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monkebearness · 2 days ago

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Our Story, Like a Romance Novel [Chapter 2: Speed Love]

Chapter 0, Chapter 1

Tags: angst, fluff, slice of life, coming-of-age

Word count: 5k

a/n: there's gonna be a scene that may or may not be uncomfortable for some readers, but the angst tag is already there. but yeah, I gotta keep the story moving, so I hope you like it.

Having connected through SNS for a while, Nien and Junghoon hit it off to say the least. Getting to know each other through texting, even though they have already been hanging out in the same club four to five times a week, sometimes a little more, within the last three to four months since he was invited into the Mad Money Club.

Within that spam to lf time, Junghoon would often find the woman somewhere near his or her department building, if not at the club’s hangout room. At first, he expected this, considering their meetings mere chance encounters… But every time Nien catches his eyes, his heart keeps thumping louder, especially as their proximities close.

A wallflower since his early adolescence, never has he felt a sensation this fluttering and intrusive. His mind would spiral all over the place, and not even his sense of reason can try and make any excuse towards his inquisitive yearning to stay with her the chance he gets.

“Hey, Junghoon-ssi…” she walks to him in her backpack. “You done with your classes?”

Sometimes, those flutters make him nervous. Another time, they elevate his patience, interest, and determination with someone. In those moments, he turns into someone he’s usually not—yet he simply couldn't care less. Not even the lovey-dovey teases of Yubin, Dahyun, and Sohyun bothered him. In fact, they somewhat encouraged the butterflies flourishing in his stomach to push himself and do something—anything, to get himself out of his comfort zone, if it meant prolonging his moment with Nien.

The only problem is, he can’t come up with anything when he’s in front of her. “Yeah?”

“You’re not sure?” The left corner of her lips slightly raise in amusement.

There are perhaps millions, if not more ways to describe how he was feeling whenever he’s around Nien. Yet that’s also what often hindered him from expressing himself.

“I mean—yeah!” He clears his throat. “It just finished, actually… But, how about you?”

“We were done about three hours ago,” she informs him in a somewhat aloof tone.

“Wait…” He wiggles his head in confusion. “Don’t tell me, you waited there—”

“What do you think?”

One thing was for sure, mainly because of how his heart keeps on racing around her.

“Mianhaeyo!” Junghoon exclaims as he rapidly bows to her out of guilt.

“Oh, no, no, no! Please, Junghoon… I’m just kidding.”

“Oh… Well, I might as well apologize for keeping a lady waiting here for a long time.”

He likes this woman very much, and he’s not letting this new opportunity slide.

“Yah…” she folds her lips, even as they curve upwards, turning her eyes away from him. “I’m just here to fetch you before the girls meet, you know?”

“So you didn’t just wait here, under the sun, for how-long…”

“What if I was? Is that a problem with you?”

He interlocks his fingers. “It’s the opposite of that… You know, I wouldn’t mind spending a little more time with you. Outside the club hangouts and all that.”

“Oh…” Her eyes slowly grew as her smile slowly showed her crystal white teeth.

“That is,” he quickly backtracks. “If you’re not uncomfortable with it, then we can—”

“Of course, of course, not!” she almost panicked. “I’m comfortable with it, Junghoon.”

Unbeknownst to him, their encounters would end up leading them to have a small date. A meeting at the cafe and like most encounters, there’s a waiting game for one’s arrival.

Not knowing anything about flirting and talking to women he’d liked, Junghoon rushed to his friends for advice right after Sohyun gave him Nien’s number. Of course he would come to ignite brighter sparks with her by simply being himself, a certain trait that Nien herself had found to be quite enticing, even fascinating, the longer they got to know each other. But unbeknownst to him, their texts and hangouts on campus. This date came to a fruition just happened to be brought by Nien on a whim and of course, it freaked him out from his side of the screen, but instead of making his panics obvious, he expressed his glee. Nien tends to be playful most of the time. It's a part of her charm that entices Junghoon. However, when she's serious about something, she will commit to it.

[Nien: I guess we’re both set for Saturday!]

{Junghoon: We are.} {I can’t wait, Nien!}

[Nien: Neither can I, Junghoon-ah (⸝⸝> ᴗ•⸝⸝)]

He didn’t want to mess it up, especially since she’s the one who made the move to meet. Once more, he knows nothing about dating, until now. Hence, from a newer hairstyle and perfume to fancier clothing, he asked his buddies about their recommendations. Even if such a request was a burden that he owed them, he reiterated to them and to himself, “I know it’s too much to ask, but I can’t mess this up. Not for her.”

“Don’t you dare explain yourself or apologize for anything,” Yeonghwan welcomes him with open arms, placing his arm on his shoulder. “We got you on this bud!”

“Yeah, dude,” Kotone shakes his other shoulder with excitement. “We’ll make sure you’ll have the night of our life with Nien-sunbaenim!”

“Oh, he will!” Honggi insinuates her remark with a grin, patting his palms on his back. “You’ve grown up, man!”

“What do you mean?” Junghoon turns his head in confusion.

“Don’t mind him,” Myungsoo chuckles at his innocence. “But, you’ll understand what he means eventually.”

The whole day was spent on their trip to the mall. Junghoon’s earnings from Mad Money Club were more than enough to buy himself a new set of clothes suggested by his friends. Surprisingly enough, this was one of the few special moments he had spent on something and anything outside his priorities.

He learned the mannerisms, he bought the items he never even knew he needed. Now it’s time for the meetup he’s been preparing for in the last few days. It’s a Saturday afternoon when they finally meet at a restaurant. Nothing too pretentious. A cozy place where a few young couples like them are also dining in due to either their locality or Insta popularity.

He rushes to Nien’s table while trying to keep his calm. “Sorry if I was late.”

