her last night. He smiled when he gave it to her, his fingers brushed against hers, like jumpstarting the dead battery of a car. 

She tried to hide the sharp inhale when she took the toothbrush from him by biting her lip. He seemed to like her reaction, a smile tugged at his lips, but he didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to and neither did she. 

She watched him do the same to his own toothbrush and slowly, wordlessly, he started to brush his teeth. 

“Cute cock ring,” she told him casually, and began brushing her own teeth. He almost spit out the toothpaste and saliva when he laughed, a very beautiful laugh that made her insides warm and melty like cheese in a burger, or butter on pancakes, or whipped cream on waffles. 

She was hungry. 

“You looked through my stuff,” he stated, a mouthful of toothpaste still in his mouth. He continued to brush his teeth, staring at her the whole time rather than looking into the mirror. His eyes were sparkling, and not just because of the cold winter sunlight. 

“I was cold,” she shrugged, then spit out what she had left before continuing to brush. He spit everything out at last, regarding her with a smirk. 

“Guess I shoulda been a better host.” Dean finished brushing his teeth and she did soon after as well, waiting for him to finish freshening up from the doorframe.

“You more than made up for it last night,” she grinned, catching the smirk on his face, the sudden dreaminess that washed over his green eyes. Her insides twisted excitedly and he finally looked at her with those soft verdurous eyes.

“Are you still cold?” He teased when he finished, reaching for her waist and gently tugging her forward, and away from the doorway. She shook her head ‘no’ and smiled up at him. “Too bad,” he hummed, biting his lip. “You chose boring socks,” he pouted, then leaned down to kiss her. 

She smiled against his lips. The kiss somehow felt more… warm than last night, and… well, like the birth of a star. Warmth bloomed in her chest, like a flower kissed by sunlight in the morning. It was like being reborn, like breathing the cleanest air.

“I was trying to be considerate,” she mumbled when he pulled away from her lips. He tilted his head with a confused smile, and moved her backwards, leading her back to his bed.

“Considerate?” Dean slowly lifted the shirt, his fingertips teasing her warm skin as he slid it up her body. 

“Read my mind,” she whispered, throwing the clean shirt on his desk when it was around her wrists above her head. 

“I don’t read minds,” he grinned down at her, pecking her lips. She hummed softly, amused just because he made her smile, and untied his robe. He humoured her anyway, staring at her as she climbed onto the bed, her soft hands moving up his torso slowly exploring, memorising, worshipping. “You… are so cute,” he teased, leaning forward to kiss her again. 

She pressed her lips against his, moaning quietly against his mouth. She pushed the robe off his shoulders and he threw it over the small, sage-coloured sofa he had placed by the window that was opened to her house. 

“That’s not reading my mind.” She buried her fingers in his hair and began crawling backwards, her warm tongue tracing his plump lips. He cursed softly against her mouth, kissing her back with as much force, and climbed up the bed with her.

“I told you,” he panted, lowering his body over hers once her head fell onto the pillows, “I don't read minds.” She pulled Dean down, closer to her, arms circled around his neck, legs parted for his hips to fit perfectly in between.

“I think you see through me,” she whispered, lapping at the red mark positioned on his pulse, making him moan softly. She couldn’t believe she felt insecure about it at first, but now, it was hot that he could read her, that he could figure her out in seconds. For however long he's been hunting, she had no doubt he was much more clever than he led on. 

“You think wearing a pair of what might be my favourite socks will make me… sad?” He tried, barely moving away from her mouth. She snickered upon releasing how ridiculous it sounded out loud, she nodded anyway.

“I’d be upset,” she shrugged, sliding her hands down his back, his taut muscles shifting beneath her hands. 

“Exactly why I said you’re cute,” he told her softly, rocking his hips against hers. She shook her head in denial, dragging her lips back up to his. His cock slid through her soaked folds, teasingly nudging her entrance, tortuously rubbing her clit. “You hungry?” He asked, leaning on one arm placed by her head.

“Dirty intent with that question?” She teased, nibbling his bottom lip. He laughed deeply, pressing his cock into her, slowly pushing in. 

“Wanted to make ya breakfast,” he huffed, moaning with her when he pulled out gently and pushed back into her warmth. “So… breakfast?” His hand travelled freely down her sides, tenderly brushing against the bruises on her skin. 

“Only if you’ll make me breakfast often,” she played quietly. With a husky moan, he slid his hands back up her sides, thumbing her sensitive nipples. He dropped his forehead to her shoulder, smiling at her words, the tightening of her walls around him taking him to the brink of delectable release and delirious insanity.

“Only if you’re mine,” he rasped, taking her wrist to slide his hand into hers, pressing it into the pillow, and above her head. 

“Yes,” she whispered, squeezing his hand, slipping her other hand into his hair. He lifted his face to stare into her sincere gaze, brought his freehand between their bodies to rub circles on her clit. 

“To breakfast or being mine?” Dean inquired, rolling his hips swiftly into her. She moaned and wrapped her legs around his waist, keeping him close, and drawing his lips closer with her hand clutching the short hair behind his head.

“Yes,” she murmured, drawing a soft laugh from him as she pressed a deep kiss to his warm lips.

➥ summer’s stellar gaze

taglist

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[wreckedandpolemic]

fighting with my sheets - matty healy

(mdni) in which you discover your boyfriend’s dirty little secret and bring him to his knees. part of the white and gold universe. 3600 words.

warnings: daddy kink, praise, degradation, masturbation, sex toys, sub!matty, oral (f and m receiving)

Matty’s at work when you find it, tucked innocently away under his bed. You’re getting ready for your date and you drop an earring, sending it skittering into darkness. Groaning, you kneel, feeling blindly for it, and your hand bumps against a shoebox. Curious, you tug it into the light; it’s innocuous, plain black and not matching any of the shoes you know he owns, the tape loosely holding it shut practically inviting you to nose through its contents.

Peeling the lid off, you flush siren-red, staring down at the box in disbelief. Your boyfriend’s hidden sex toy collection sits in your lap, cock rings and vibrators and even a fucking fleshlight staring back up at you. Flustered, you shove the box back under the bed, filthy fantasies playing so vividly in your head that you can practically hear his sweet, syrupy moans as he fucks into the toy. He’d be flushed, sweating, taking out his frustrations on the plastic the way he uses you after a long day.

Head swimming, your thighs clench, kicking off your panties and collapsing back against the pillows. Your own collection of toys lives in one of Matty’s bedside drawers, and you retrieve one of your vibrators, pressing it intently to your clit. A buzz of sharp, delicious pleasure rockets up your spine, a moan of his name falling from your lips as you grind down against the toy. You don’t hear Matty until he announces his presence, too distracted by the liquid heat pooling between your thighs. 

“Hi, princess,” he says, and you jolt, heart racing. “What are you doing?”

“What does it look like?” you snap, bucking your hips and moaning theatrically. “C’mere.”

Matty laughs softly, slowly crossing the room to kneel at the foot of the bed. “Don’t be a brat,” he scolds. “What’s got you all needy, darling?” Oh, if only he knew.

What’s left of your brainpower goes on holding your cards close to your chest. “Want you,” you murmur, and Matty clicks his tongue fondly, his hand covering yours at the base of the toy.

“Here, baby, let me,” he urges, leaning down to kiss you as your hand falls from between your legs to your side. He picks up a familiar rhythm, your vision blurring with pleasure as Matty rolls the toy over your swollen clit. “So, so pretty, baby,” he praises. “My gorgeous girl. Fuckin’ dripping for me, yeah? Always so wet for your Daddy. Pretty little slut.”

You squirm, his words swirling together with the dizzying pleasure pulsing under your skin. “Only for you, Daddy,” you promise, pouting up at him until he kisses you again, slowly running the vibrator along your inner thigh as you tremble in anticipation. Matty dials the vibration up a notch, a scream tearing from your throat as he brings it back to your sensitive clit, intense pleasure-pain arcing up your spine.

Heat pools low in your belly, blood pounding in your ears as your heartbeat thrums in your cunt. “That’s right, pretty baby,” he smirks against your lips. “You’re all mine.” Breathing hard against Matty’s mouth, you writhe against the toy, desperate little whines slipping from your lips as your orgasm builds at the base of your spine. “Are you close, darling?”

“Mhmm,” you moan, head hazy. “Please, Daddy. Wanna cum f’you,” you slur out, deliriated and almost drunk on his touch.

Matty clicks his tongue. “We have reservations, baby,” he smirks, pulling the vibrator away from your clit. The loss feels like a physical ache, your body thrashing in protest as Matty kisses you softly and pulls away, wandering off to clean the toy as your chest heaves. “Come on, darling,” he says, emerging from the bathroom and watching you trying to catch your breath. “We’re gonna be late.”

Seething and unsatisfied, you pick yourself up and dress for dinner. It is really lovely, a secluded table at one of your favourite restaurants, candlelight sparkling between you with Matty gazing adoringly over your food, but you can’t help the tightness in your limbs, your short responses. You mull over the events of the afternoon, your thoughts circling around that little box under his bed as a revenge plan forms in your mind.

And you never found that fucking earring.

The ice in your veins thaws the longer you scheme, trading in your folded arms and monosyllabic answers for coy smiles and teasing murmurs of yes, Daddy. You let him lead you home and into the bedroom, trading lazy kisses and grinding in his lap. Matty’s hand trails up your thigh, electricity sparking under your skin under his touch. He still thinks he’s in control, you think with a smirk, pinching gently at your thigh as you put on your best performance of being his good little girl.

“Found something earlier, Daddy,” you say, pulling back and tracing your hand down his chest, slowly popping the buttons of his shirt.

Matty chuckles indulgently, still blissfully unaware of what you have in store. “What’d you find, princess?”

You hop to your feet and pull the box free, opening the lid with a smirk. Swallowing thickly, Matty avoids your eyes, shifting nervously as you settle back in his lap. “Do you use all this stuff, Daddy?” you tease, crooking two fingers under his jaw to force his gaze back to yours. 

“I- I used to,” he stammers, and you thumb gently over one of the spots of red on his cheeks.

“S’okay, Daddy,” you murmur, the power he’s handing you thick in your veins. Something about using the sobriquet while he melts under you feels illicit, delicious as it falls easily from your lips. “Don’t have to be embarrassed. Did they make you feel good?” He only nods, seemingly rooted to the spot as you palm over the growing tent in his slacks. “Can I use them on you? Wanna make you feel good, too.” Shuddering, Matty nods again, and you pout down at him, shaking your head. “Words, Daddy. You should know by now,” you tut, dizzy as you use his words on him this time.

“Fuck, yes, I want that,” he gasps, rocking his hips up against your hand.

You giggle, the subtle shine in his eyes familiar, jaw slack in an expression you’ve seen countless times on your own face. “Can you say please, Daddy? S’polite, if I’m giving you what you want.”

“Fuck, please, angel,” Matty almost whimpers, helplessly needy under your touch. You raise an eyebrow in response, an expression you learned from him. “Want you to… use my toys. On me. Please,” he chokes out, hanging his head.

You smile fondly, pressing a kiss against his slack lips. “Good boy. Was that so hard?” Matty moans softly, shuddering as you pop the button of his trousers. “You like when I call you a good boy, Daddy?” you murmur breathily, the dichotomous epithets tangling together in the air between you, thick with lust and promise. “Can you strip for me, baby?”

Obediently, Matty tugs off his shirt and kicks off his slacks, laying against the pillows in just his boxers. You’ll never get over the sight of him like this, chest heaving and cock hard and heavy between his legs; a pulse of arousal washes over you and drips into your panties. A wet patch spreads near his waistband and you grin as you strip to your underwear and straddle him, grinding against his clothed cock and leaning down to kiss him. Matty tangles his hands in your hair, licking desperately into your mouth and rocking his hips against yours. “You need to relax, Daddy,” you say, smiling softly against his mouth and peppering soft kisses over his jaw. “It’ll be more fun that way.”

“Fuck, princess, I’m–” Matty cuts himself off with a gasp as you slide your hand under his waistband and squeeze him gently, cock twitching under your touch. You ease him out of his boxers, a shuddering groan escaping him as his cock thuds against his belly, flushed and dripping precum. 

“Oh, you want this really bad, don’t you, Daddy?” you coo, pumping him slowly, slick desire dripping from your words. “Always callin’ me a slut, but you were just waiting for your turn to be ruined, huh?” You barely recognise your voice, low and dark and dominating, reducing your boyfriend, your smart, suave, older boyfriend into a whining, pathetic mess with a few scant touches. “Are you a slut too, Daddy?” You’ve played with the power dynamic before; Matty needs to give up his control sometimes, when the stress of his day-to-day gets too much for him, but never like this, never turning his filthy, degrading words back on him. The feeling is addictive.

This time, you don’t even have to prompt him. “Yeah, ‘m… ‘M a slut, baby,” Matty whimpers, your cunt clenching at his words. In reward, you dig your nail into his slit, the tip of your finger coming up sticky and coated with the evidence of his desire.

“Such a good boy, Daddy. You ready?”

You climb off him, retrieving the fleshlight and turning back to him. He sucks in a sharp breath at the sight of your hands wrapped around the toy, hips shifting needily as he gasps out, “Yeah. Yeah, ‘m ready, baby. Please.”

You come back to him slowly, teasingly, but he’s been so good that you don’t want to torture him any longer. Uncapping a bottle of lube, you coat the toy in it, fingers sticky and dripping as you slowly slide it down his length. A shuddering moan escapes him, his eyes glued to the sight of you, whining and bucking his hips into the toy. “God, look so fuckin’ pretty like that,” you moan, grinding your hips down against the bed, bursts of hot pleasure rolling under your skin. “Can’t believe you own all this stuff, Daddy,” you giggle breathily, pinching a nipple through your bra as you stroke him. “So naughty. Did you have to settle for all these toys before you had me?”

“Yeah, I did, princess. Had to fuck a plastic pussy before I found the perfect girl to fuckin’ ruin.” Matty chokes out, his words sending a gush of arousal flooding between your legs. “Fuck, feels s’much better when you do it, baby. My best girl, always takin’ such good care of me,” he moans, hips rolling up into your hand.

One of your hands dips into your panties, arousal dripping against your fingers as you rub slow circles into your clit. Whining, you stroke him faster, his rhythmic gasps and whines speeding. Your gaze is fixated on his cock as it disappears into the toy, slick, wet sounds mixing with your moans in the sex-thick air between you. “God, I fuckin’ love seeing you like this. Love when you get all needy f’me, Daddy,” you moan, grinding down against your hand.

Matty’s whines pitch up, pathetically desperate as he chases his release. “‘M gettin’ close, princess, fuck,” he gasps, his thighs trembling. He looks more gorgeous than you’ve ever seen him, flushed red and shaking, sweat-damp curls sticking to his forehead. He’s a fucking vision, and you can’t resist torturing him a little longer.

“Hold it for me, just a little while longer, ‘kay, Daddy?” He whimpers in protest, hips rolling wantonly, all pretence of rhythm long abandoned. “Don’t you wanna be a good boy for me? ‘M always so good for you.” He musters up a scoff, and you fix him with a glare that makes him press his lips together, subdued. “I deserve it, don’t I?”

“Yeah, princess. You do. ‘M gonna be good, promise,” Matty says, face scrunching with effort as you pump his cock at an almost punishing pace. His breath comes in short, sharp gasps, near-pained.

You tease him a little longer, his sweet, desperate moans falling straight to your core. Matty practically fucking pouts when you pull the toy off, and you scoff disparagingly. “Don’t be a brat. Was gonna let you finish in my mouth, but you can have this fuckin’ plastic back, if you prefer.”

“F-fuck, nonono, ‘m sorry, baby. Wanna cum in your pretty mouth.”