She smiles at his presence. “You’re right on time. Don’t sweat about it.”

He notices her attire. Wow, is all he can think about meeting her in person, outside campus. She herself must’ve also prepared for this. Of course she would, since she suggested going on a date with him. “You look really lovely tonight, Nien-ssi.”

“Just tonight?” her tone sounds intimidating, though he knew her enough. She’s teasing.

He almost panics. “I mean, you did, too… You’re always beautiful.” Just until he saves it.

Letting out a giggle, Nien looks down and curls up her hair to the side of her right ear. She’s still taken aback at his remark, even though she has heard similar things before.

“Yah… You look great too, Junghoon-ssi,” she tells him. “I thought you’d wear some suit and tie, but that’d be too much for this occasion. Even in that, you look pretty fancy.”

“I guess this occasion is just special enough for me, so I even thought I overdressed.”

Her eyes grow for a second, as is her smile. “It is? Does it mean this is your first date?”

An itch strikes the right side of Junghoon’s hair, prompting him to scratch it on sight. His reaction made Nien chuckle. Despite his feeling of embarrassment, she keeps her eyes leveled to him with adoration.

“Cute,” she whispers under her breath, before facing him. “I’m not judging you. I’m just… Curious.”

“Well,” he musters up, slowly straightening his back. “It is. Is that a turn-off for you?”

“No,” she smiles. “It’s kind of the opposite.” Her eyes and smile always gets him. That remark from her alone makes him feel things up his mind, in his heart, and down his–

Don’t mess this up. Don’t mess this up! Junghoon warns himself in his mind while he faces her from his seat.

But it’s a first date, which means that mess-ups are not out of the realm of possibility. It could be an awkward interaction that goes to hell, or someone bumping into a waiter as it trickles down a domino effect that breaks every plate and glass they were serving. For these two, a worse situation would strike their moment like lightning on a summer day.

Yet thirty minutes have passed since they met. Is he really gonna have the night of his life, just like what his friends had teased him? He doesn’t know how the night will end, but with how it’s been going well, Junghoon is already feeling like it, to say the least.

Nien finds herself more allured as the man in front of her takes a bite and describes each of the steaming appetizers that just arrived, as if she’s listening to a gourmet who’s been enhancing her dining experience. Down their table, each snicker and giggle from Nien triggers a few tantalizing movements from her feet as they give his ankle light footsies, one that almost made him choke on his water the first time he felt her movements.

Surprisingly, it was thanks to his conscious mind, Junghoon’s years of locking eyes at the television, watching dramas, has reminded him of some things either to follow or ignore. A couple exchanges of jokes and compliments were the start, but receiving a handful of light, playful touches.

He senses this is something else. Something more.

Then Junghoon receives a call, and the words that follow has him paralyzed for seconds.

His sudden expression concerns her. “Junghoon-ah, what’s the matter? Who was it?”

“I–I’m sorry, Nien-ssi,” his voice trembling, just his face submitting to unimaginable fear at what he just learned. She reaches her hand to him as her daydreams drain out, his words snapping her to this unexpected reality. “Something came up. I’m so sorry.”

Junghoon gets up from his seat and leaves the cafe. Outside, he runs and runs with no care and shame about the bystanders looking at him strange or worried. Seconds have passed and he is nowhere to be seen on the street. Nien stares outside, devastated that the man she likes has now left her without any reason, although not a single reason will ever undo the damage that’s been done.

She accepts the truth unfolding in front of her. The night is already over.

Having taken a taxi and spending more of his earnings from the club, he finally makes it to the hospital after ten minutes of an anxiety-filled ride throughout Seoul. Despite his shortness of breath, he rushes straight to the receptionist and asks her about the room of a woman in her mid-eighties, named Kim Byeolyi.

As soon as she answers, he takes a few turns across the corridor until he reaches the emergency room, as fright and relief fight over his lungs—letting out “Halmeoni!”

= = =

Monday morning. Students return to class. Piles and piles of papers were returned as results were announced, alongside new ones. Yet guilt remains anchored on his mind and heart.

Junghoon did his best avoiding the Mad Money Club for a couple of days since then. He imagines how they’ll react if they see him after that night. And he wouldn’t blame them if they feel that way towards him. Or if they end up kicking him out of the club later on. For now, he had to pay more attention to his only family, despite his pitiful regret for leaving the woman he's more than willing to spend the night with.

As the clock strikes twelve noon, he could only confide in the people who he has known the longest, meeting them on the empty stands next to the campus’ football field.

“How are you holding up, man?” Yeonghwan looks at him with sympathy.

“Oh, you know… I messed it up,” Junghoon sighs. “But halmeoni is stable again.”

“We’re glad that halmeoni is doing better,” Kotone can only pat him on the back.

“Besides, I’m sure Nien will understand, man,” Myungsoo considers. “Does she know about what happened?”

“Did you tell any of them?” Honggi chimes in, emanating with worry, instead of the usual curiosity or intrigue he always brings to their hangouts. Realizing that all of his closest friends have shown and voiced their concern towards him. “I mean your club.”

“I, uhh…” Junghoon clears his throat. “I didn’t tell them…”

Outside his closest friends, no one else knew. Not even the person he trusts the most. Yet, he kept receiving texts from them. Message notifications would keep popping up, and he can longer ignore the club. Not after realizing that they became his friends too.

[Yubin: Junghoon-oppa!] [Where the hell are you?]

[Dahyun: Junghoon… We’re worried about you.] [You must have a reason why you left, but you gotta tell us about it.]

[Seoyeon: Why aren’t you answering our messages, Junghoon-ah?][What happened?]

[Sohyun: Answer your phone, Junghoon.] [Please.] [Talk to me about it.]

[Nien: Whatever happened that night…] [I just hope you’re doing okay, Junghoon-ah.] [The club wants to know if you’re okay.] [I want to know if you’re okay.]

“I'm feeling much better, Junghoon-ie,” his grandmother assures him from the couch as she lets out a cackle at the variety show on the television, later that afternoon.

He walks to her, handing her a tablet with one hand, and a glass of island on the other. “I know, but you're gonna need to drink your medicine regularly, okay halmeoni?”

“Of course, honey, I know your worries won’t go away—” she looks up, swallowing down the tablet, before taking the glass from him. “—if I don't take them.”

“Halmeoni,” he sighs. Despite knowing her intentions to lift his spirits, she can feel her grandson’s hand clenching with concern. “That’ll be for the whole month… Please.”

She chuckles lightheartedly, softly rubbing his back. “Arasseo, arasseo… I’ll drink the next one after we eat. I remember what the doctor prescribed me, too, you know?”

He sighs heavily, showing her a smile of relief. “Yeah…”

The next morning arrived… When he finally listened to his grandmother's words, also remembering what she told him a few days earlier. Despite what happened, he knows that he's always been stronger than he thinks.

He enters the club’s room. Room 238. Just as he always remembers it. The atmosphere is not the same as when he usually enters. As much as it pains him, he looks at everyone as they stare at him in silence. Most of them look at him with disquiet and concern, even though he feels he doesn’t deserve such a gaze. At least, one of the girls is staring at him the way he believes he should be treated. Xinyu must be killing him over and over again in her mind. I deserve it. After I left her best friend alone. I deserve worse. At least my halmeoni is doing better. At least my friends understand. That’s what matters more right now. Whatever happens now… That’s their reaction.

“Should I not be here today?” He breaks the silence, keeping his tense breath slow. “I can just stay out—”

“No, no…” Dahyun comes closer, emanating with concern. “Come in, Junghoon-ah.”

“We’re glad you’re okay, oppa,” comforts Yubin, rubbing his arm as he walks by.

But as he looks around, Nien is nowhere to be found among the club members. Junghoon immediately worries for her, still guilt-ridden. “Where is—”

“Don’t go anywhere near Nien-ah,” Xinyu pierces his soul with her stare of death.

Junghoon silently bows to her with regret, but her glare towards him remains merciless.

Beside her, Sohyun slowly holds Xinyu’s hands a little tighter with eyes that plead to her. “Xinyu-yah, please don’t be harsh on him.”

“Why not?” She tilts her head at her girlfriend, before looking back at him. “He doesn’t even need to be here! Not after what you did to Nien!”

“I know, sunbae…” Junghoon keeps his composure. “But I need to know where she is.”

“Not until you tell us first, Junghoon,” Sohyun pleads to him with a somber tone. Letting go of Xinyu’s hand, she takes a few steps forward. “Or at least… tell me what happened.”

Junghoon takes a deep breath, enough to push himself to explain everything to her.

After several minutes, Junghoon would find Nien at the gardens, as Sohyun briefed him. He takes a seat next to each other at a bench in the midst of the afternoon spring breeze. Not as anything more than friends who want to clear the air about what happened that night. But for both of them, that’s all that matters for now.

“I’m so sorry for standing you up like that,” he looks at her. “You don’t deserve it.”

“No. Kotone-hoobae actually told me what happened on my way here… Junghoon-ssi, I just wished you told me sooner.” She looks at Junghoon with eyes of solace and reaches his shoulder softly, pulling him in an embrace, hoping to comfort him through the only way she can in this situation. “It must’ve been hard for you, finding it out so suddenly.”

“Yeah, I should’ve,” Junghoon mutters, still feeling remorseful for his actions that day. “I’m really sorry, Nien-sunbaenim.”

They slowly break the hug. “Does anyone else in the club know about what happened?”

He nods. “I first told Sohyun-noona… The others know it was a family emergency.”

“How is she now?” Her hands still lie on top of his. “Your grandmother…”

“She’s feeling better now, but the doctor advised her to drink her medicine, so I’m gonna have to work overtime in my late shifts to earn enough to buy her those meds.”

“Don’t worry about the money too much. We can help you out with that, arasseo? Take care of her by staying close with her… I’m just glad that your halmeoni’s doing okay.”

“I feared I would mess things up. I did everything I could, but it just happened when I got the call from the neighbors and—”

“Junghoon-ah,” she stops him with a calm demeanor. “You didn't mess everything up. Your grandmother's well-being matters more. It should... You made the right call, okay? Like I said, focus on taking care of her right now. We got your back.”

“Thank you, sunbae,” he can feel his heart beating slower, as his breathing feels easier.

Nien can’t help but let out a snicker. “You gotta stop calling me that, Junghoon-ah.”

“Why not? It’s a fact that you are my sunbae, and you’re a year older than me.”

“And..? It’s been months since you joined the club. At least stop calling me sunbae.”

“Yeah, I’m a part of Mad Money, but as your ‘part-time assistant.’ Other sunbaes and students would think it’s weird that I just started calling you too casually.”

“Who cares about what others think? You gotta drop the honorifics with me. It’s the least you can do… If you truly want to stay friends with me… Unless you don’t?” She darts her eyes at him. They still get him every time, even if she’s messing around with him, even if she’s simply lifting his spirits.

“I do want to stay friends!” He raises his hands, following an instinct. One that aims not to disappoint her. “I’ll try my best not to call you that, noona—”

“Ah, ah!” she interrupts him, pointing her index finger at him like it’s a blade. “Not that one either. You may have convinced unnie and Soda-yah for you to call them that, but not me. I’m not gonna let that slide. The whole ‘noona’ thing doesn’t vibe with me.”

Junghoon laughs. Her reasoning seems well-thought-out. “So, Nien-ssi then? I mean, that’s what I called you last time and you didn’t seem to mind it.”