“You wanna, huh?” You click your tongue as he nods, whining and grasping at you. “How bad?”

“So fuckin’ bad, princess. God, I fuckin’ need it, fuck! Please, baby. Let me cum, wanna cum f’you,” Matty gasps, knuckles turning white as his hands fist in the sheets.

You frown, toying with the idea of denying him, revenging yourself for earlier, but he’s trying so hard to be good that you can’t bring yourself to. “Such a slut, Daddy,” you pout. “Gettin’ all dumb for me, huh?” He nods, another whimpered please falling unconsciously from his lips. “C’mon, say it. Say it, and I’ll let you cum, okay?” 

Leaning down, you press a kiss to his tip, licking the salt of him off your lips. “‘M a slut f’you, baby,” he slurs out. “Only you. My fucking girl.”

“Good boy,” you praise softly, taking Matty’s cock in your mouth and swallowing around him. He fists a hand in your hair, gasping and babbling praise as you bob your head, moaning around him. His choked gasp is the only warning you get before he’s spilling in your mouth, pulsing down your throat as you swallow greedily. Pulling off him with a groan, you sit back on your heels. “Taste so fucking good, Daddy,” you murmur, trailing your hand down his cheek with a smile. He grasps at you, taking greedy handfuls of your skin as he tugs you to him. Settling next to him, you grab his jaw and pull him into a slow, indulgent kiss, pressing the taste of him into his mouth as his lips press insistently against yours.

“Felt so fucking good, princess. Thank you s’much,” Matty murmurs, pressing close to you, his skin hot and sweat-slick against yours.

You laugh, carding a hand through his damp, messy curls, Matty unconsciously stretching up into the touch. “Oh, baby,” you croon. “I’m not done with you yet,” you smirk, and he shudders. “C’mon, lay back for me, Daddy. Want your mouth.”

He obeys, laying back as you straddle his face unashamedly. You’re soaked, dripping on his tongue, grinding down with a low whine. Pleasure licks up your spine as Matty devours you, nails digging into your thighs with eagerness. Your cunt clenches, already close to the edge just from the state of him, moaning helplessly between your thighs. “God,” you say, whining when Matty curls his tongue perfectly, heat throbbing in your core. “Love havin’ you as my fucktoy for a change.” His cock twitches at your words, and you chuckle softly. “Oh, you like that, Daddy? You like hearing what’s good little toy you are for me?” He sucks on your clit and you swallow a scream, blinding ecstasy spiralling through your limbs.

You lose your grip on reality the longer Matty tongue-fucks you, lapping at your soaked cunt with fervour. The burn in your thighs aches deliciously, mixing with the pleasure buzzing insistently in the base of your skull. His name tumbles from your lips, over and over as your awareness of anything else slips away. Your head is hazy, swimming in desire, Matty’s tongue swirling gloriously over your clit. “God, ‘m so fuckin’ close, Daddy,” you gasp, circling your hips faster as Matty dips his tongue back inside you. “Oh, my God,” you whine, pleasure coiled tight in your belly. He curls his tongue, mind-wiping pleasure sending you spiralling. You scream, ecstasy pooling in your belly and flooding out over Matty’s lips and chin as you moan and writhe helplessly on top of him. Molten pleasure hammers in your veins, your body loose on your bones as your hands tangle in the sheets.

“God, felt good,” you praise, climbing off him with a grin. “Love that pretty mouth of yours so much better when you’re not fuckin’ running it.” You pull him in for a kiss, greedily licking the taste of you out of his mouth. Indulgently, lazily, you kiss him for several long, blissful moments, Matty’s hands roaming over your body, electricity arcing under your skin to meet him.

“Thank you, baby,” he murmurs against your lips.  “Took such good care of me,” he smiles, flushing slightly and tucking his head into the crook of your neck. Gently, you scrape your nails over his scalp, Matty practically purring under your touch.

“Can you take a little more, Daddy? For me?” you murmur.

He lets out a shuddering breath. “Yeah. F’you,” he gasps, hips shifting against the bed. Lust and trepidation war on his face as you rifle through the box again.

“Good boy,” you praise, slicking up his cock and sliding the toy you’ve chosen down his cock until the ring sits at his base, the little vibrator snug against his length. “Have you ever used this with another girl, Daddy?” you tease, an echo of Matty’s usual words when you try something new.

“N-no,” he stammers, trembling with anticipation. “Only you, baby,” he promises.

You smirk, reaching down to switch on the vibrator. Matty gasps sharply, whining and whimpering pathetically as he shifts his hips against the stimulation. “Good answer,” you grin, lining up his cock and sinking down slowly. A long, low moan falls from your lips, the sensation unlike anything you’ve ever felt, pure pleasure rolling over you in waves. “God, s’like you’re my personal rabbit,” you gasp, grinding your clit against the vibrator and whining.

Matty’s nails dig into your hips, heat rolling up your spine. “Feels s’fucking good, baby, fuck,” he murmurs, bucking his hips against yours, the sweet jolt of pleasure intense as it rockets through your body. “God, s’so much, I can’t–” he gasps.

“Shh,” you whisper, condescendingly pressing a finger to his lips. “I’m gonna use you to get off, and you’re gonna lay there and take it like a good boy, okay, Daddy?” He gives a low, shuddering moan, nodding up at you with wide eyes and a slackened jaw. Slowly, you lift yourself almost all the way off him and slam your hips down, hot pleasure swallowing you whole. Your head tips back, chest heaving as you clench your cunt around him. Matty’s hips buck involuntarily, the sudden change in angle sending pleasure crashing over you.

Your head spins, the vibrations in your cunt working you into a frenzy, hips rolling against him. Obscene moans and slick, wet noises fill the room, your thighs burning gloriously as you bounce on him, heat welling between your legs and flooding your veins. Your body feels like a livewire, anchored to reality by Matty’s hands on your hips, dizzying ecstasy surging through every nerve at once.

Fire coils under your skin, your cunt soaked and dripping over him, your swollen, sensitive clit pressed against the vibrator as Matty gasps under you. “God, you feel so fucking good, princess,” he whines. “Drivin’ me crazy. Fucking– shit!” he hisses, fucking impossibly deep into you, stars shattering behind your lids and euphoria blooming under your skin.

“Fuck, Daddy, m’gonna–” you gasp, rocking your hips as liquid ecstasy drips down your spine. Matty thrusts into you one final time, the coil of heat between your thighs finally snapping. Your legs shake, your body caving in on itself, collapsing into pure bliss. Your vision whites out, whines and moans falling uncontrollably from your lips. A gush of arousal floods out of you, soaking Matty and pooling under you, sticky and hot against your skin.

“Fuck, shit, wanna cum s’bad, need it, baby, please,” Matty babbles, nails digging sharply into your hips as he shudders and bucks against you, whining incoherently. “Please, angel, it hurts,” he begs, eyes wide and pleading.

You croon softly, cunt fluttering with the aftershocks. “Yeah, go on, Daddy. Been such a good boy. Cum for me, okay?” Your words are all it takes, another achingly familiar reversal as he cums, a sound that’s half a cry of your name and half a keening moan tearing from his throat as he spills inside you.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck, thank you,” he gasps, cock pulsing, hips meeting yours in aborted little thrusts.

Slowly, carefully, you climb off him and discard the toy, your body falling limp against the pillows. You pull Matty in for a soft, gentle kiss, pouring every ounce of the feeling in your chest against his mouth. “How… how was that?” you murmur as you pull back. “Are you feeling good?”

Matty gives a glowing smile, your chest warming at the sight. “I feel fucking amazing, princess,” he says, swollen lips meeting yours over and over, like he can’t resist. “Thank you, baby, really. I’ve never, uh… never done anything like that, um, with a girl, before. Felt really fucking good,” he grins dopily, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear. 

You giggle breathlessly. “Now you know how I feel all the fucking time.” You curl into him, savouring the warmth of his skin against yours. “Always take such good care of me after, too. S’my turn now,” you promise, kissing gently at the corner of his mouth and sitting up. “Gonna get you some water, ‘kay? Run us a bath, maybe light some candles, make it nice for you, yeah?”

Matty gazes at you adoringly from the bed as you stand. “Such a sweet girl,” he says, more relaxed than you’ve ever seen him, still and sated and happy, the buzz of energy that perpetually emanates from him finally quieted.

“Only for you.”

[shiorihyugawrites]

Damaged

Before the fall of Wall Maria, a string of brutal murders grips Wall Sina, noblemen found strangled, their mouths stuffed with drugs, and not a trace of the killer left behind. The Military Police call him “The Spider Killer.” But he's no man. She's a ghost in silk and shadow. A serial killer hiding in plain sight. When the scouts get involved, Levi begins to suspect that catching her won’t be so easy… especially when she starts hunting him too. (Levi x OC)

This fic was inspired by my oneshot Velvet Heat.

Chapter Two: The Grim Reaper

The Scout’s temporary lodging in Stohess was a modest affair, a narrow two-story building wedged between a bakery and a tailor’s shop. The air inside was thick with the scent of old wood and the faint tang of lamp oil, the flickering light casting long shadows across the cramped common room. A single table dominated the space, its surface scarred from years of use, surrounded by four mismatched chairs where the Scouts now sat. The day’s events hung over them like a storm cloud, the encounter in the market replaying in their minds, each detail dissected and weighed.

Levi sat with his arms crossed, his sharp gray eyes fixed on the table as if it held answers. His posture was rigid, his jaw tight, the memory of the woman’s doe-brown eyes and flirtatious smile gnawing at him. Those gold rings on her fingers—ten of them, glinting over her white gloves—had sparked something deep in his mind, a memory he hadn’t touched in years. It was like a splinter, lodged just out of reach, and it was driving him mad.

Erwin sat across from him, his hands steepled, his calm demeanor a stark contrast to the tension radiating from Levi. Hange, sprawled in her chair, was scribbling furiously in her journal, muttering to herself about alloys and wire tensile strength. Miche leaned against the wall near the window, his nose twitching as he stared out into the darkening street, the faint glow of Stohess’s lanterns reflecting in his eyes.

“That woman,” Levi said finally, his voice low, cutting through the quiet. “She wasn’t just some flirt in the market. There’s something off about her.”

Hange looked up, her glasses glinting. “Off how? I mean, she was a little too charming, sure, but she seemed harmless. Just a fan, right?”

Levi’s eyes narrowed. “Nobody’s that charming by accident. She knew exactly who we were, played us like a damn fiddle. And those rings…” He trailed off, his fingers tapping the table, the rhythm sharp and restless.

Erwin tilted his head, his blue eyes sharp with interest. “Rings? You noticed something about them?”

Levi nodded, his gaze distant, pulling at the threads of memory. “When I was a kid, living with Kenny… there was this guy he knew. Not a friend—Kenny didn’t have friends. More like a shadow he kept close. They called him The Grim Reaper.”

Hange’s pen froze mid-scratch, her eyes widening. “The Grim Reaper? As in the Grim Reaper? The serial killer?”

Miche turned from the window, his expression darkening. “Heard of him. Everyone in the Walls did. Guy was a legend—killed hundreds, they said. Men, women, kids, didn’t matter. Left ‘em shredded, like they’d been torn apart by a beast.”

Levi’s jaw tightened, the memory sharpening now, vivid and cold. “I only saw him once, from a distance. Tall guy, dark hair, eyes like they’d already seen hell. Kenny brought me along to some meeting in the underground, told me to stay out of sight. I caught a glimpse of him—his back, mostly. But he had these rings. Gold, one on every finger. Same as hers.”

Erwin’s brows lifted slightly, his mind clearly racing. “You think there’s a connection?”

Levi leaned back, his eyes narrowing. “I don’t know. The Grim Reaper was a man, no question. And he’s probably long dead or retired—nobody’s heard of him in years. But those rings… they’re not common. Not the kind you buy at some market stall. They looked custom, same as his.”

Hange leaned forward, her voice bubbling with excitement. “Wait, wait, wait! Are you saying you think she’s the Grim Reaper? I mean, that’s impossible, right? You said he was a man, and she’s—what, mid-twenties? Early thirties at most? No way she’s some ancient killer.”

Levi shook his head, his voice sharp. “I’m not saying she’s him. But who’s to say he didn’t have a protégé? Someone he trained, passed his tricks to? Those rings aren’t a coincidence.”

Miche grunted, crossing his arms. “Makes sense. But the way she moved, the way she smelled…” He sniffed the air reflexively, his nose twitching. “That perfume was close to what I caught at Varn’s estate. Not exact, but close.”

Erwin’s eyes gleamed, the gears turning in his mind. “If she’s connected to the Grim Reaper, that could explain her skill. The Spider Killer’s methods—clean, precise, no evidence—it screams training. But the MO’s different. The Grim Reaper shredded his victims, you said. The Spider Killer strangles hers with wire. Could it be the same weapon?”

Hange’s eyes lit up, her voice rising with enthusiasm. “Oh, that’s a good question! Think about it—a wire that thin, that strong, it could strangle and cut. If it’s sharp enough, flexible enough, you could use it like a garrote or a blade. Maybe the Grim Reaper used it one way, and his protégé adapted it for her own style!”

Levi’s fingers stilled on the table, his mind racing. “If that’s true, we’re dealing with someone who’s not just a killer—she’s a master. Trained by the best. And she’s playing with us.”

Erwin nodded, his expression resolute. “Then we need to find her. If she’s the Spider Killer, or even just connected to the Grim Reaper, she’s too dangerous to leave running loose. But she could also be exactly what we need—an asset against the Titans.”

Levi snorted, his tone dry. “You and your damn assets. She’s a killer, Erwin. She’s not gonna join your cause just because you give her a speech.”

Erwin’s smile was faint but unwavering. “Maybe not. But we won’t know until we try.”

Hange clapped her hands, grinning. “This is so exciting! A mystery killer with a legendary mentor? I need to know everything about those wires! If we can figure out how they’re made, we can trace them back to her!”

Miche shook his head, a rare smirk tugging at his lips. “You’re gonna blow something up before this is over, Hange.”

She laughed, undeterred. “Only if it gets us answers!”

Levi stood, his chair scraping against the floor. “Enough theorizing. We’re wasting time. Let’s eat and figure out our next move.”

Erwin nodded, rising as well. “Agreed. The tavern down the street should be quiet enough to talk. Let’s go.”

…

The streets of Stohess were alive with the hum of evening, the air thick with the scents of roasted meat and fresh bread from the nearby market. The Scouts wove through the crowd, their uniforms drawing curious glances from passersby. The tavern, a squat building with a faded sign reading “The Copper Kettle,” glowed warmly from within, its windows casting golden light onto the cobblestones.

As they approached, Levi’s ears caught a snippet of conversation from two men leaning against a lamppost, their voices slurred with drink but brimming with excitement.

“Starlight Lounge tonight, mate,” one said, a wiry man with a patchy beard. “Scarlet’s performing at nine. Gotta get there early—she sells out fast.”

The other, a stocky fellow with a red nose, grinned. “Scarlet, eh? That red-haired beauty? Hair like wine, moves like a dream. Worth every coin.”

Levi froze, his hand instinctively brushing the hilt of his blade. Red hair. Wine-red hair. His mind flashed to the woman in the market, her ponytail swaying, her gold rings glinting. He turned sharply, stepping toward the men, his voice low but commanding. “Hey. This Scarlet—what’s she look like?”

The wiry man blinked, startled, then grinned, clearly pleased to talk. “Oh, she’s a stunner, sir. Hair red as a sunset, big doe eyes, curves that’ll make you forget your own name. Dances at the Starlight Lounge, best show in the Walls.”

The stocky man nodded eagerly. “She’s on tonight, nine o’clock. Place’ll be packed, so you’d better hurry if you want a seat.”

Levi’s eyes narrowed. “Where’s this lounge?”

“Down by the river, near the old mill,” the wiry man said, pointing south. “Can’t miss it—big sign, all lit up. Scarlet’s the star, trust me.”

Hange’s eyes widened, her voice barely containing her excitement. “Win red hair? Like the woman we met? This can’t be a coincidence!”

Miche sniffed the air, his expression serious. “If it’s her, we’ve got our lead.”

Erwin’s voice was calm but firm. “We need to be careful. If this Scarlet is our mystery woman, we can’t spook her. Four scouts walking into a lounge will draw attention.”

Levi nodded, his mind already working through the plan. “Just me and Erwin go in. Hange, Miche, you stay outside, close enough to move if we need you.”

Hange pouted, crossing her arms. “Aw, I wanted to see the show! What if she’s using those wires on stage? I could analyze them!”

Miche smirked, nudging her. “You’d probably start yelling about alloys in the middle of her dance. Let’s leave it to Levi and Erwin.”

Erwin’s lips twitched in a rare smile. “Agreed. We’ll blend in, observe, and see if this Scarlet is our woman. If she is, we don’t confront her—not yet. We need to know more.”

Levi’s gaze was steely, his voice low. “If she’s the Spider Killer, she already knows we’re coming. She’s been one step ahead this whole time.”

…

The Copper Kettle was a warm contrast to the chilly evening, its interior a cozy mix of wooden beams and flickering lanterns. The scent of stew and ale filled the air, mingling with the low hum of conversation from the handful of patrons scattered across the tables. The Scouts claimed a corner booth, its high back offering a degree of privacy as they settled in.

A serving girl, her apron stained with grease, brought them bowls of mutton stew and a loaf of crusty bread. Hange dug in eagerly, her spoon clinking against the bowl as she talked between bites. “Okay, so let’s say Scarlet is our girl. She’s an exotic dancer, which explains the charm, the poise. But how does she go from dancing to strangling nobles? And those rings—Levi, you’re sure they’re like the Grim Reaper’s?”

Levi tore a piece of bread, his eyes distant. “I was a kid, but I don’t forget details. The rings were identical—gold, simple, one on every finger. Kenny said they weren’t just for show. Said the Grim Reaper used ‘em for something, but he never explained what.”

Erwin’s voice was thoughtful, his spoon pausing over his bowl. “If the rings are part of her weapon, that could explain the wires. Some kind of mechanism, maybe? A way to deploy them?”

Hange’s eyes lit up, her spoon waving dangerously. “Oh, that’s brilliant! Imagine—rings with hidden compartments, spools for the wires! She could flick her fingers, and bam! Instant garrote! I need to see those up close!”

Miche snorted, sipping his ale. “Good luck getting close without her slicing you to ribbons. If she’s the Grim Reaper’s protégé, she’s not gonna let you poke at her jewelry.”

Levi’s voice was quiet but sharp. “She’s not just a killer. She’s a performer. The way she bumped into me, the way she played the crowd—she’s used to being watched, used to controlling the room. That’s why she’s so bold.”

Erwin nodded, his expression resolute. “Then we use that against her. If she’s performing tonight, she’ll be exposed. We watch, we learn, and we don’t tip our hand. If she’s the Spider Killer, she’ll expect us to make a move. We don’t give her what she wants.”

Hange leaned forward, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “What if she’s not just the Spider Killer? What if she’s got a bigger plan? The Coderoin connection, the messages she’s leaving—she’s not just killing for fun. There’s a purpose.”

Miche’s nose twitched, his voice gruff. “Smells like revenge to me. The way she stuffed those pills down Varn’s throat? That’s personal.”

Levi’s eyes darkened, the memory of the crime scene flashing in his mind. “If it’s revenge, she’s not done. And if she’s tied to the Grim Reaper, she’s got the skills to keep going until someone stops her.”

Erwin’s gaze was steady, his voice firm. “Then we stop her. Or we turn her. Either way, tonight at the Starlight Lounge, we get answers.”

The Scouts fell silent, the weight of the plan settling over them. Outside, the streets of Stohess grew quieter, the lanterns flickering like stars against the night. Somewhere out there, a woman with wine-red hair and gold rings was waiting, her web spun tight, ready to ensnare anyone who dared to step too close.

…

The streets of Stohess were cloaked in twilight, the last rays of sunlight bleeding into the horizon as Rosemary Thorne made her way through the winding alleys of Wall Sina. Her steps were silent, her black calf-length boots gliding over the cobblestones with the grace of a dancer. The green dress and white bow from her market encounter were gone, replaced by a simple gray cloak that hid her form, her hair tucked beneath the hood. In her hand, she carried a small woven basket, its contents concealed beneath a checkered cloth: a vial of medicine, a loaf of fresh bread, and a small pouch of coins—earnings from her nights at the Starlight Lounge.

Her destination was a narrow street on the edge of the city, where the grand mansions gave way to modest homes, their facades weathered but sturdy. Andreas’s house was unremarkable, a single-story dwelling with peeling paint and a sagging roof, its windows shuttered against prying eyes. To the casual observer, it was the home of an old man, perhaps a retired craftsman or clerk, living out his days in quiet obscurity. But Rose knew better. Behind those walls lived the Grim Reaper, a legend whose name still sent shivers through the Walls, even if his killing days were long behind him.

She knocked softly, a rhythmic tap-tap-pause-tap that was their signal. The door creaked open a moment later, revealing Andreas’s tall, lean frame. His dark brown hair, streaked with gray, was pulled back in a loose ponytail, and his dark eyes, once sharp as a blade, were clouded with age and pain. He leaned heavily on a wooden cane, its tip worn from years of use, and his gold rings—ten of them, one on each finger—glinted faintly in the dim light. His face was etched with lines, his expression perpetually sour, but his eyes softened when they landed on Rose.

“Red,” he grumbled, stepping aside to let her in. “You’re late.”

Rose flashed him a smile as she slipped past him, the basket swinging lightly in her hand. “And you’re grumpy, as usual. I brought your medicine, old man. And food. You’re welcome.”

Andreas snorted, closing the door with a thud. The interior of the house was as unassuming as the exterior: a small living room with a threadbare rug, a single armchair by a cracked hearth, and a wooden table cluttered with books and empty mugs. The air smelled of stale tobacco and liniment, a testament to Andreas’s bad knee and his stubborn refusal to rest it. His rings caught the firelight as he hobbled to the table, his cane tapping rhythmically against the floor.

Rose set the basket down, pulling out the bread and a small pot of stew she’d bought from a vendor. “Sit,” she said, her tone firm but warm. “I’m cooking tonight. And don’t argue—you look like you haven’t eaten properly in days.”

Andreas grumbled under his breath, easing himself into the armchair with a wince. “Don’t need you fussin’ over me, Red. I’ve survived worse than a bad knee.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Rose said, rolling her eyes as she lit the stove, the flames casting a warm glow across her face. “You’re the big bad Grim Reaper, I know. But even legends need to eat.”

He muttered something unintelligible, but his eyes followed her as she moved, a flicker of pride beneath his scowl. She was his protégé, his adoptive daughter, the only family he had left in a cruel world that had taken everything else. He’d found her all those years ago, a soot-covered girl collapsed by the roadside, her eyes haunted but fierce. He’d taken her in, trained her, molded her into the weapon she was today. But he’d never meant for her to become this—a killer with a darkness that mirrored his own, perhaps even surpassed it.

Rose stirred the stew, the rich aroma filling the room as she glanced over her shoulder. “I brought you some money, too. Should tide you over for a while. The lounge pays well, especially when I’m on stage.”

Andreas’s scowl deepened, his fingers tapping the arm of his chair, the gold rings clicking softly. “You shouldn’t be dancin’ in that place, Red. Too many eyes. Too many risks.”

She laughed, a light, melodic sound that belied the steel in her gaze. “Oh, come on. It’s the perfect cover. Nobody suspects a dancer of being anything more than a pretty face. Besides, it’s fun. And it keeps me sharp.”

He shook his head, his voice gruff. “You’re playin’ with fire. That tip I gave you—about the Coderoin job—it was a mistake. I knew it’d hit you hard, but I didn’t think you’d get sloppy.”

Rose’s smile faded, her hand pausing over the pot. “Sloppy? I’m not sloppy, Andreas. Every kill’s been clean. No evidence, no witnesses. The MPs are chasing their tails.”

He leaned forward, his dark eyes piercing. “Clean, maybe. But you’re leavin’ bodies with messages, Red. Stuffin’ pills down throats? That’s not clean—that’s personal. And now I hear the scouts are on your trail. The scouts, Rose. Not just those idiot MPs. You don’t want to tangle with them.”

She turned, her light brown eyes glinting with defiance as she set the pot on the table. “I’m not scared of the scouts. In fact, I met them today. Captain Levi, Commander Erwin, Hange Zoe, and that big guy, Miche. Bumped right into Levi in the market—literally.” Her lips curved into a smirk, her dimples deepening. “You should’ve seen his face. He knew something was up, but he couldn’t pin it on me. I had him eating out of my hand.”

Andreas’s cane thumped against the floor, his voice rising. “You what!? You went and poked the bear, Red? Are you out of your damn mind?”

Rose laughed again, unfazed, as she ladled stew into two bowls. “Relax, old man. It was just a little fun. I wanted to see what they’re made of. Levi’s sharp, I’ll give him that. But I’m sharper.”

Andreas’s eyes narrowed, his voice low and dangerous. “You’re reckless. I trained you better than that. Captain Levi’s no fool. And Commander Erwin? That man’s a chess player, always ten moves ahead. You think you’re playin’ them, but they’re watchin’ you, waitin’ for you to slip.”

Rose set a bowl in front of him, her expression softening but her tone firm. “I’m not slipping, Andreas. I’ve got this under control. I know what I’m doing.”

He stared at her, his gaze heavy with worry. “Do you? You’re not the little girl I found anymore, Red, but you’re still human. And that head of yours…” He tapped his temple, his rings glinting. “It’s a storm in there. I’ve seen it. You get too deep in a job like this, it clouds your judgment. Makes you sloppy.”

Rose sat across from him, her bowl steaming between her hands. “I’m not sloppy,” she repeated, her voice quieter now, but there was an edge to it, a flicker of something dark in her eyes. “Coderoin’s a poison. You know why I’m doing this. Those bastards deserve what’s coming to them.”

Andreas’s expression softened, his voice dropping. “I know why, Red. And I shouldn’t have told you about that contract. I knew it’d dig up old wounds. But you’re not just killin’ for money or justice—you’re leavin’ a trail. The Scouts’ll follow it, and they’re not like the MPs. They fight Titans for a livin’. You think you’re tough, and you are—I trained you myself. But you go up against Captain Levi, you’re in for a fight you might not walk away from.”

Rose’s lips pressed into a thin line, her fingers tightening around her spoon. “I can handle Levi. I can handle all of them. I’m not that scared little girl anymore, Andreas. I’m a woman now, and I’m the best at what I do. You don’t have to keep worrying about me.”

He sighed, his shoulders sagging as he picked up his spoon. “I’ll always worry, Red. You’re the only family I’ve got. I pulled you out of that hell, gave you a chance. But this life…” He gestured vaguely, his rings catching the light. “I wish I could’ve given you better.”

Rose’s expression softened, her eyes glinting with something warmer—affection, gratitude. “You gave me enough. You saved me, taught me how to survive. Now it’s my turn to take care of you.” She reached across the table, her hand brushing his, her own gold rings clicking against his. “Eat your stew before it gets cold.”

Andreas grumbled but took a bite, the warmth of the meal easing some of the tension in his face. They ate in companionable silence for a while, the only sounds the crackle of the fire and the soft clink of spoons against bowls. Rose watched him, her heart aching at the sight of his weathered hands, the cane resting against his chair. He was still dangerous—she’d seen him take down a thug with a flick of his wrist, his wires slicing through flesh like butter—but he was old now, his body betraying him even if his mind was still sharp.

“So,” Andreas said after a while, his voice gruff but curious. “You workin’ tonight?”

Rose nodded, wiping her mouth with a napkin. “Yeah. Got a show at the Starlight Lounge, nine o’clock. But first, I need to pick up my payment for the Varn job. Client’s waiting at his home.”

Andreas’s eyes narrowed. “Be careful, Red. If the Scouts are sniffin’ around, they’ll have eyes everywhere.”

She flashed him a confident smile, her dimples deepening. “I’m always careful. I’ll stop by tomorrow, bring you whatever you need. Speaking of which…” She slid a piece of paper and a pencil across the table. “Write down anything you’re low on. Food, medicine, whatever. And don’t argue.”

He muttered under his breath but took the pencil, his handwriting slow and deliberate as he jotted down a short list. “You’re bossy, you know that?”

“Learned from the best,” she teased, standing to clear the table. She moved with the same grace she brought to her kills, her steps light and precise, her frame swaying slightly as she carried the bowls to a small basin.

Andreas watched her, his expression a mix of pride and worry. “Take your medicine,” she called over her shoulder, her voice firm. “And stay off that knee. I mean it.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he grumbled, but he reached for the vial she’d brought, shaking out a pill with a wince. “Don’t need you motherin’ me.”

She laughed, drying her hands on a cloth. “Too bad. You’re stuck with me.” She crossed the room, leaning down to press a soft kiss to his forehead, her hair brushing his cheek. “I’ll see you tomorrow, old man. Be good.”

Andreas’s scowl softened, his dark eyes glinting with affection. “You be good, Red. And watch your back.”

She flashed him one last smile, her dimples deepening, before slipping her cloak back on and stepping into the night. The door closed behind her with a soft thud, leaving Andreas alone with his thoughts, the fire crackling in the hearth.

He stared at the door, his fingers tracing the gold rings on his hands, each one a reminder of the life he’d lived, the blood he’d spilled. Rose was his legacy, his daughter in all but name, and she was better than he’d ever been—faster, smarter, deadlier. But she was also broken, her mind a labyrinth of scars from a past he couldn’t erase. He’d saved her from that burning house, from the horrors of her childhood, but he hadn’t saved her from herself. The darkness in her, the instability—it worried him more than any Scout or MP ever could.

He leaned back in his chair, his bad knee throbbing, and muttered to himself. “Stay safe, Red. Don’t make me bury you.”

Outside, Rose moved through the shadows, her cloak blending with the night. The Starlight Lounge was waiting, its stage her playground, its audience her pawns. But first, she had a payment to collect. Her gold rings glinted as she adjusted her gloves, the hair wires coiled and ready. The Scouts were closing in, but she wasn’t worried.

…

The night air in Stohess was cool and sharp, carrying the faint tang of river water and coal smoke as Rose moved through the shadows. Her assassin's attire clung to her like a second skin, the black dress with its deep V-neck and high-cut thighs allowing for silent, fluid movement. The patterned belt cinched at her waist held a short dagger sheathed horizontally at her back, and her calf-length sock boots muffled her steps against the cobblestones. Her hair was pulled back into a tight braid with the hood of her cloak over her head, and her gold rings gleamed faintly under her fingerless gloves. She was a specter, invisible to the drunken revelers and weary vendors who populated the city at this hour.

Her destination was a grand townhouse in one of Stohess’s wealthier districts, its stone facade adorned with ivy and guarded by wrought-iron gates. The home belonged to Dietrich Voss, a rival drug distributor who had contracted her to eliminate his competitors in the Coderoin trade. Rose didn’t care about his motives; to her, anyone tied to Coderoin was a stain on the world, a reminder of the poison that had torn her family apart. The job was personal, but the payment was business—50,000 gold pieces for five kills. She intended to collect.