“Fine!” Nien finally settles with his proposal. “I’m guessing you’re not that comfortable with me just yet… And by the way, you better let me treat you to lunch. Between friends, of course. I can’t let that dinner be the end of us hanging out.”

“Well, if that makes things better for us…” He offers his hand, signaling a handshake. “I’d love to have a ‘friendly lunch’ with you some time, Nien-ssi.”

“Kol!” The woman stands up with a burst of optimism, reciprocating Junghoon’s offer without hesitation. “And by ‘some time,’ you better mean like soon, all right? The way you described those dishes on the restaurant’s menu was mouth-watering!”

“Maybe we can order them for real next time,” he suggests. Nien nods with anticipation.

Nien and Junghoon stopped treating their relationship as romantic, or anything close to that. But maybe that’s for the best, as they’d grow into something that would last longer. Nien would realize that she’s not too fond of being in a committed relationship just yet. And as for Junghoon… Time will tell. As they say, after all, there is always someone for everyone, even if they don’t hope or expect it to come to them. With their conciliation, Junghoon returns to Room 238 with Nien to face the rest of his clubmates once again.

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you, yeoreobun,” he bows to the rest of the club members.

“God, oppa… You know you had us worried for days,” Yubin frets further. “We thought something happened because you weren’t answering our texts! Even our calls.”

Junghoon bows to them. “I’m sorry. It just happened and I didn’t know what else to do.”

“It’s okay, Junghoon-ah,” Dahyun reassures him. “Now that you told us, we’re just glad that your grandma’s feeling better.”

“Well, it can’t be helped if you had a personal emergency. I hope she has a fast recovery,” Xinyu’s tone sounds more neutral, making Junghoon feel that the misunderstanding he had caused to Nien will not be easily forgiven by everyone. Even if Nien herself forgave him. “But you left Nien without saying why... I won’t forget that.” And he won’t, either.

“I did,” Junghoon remains hesitant to answer her. “And it won’t happen again, sunbae.”

“But Sohyun-ah trusted you enough to lend your services to us,” Xinyu sounds more logical than sympathetic to his response, yet a hint of hostility remains in her tone. Perhaps still grudgeful of his fault. “Just be transparent next time, Junghoon.”

“Unnie…” Seoyeon steps up, sensing Xinyu’s passive aggression. “I trust Junghoon, too. So does Soda and Yubin-ah. I understand if you’re still not too trusting of him, but the fact is, Nien and him have already made up outside. Besides, their date last week isn’t some kind of assignment that he had to do for her.”

Xinyu feels like she’s backed into a corner. “I know that, Seoyeon-ie… I’m just saying—”

“I don’t want anyone harboring ill feelings for anyone in this room,” Seoyeon continues. “This isn't why we formed this club. We know that you have issues with trusting anyone else, but whether you like it or not, Junghoon is still a part of our club.”

“I don't hate him!” exclaims Xinyu. “I warned him so nothing like this happens again.”

“That’s enough,” Nien disrupts the feud between her sisters. “Seoyeon-ah’s right, and I can’t force you to like him. But we went out on a date because I wanted to, Xinyu-unnie. He happened to have an emergency concerning his grandma, so he left me to deal with it and he apologized for not telling me sooner.” A breath of relief leaves her body. “Unnie… Yeorobun… It’s alright now.”

Xinyu becomes swarmed with guilt, but she can’t say anything any further, otherwise the situation gets worse when it starts to be mended. She knows that she said enough. “I’m sorry Seoyeon-ah and Nien-ah…” she stammers. “And I’m sorry for my behavior just now, Junghoon-ssi.”

“It's okay, Xinyu-sunbae… I'm just thankful that I've told you girls the truth. Whatever you think of me after this, I don't mind it. I understand if you don't want me to still be around, but I'll come by and help out if you need me with anything.”

= = =

Later that afternoon, Junghoon would meet with his close friends at their usual campus hangout, a bench near the grass fields, during their dismissal. They continue to console their friend about the aftermath of his unfortunate incident and emergency last week.

“Did you finally tell Nien about your halmeoni's condition?” Yeonghwan asks him.

“I did, hyung,” Junghoon sighs in relief. “I told everyone else in the club, too. They understood, so the misunderstanding has been cleared up, to say the least.”

“Does that mean you’ll be having another date with Nien-sunbaenim?” Honggi wonders.

“Well, not exactly. We’ll have something better, though.”

“What is it?” Myungsoo cannot help but spew his questions. “You two going somewhere outside for another dinner? Maybe a stroll to the park?”

“Just friends going out for lunch,” he delivers nonchalantly.

“Friends for lunch?” Honggi’s confused at what he just heard. “What happened to the girl who you hit off with that night? I thought she was even flirting with you non-stop?”

“That’s kinda what I’m wondering too, man,” Yeonghwan chimes in. “Why didn’t you talk things out with her a little more? Maybe there’s a little more misunderstanding?”

Why didn’t he push it through? Took a little more initiative, ask her to spend more time with him, despite already making up, instead of chickening—

= = =

“I’m sorry I ruined your special night, dear,” mutters his grandmother, Kim Byeolyi. It had only been a few minutes since she woke up from the hospital bed.

“No, no… Why are you apologizing? Come on, it was nothing, halmeoni.”

She places her other hand on top of his. “It’s not just nothing for you, Junghoon-ie.”

“I’m just happy that you’re doing better, okay? Besides… We don’t have anyone else.”

“We still got our neighbors,” she reminds him with a cheerful tone, but he’s unmoved by his own coldness. Junghoon found out that her friends next door called the ambulance when she was hanging out at their market. The possibility of ‘if no one else was there,’ scares him more, but the warmth of his grandmother’s hands only makes him sigh.

He looks down on her wrinkly palms, both in despair and gratitude. Despair for what could��ve been, if no one got there in time. Gratitude that things haven’t gotten worse.

“Don’t beat yourself up… Now, go talk to that wonderful girl you just left and apologize to her, okay? Buy her a bouquet from the shop outside, if you have to… Maybe cook her what food she likes, if you want! Just don’t leave her hanging like before.”

As a couple of hours would pass, Junghoon had to wait with his own thoughts while the physicians took her through a few more tests. Despite his grandma’s sincere advice, he didn’t know how else to deal with such a nerve-racking situation. The schism of guilt and conscience raging within him. ‘My savings won't be enough to cover all costs.’ ‘Halmeoni needs more for next week.’ ‘Should I ask for a raise?’ ‘Just calm down.’ ‘You already owe them a lot.’ ‘Don’t make things worse.’ ‘You’re a coward.’

Junghoon’s heart beats in the same rhythm yet it rings in various ways, reeling him through various memories. Nien’s smile and company. His grandmother’s breathing and motherly care. The cheers and hollers of his close friends. The encouragement of the Mad Money Club in the past few months.

Yet, at the same time, his impulsive actions last night… Leaving Nien all alone. She may forgive him. She may definitely not. But that’s not what’s making his muscles twitch or his mind spiral into the pitless dimensions of analysis paralysis concerning the future. Priorities and responsibilities ramming through his daydreams and desires like they were glass.

Looking back at his grandmother, lying on the hospital bed, the young man’s heart aches at the sight of family, still keeping up her warm smile, despite her recent close encounter in the face of the abyss. He doesn’t even know if he can forget, nor forgive himself for it.

‘You gotta think this through,’ he tells himself. ‘This isn’t just about yourself, Junghoon.’

= = =

“I’m sure sunbae has a reason for changing her mind too,” Kotone considers, patting her friend’s shoulder. “I’m just glad that halmeoni is doing better... Take some time off from work if you want to, Junghoon-ah. I’m sure they’ll understand.”

“Thanks…” was what Junghoon could only say, ignoring their more pragmatic advice, though taking them to heart. “And even though Xinyu-sunbae wasn’t as friendly when she heard my explanation, I get why she acted that way.”

“Zhou Xinyu?” Myungsoo realizes. He did share a few classes with her before, even worked in the same group. “Oh, that makes sense. She's not too friendly with anyone outside her friend groups. At least not so much that she'll be sticking around with ‘em.”

“Oh,” Junghoon feels less guilty, yet remains disappointed for some reason. “That's one thing I didn't know about her… She rarely hangs out in the room whenever I am there.”

“I can't blame her, though,” Yeonghwan agrees. “She's probably experienced it a lot since day one. All the catcallings, the selfless acts from guys, sometimes some girls, just so they could try getting their way in her pants… But when she met Sohyun, I guess she probably felt easier. More comfortable around her along with their pals… But she's actually a kind person, I'm sure she'll soften up on you the longer you stay with the club.”

“Yeah, I guess,” Junghoon nods. “I do know that Sohyun and Xinyu-sunbae feel like their truest selves the most whenever they're together. It's quite touching to see, to be honest.”

“I heard from Joonie-sunbae that those two are like wild animals in their dorms—”

Irritated, Kotone hits her left knuckle on Honggi’s shoulders, making him unleash a shriek of agony in seconds. Yeonghwan and Myungsoo cannot be more amused at his reaction.

“Knock it off, Honggi-yah!” she shakes her head while he backs off inches away from her. “Stop being a perv now. What’s wrong with you?”

Groaning in pain, Honggi rubs his shoulder with disdain. “I was just bringing up a rumor, which I’m expecting for Junghoon to confirm or debunk right now.”

“Umm, that’s not my business,” Junghoon chuckles. “And neither is it yours, man. But... They’re the best couple I know, that’s for sure... And I wish nothing but the best for them, you know?”

= = =

I've written this a while ago, but I added some scenes. Some slight spoilers for readers: what happens in the next one (nothing violent or anything though) may trigger some reactions, but since this is just an au fic. everything here is entirely fictional... It'll be an "angst fest," but there'll be sparks of fluff to balance it out. If you're still interested, hope you stay tuned. thanks for the read and have a good day!

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aggroindustrial · 2 days ago

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i wish only for the salvation of mankind [1]

summary. when you return to your family's long abandoned house, you expect to stay only for a few days. but something is waiting for you in that place—something that doesn't feel right.

as the days pass, you begin to notice things that don't make sense. the paintings and pictures in your house change constantly, the people in town get weirder every day, and lottie keeps acting strange.

pairing. lottie matthews x fem!reader

word count. 3.7k

warnings. themes of psychological horror, unsettling imagery maybe, mentions of missing persons, lottie being her usual creepy self nothing new

fic note. lowkey hate this 💔 if you've read my other stuff then you know i always write from the character's perspective while maintaining the second person narrative but i had to switch it up a bit to keep the unsettling vibe going on. i tried to avoid the overuse of the word 'you' but it was nearly impossible:< still i hope you guys enjoy this<3

my plan was to make this a one-shot but it would've probably been like 10k+ words soooo this is just the first chapter. might continue it or not (probably will)

if you couldn't tell already, the whole setting is inspired by resident evil 7 bc i've been playing nonstop hehe

The gentle breeze slipped in through the cracks, making the house creak quietly—like it was remembering years and years of pain. One of the windows slid open with a soft click, all rotten wood and rusted hinges.

Lottie sat in a rocking chair right by the window, her fingers tapping on the armrests as she watched the sun rise slowly in the distance.

A row of dead lilies rested in cracked ceramic pots on the windowsill. Lottie reached and touched one gently, as if it might still bloom someday, if only someone believed hard enough.