Scaling the outer wall was child’s play for someone with her training. Her small, agile frame moved with catlike precision, her fingers finding holds in the stonework as she vaulted over the gate and landed silently in the manicured garden. The windows of the townhouse glowed with warm light, and the muffled sound of laughter and clinking glasses drifted from within. Rose’s eyes scanned the building, her senses sharp. Voss was inside, likely in his office, surrounded by his cronies. She’d have to be quick and quiet.

She approached a side window, its latch rusted and easily pried open with the tip of her dagger. Slipping inside, she found herself in a dimly lit hallway, the walls lined with gaudy portraits of Voss and his ancestors. The air was heavy with the scent of cigar smoke and expensive cologne, a stark contrast to the simplicity of Andreas’s home. Rose’s lips curled in distaste. Men like Voss were all the same—rich, pompous, leering pigs who thought their wealth made them untouchable. She’d prove them wrong.

The office was on the second floor, its door ajar, spilling light and raucous laughter into the corridor. Rose crept closer, her boots silent against the polished floor. Peering through the crack, she saw Voss—a heavyset man with a florid face and a thinning hairline—seated at a mahogany desk, a deck of cards spread before him. Four other men sat around the table, their tailored suits and gold cufflinks marking them as fellow nobles or merchants. They were playing poker, their voices loud and slurred from too much wine, cigar smoke curling lazily in the air.

Rose adjusted her hood, ensuring her face was shadowed, and stepped into the room. Her presence was like a sudden chill, silencing the laughter as five pairs of eyes turned to her. The men froze, their expressions shifting from surprise to fear, then to something uglier as they took in her attire. The black dress hugged her curves, the deep V-neck revealing a provocative glimpse of cleavage, and the high-cut hem exposed her thick thighs. To them, she looked like a fantasy, not a threat.

Voss recovered first, his fear giving way to recognition as he leaned back in his chair, a smirk spreading across his face. “Well, well, if it isn’t the Spider herself. You’ve got some nerve, strolling in here like that.”

His friends relaxed, their fear replaced by leering grins. One, a lanky man with a pencil mustache, chuckled. “What’s this, Voss? You hired a dancer for us? She’s a fine one.”

Another, a burly man with a ruddy complexion, licked his lips. “Look at that dress. You here to entertain us, sweetheart?”

Rose’s expression remained impassive, her eyes cold and unyielding. She stepped forward, her voice low and sharp, cutting through their laughter like a blade. “I’m here for my payment, Voss. Five targets, five kills. Fifty thousand gold pieces. Hand it over.”

Voss’s smirk widened, but there was a flicker of unease in his eyes. He gestured to a servant lurking in the corner, a nervous young man with trembling hands. “Bring the bag.”

The servant scurried to a safe in the corner, retrieving a leather sack and placing it on the desk with a soft thud. Rose’s eyes flicked to it, her senses sharp. It was too light—far too light for 50,000 gold pieces. She stepped closer, her boots silent, and picked up the bag, testing its weight. Her lips pressed into a thin line.

“This isn’t 50,000,” she said, her voice dangerously calm. “Maybe 30,000, if that. Where’s the rest of my money?”

The men exchanged glances, their smirks faltering. Voss leaned forward, his tone patronizing. “You’re getting paid, girl. But you went overboard. I didn’t tell you to get theatrical, stuffing pills down their throats like some damn lunatic. That stunt with Varn? It’s drawn too much attention. The MPs are sniffing around, and it could come back to me. Thirty thousand’s more than you deserve.”

His friends snickered, their eyes raking over her. The lanky man with the mustache leaned back, his voice dripping with condescension. “Be grateful, sweetheart. That’s more coin than most whores see in a lifetime.”

Rose’s eyes glazed over, a telltale sign to anyone who knew her that something unhinged was stirring within her mind. Her fingers twitched, the gold rings glinting as she tilted her head, her voice soft but venomous. “You think you can short me? After I did your dirty work?”

The burly man, emboldened by the wine and the laughter, stood and swaggered toward her. “Oh, come on, love. You want the extra 20,000? I’ll give it to you myself.” He reached out, his hand patting her backside with a lewd grin. “Get on your knees, and we’ll call it even.”

The room erupted in laughter, the men’s voices loud and mocking. But in the blink of an eye, the air shifted. Rose’s right hand flicked, and a hair wire shot from one of her rings, thin as a spider’s thread but sharper than a razor. It wrapped around the burly man’s arm, the wire biting into his flesh like a garrote. He screamed, a raw, guttural sound, as blood welled up, staining his sleeve crimson.

“What the—!” Voss shouted, stumbling back, his chair scraping against the floor. The other men froze, their laughter dying as the burly man’s screams filled the room.

Rose tugged her wrist, her movements precise and fluid, like a puppeteer manipulating a marionette. The wire tightened, slicing through muscle and tendon with horrifying ease. The man’s arm was shredded in seconds, flesh and bone reduced to a mangled mess, blood splattering across the desk and floor. He collapsed, his screams fading to gurgles as he bled out, his eyes wide with shock and pain.

The remaining men panicked, scrambling for the rifles propped against the wall. But Rose was faster. Her left hand flicked, sending another set of wires arcing through the air. They looped around the necks of the three other men, yanking them upward with brutal force. The wires dug into their skin, drawing thin lines of blood as they dangled from the ceiling, their feet kicking uselessly. Their gasps and choked cries filled the room, a cacophony of terror.

Voss sat frozen in his chair, his face pale, sweat beading on his brow. Rose turned to him, her right hand extended, a single wire wrapped tightly around his neck. The pressure was just enough to draw a trickle of blood, a warning of what she could do with a flick of her finger. Her doe eyes were cold, unblinking, the playful flirtation from the market replaced by a predator’s stare.

“Let me try this again,” she said, her voice low and deadly. “Give me my fucking money, Voss. Or I slaughter you and your little friends right now.”

Voss’s hands trembled as he raised them, his voice shaking. “Okay, okay! I’ll get it! Just—please, don’t kill me!”

He gestured frantically to the servant, who was cowering in the corner, his eyes wide with terror. “Get the rest of the gold! Now!”

Rose’s lips curled into a faint, chilling smile. “Not 50,000, Voss. You tried to screw me over. Now it’s double. One hundred thousand gold pieces.”

Voss’s eyes widened, his voice rising in protest. “Double? That’s insane! I don’t have—”

She tightened the wire around his neck, cutting off his words. A thin line of blood trickled down his throat, and he gasped, his hands clawing at the air. “Don’t test me,” she hissed. “I can end you right now, and no one will find your body. One hundred thousand. Count it out.”

Voss nodded frantically, his voice hoarse. “Alright, alright! Get the gold, Hans! All of it!”

The servant, Hans, stumbled to the safe, his hands shaking as he pulled out another sack, heavier this time. He dragged it to the desk, his breaths coming in short, panicked gasps as he began counting out the coins, stacking them in neat piles beside the first bag. Rose watched, her wire still taut around Voss’s neck, her eyes never leaving his face.

The other men dangled from the ceiling, their struggles weakening as the wires bit deeper. Their faces were purple, their eyes bulging, but Rose didn’t spare them a glance. Her focus was on Voss, on the fear in his eyes, the way his hands trembled as he watched Hans count. The room was filled with the clink of coins, the ragged breaths of the dying men, and the faint drip of blood pooling on the floor.

When Hans finished, he stepped back, his voice trembling. “It’s… it’s all there, miss. One hundred thousand, like you asked.”

Rose tilted her head, her eyes narrowing as she inspected the piles. She released the wire around Voss’s neck just enough to let him breathe, her voice cold. “Check it again. If you’re short even one coin, I’ll carve it out of your skin.”

Hans scrambled to recount, his hands shaking as he sorted through the gold. Voss sat frozen, his eyes darting between Rose and the body of his friend, now still and lifeless on the floor. The other men had stopped struggling, their bodies limp, but Rose kept the wires taut, a silent reminder of her control.

Finally, Hans nodded, his voice barely a whisper. “It’s all there. One hundred thousand.”

Rose’s smile returned, cold and triumphant. She flicked her wrist, and the wires retracted, the men dropping to the floor in a heap, gasping and coughing as blood trickled from their wounds. They were alive—barely—but traumatized, their eyes wide with terror as they stared at the woman who had turned their world into a nightmare.

She stepped forward, scooping the bags of gold into her arms, the weight heavy but manageable for someone of her strength. “One last thing,” she said, her voice soft but laced with menace. “You breathe a word of this to the Military Police, and I’ll come back. I’ll kill you, your wives, your children, your damn dogs. You’ll wish you’d never met me. Understood?”

The men nodded frantically, their voices overlapping in desperate agreement. “Yes, yes, we swear!” Voss stammered, his hands raised. “Not a word, I promise!”

Rose’s eyes lingered on him, her smile fading. “Good. Because I don’t make empty threats.”

She turned, her cloak swirling as she moved toward the window. Her eyes flicked to the clock on the wall—8:45 p.m. Shit. She was late for her shift at the Starlight Lounge. With a final glance at the trembling men, she slipped through the window and into the night, the bags of gold slung over her shoulder, her steps as silent as a whisper.

The office was left in chaos—blood staining the floor, the burly man’s body slumped in a pool of crimson, the others clutching their wounds, their faces pale with shock. Voss stared at the empty window, his heart pounding, knowing he’d just danced with death and barely survived.

Rose moved through the alleys, her mind already shifting to the stage, to the role she’d play under the glittering lights of the Starlight Lounge. But as she disappeared into the shadows, a flicker of unease stirred within her. The Scouts were out there, watching, waiting. And Captain Levi’s sharp gray eyes were burned into her memory, a challenge she couldn’t ignore.

~

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[callmrmorrow]

no cecil, you can’t work yourself to death

some angst, some silly stuff. standard protocol. enjoy! cecil and andy (oc)

For Cecil Stedman, everything is endless. There’s no simple, fate-ordained snip of the thread, no exhaustion-borne heavy eyelids and limbs, no time when his desk isn’t piled high with paperwork. No time for anything but work and improvement, success to smear over failure like salve. Burning the wick at both ends and watching as everything else is cast aflame.

Once upon a time, when his hair was still barley-gold and his flesh whole, he had dreams of being human. He dreamed of settling, letting dust coat his navy suit and the glass case of his American flag pin in old age, with a pair of labrador pups to chase him away from joint pain and the other things that came with dying. Things like doubt. He’d entertained the idea of a kid, which meant a spouse, which meant a bigger bed and bigger salary and joint filing taxes at a quaint dining table with a toddler in his lap.

But dreams were useless now, because Cecil Stedman didn’t sleep anymore.

“Mr. Stedman,” Andy’s voice called through the mist of memory, clear as a bell. “Oh, shit, sorry. Are you busy?”

Cecil glanced at the door, Andy’s head peeking through the small square window. ”Yeah, I am. Come back l—”

The door slid open. The young man — eighteen now — took soft steps into his quarters, glancing around with wide blue eyes. His hair was cropped short in an uneven buzz, courtesy of Rex Splode, and he was dressed in pajama pants with little Seance Dogs flying across them. He was wearing a plain white T-shirt and an apron with an Xbox controller superimposed over the words I AM GAMER. In his hands was a steel tray with two bowls of steaming… something. He was wearing a surgical mask over his nose and mouth.

Cecil checked his watch before glancing back up at his employee with an arched brow. “It’s two in the morning, kid.”

“Seriously, where did the day go?” he replied, gaze lingering on Cecil’s remembrance wall. “Donald said you were feeling under the weather?”

“Donald lied,” Cecil muttered, taking Andy’s moment of distraction to tuck his tissue box in a desk drawer.

Andy turned to face him again, finishing the journey over to Cecil’s desk and setting the tray down. “Nice,” he said, lowering the mask. “Okay, Donald said you were feeling hungry.” He rotated the tray so one of the bowls was facing Cecil. He peered into it hesitantly, the golden broth of chicken noodle soup staring back at him.

“Donald didn’t say that, either,” Cecil said, stifling a cough by clearing his throat. Andy gave him a skeptical look, a tilted head and narrowed eyes. “Listen, kid, if you have something important—“

“I do!” He said. “I swear I do.” He looked around again. “Do you have a chair? I don’t wanna… stand over you. It feels really weird.”

Cecil sighed, rubbing his temple. “No, I don’t.”

“Right, because, you know, who else would be in here?” Andy said, more to himself than Cecil. Then, he spun on his heel and walked out of the room, automatic door shutting behind him. Cecil just stared at where he’d been standing, half in disbelief, half waiting for his phone to ring and another global catastrophe to occupy him.

Cecil sniffled, grabbing another tissue and dabbing at his nose. One bad day in the North Dakota air, cleaning up after the Lizard League’s latest debacle, and he’d somehow caught a cold. Certainly the last time he intended to go out without a puffer on. He wasn’t sure what he’d been thinking. He hadn’t been thinking straight for the past week, actually, loath as he was to admit it. His work, as per usual, had been flawless, but when it came to managing himself and the kid charged with protecting him…

He could pinpoint where he’d lost the path, and it was last Saturday. Andy’s eighteenth birthday. Donald had been the one to remind him, in the way that only Donald could, that eighteen was a big year. A legal adult. While the world and its chaos wouldn’t stop for anyone, let alone Cecil Stedman or Andy Spurling, Cecil had tried his hand at a celebration. Closer to a thank you than a party, he’d taken Andy out for dinner at a nice Italian place, and brought Donald along even though he couldn’t possibly have an appetite.

He’d been halfway through giving Andy his birthday gift — one of the vintage Seance Dog action figures that he’d been trying to nab off of Ebay for months — when Rob had teleported him out of the restaurant and to Guardians HQ. Apparently Martian Man had gone missing.

The following days had been a veritable whirlwind of stress and confusion. Omni-Man had taken up the extra work with a willingness that put a pit in Cecil’s stomach, and the ensuing media frenzy had him coordinating with the entire American government.

Four days later, Martian Man was found in an abandoned apartment complex in Chicago, nursing a little homeless kid back to health. And with that done, he could finally breathe.

Until North Dakota and its icy chill and sniffle-inducing snowfall, clogging his sinuses and moistening his throat in a way that made his coughs ugly and wet. Cecil sneezed just as Andy pedaled through the door on a wheeling office chair. His finger shot out and pointed at him. “Knew it. And bless you.”

Cecil grimaced as he wiped his nose. “Put the mask back on, Andy.”

”Oh, yeah. Good idea.” Andy pulled it back up over his nose as he wheeled over. From his apron pocket he produced salt and pepper packets and plastic spoons, setting them down neatly on the tray. “So, the important thing I came here to do is… this.” He gestured to the soup. “Made it myself.”

He looked at Cecil expectantly, probably grinning ear to ear behind the mask. Cecil closed his eyes and exhaled through his mouth. Shit.

“This is where you try the soup and say, wow, Andy, that’s the best thing I’ve ever tasted!” He said from beyond his vision. “And then I say, gee, thanks, boss. And then we eat soup and be grateful for the fact that another night has passed without the world ending or any more superheroes going missing.”

Cecil opened his eyes to look at him, really look and scrutinize. For a moment, he felt an insurgent urge to apologize for his birthday, for the four straight days when he’d dismissed the kid out of hand due to pure, unfiltered and unfettered stress. It was in bad taste to yell at a kid just after his birthday when he just wanted to check in on you, but no one had the guts to tell Cecil that except Cecil himself.

Andy was still watching him. Guess this is as good an apology as any on my end…

Cecil picked up the spoon and lowered it into the soup, brought it to his lips. He didn’t meet Andy’s eyes as he tasted it, chewed chicken, swallowed. “Pretty good for your first time, Andy.”

The young man leaned back in relief, breath escaping him. “Yeah, I might be the greatest to ever do it,” he said, resting his hands behind his head, before pretending to check his phone. “I think that’s Gordon Ramsey calling me. I gotta take this. Yes, hello? Yes, this is he.” He cupped his mouth against the phone, looking at Cecil conspiratorially. “No, I can’t take the job. My boss would be super unhappy. Irreplaceable, yeah. So sorry.”