Across from her was a second chair, empty and just as rotten as everything else in that house. A teacup waited on its seat—filled to the brim, steaming and untouched.

“You'll like her.” Lottie murmured with a soft smile. “I knew she'd come. They always do, eventually.” Her head turned just enough for the faint sunlight to catch her eyes—deep brown, unblinking.

A pause. Then, very softly, as if repeating an old prayer: “Let's be kind this time, yeah?”

𓈒⠀𓂃⠀⠀˖⠀𓇬⠀˖⠀⠀𓂃⠀𓈒

"Captain McClain of the state police told reporters they've begun searching for Laura Lee, a college student from New Jersey who was last seen traveling in Texas. Ms. Lee hasn't been heard from since the night of the fifteenth—two months ago.

Reports of missing people in East Texas have risen dramatically in the past two years—"

You turned off the radio.

Rain splattered the windshield as the dirt road narrowed until it was barely a strip of gravel, strangled by overgrown weeds. You slowed the car, squinting at the fading sign by the roadside:

Welcome to Emerald Creek. Population: 1,6_6

The middle digit looked like it had rusted away—or maybe someone had scratched it on purpose, until it was gone.

You rolled the window down for a second. The air smelled like waterlogged soil and something old—wet wood, probably.

A single gas station with just one pump. A church with a crooked cross and doors wide open despite the incessant rain. Houses slumped low, like they were trying to sink into the earth.

You passed the church first. Inside, the pews were barely visible, swallowed by the shadows, but the eyes of the painted saints glinted in the dark like something that didn't belong in a church.

A weird sensation brushed over you, but you kept driving.

There wasn't a soul in sight on the streets—no cars, no pedestrians. Just the downpour everywhere, and a house with soaked laundry hanging on a clothesline. Someone must've forgotten about it. The front door was open, but no one stood behind it.

Your fingers tightened around the wheel as you spotted the turn toward your childhood home. Gardenia Ave, read an old, rusted sign, barely legible.

The house waited at the end of the road. It looked smaller than you remembered it looking before you moved with your parents to a different town. Somehow, it seemed more imposing now.

The shutters hung loose, vines curled over the porch like veins, and the windows—miraculously intact—seemed to be watching you.

You killed the engine.

The silence that followed felt heavy, but it was broken by the steady patter of rain, your own breathing, and the creak of trees bending in the wind, groaning like they were in pain.

The house was empty. But for some reason, it looked like it was holding its breath, waiting for something.

Something deep in your gut twisted, telling you to turn back and leave while you still can.

But you didn't—or couldn't, really. Your parents had asked you to check the place out—one of your cousins needed somewhere to live, and the house had been on the market for years. It was just a favor, nothing more.

Still, you hesitated before getting out of the car. And, just for a second, you could've sworn that something had moved inside the house—a curtain fluttered, showing a shape standing behind it.

You blinked.

Gone.

With a deep breath, you stepped out into the rain and hurried over to the porch. The floor squeaked sharply beneath your feet, resembling a cry from a person. You didn't remember the sound of it being that loud when you were younger. It was like the house resented the weight of your return.

You opened the front door with a small grunt—the wood was swollen from the humid air, almost reluctant to let you in, but gave way with another groan that sounded more like a warning.

The scent hit you the moment you crossed the threshold. Dust and mold, maybe. It was like a memory you didn't know you never wanted back, clinging to the back of your throat now.

Your hand reached for the light switch instinctively and flicked it twice.

Nothing, of course.

Daylight bled in through the sagging curtains, casting long streaks across the faded floral wallpaper—peeling at the corners like it wanted to fall off the walls. The hallway stretched like a throat: narrow, dark, strangely alive and pulsating.

The living room to your right, furniture still wrapped in plastic, and a dusty painting of a woman with a parasol hung crooked above the fireplace.

You paused for a moment.

There had always been a child standing next to the woman in the painting, you were sure of it. Now, only the woman remained.

You looked away. It's probably just exhaustion. It's been a long day.

A tired sigh left your lips as you wandered toward the kitchen. The faucet dripped slowly into the rust-stained sink, where a centipede skittered around, before vanishing into the space between the counter and the wall.

You flinched back and redirected your attention to the old refrigerator. It wasn't plugged in, obviously, but curiosity still got the best of you. You opened it slowly, bracing for the worst. More insects, rotten food, or something even worse.

There was nothing inside.

With a small chuckle of relief, you closed the refrigerator again. It almost seemed to be humming for a second. Everything in the house felt like it wanted to be left alone.

You checked your phone. No signal.

Great. It's not like you hadn't suspected it, but it still made your stomach sink.

Using your phone's flashlight, you retraced your steps through the hallway and made your way upstairs, toward your old bedroom.

The air felt thick on the second floor, like it didn't want you in the house, either. Dust all over the place blanketing the old furniture and forgotten books. It all looked just as you'd left it—frozen in time. The hideous pink walls looked the same, though faded and cracked. Even a bunch of old posters managed to cling to the walls with yellowing tape, curling at the edges and slightly sun-bleached.

The closet door cracked open.

You didn't check inside.

Instead, you moved toward the window—the one you thought you saw someone behind earlier—and slid it open, damp air rushed inside. The rain had eased into mist, and it was already past six.

You headed back downstairs, ready to leave for the local hotel. Just a couple nights, and then you'd be gone.

That's when your phone buzzed, right after closing the front door.

A voicemail from the hotel receptionist—apologetic and tired. They were closing for the week because of termites.

Can this day get any worse? You thought as a frustrated groan escaped your throat.

Defeated, you turned toward the house again, when you came face to face with a stranger already standing inside, at the bottom of the stairs where the hallway meets the kitchen.

Your eyes widened in shock and you stumbled backwards.