”Alright,” Cecil said tiredly, giving in and eating some more of the soup. “I get it.”

Andy faked hanging-up, finally lowering his mask and picking up his spoon. “I’m not mad about Saturday, you know. Or Sunday, or Monday… or Tuesday… you get it.” He took a moment to slurp at his soup. “I just wanted to finish our dinner when you had time. Which is now.”

Cecil looked down at his soup again, feeling a strange twist in his chest that he couldn’t quite identify. “Thanks, kid.”

”You’re very, very welcome,” Andy said, pointing at him with his spoon. “Oh, I almost forgot.” He leaned down and pulled out a plastic baggie of green leaves. Cecil stared at him, and Andy stared back, before stuttering. “Oh— no it’s not— it’s tea leaves.” Cecil was still motionless, and Andy lowered the bag, realization dawning on his features. “You’re more of a coffee person. Damn, I should know that by now…” His other hand produced a bag of coffee grounds. “Because I do. Half city roast, courtesy of Donald, by the way. Also, can you tell Susan to actually trust me? Four years here and she still won’t let be bring anything in unless it’s in a transparent baggie.”

“I’ll let her know.” Andy beamed at him, and Cecil wasn’t sure what to say. “Thanks,” he repeated again, sucking his cheeks in and trying not to look half as uneasy as he felt. “I’m sorry about your birthday. Martian Man sends his apologies.”

”I know,” Andy said with a lopsided grin. “Who do you think taught me how to make this soup? You know how embarrassing it is to be taught how to cook by an alien from another planet? Apparently that little kid he was caring for frequented this soup kitchen — you don’t care about all that.”

”No, I do,” Cecil said, going back for the soup, already feeling his sinuses clearing up. “Making up for your birthday dinner, right?”

Andy’s brows shot up. “Well, in that case… shit’s been crazy on Global Guardians recently. They added some of the Teen Team members and I’ve been getting dogged on by these Atom Eve mains. You’d think with my reflexes I’d be better but I swear these people are cheating — also happy birthday, as of like two minutes ago — but then again everyone’s cheating—“

Cecil couldn’t help the way he almost choked on his soup, glancing up at Andy. “What?”

”No, seriously. If I’m losing, everyone on the enemy team is cheating, and that’s the truth.” Andy lifted his bowl and began to drink straight from it, pausing to continue. “I might’ve forced Donald to tell me when your birthday is, down to the minute. I mean, sixty. That’s big. You’re almost old enough to run for president.”

Cecil barked a laugh. “Alright, that’s enough.” He looked down at the food again, sniffling despite himself. “Continue on the… game thing.”

Andy pulled a face. “Wow. You know what? Get sick more often. Softens you up, Mr. Stedman. Anyways, like I was saying…”

The kid had a talent for talking endlessly when given the opportunity, but Cecil found that he didn’t mind it half as much as he did anything else. He knew, in his gut, that Andy was reading him like a book, that he could tell Cecil wasn’t accustomed to this sort of camaraderie, that this probably would never happen again because really…

The world wouldn’t stop spinning for guys like them. But just for tonight, it really felt like it did.

[caliburn-not-calculator]

Short thing for my Coffeeshop Au, other fics for which can be found in AO3 as part of the Sweet in You series

Anyway, early days, Maxim notices something weird about his coffee

Maxim hid his grimace behind his steaming mug. The dark liquid was covered by an inviting golden brown crema, but he was well acquainted with the bitterness which lurked beneath. But if he was drinking coffee merely for the taste than he wouldn’t ever have it at all. The fact was, plain black coffee did the job of rapidly caffeinating him far better than anything else, so despite his dislike he suffered through it regularly. It was unpleasant, but he wasn’t adventurous enough to try something else he risked disliking even more.

Though he had to admit, this particular place made it at least mildly bearable.

The small tucked away cafe, the Sprite Spring, named as such for its many indoor plants and pixie logo, was a quality one. The perfect quiet place not far from home for him to work free of his usual distractions. Maxim tapped away at his keyboard, the laptop screen glare harsh in the cosy morning dim, slowly bracing himself for a sip.

Swiftly, as though taking a swig of hard liquor, he down a large gulp. Best to get it over and done with. However, he paused, the earthy bitterness on his tongue still harsh and hot but… subtler. Noticeably more bearable. Sweeter? Definitely so. He frowned, squinting into the mug, his warped reflection peering back at him through the broken crema. He didn’t put sugar in his coffee, it was a matter of some stubbornness and awkward pride he had to admit. He certainly could, but the amount he’d need to add to make it enjoyable was frankly embarrassing, and he’d yet to stoop that low.

He glanced up to the counter. Had his order been mistaken? It couldn’t have, he got the same thing every time to the point where most severs rarely bothered to even ask him anymore, the barista who always seemed present in particular.

He was a young man, shoddily dyed silver hair with large gold framed glasses perched on a thin nose. Even when scrunched in concentration as he worked the coffee machine his eyes were peculiarly large, his focus taking on an intrigued quality. Maxim watched him now. He’d never made a mistake before, and if anything seemed exceptionally competent at his job (aside from his woeful attempts at small talk, but Maxim wasn’t one to judge that).

The man’s lips twitched into a frown, his fiddling with the portafilter pausing as he looked up. For a second, their eyes locked.

Curious… In the sunlight starting to peak through the tall building into the coffeeshop his brown eyes seemed to flare, a low simmering gold ringed by a dark coffee toned halo. Appropriately thematic, Maxim mused. He stared blankly back, before his shoulders jolted, the portafilter slipping from his thin fingers only to be hastily caught with a curse. Maxim yanked his gaze away also, but not before catching the flush which coloured his sharp cheekbones.

Maxim cleared his throat, staring hard at his laptop.

Maybe the young man, Veerle if the named he’d overheard was correct, was having an off day. He did seem rather tired. Perhaps that’s why he’d slipped sugar into his coffee.

Probably.

Why else would he do it?

[my-stories-vault]

Chapter 2 ~ Purgatory Series.

Pairing: American Dean Winchester X English Y/N L/N; American Dean Winchester X American Y/N L/N

Blurb: Purgatory suits you, to be honest. Plenty of distractions to choose from, you can kill as many as to your heart's content. And your heart is one insatiable bastard—it'll do anything to keep the memories of your ex away. Until a face much similar to his struts up into your territory, looking for you, promising you a home you lost too long ago. Your heart melted once before, do you think you would be able to risk it all again for the same criminally handsome face?

Warnings/Trigger Warnings (18+): Supernatural Wars spoilers, major and minor character deaths, mentions of previous major character deaths, voilence, gore, tons of angst, (sort of, but not really) love triangle, language, self-sacrifices (not exactly suicide), betrayals, etc.

Note: This was written four years ago and English is my second language - I've tried to edit without losing the past-me's "authenticity", but let's face it, spellings ain't my strong suit, and even Grammerly gave up, soooo all the mistakes are mine 🙂🙃.

{ Series Masterlist ; Main Masterlist }

Purgatory Series: Part 2.

You grew up in a world of trees, learning about their medicinal and consumer properties as a Leader, and used them as shelters from monsters and from the occasional angelic blasts. You, personally, grew up in palaces, some underground and some on-ground, concealed by enough witchy-woo that it might've fooled God, Himself. But all your time between hunts, on the road, was spent in underground dwellings or treehouses. Rarely, in cars like Baby.

These seven years, five days, six hours, and forty-nine minutes felt like a long-winded hunt. You were counting every second tensely, you were constantly killing monsters with all due brutality, and you hadn't let your adrenaline-addled brain think of anything but the current moment of crimson gore and guts. Purgatory had kept that constant for you.

Until he walked in.

Now your mind felt like a hot tea kettle about to blow its top with all this suppressed steam. Wisps of vapor had already sneaked past the tightly lidded compartment in your brain (labeled, "never"). They came to you in the form of whispers of your Dean's voice, talking to you from your tormented memories. His laugh, his pitch, his accent, his words, all bombarded your sanity and clung onto your weak mind by tenterhooks.

Oh, who were you kidding?

You didn't even want sanity at this point. You would gladly take some fucking peace. Ignorance was peaceful, and this man's criminally handsome face was fucking not.

God, I'm screwed, you groaned to yourself for the umpteenth time.

Your heart palpitations were still getting used to glancing at him fully, in increments. You don't think it could take longer than thirty seconds before shattering into a million pieces. And let's not even get started on his eyes, which are so familiar yet literally worlds apart.

You spun a gold ring on the forest floor. It was the soulmate ring your lover had given you. The other half had probably incinerated in the mass fire you all had ignited to cremate the battlefield of bodies. This was the last piece of your soulmateship left with you. The smoke from that evening had risen to the skies until even the clouds had to weep. If only that rain could've eased your burning pain too . . .

You alternated between playing with it and gazing at this new man.

He was gorgeous. His features were sculpted by God, freckles dotting his face, pink lips parted and sharp jaw slacked as he slept. He even had a perfect nose which was just plain unfair; how many times did you have yours broken? 

There was a small pit of now sodden branches and leaves, and the fire had long diminished to avoid attracting monsters. But even with all the precautions, you both had agreed to take turns in sleeping.

You had several treehouses to spend your nights in. Given your reckless state of affairs, you didn't want anything but the best for this man. Your safest house, your best armory, and the most humanly liveable area at Purgatory. Right now, two humans meant double trouble, you both are as traceable as a dinosaur's footprint would've been.

Purgatory was full of bad neighborhoods. The unmarked territories were mapped in everyone's mind. Newbies usually just popped up in the locale where their kind lived. Humans were utterly displaced in a setting like this. Thus, you'd made niches for yourself. You'd lost your treehouses just as many times as you'd made them - there wasn't a lack of wood or leaves here, after all. You did lose three of your sleeping bags in the beginning though - you quickly learned to stash bags and supplies separate from your houses since then.

Those were the supplies you were currently depleting while on the move with this hunter. You'd even asked the fairies to stop aiding fairie lights after you learned that this man hated them; he'd given you a whole-ass story you'd tuned out during, sans latching to the deep drone of his voice.

What good will getting to know this man do? He will be gone in a matter of some time. Why in the name of Hell would you want to have his memories haunt you too?

You had enough dialogues in your head without adding an American-editioned one.

Your heart already moaned at the thought of bidding this hunter adieu - you'd specifically miss his face, his bow legs, and his conduct of himself . . .

Your feelings refused to believe that this wasn't your Dean, so obviously you had the urge to run into his arms and kiss his stupid face at random moments in the day. But you resisted because your logic knew better. It knew you couldn't have a life with this hunter from another planet who, by chance, had the same face as the love of your life.

That's precisely why you had been so cold to him. After your outburst the other day, he had respected your wish not to say your name; you never learned his. For fuck's sake, you had been careful not even to say a word to him, unless it was when you were fighting monsters.

For three days straight, you haven't talked since you've been taking him routes where monsters don't belong. You can avoid a monster as well as you can track one - your working skills are a few of your only abilities.

Dean had been trying to fill the silences and you already knew him more than you wanted to because no matter how you much you ignore him, at some point your ears can't not function. What you have listening, you've been answering with shrugs, nods, and pointing. He's gotten frustrated with you. Because, and you learned this fast, if there's one thing this guy doesn't like - it's silence.

He had to be clumsy, he had to be loud. He had to parlance in his gruff, devil-may-care attitude. He had to pass witty comments while battling creatures. He would hum to himself when he thought you were sleeping. He would talk to himself when he thought you couldn't hear. He would sing and pretend he was playing an air guitar or drums when he thought you weren't looking.

Yet, you saw it all, you heard it all. Everything - including his prayers to his angel friend. It had become his habit, to pray to this guy - Cas - was its name. It was an unusual name for an angel, so you chalked it up to being a pet name - you refused to think about the full name because that would mean you're involved. You don't even want to pretend you are interested, lest it unlock something horrible like Pandora's box.

There was another problem with his yapping. The more you heard him, you realized that he wasn't very different from your Dean. Maybe he was less carefree like he'd led a poorer life. He didn't have the etiquette your Dean did. He also didn't seem to care about his hygiene or tree-climbing.

Your Dean had been more poised and pristine - you suppose it came to him more naturally. Which was a given considering he was a Royal in the human faction. It was why your scumbag parents "agreed" to let you marry him. You had gotten engaged to him in haste and were an official couple for a year.

It had been the best and the worst year of your life.

A hushed voice to your left had your head snapping in that direction. Your ring fell flat on the surface, you slipped it onto the middle finger of your wrong hand - you didn't feel right wearing it on your left hand's ring finger.

You straightened from your awkward, slumped position, frowning in the general direction of the whispers. Your hand brought out an arrow and nocked it without a conscious thought.

You'd warded the trees with powerful sigils and no one should be able to find you inside the magical space without permission.

You walked a little away from your campsite, scanning the area ahead of you as best as you could with almost no light. You reached the border of your hand-drawn circle, waiting and listening for movement. There was no one within sight.

Your legendary gut disagreed.

When your scrutiny got you nowhere, just to be sure, you checked all the wards you had carved in the trees that made your misshapen perimeter. The wards made it so, that whichever monster passed by would feel that there was a more powerful creature in that area, and so they wouldn't attack.

You turned back to the center where the hunter was curled up in his sleeping bag, reduced to a ball as if he wanted to disappear from this problematic landscape. Your features softened without your consent as you gazed at him. You cared about him on reflex, a natural instinct - you didn't know this yourself, but this man already had a soft corner in your heart; he may not have wormed his way in himself, but his lookalike had.

A lookalike who is dea . . . You physically swallow the word.

You knew what happened to your Dean, you knew how, and you knew he would never come back; you can be pragmatic about it all when you don't think of it all in one sentence. If you put your distorted thoughts together to make that memory - it will destroy you.

You shook your head, sighing heavily. You wanted this nightmare to end but you weren't sure what the nightmare is right now.

I'm screwed, said your head like a broken tape recorder.

As you headed back to slide down the tree and pout, the weird whispering once more. This time it was coming from above you.

You strung your bow taut, and released your arrow upwards, no time for anyone to formulate a reaction. A yelp and a figure fell from the tree. It would have crushed you had you not leaped out of the way. You threw yourself against the only human in your vicinity.

'Monsters!' you alerted.

The man jolted upright. He tore his sleeping bag and slashed the monster's throat - you were so relieved that he had a survival gene that you wouldn't even reprimand him about the bag. You were grateful for his hunter training - it meant less work for you.

Unfortunately, this monster was healing faster than you both could attack.

You sprung to your feet, grabbed the green-eyed man's hand, and tugged his arm hard enough to pull a muscle. He didn't need to be tugged twice for he shot himself into a sprint alongside you in less than ten seconds, dodging trees like a pro and so silent-footed that he could've been flying on air.

In the dark, it had been hard to see the color of the monster's blood, but when you looked over your shoulder, the creature revealed its true face, throwing its head back and widening its maw, not forgetting to uncover his sharp pointed teeth meant to dig in any flesh, human or monster. It fucking shrieked at the top of his lungs to signal its friends.

You gritted your teeth in anger. These yucky bastards always came in groups - three, at least. They were impossible to kill in Purgatory, and the only thing that could even slightly hurt them was about twenty-four miles from here. Your arrows and Dean's sword were no good unless you chopped the thing's head off, and even that would only buy you a minute, tops.

You were so focused on your mental calculations, that you didn't even realize the one that was jumping down like a monkey from the tree to your right. You would've been flattened like a pancake if the hunter hadn't saved you.

'Move!' the guy yelled, pushing you out of harm's way, substituting himself. With an open mouth, and a full intent to eat the six-foot-one man, the Leviathan floored the hunter who raised his hands defensively, pressing his face into the dirt as he kept the monster at a literal arm's length.

You pulled out three arrows and shot them together at point-blank range, slicing the head clean off. Black goo poured out of the head socket like an open faucet and onto the man, drenching him in the disgusting stuff. He groaned, close-mouthed, and punched the head away so the body could flounder without vision for a while.

He rolled the body off him and grasped his dagger-slash-sword (the thing could pass as both, depending on what you wanted to call it).

'Duck!'

You obliged without hesitation.

Astonishingly (not), you and this hunter guy had a . . . rhythm. An undeniable chemistry, much like old times.

Don't go there, you begged.

This man slashed his weapon over your head, while you rolled away on the ground. A Leviathan head fell down where you had been a second ago. But your attention was elsewhere. You took out an arrow and shot it in the monster's knee who was about to attack the Dean-like guy.

You shouted, 'Eight o'clock!'

Dean swiftly turned and chopped off the monster's head who you just had shot in the leg. When he was done with it, he gave you a hand and pulled you along as you resumed your running.

Your eyes were everywhere, paranoid that there were more behind you.

'Where are we going?!' panted the tall man. You noticed that he often got tired fast while running, which amused you. But you guessed it wasn't his fault. Even if you had been hunters all your life - it wasn't enough to make one used to how much a person had to run in here. It took you seven years to build your sprinting stamina.

If Purgatory was an institution, it would pretty much teach everyone fight-or-flight. Freezing meant death, at least fight and flight had a good ratio of survival.

Running was a big part of Purgatory. As a hunter and a former Leader, fight was your go-to, your biggest advantage. But it burnt you out fairly quickly. Embarrassed by your low stamina, you decided to put yourself on extensive cardio since then. Now you were confident you could give an Olympic winner a run for his money (pun intended). Even now, you were running slower for the benefit of this new guy.

To answer the human's question, you jutted your thumb in the general direction, trying to avoid speaking to him now that you both were out of immediate danger. He huffed in annoyance but continued following you.

So far, you both seemed to have lost the unfriendly company.

Your muscles flexed to their full potential, swerving trees timely, coordinating with your eyes to land on roots instead of fallen leaves to avoid making the crunchy noise.

You had been so caught up, that you didn't even realize that your hand was still entwined with the guy's. Noticing it, you shirked his hold. The human didn't mind, panting and sweating.

'I . . . when . . . stop . . . .' wheezed the man.

You gestured towards the edge of the forest you two were approaching. It was a rock formation, a dead-end for many people. The first time you had reached this dead-end, you had almost died. After that, you made sure that if you were to reach this place again, you were going to have a place to hide.

The hunter doubled over when you reached your destination, trying to catch his breath with his hands on his knees. He was gasping like a fish out of water while you were mildly winded.

Your eyes skipped to the mark on one of the largest rocks. You kneeled in front of it, pushing in a small boulder between two huge ones. It was a short crawling space that would lead to a relatively larger cave. You used to make these in your own world's America all the time, not in Europe - but the cave-crafting skill helped you here in Purgatory.

You had left a mark on a larger rock, which was impossible to move without bringing down this entire structure. You had done that so that no one would think that was something behind this place. While, in reality, you could crawl in by your elbows from down below.

You urged the man to follow you. His breathing had come back to normal, somewhat.

'What?' he licked his dry bottom lip, drawing your attention to it for a minute second before you ceased looking at him and his sweat-stricken body. You chose to focus on how abhorrent he seemed in blood-soaked clothes, and not how you could kiss his adorable scowl away.

You pointed at the hole and waved your hand again. He rolled his eyes exasperatedly. You ignored him and crept inside, pushing the rock further in to make more space.

You took his weapon from him as he followed you in, putting your bow and arrows away with his dagger in some corner of the cave, freeing space to roll the rock back out so it looked like it had never moved. You had preferred for it to roll in so that it didn't leave any tracks outside for anyone to notice.

It was pitch black inside, and you searched for the flashstick you'd left here somewhere. You were trying to find it on your side of the wall, despite being acutely aware of being cramped shoulder-to-shoulder.

When you had previously made it, you just needed enough space to ball up and make it to the next morning. It wasn't even too tall, so you couldn't stand in here. All those times, you'd shift the next day when your threat was gone. You never predicted sharing the space with the mirror image of your ex-boyfriend.

'What happened to the wards? Don't they work on Leviathans too?' he asked, his uneven breathing leveling just now.

He was moving around to get comfortable. Heat licked up your spine because you could feel every twitch he made against you.

You forced yourself to answer his question, you would've preferred shrugging, but the light was lacking. You cursed under your breath, realizing you would need to speak.

'They don't work if someone's given them your exact location. Someone must have betrayed us.' You already had a few suspects.

'Oh, she speaks,' the blond-haired man sassed.

You rolled your eyes. 'I have no choice.'

'Why do you roll your eyes so much?'

You froze.

'How did you—?'

'You roll your eyes on ninety-nine percent of things I say.'

This made you roll your eyes again, purely as a reflex.

'. . . You rolled your eyes again, didn't you?'

'Oh, shut up,' you groused.

'Why do you hate me so much?'

You froze again.

He was more perceptive than you'd credited him to be.

'I don't hate you,' you said in a monotone.

He scoffed, 'Yeah, right. And I'm Paris Hilton.'

You don't even know who that is. Judging from the sarcasm, Dean wasn't them.

You bit the inside of your cheek.

Can't punish them if they ain't wrong, darling, whispered Dean's voice. You wished the voice would've been accompanied by a tender forehead kiss.

'Don't roll your eyes at me,' the man demanded.

'That's not all my reactions,' you huffed.

'Oh. I thought—'

'Well, I didn't,' you snapped at him. An awkward pause. You exhaled sharply. 'You just . . . you remind me of someone, okay?' you confessed. 'Someone I've worked hard to forget.'

'Because you hated them?' he queried, his voice quiet.

You wondered if he'd put two-and-two together and concluded that you were avoiding his lookalike; what else did he know if he knew about alternate universes?

'Why do you care?' you asked, sounding more tired than you are.

'. . . I don't know.'

Cue silence.

Dean's voice in your head encouraged you to open up like he always had. You realized that now might be a good time to show your heart, burnt to a crisp - when there is no light.

'Fine. Ask what you want to,' you consented.

'Really?'

You rolled your eyes. 'Don't have to sound so surprised, hunter.'

'You rolled your eyes again, didn't you?' he teased.

'Oh, for the love of—Quit poking the bear and get ahead while you still can,' he gritted.

He chuckled shortly, 'Sorry. Okay, well, what's your planet like?'

'Chaotic,' you worded, 'far as I can remember. We have always been at war. When it stopped, I came here.'

'How? I came here cause I was standing too close to Dick when we killed him. He exploded and we landed here. But you're from a whole another universe.'

You pondered about what kind of homophobic world he lived in to be banished to Purgatory for his sexual preferences. Where you came from, everyone was too busy surviving to really discriminate on the basis of religion or marriage preferences. There was the patriarchy but mostly in Leadership positions only.

Okay! There was also the nepotism that got you where you were. But at least nothing wasn't as bad as this man's planet!

Curiosity and your thirst for knowledge took over, 'First, how are Leviathans related to your sexual status? What dick were you close to? Are you gay, or bi? Up to you to answer that, of course. Also, what else does your unkind government do to people like you?'

His voice raised an octave, 'What, no! Dick Roman was the Leviathan Head we diced. People on my planet aren't homophobes . . . I mean, it's a debate. But I'm heterosexual.'

Your brows creased.

'Oh, all right,' you nodded. This was fun, you'd forgotten about the joy of learning. 'Oh, and second, I didn't end up here. I chose this place.'

'Why?' he asked with a certain amount of shock.

'Well,' you grimaced. How to answer his questions without unleashing the Kraken, a.k.a., the feels?

'Let me start at the beginning,' you said. 'The angels on our planet realized that God left our universe, so they threw a tantrum. Their rebellion meant inevitable war for everyone. Four factions - angels, demons, monsters, and humans. Most of everyone there had to be a hunter. The Leaders are the people who have already been hunting their whole lives. My family was one of those. I'm a generational hunter, one of the most experienced. We had twelve Leaderships at a time. Two for each continent, except Antarctica.'

'Were you a Leader?'

'Yep. My ex-fiancé and I had Europe. My brother, Seth, had half of America with my best friend, B/F. We all fought a lot of wars like our ancestors but our time was more . . . intense, if you will.

'We called these series of wars "the Supernatural Wars" - what with all the unnatural enemies. It had been prophecied, long, long, long back, way before any of us was even born that there would come a time when all the twelve Leaders would be so terrifyingly good at their job, that they would somehow end the Wars.'

'Crazy.'

'Mm. Simply put: we lost the game of tag because we were fucking it.'

'I can't imagine how it must have felt.' He cleared his throat, 'Though, no wonder you survived this long in Purgatory. You're a badass.'

You guffawed. 'Nah. I'm just . . . I just survived the longest. We did end the Wars, but . . . all the other eleven Leaders were killed off. Of course, they died killing huge parts of other factions. Like, there was a Jessica Winchester who handled half of Asia - she destroyed Leviathans on our planet—'

'Wait,' he interrupted, 'Jessica? As in Jessica Moore?'

'Yeah,' you frowned, before saying it more firmly. 'Yeah, that was her maiden name. Before she married this guy Sam Winchester who handled the other half of Asia, and he killed Lucifer.'

'No way!' the guy stuttered over a disbelieving chuckle.

'Way,' you said dryly. 'And even if you know this guy in your world, don't tell me,' you warned this human, 'I don't wanna know.'

You still remembered how your Dean had dotted on his brother, Sammy. And how heartbroken he had been when . . . you just didn't wanna know if there was Sam's lookalike, too, or his namesake on this one's planet.

'Um, okay. I won't push. But uh, can I know who else was there in your world? What were the other Leaders' names? What did they do?'

You worried your bottom lip. You knew everyone's contributions by heart, there had been too much media involved for the world to not remember.

'B/F killed this pesky angel, Metatron - he tried to interfere with humanity, so she put an end to him. My brother killed the archangel Raphael. There was this Leader, Charlie Bradburry - she shut the doors of Heaven and Hell, killing half of both factions' populations.'

'Good for her,' the man breathed out.

You didn't mention how half the Leaders died doing this stuff, and the other half like you, were betrayed.

'Uh-huh,' you muttered. 'There was also a Joana Harvell. She was Charlie's partner. They both shared South America. Jo killed this King of Hell—'

'Crowley?' the man asked, sounding a tad hopeful.

'Yeah, that was his name. There was more than one King since she kept killing them. Then, there was Robert Singer. He handled Africa with his buddy Rufus. They destroyed most of the monster Alphas.'

'He's a tough nut,' the guy said. You detected a hint of hurt, but you shrugged it off.

'He was. He was also the Head of Leaders along with Rufus, based on seniority. Most people retire at their age, but they stuck around. Leaders make rules for the human faction, they made rules for us.

'Then - what continent am I forgetting? - oh! Australia. Leader Jack Kline and Leader Jody Mills—'

'Jody's a hunter?'

'Why else would she be a Leader?' you deadpanned. 'She used to run this elite team of female hunters that would send help to the whole world, as and when required. They were stationed there too because Jack could teleport them.'

'You let a monster become your Leader?'

'He wasn't a monster, per se. He was a good guy with great powers. We needed someone who could coordinate between us and the other three factions. He was perfect for the job and very loyal. Everyone from other factions was as terrified of him as they were of us. What he lacked in experience, he made up in compassion.'

'Sounds charming.' A pause. 'Was there a guy named Dean Winchester?'

You stiffened.

You know his name, you thought to yourself. This is just a question. Just an innocent, run-of-the-mill question.

Deep breaths . . .

'He was the last leader. He killed this thing called Amara.'

'What's that?'

You quirked a smirk. 'Oh, she was just the most terrifying monster of them all.' You were proud of your boyfriend for how he saved the world. 'Dean was the first Leader in the history to kill someone of such great magnitude. He triggered the prophecy, in fact.'

And you ended it.

'Sweet,' and you could hear the grin in his voice.

You didn't ponder much on that.

'He was,' you gulped the tightness in your throat. He is the only person who understood you.

'Who did you kill?'

'No one big, just the archangel Micheal.'

After so many Leaders had killed so many big leagues, no one had been impressed by you taking down Michael.

It had been the biggest achievement of your life, and the people who mattered to you were happy for you. But ultimately, to your mother who set you on the path of Leadership, it hadn't been a big deal.

You obviously didn't do it for her. You took Micheal by the horns for Dean. But it did disturb you a great deal when she downplayed your success after hounding you your entire life to become "something".

It had been a real mood-killer.

The guy spluttered, 'No one big?'

You shrugged. 'I had to turn myself into an archangel, temporarily, and then I killed him in this great battle. I took him to Bermuda Triangle so that he didn't damage too much of the Earth. I almost died, but, an angel helped me heal.'

'The angel was your friend?'

'Pretended to be one. Later on, he killed my family.'

The angel's face was seared in your mind, the most unforgivable thing of your life.

'That's horrible.'

'I know,' you sighed. 'That's why I keep a tight lid on my marbles, can't have them spill all over the floor for everyone to see like a freak show.'

'I understand that,' the man muttered.

You felt an invisible bond glistening through the darkness. Itching to squash it, you marched on with your explanation.

'A treaty had to be signed between our four factions - no one had seen as much carnage as our time. As a show of faith, one entity from each faction had to be sacrificed in order to stop the war.'

'You were the only one left.'

'Unbelievably,' you said.

All the other hunters were far more seasoned and you were this newbie who destroyed everything by trusting an angel. No wonder they shunned you here, where you couldn't crawl your sorry ass back to the planet.

'I came to Purgatory. Rowena, the Queen of Hell was sent to Heaven's prison. Gabriel, the last archangel went to Hell. And the last Alpha - the Alpha of Vampires, he was kept in a customized prison amongst humans. The monsters put me here so that I couldn't get back - they decided this was the best punishment for me. They basically wanted to eradicate everyone in that war, afraid that we'd want revenge and try to amass our powers. They kicked us at our lowest so we don't rise again.'

'Bet they expected you to die, didn't they?'

'Fuck, yeah,' you laughed, running your hand through your hair. 'No doubt.' If your own mother could . . . No, you wouldn't think of that either. 'I can't believe it's been seven years.'

'You're welcome to join my planet, you know?' the hunter blurted out. 'We'd be lucky to have an esteemed hunter like you,' he jested a little.

You could. But Purgatory was your sentence, you didn't feel like you'd earned death, much less freedom.

You brought the angel into everyone's lives. You trusted your mother. You made all the wrong choices for all the wrong people. You resulted in the death of millions.

You've had the opportunity to die in Purgatory every day but nothing shorter than a few life imprisonments should do.

'Move,' you ordered, changing topics.

'What?'

'I'm trying to find my flashlight. Move,' you said.

You kneeled, head bent to avoid the ceiling. He moved and hit your knee, almost making you fall forward but you grabbed his bicep for support. You slung yourself over his thighs so you were facing him, and only when you were steady, you moved your other hand to grab his shoulder but—

'Ow!' he cursed. 'That's my neck.'

You've forgotten how to be in such close quarters with another person if you're not killing them.

You mumbled an apology, waving your hand as if to raise in surrender, but—

Smack, 'Fuck, my nose!'

'Darling, I'm so sorry—Eek,' you squealed as his leg moved, inbalancing you. On reflex, you put your hand in front of you and - thwack.

'Ouch!' he groaned, prying your hand away from what you assumed was his cheek.

'I swear, I'm doing it on purpose! I mean, I'm not doing it on purpose! It's fun, but I wouldn't do it on purpose—'

'Just stop moving, sweetheart,' he growled.