“Hello.” Her voice was soft and relaxed, like she hadn't pretty much trespassed into your house somehow, without you noticing. “I'm Charlotte—or Lottie, preferably. I came here to welcome you to town.”

Words were stuck in your throat. You were too busy staring at her—trying to understand how she got inside without making a single noise or stepping into view, while you were standing right there on the porch. You hadn't looked away for more than a few seconds. Five at most.

Lottie smiled again, head tilted in a way that almost made her seem harmless. She didn't move toward you.

“I hope you don't mind.” She said, “I didn't want to stand under the rain for any longer, and the door was already open.”

It wasn't.

Her clothes looked… plain. A modest floral dress, slightly wrinkled but clean. Like something out of a different decade. There was a smear of dirt on her cheek. Or maybe it was just a shadow.

She wasn't wet from the rain at all.

“I live just down the hill.” She continued, gesturing vaguely behind her. “Saw your car. Thought I'd come to say hello. Not many new faces come through anymore.”

You finally found yourself able to speak again. “Thank you.” You said, mostly out of reflex. “I was just about to… settle in. The hotel's closed for the week. Termites.”

Silence fell for a moment, thick and awkward. Lottie didn't break eye contact. There wasn't any hostility in her eyes, but not warmth, either.

She nodded after a few seconds. “Yes, terrible infestation. They get in your ears if you let them. It can be merciless sometimes.”

You blinked. “…Sorry?”

Another disquieting smile. “Would you like me to show you around the town? We have a lovely diner by the main street. They have a killer cherry pie.”

For a moment, you considered telling her you've already been there before.

You shook your head. “No, that's okay. I'll, uh… manage.”

Lottie hummed and stepped forward—not threatening, but purposefully. Just enough to step out of the house and stand by the threshold.

“You look different.” She said.

The comment made your throat tighten and alarms started going off in your head. She looked about your age, so you would've probably remembered ever meeting someone like her in the past. “Have we met before?”

She tilted her head the other way, like she was trying to remember something, but shook her head. “No. Not really.” Lottie answered, casually brushing a cobweb off her sleeve. “You'll want to keep that window upstairs shut. Spiders seek shelter when it's humid outside.”

A small pause. You didn’t answer. Something about her made your skin prickle. Like the air shifted slightly around her.

“Well, I should go!” Lottie added brightly. “You need time to adjust. It's alright. She did, too.”

You stared at her, wondering if she was pulling your hair to mess with you. “Who?”

She just hummed, and walked out the door. The floor creaked sharply beneath her feet.

Lottie didn't glance back as she left. No car, no umbrella. She was just gone, swallowed by the thick mist.

You turned around to walk back inside, the door creaking as it closed behind you—slower, like the house was savoring it—and you stopped.

Something was lying on the rug, right where Lottie was standing before.

Some kind of necklace with a bone tied to it.

Confused, you kneeled down to inspect it, hesitating before your fingers reached out to touch it. The edges were smooth and worn, and it seemed to come from an animal.

She must've dropped it. I'll have to give it back to her tomorrow.

You set the necklace down on the hallway table and observed it for a second, reluctant to pull your hand away. Suddenly, a chill passed through the room, making you rub your arms.

The little bone rattled gently against the wood. You stared at it for a moment, and told yourself it was only the wind. You were too tired to think, too tired to be creeped out by an old necklace.

You went outside to your car and dug out a sleeping bag that you always forgot to take out of the trunk and took it inside along with your suitcase.

After a minute of considering all your options, you decided your old bedroom upstairs would probably be the safest place to sleep in. If someone broke in during the night, at least you'd hear them coming.

You didn't bother exploring the other rooms yet. Some things could wait.

The only light illuminating the room came from your phone's flashlight. You set the sleeping bag down on the floor and a cloud of dust lifted around you—it made you cough loudly and your eyes sting.

The dust dissipated into the air and you took a deep breath, just realizing how quiet the whole house felt up in the second floor.

Not like the first floor was loud and lively, but the second one felt almost too different. Like it was another place altogether, as if it had been separated from the rest of the world. Just the sound of your breathing and the quiet rustling of the sleeping bag.

You lay still for a while, eyes wide open and watching the ceiling. Every time the house groaned with the wind, you swore it felt like it was shifting, like it was getting used to you being inside.

Eventually, you closed your eyes and drifted off to sleep.

𓈒⠀𓂃⠀⠀˖⠀𓇬⠀˖⠀⠀𓂃⠀𓈒

Something woke you up.

You weren't sure what time it was. The phone's battery died while you slept. Outside, the sky was still dark and filled with thick clouds—not a shred of moonlight, just the flicker of a street somewhere in the fog.

The room felt colder now. You tugged the sleeping bag tighter around you.

Then you heard it. A soft thump, from downstairs.

You froze, heart hammering in your chest.

Another thump. Not loud, or urgent. Just… there. Like someone had set something down.

When you sat up to listen closely, nothing followed the sound. The house returned to its silence.

You told yourself it was just the wind, maybe a raccoon outside. But words didn't help much.

You didn't go downstairs.

Instead, you lay back down, forcing your eyes shut and trying to convince yourself to go back to sleep. After what must've been an hour, you finally managed to fall asleep again.

𓈒⠀𓂃⠀⠀˖⠀𓇬⠀˖⠀⠀𓂃⠀𓈒

The next morning, the rain had stopped, but the fog was still flooding the entire town. It pressed against the windows like it was trying to seep through the glass.

You stretched, stiff from sleeping on the floor, and stepped barefoot downstairs to head to the kitchen, yawning.

That's when you saw it.

Something resting on the hallway table, where you had left the necklace. Except now, beside it—perfectly placed—sat a single orange flower.

A marigold. Not wilted and not a single bruised petal. It looked freshly cut and intact.