'I can do that,' you told him. 'But let me just . . . ,' you tried to move again but your hand hit something with a soft squish.

'Son of a bitch! My eye!' the guy shot his hand up and grabbed yours before you could probably mutilate his whole body.

'Oh, my God, what the hell's happening?'

'It won't, if you just stopped. Fucking. Moving!'

'I'm extremely sorry, human. I'm just trying to find the light so that this doesn't happen again. I'm about to find it—'

'You're hand's still moving!?'

You were about to reply when your palm smacked into something wall-like, probably his chest.

The green-eyed man groaned, using his other hand to tackle your free one. 'I guess I got my answer,' he said incredulously. He pushed your hands away from his face.

You would have laughed if this wasn't so serious.

'Okay,' you said raising your entwined hands in surrender, but he didn't he didn't let them go. 'All right. How about we work together?'

You lifted your knees a little to adjust yourself next to him by moving off his lap. When you lowered your legs again—

'Oh, shit!' the guy almost yelled, and it didn't take a genius for you to figure out that you hit the jackpot: the family jewels.

Your eyes widened and jaw slackened as the person doubled over, your hands releasing from his hold. You immediately shifted as far as you could from him. That's when Dean's lookalike lunged forth, afraid that you were gonna hit him again somehow.

He took both your wrists in his hands, slamming them against the wall. He got on his knees and pushed you against the rough contour of his body, restricting any and all movements. To both of your surprise, the light suddenly flickered on.

You glance down from the corner of your eye to note that Dean's knee managed to push the button of the flashlight you had been looking for. His left eye was bloodshot and squinting against the sudden brightness. Though the man sighed in relief; his breath tickled your face, dawning realization that you two were mere inches apart.

Your mouth dried as you stared at him, a bit awestruck by his beauty.

Before you could regain your speech facility, conversation from the other side of the rock interrupted your train of thought.

Dean tensed against you but didn't move. You both knew it would be stupid and risky to make a single noise or movement. Leviathans have sharper ears than most. Now, it may not be angel sharp, but their hearing wasn't as weak as humans either. Just breathing was pushing it.

You mouthed to the hunter, 'Be still.'

He inclined his head in understanding.

'They couldn't have come here!' one of the voices yelled, 'Unless they vanished into the rocks, they went the other way!'

You both shared a smug smile.

The guy seemed to realize he was still holding you, so he let you go, and simply rested his palms on either side of your head, caging you against the wall. You retreated your hands between your chests to cross them.

Another scoffed, 'Sneaky bastards. I swear once I get my hands on them . . . !'

'Especially that Dean fucking Winchester!' the third one growled. 'I'm gonna rip him apart, limb by limb!'

Your breath hitched, eyes flying up to lock with his green orbs.

Dean . . . this is my Dean.

Dean hiked a shoulder up in a light shrug, expression apologetic.

'Be patient,' the fourth one chided. 'How far can that human skank drag him? They don't have a lot of options in here, just that one human portal that even monsters don't know about. We'll find them one way or another.'

'Isn't it the same portal that can carry a monster out of here too?' asked the third Leviathan.

'With some kind of spell, yeah,' consented the fourth person.

While you were intently listening to their words, Dean's mind was flying on another tangent.

He wanted to kiss you badly when he was this close to you, your seemingly irresistible lips just an inch or two away from his.

He couldn't deny his attraction from the moment he set his eyes on you. In the last five days, his admiration for you had steadily grown, and your life story thawed him. He hadn't thought a more unfortunate person than him or Sam could exist, and then here you were.

Although you never responded openly, he noticed your actions far more shrewdly than you gave him credit for. And he was trying to find that chink in your armor so he could offer you somebody to rely on, as much as he was coming to rely on you.

He didn't know how much of a help he would be, however. He couldn't believe the amount of pain you carried in your stoic eyes. You let down your shields a little today, and they shook him deeply. His mind lingered on the emotionlessness that was more terrifying to him than if you would've started sobbing into his shirt. He couldn't imagine ever being able to deal with what you are - either you didn't care enough or you cared too much.

Another thing that bothered him was that the number of Leaders didn't add up. You said there were twelve. You said everyone's name except your boyfriend's. You mentioned everyone's continent, except his own namesake's. Could it be that . . . ?

He shot the idea down as soon as he had it. It couldn't be, right? What were the odds of him being your long-lost lover?

He stared at you while you conveniently looked everywhere but his eyes. Your skittish behavior only firmed his suspicions.

'What's our plan of action?' the second one asked.

'Let's ask the fairies,' the fourth one announced. 'They will know all her secret hideouts.'

'Do you think she'll be at one of those?' the first one questioned.

'She has to be?' the third one said. 'We'll station our men at each of her safe houses.'

'Yeah,' agreed the fourth monster. 'Let's go, and hope that boss doesn't bib us for not catching them.'

They all murmured in agreement, shuffling away.

'They're gone?' you whispered as a test when you felt the monsters were a safe distance away.

When no one attacked, you both relaxed.

'Yeah,' Dean said, finally pulling away, slightly dazed from his proximity to you. 'You know my name now.'

You nodded mutely.

'What are we going to do?'

Meet each other at your lowest points? Heal each other of all your traumas? Become each other's worlds? Be engaged soulmates? Save one another constantly only for one of you to—?

TOO FAR! an inexplicable voice reverberated from your core. You wanted to scream like that voice until your voice box expired.

'We stay the night,' you said when you thought you could control your inner wails. 'Leave, come morrow.'

Dean observed you critically. 'You okay? You look like you've seen a ghost.'

Yeah, the ghost was sitting in front of you.

'Fine,' you raised an indifferent brow. 'Mind telling me how we'll sleep. I mean - we don't have to stay on guard now, right?'

Your lame words sounded as empty as you felt. You bit down on your lower lip to conceal the quivering.

Before Dean could stop himself, he grabbed your chin between his thumb and index finger, pulling your lip free from your teeth.

'Don't do that,' his voice was gravel. It got you to meet his eyes and there was an intimacy in them that almost paralyzed you.

If I play dead, will he go away?

He didn't give you time to respond, leaning back on his side of the wall, setting his legs apart. He grabbed your wrist and gently tugged, turning you into his arms so you were back-to-chest with Dean. His arms slinked around your waist to hold you securely to him. Dean couldn't believe how much he liked seeing you in his arms.

You felt the vibration of his chest before you heard his quiet laugh. 'You can breathe, sweetheart,' he teased.

His "sweetheart" was all wrong, it doused you with ice-cold water.

Don't react, don't react, don't react!

'You're gross you know that?'

His face fell. 'Is this not okay? This is the most comfortable position in this cave—'

(And Dean also thought he could test his theory about his namesake being your boyfriend in another world, but we don't talk about that.)

You rolled your eyes, raising a hand. 'I meant the goo on your shirt.'

Dean shook his head in disbelief, both disappointed and hurt by your response. 'Yeah, well, it's either this, or I remove it—'

'No,' you interjected quickly, which made him smirk ironically. 'This is fine. I'll . . . wash my clothes tomorrow.'

'After sleeping with me tonight, I don't think clothes are the only thing you're gonna need that water for,' he cheekily said, trying to salvage his ego. 'Let's just hope it's cold enough for you.'

Oh, he went there.

'Talk for yourself, Mr Winchester!'

You turned to your right side, resting your ear over his chest, closing your eyes, and sighing. Your hands tied around his waist to hold him close to you, taking him by surprise. His heartbeat accelerated under your ear, his smile faded, and his breath hitched.

'Problem, darling?' you challenged all rationality out the window. Competition was in your genes and Dean had seemingly pressed the right button.

'N-No,' he answered. His hands had a mind of their own as he tucked you closer into his frame, right hand around your shoulders and the left one laced in your h/l hair, stroking softly.

You bit your lip, shivering at the sensation, too busy melting in his embrace to care about an argument of sanity.

You like my hugs, don't you? he'd once asked.

You'd joked: It's like being smothered by a mama bear.

So you like it?

You love everything about Dean Winchester.

'I'm sorry,' the man holding you suddenly said.

You blurted in panic, eyes flying wide open: 'You're leaving?'

A frown carved into his pretty face as he watched insecurity plainly written across in your eyes. His insides withered upon your fearful gaze. He couldn't explain his strong connection to you, and he couldn't explain why he wanted to gather you in his arms and carry you away to his planet where he could protect you forever.

'No,' he said softly, guiding you back down. 'Of course not,' he rested his cheek atop your hair, tightening his hold in reassurance.

You could feel embarrassment color your cheeks, but at least you could pity yourself in his arms, where peace resides.

Just for tonight . . .

'Your safe houses,' Dean clarified. 'We can't go there anymore. Sorry you lost them.'

'Betrayal isn't new to me, Dean. I never trusted them fully; they don't know half my hideouts.'

'How many of those do you have?'

'Eh, a couple dozen.'

Couple dozen hundreds. Even you don't know where all of them are anymore.

He shook his head with a smile on his face. 'So, what's the plan?'

'Let's send the monsters a message,' you said.

'How?'

'A fairy massacre,' you stated casually.

He pursed his lips. 'Isn't that a bit extreme?'

'They started it.'

He couldn't argue with that.

'But don't let that slip. We only have to ask about the portal.'

'Do you think they know?'

'Those weak-willed little menaces?' you scoffed. 'No. They're too small to have sufficient brains. If they were smart, they would've thought twice before crossing me.'

'Then why ask?'

'I don't want them to know we know they betrayed us, or they'll go crying straight to the Leviathans. We kill them and pretend it's because they couldn't tell us about the portal. And if we leave one or two alive—'

'They'll run out of there, spreading rumors that we are looking for the human portal,' Dean pieced together.

'Uh-huh. Fairies are complaint boxes. Those tiny gossips run amok Purgatory, sending direct and indirect messages all over like some dumb pigeons. We just need to make sure the right message reaches the right person.'

'You don't think the Leviathans will stop them from spreading rumors about the top-secret portal?'

'It'll be too late by the time they get to them,' you shook your head. 'A fairy's got to blab like it has to count every grain of salt or sugar.'

'And then we lay low,' Dean concluded. 'Until the right monster finds us.'

'Exactly.'

'Great plan, sweetheart,' complimented Dean; your heart skipped a beat.

'When do you wanna start?'

'Tomorrow.'

'Super.'

Soon after, you fell asleep in Dean's arms.

You felt a pair of plush lips press against your forehead.

'Good Night, Y/N,' he whispered against your skin.

You no longer knew your dream from your reality.

A/N: Happy Birthday, Dean Winchester!!! I've always wanted to post on his birthday, lol, here's to my first!

Tag List.

@hobby27 @stoneyggirl2 @globetrotter28 @aylacavebear @emma1998sblog

[nlti2025]

Plain Gold Nose Pins vs. Rings: Which Minimalist Style Suits You Best?

When it comes to subtle nose jewelry, two styles always stand out: the plain gold nose pin and the plain gold nose ring. Both are simple, timeless, and easy to wear—but they serve different style preferences and face shapes. So how do you choose the one that’s right for you?

The plain nose pin sits flat on the nostril and is usually designed as a tiny stud or ball. It’s ideal for those who want something almost invisible but still refined. On the other hand, the nose ring creates a soft curve or hoop, giving a bit more definition and edge to your overall look.

Both options are available in 14K or 18K gold, so you get that signature warm shine and skin-safe quality no matter your pick. And because they don’t include stones or detailed designs, they’re super easy to clean and maintain.

Choosing between a plain gold nose pin and a plain gold nose ring often depends on comfort and occasion. Pins feel snug and low-profile—perfect for work or travel. Rings offer a little more presence and flair, great for festive or casual wear.

In the end, it’s not about which one is better—it’s about which one feels more “you.” And in many cases, owning both gives you the flexibility to switch it up based on your mood or outfit.

[autumnslance]

FFXIV Write 2024: 21 Shade

(You can all blame @voidsentprinces and one of their posts for inspiring this one cuz I sure as heck am. Spoilers through Dawntrail.)

-

In the colorful forests of Kozama’uka, a strange movement of light green catches my eye. For a moment, I imagine.

“This one finds this forest so lively! Will these ones feast soon with the bright feathered ones again?”

It was a trick of the light on banana leaves. The shade of our little courageous one is gone again.

-

We’re still in Kozama’uka, but the roar of the waterfalls is below instead of above, and we’re trying to reach out to the bandits harassing the Potsworn.

I think of a boy with gold hair and an eager smile, no longer wearing blue. “You gave me a second chance, and I’ve never regretted it. We’ll find a way to help them, too!”

I blink, and realize the only resemblance in the bandit before me is that he’s young and blond. The shade of our foolishly brave boy is gone again.

-

I cross the bridge to Shaaloani, with its hot, dry plains rolling into the distance, eventually leading to grasslands in the northeast and craggy hills in the west, toward what was Yyasulani.

A Landsguard officer speaks an order, but in familiar tones, a comrade to his men. His voice stirs a memory, and my mind wanders again.

“We’re a long away from Quarrymill, but this reminds me in some ways of home. I bet you still hear thanks enough whenever you go back.”

I look at the soldiers laughing with each other before dispersing to their duties. The shade of our revolutionary captain is gone again.

-

The sky always seems so close in Worlar’s Echo. The Yok Huy see a few more traders these days. I’m watching the moon cross the sky when someone lights a pipe, the smoke wafting past my nose. Comfortable as I am, I’m halfway to dreaming already.

“Foolishness. We know what it is now, hardly deserving the veneration bestowed upon it for so long. And you surely have better things to do than mourn the likes of me.”

I turn to protest, but now I am fully awake and see the pelupelu merchants smoking and haggling. The shade of our spiteful witch is gone again.

-

There’s a sense of responsibility to the people afflicted with levin sickness, especially the children. I make sure that Oblivion is getting the families everything they need. I visit the first boy we met with this illness, and offer a treat of real fruit juice from the farms. It’s a good day, and he smiles as he sips, his mother smiling through her tears as he manages the straw.

“You learn to take what moments of happiness you can get. You figured out how to help the light afflicted and the tempered; this too will be defeated in time. But find the little victories where you can meanwhile.”

I look up from the boy’s bed. It’s just him, his mother, and me in the room. The shade of our fierce carer is gone again.

-

I’m still awake in the pre-dawn hours, so take a mug of mate with me to the end of the boardwalk to watch the dawn. The endless blue of the water, with the light piercing into my eyes, makes me remember a similar sight at the end and start of everything.

“There is no true challenge in this land. ‘Tis a wonder you are not bored. But you always have found meaning and pleasure in people and their small matters.”

The sun continues rising and the city wakes. The shade of my antagonistic mirror is gone again.

I finish my mate, return to my cabin, and go to bed.

-

They come and go, these ghostly memories. Some not as much as they used to, since that journey into the aetherial sea. Perhaps their aid and that last chance to say goodbye made a difference.

Maybe I am simply sentimental.

“The burden of heroes and leaders,” one of my newer ones says. “We spend all our time fighting for their lives and happiness, and feel it keenly when we fail them. Yet they helped to shape us, and so stay with us. And we strive to do better by those who come after them.”

I look up, but the shade of that heroic father is gone, the echo of his boisterous laugh ringing through his city’s streets, in his daughter’s own laughter. She waves to me now, her brother, her nephew, and our comrades with her. They are all exuberant and bright and alive, with so much possibility ahead.

I laugh as I wave to my friends.

[getouyuri]

fashion fashion fashion, what are the yakuza au characters sporting 🤲 readers included. I wanna get a better visual aid for everyone in my head

-🦊

ohhh delicious question ty my lovely fox anon, this is distracting me from my period cramps 🙂‍↕️

1. oyabun gojo with single lobe piercings, simple little stud earrings. he has biblically accurate freaky ass six-eyed angel tatted on his back, has a matching tattoo w/ geto and shoko as well but I haven’t decided what. hair style and everything is the same. he’s a big fan of simple black slacks, white button-up, light blue suit jacket and a matching tie. sometimes a light blue waistcoat over the button-up. lots of silver rings and wristwatches to flaunt his wealth

secretary!reader with simple stud earrings as well, maybe a few more. unsure on tats. very sophisticated, sharply put together appearance but with a very obvious slutty edge. can get away with wearing this at hq (see picture below) and even riskier clothing, like sheer clothing. finely yet tightly fitted suits, pantsuits, dresses, skirts. extremely gorgeous in an office siren way, low eyes and a catty smile

2. informant shoko with a nose ring and an ashley piercing which brings more attention to her lips; all silver. has a matching tattoo w/ geto and gojo as well but I haven’t decided what. has a few tats scattered here and there (ex; flowers). she wears a lot of different clothes to fit in nicely with different settings due to her occupation but prefers a simple sweater/long-sleeve and jeans. hair style depends on the day but she prefers it down, likes letting stripper!reader do random hairstyles for her

stripper!reader with nipple piercings 100%. maybe a tattoo or two, tiny and minuscule where most people can’t find it. wardrobe is massive and she wears all sorts of things inside and outside of the night club. very comfortable with herself and her body and doesn’t mind wearing semi revealing clothes in public and in intimate settings. always looks like she just stepped fresh off of the runway. surprisingly soft features with a slightly sharp/angular edge, angelic features

3. wakagashira-hosa choso with an eyebrow piercing, industrial piercings, and a septum piercing, all silver. unsure on tats but he definitely has some, including his canon nose bridge tattoo. dressed in expensive but plain suits, just black slacks and black suit jacket combo with a plain white button-up; blends in. typically wears his hair down. always has that canon disassociated/tired/grungy look ofc

teacher!reader with simple earring studs, no tats. dresses professionally, business casual methinks but with little splashes of cheer, like a cute pin on a lapel. always has a really nice bag they’re defo a bag person… laptop bags, normal bags, etc., and pairs them very well with their outfits. very pretty pink lips that stand out like gojo’s, just like the candy they keep in a bowl at their desk (that choso likes to eat). nails are always perfectly filed in particular

4. oyabun geto with three jacob’s ladder piercings (he got them for angels!reader and for himself) and a tongue piercing, all gold because he has tanner ish skin and he’d look gorgeous with gold. ofc his lobes with his black gauges. has tatted sleeves of dragons/phoenixes/ flowers (he never rolls up his cuffs in order to hide his sleeves) and a buddha on his back. has a matching tattoo w/ shoko and gojo as well but I haven’t decided what. has angels!reader’s initials tatted over his heart. black slacks and a crimson button-up with a black waistcoat over it, crimson tie. very sharply dressed in darker colors. usually has his hair half up half down like adult geto :3

angels!reader has nipple piercings that make geto tweak tf out. like fully tweak tf out. anyways, they also have a lip piercing and some lobe ones. probably some tats but unsure of what, but they have geto’s initials tatted on their hip. always wearing the garuda’s angels leather jacket no matter what (black with a white snake on the back). sometimes wears cropped shirts and they’re a fan of sleeveless v-necks and other shirts in that vein. always wears jeans and boots of some kind. very lazy yet assured smile, loose and relaxed posture

5. former oyabun kenjaku doesn’t have any piercings at all. has a massive back tattoo with flowers and whatnot intertwined into it, probably forms some sort of scenery. always wears yukatas and kimonos, casual house slippers, rings on his fingers constantly. he is rocking the hell outta that damn ankle monitor icl

3rd spouse reader eerrrmrmmm hmmm… they’re just kind of a blank slate in my head tbh? dresses fairly traditionally… that’s about it

6. oyabun sukuna ONE HUNDRED PERCENT HAS A THIRD-EYE PIERCING (piercing right between the brows), snakebites, industrial piercings, and definitely has a prince albert, all gold. has some sort of back tattoo… and has the tora-gumi tiger on his chest but he’s the only one that has a snake wrapped around the tiger. and ofc he has his canon striped lines tattoos. wears the reverse of geto’s fit kinda… black slacks and a black button-up with a crimson waistcoat over it, black tie

otaku!reader has a few piercings, not sure what exactly but definitely some ear ones among others. has manyyy anime and video game tattoos, will leave those up to y’alls imaginations lmao, and other random tattoos. dresses very slayfully in street fashion & y2k fashion, sometimes with hints of gyaru/gyaruo elements in their clothes. possibly wears prescription glasses

7. garuda’s angels leader yuki with nipple piercings (moans rlly loudly), a navel piercing (she wears cropped shirts a lot so she probably has a bunch of cute dangly ones… thinking butterflies, flowers, etc.), a tongue piercing, a helix piercing or two. has a matching snake tattoo with utahime on their ankles + some other tats. always wearing the garuda’s angels leather jacket no matter what (black with a white snake on the back) over a compression shirt or tank top (moans again) and always wears jeans and boots. always wears the matching promise ring she has with barista!reader. my gorgeous queen

barista!reader has some lobe piercings and a simple nose ring, maybe a tongue piercing. she has a tattoo of their cat somewhere. always dresses very cozy and fashionable, nice sweaters and sweatshirts, flared high-waisted jeans, etc. stuff like that. lots of rings on her fingers including the matching promise ring she has with yuki, probably wears chains on her jeans occasionally

8. garuda’s angels assassin toji with simple stud earrings and a tongue piercing, gold or silver I can see both. has a few tattoos, unsure of what yet. wears lots of sweatpants & sweatshirts, tank tops, t-shirts, and the like

goth!reader Ooohhhhh my gorgeous queen. snake bites, multiple ear piercings, a septum or just a regular nose ring, and a clit piercing for her freaky ass. dresses very goth but like… goth street fashion, sometimes gothic lolita which makes toji nut everywhere. very big fan of leather and lace and sheer clothing, very much Stands Out even when they’re not dressed goth (shown below). darkly colored lipstick and winged eyeliner, etc etc.. tbh ive been visualizing them as black and they’d defo have locs. very confident and that adds to how gorgeous she is

[cheerstotheelites-if]

RO Updated Look³ (but I'm actually satisfied)

Under the cut for my design and change ramblings + the old design if you wanna compare and see the changes.

Here they are, fully in technicolor. Blasted melanin into Weylyn, Eliseo, and Ophelia, because A) I dislike how washed out they looked in the old design, B) makes them actually look distinct and not muddled, and C) they are literally mixed race and that feels like an injustice to them (yes 'them', because I'm including Weylyn now (his other half is from his mother's side). The color palette for each of them (individually and together) looks better, now that it's less saturated and easier on the eyes since the colors are bit more muted now. The clothes are better now too, and look like something they would all actually wear on a normal day based on their style preference. Plus, noses! All of 'em got distinct nose shapes. I tried to give also their own eyeshapes, but I think I mostly failed at that. And, uh, I guess face shapes? Weylyn's the most noticeable compared to his old design, and I honestly am happy with how he looks now.

Fleur's the only one that changed the least, I swear. She only got a haircut and called it a day. Jasiel too, but I'm already satisfied with how I dressed him, so he's fine the way he is already. Just changed his color palette from the saturated traditonally drawn art of him by muting down his colors and gave him brass bronze colored eyes to differentiate him from his siblings' golden ones.

I'm still really happy about Zephyrine's redesign, makes her the girly I knew she was destined to be. It really makes her stand out more and gives a better impression of her, plus it oomfs her character silhouette which is nice. I'd like to imagine she thrifts her clothes frequently, so there are a few clothes she has that look worn and washed out and clearly refurbished by her. The golden zig-zag on her cardigan is put there by her since she found it plain without a little pizzaz, and the gray beads on the end of her skirt used to form a leaf patter for each pleat, but lost beads overtime, so Zeph just added more beads, not to remake the shape (god forbid her patience runs out before she even manages to make one), but more on mark the skirt as now hers and styled to her preference.

Weylyn and Cooper were eventually dragged in to the redesign, mostly with fixing their hair (especially Cooper's since I didn't like him looking similar to Eliseo's) and clothes. Cooper's fit needed to give him that goofy weirdo vibe I wanted for him, plus actually making him look more friend coded than, uh... whatever I had in mind for his old fit. He's a bit more bejeweled, as more of a subtle telling that this man comes from wealth and is also kinda eccentric. For Weylyn, besides minutely fixing his hair and gave him new clothes, I changed his eye color too to a more yellowy hue than the old gold-ish one. It's not that obvious on mobile, but I swear it is on PC when I was drawing. 😭

Finally, Ophelia and Eliseo. The latter is fully embracing the dark grunge with pierced ears, a bit more silver chains and more rings and all that black clothes. The yellow smiley face is based on the band Nirvana's iconic logo, I just made it drippy and the smile into a toothy one for the troublemaker vibes this dude is going for. I gave him a mullet now (I think it's a mullet yet I also refuse to believe it is), based on some bad boy hair pictures I used as reference from Pinterest. Ophelia, on the other hand, had layers remove, let her wear a grandpa sweater and brown pants instead of her shorts (permanently stained with mud from all the times she went out to the forest to find for beetles), have a little string with beads dangle from her belt line as a treat. Her hands wear fingerless gloves now, and her doc martens are now replaced with regular old sneakers and black socks to hide her scarred ankles. She's droopy eyed now and I think it fits her more now for her personality and story compared to her round eyes. I based that loosely on Anya from Mouthwashing.

I didn't do a uniform line up like last time for the RO's that attend Lumintoile, because that'll be it's own seperate thing alongside an updated uniform look in general for the students. So you'll see everyone (minus Cooper) wearing uniforms with one of three pairs wearing a uniform variant for the different seasons. I also do plan to make an updated relationship chart, to see what's going on now currently between the RO's now that the story has changed and a new contender has arrived.

Older designs for comparison (minus Jasiel bc the man was not a concept at the time of me making this 😭)

[skyheld]

🚶 Ameridan

send me a 🚶 and I’ll introduce you to an NPC in my muse’s life. | accepting | @starkhvn

The first empress of Orlais watches the knight seated across from her with the distant, collected gaze of someone who has been married to the center of the world for nearly two decades and managed not to fade in its shadow herself. The firelight shimmers on the gold rings weighing her fingers, closed lightly around the slender stem of an emerald-encrusted goblet. Heavy plaits, bound with gold thread and as thick as her upper arms, have been carefully arranged to fall across her shoulders and into her lap, gleaming like her jewelled belt. Anyone would shrink in her presence, or feel themselves grow by her blessed radiance. But the knight does neither. He looks at her without fear, eyes pale and piercing, his face bare save for the tattoos traced upon his skin.

The last mage who got this close to her was already dead. She took him down at a thirty-yard distance, but walked over to pull her arrow out of his eye socket and to see if a mage's face was any different from that of someone born uncursed. There was no difference that she could see then, and there is no difference that she can see in the knight—except, of course that he is not human. An elven knight from across the Waking Sea, a mage walking free with the emperor's blessing, a dragon-hunter with a wolf shadowing his every step. That would be enough to make the court buzz with excitement, but there is more.

He is more. Clever, brave, well-spoken; lively in conversation without ever seeming superficial. He has a presence that is hard to look away from, something that draws the eye even in a crowd. She can see why Drakon likes him.

Which brings her to the reason she sent every servant and guard out of the room for this conversation.

"His Imperial Majesty our husband tells us you refuse to go behind our back", she says, her voice level as though she's speaking of the weather. "And that you would not entertain the thought of asking our permission." She gets the satisfaction of seeing his eyes widen, a flush touching the tips of his ears. He is no master of the masked Game the nobles play. That has not stopped him from doing well at court; his honesty is both refreshing and startling, and his confidence makes him no easy target despite the bare face he shows the world. Now, the reaction betrays him. "We see you understand", she continues. "Before you start making apologies, let us assure you we did not send for you to accuse or condemn you for the feelings you evoke in our husband. Your stance is admirable. However, it means we must lay awake at night listening to our husband's sighs over what he cannot have. In trying to protect our honour, you are giving us a terrible headache. So, though you did not ask for it, we are giving you permission."

The surprise is expected. Area wonders how he can bear to sit barefaced in front of her; without the heavy mask resting on the bridge of her nose, the pheasant feathers catching every little draft, sweat beading underneath the leather backing, she thinks she would go mad. But though his gaze leaves hers, he doesn't even turn away.

After the surprise, she expects gratitude. It happens, when one has been married to the center of the world for nearly two decades. Instead she is reminded of another reason Drakon likes him: even with the emperor of Orlais, the sun itself, Ameridan has never been afraid to speak his mind.

"I do not want Your Grace's permission." The goblet is placed on the table between them with a hard thunk, and when he looks at her again, the disapproval and insult is plain on his face. "If not for your honour, then for mine."

She blinks. It was long since anyone spoke against her so openly. "You do not want him?"

"Not like that."

"His Imperial Majesty strongly indicated there was mutual affection."

"He is married."

"We are telling you you have permission-"

"I do not want it. I will not be his—illicit lover, stealing moments in hidden alcoves off the garden path. I will not demean myself like that."

Area, first empress of Orlais, sets her own goblet down. She adjusts a ring on her finger until the stone is centered. She flattens a single hair that has escaped the gold ribbons around her braids, and smooths out her gown before letting her hand rest in her lap. The heavy fabric pools at her feet, its pattern iridescent in the light of the fire. No one knows how to make such fabric anymore. It was made in a small artisan village in southern Tevinter, which was wiped out in the hundred-and-twentieth year of the Blight. She wears it as a reminder of what they've all lost, and what they gained. The old world for the new one. For herself: freedom for power.

"He is married, yes", she says, and her voice changes. It is no longer the empress speaking, not fully. "He was fifteen, I was sixteen. He needed my father's military strength. Out of six daughters, he picked the one who was good at archery. Archery!" She laughs, bitter. "We were children. We knew nothing of what makes a marriage. If we could share hunting stories, surely the rest would come naturally. But it never did."

She knows she has said too much already, that these are the sort of secrets one takes to the grave and beyond. Yet they spill from her painted lips regardless of decorum, heedless of the Game.

"I am… fond of him. But I will take him to bed only for the purpose of giving him an heir. I see no reason why he should not have another. I have no jealousy in me. We are human. Humans called to higher purpose, yes, but why should we deny ourselves such simple pleasures so long as we do not compromise that purpose?"

"You are asking me to..."

"Drakon could have anyone. Anyone else would have leapt at the opportunity. Whether because they felt honoured or obliged to, or because of personal ambition, they would not have hesitated. But it is you he wants, and you..."

"I turned him down", he says. "And I suppose that makes it easier for you, because if I had asked your permission you would have had to grant it, for fear that I would still go behind your back if you did not. If I had asked the choice would have been mine. Now the choice is yours."

Maybe it is that. Her eyes close briefly behind the slits in her mask. But it is also that you may be the only person in the world sincere enough to truly love him.

"I am sorry", she says, the phrase strange in her mouth, almost forgotten. "People such as us do not have the luxury of doing things the usual way. All that we do is strange and unnatural, even love." She lifts her gaze to look out the window. Its shutters are closed. No one knows how to make such glass as the old empire did, either, and what can be made is needed for the chantries Drakon builds across his empire, so their castles are either drafty or dark. How can the Divine Age feel so painfully vulgar? Why must they still deal with such pettiness as drafts and love?

She draws a breath. The next moment she is the empress again, collected and remote, her face a mask behind her mask.

"You need not tell us your decision", she says, reaching for the little bell on the table to call the servants back into the room. "We will notice, as our headaches will either pass or worsen. We shall not speak of this again either way."