I doubt these even bloom in a place like this…

It smelled faintly of something metallic. Like rust or blood.

But that wasn't what worried you the most.

Did someone really sneak in last night just to leave this behind?

The thought sent shivers down your spine.

You stared at it for a long time. Your fingers hovered right above the flower, but you didn't touch it. It just sat there, bright and fragrant like it had just been plucked.

Three sudden knocks at the door made you jump.

You spun around, still perplexed by the marigold, and peeked through the peephole—though the old glass was so cloudy and dirty that all you could make out was a blur in the shape of a person.

You opened the door.

A woman stood on the porch—in her mid fifties, maybe. She was wearing a large sunhat, even though the sky was still cloudy. Her smile was polite and her posture straight, hands holding a plate of cookies, wrapped in wax paper. The fog curled around her like steam from a bath, but she seemed unfazed by it.

“Mornin’, sweetheart.” She smiled brightly. “I saw your car yesterday. Thought I'd come by and say hello. I'm Jolene Landry. I live just a few houses down.”

You hesitated, but opened the door a little wider. “Hello. I'm—”

“Oh, nonsense.” She waved you off with a soft laugh. “How could I forget you, darling? I've known you since you were about this tall.” Jolene gestured to a spot at her knee and smiled again. “Back to check on the old house, are you?”

You nodded slowly. “Just for a few days. My cousin's looking for a place to move in.”

Jolene hummed and nodded, too. “Shame about the hotel. Heard they've got a termite problem.”

“I—yeah…” A sigh. “Word travels fast here, huh?”

“Oh, you'd be surprised, dear.” Her eyes rolled in a playful manner.

She tilted her head and studied you for a second. Not in a judgemental or nosy way, but in that strange way people from small towns sometimes do—like she was measuring the version of you in her memory against the one in front of her now.

“How are your parents? They used to be the sweetest couple. I remember your mother made the best carrot cake every year at the harvest festival.”

“To be honest, life's been a lot better away from this place. They’re happy.” You said, and remembered the flower and the necklace. “Actually, um… do you know someone named Charlotte? She came by yesterday. Said she lives nearby.”

Jolene's face softened in a way that almost looked rehearsed, yet genuine at the same time.

“Lottie? Sure. Keeps to herself, but she's harmless. Helps around the church all the time. Did she say something strange?”

You hesitated. How could you explain the way Lottie practically snuck into your house, and the flower and necklace that appeared out of nowhere in your house?

“She left something behind yesterday.” Was all you said, not wanting to go into detail. “I think it's hers, at least. So I wanted to return it.”

Jolene stared at you for a moment, but didn't press. Just shifted the cookie plate in her hands and gave you a thin smile. “Her house is just past the field. Norton Lane. It's the one with the moss-covered trees all around it. You can't miss it.”

“Thank you—”

She cut you off before you could finish speaking. “Lottie will be glad you're returning whatever she left here. She doesn't really forget things, you know. Even when she should.”

Before you could ask what she meant by that, Jolene extended the cookie plate.

“I made these this morning. Thought you might be hungry. They're still warm.” She said, “You're welcome anytime. If you ever need lunch, or just a place to have a hot shower—don’t be a stranger, sweetheart.”

“Thanks.” You said again as you grabbed the plate from her with a small smile. “That's really kind of you.”

She nodded. “Of course. I'll see you around, dear.”

Jolene waved at you before leaving. You stood there for a long moment, staring at her, before closing the door.

The flower was still on the table. You hadn't touched it earlier.

It was facing a different direction now.

𓈒⠀𓂃⠀⠀˖⠀𓇬⠀˖⠀⠀𓂃⠀𓈒

You got dressed quickly, stuffed a granola bar into the pocket of your coat, and grabbed the bone necklace before heading out.

It felt heavier this time.

The sky was still overcast mostly, though the fog had thinned a little. Just enough to see some of the houses down the street—a bunch of slouching silhouettes. You got in your car, started the engine, and drove away from the house without looking back.

Jolene's directions weren't complicated.

Norton Lane. Just past the field. Surrounded by mossy trees. Easy enough.

It should've been a ten-minute drive. Maybe fifteen if the road was still bad because of the rain.

Lottie's words echoed in your head when you passed the diner—it was empty, but the flickering sign in the window caught your attention. You made a mental note to stop by later to try the cherry pie.

Then, you passed an empty post office that looked like it had been abandoned for a long time. A corn field came next. The stalks were dry and forgotten.

After that, the road narrowed. The trees grew thicker, low branches everywhere, and Spanish moss hung from them like an old man's beard.

Still no sight of any house that could belong to Lottie. No signs either.

Just road.

You checked the clock on the dash. Eighteen minutes had passed.

The trees felt like they were repeating, like you were driving in a circle, but you hadn't taken a single turn.

Your hands tightened around the steering wheel, tired crunching over loose gravel, dead leaves and mud.

Maybe I missed it.

You glanced at your phone. Still no signal.

Then, just ahead, you saw something: a small wooden post with faded white paint. Norton Lane was scrawled across it in crooked black letters.

The gravel gave way to dirt almost immediately as you pulled into the road, and the tires of the car jolted over the uneven path. The tree branches hung so low they brushed your windshield with loud screeches. You considered turning back for a moment.

But, just as Jolene had said, the trees parted—and there it was.

A house.

Dark wood—nearly black, probably from time and rot. Slanted roof, moss hanging from it like old lace. Every single window was covered by thick, yellowing curtains. An old, rusty truck was parked outside the house..

Everything around you felt still, except for the soft music coming from inside the house and the ticking of the car's engine cooling down after pulling up.

You stepped out and shut the door gently behind you. Leaves crunched beneath your shoes. The air felt heavier out there, like the pressure had changed.

The first thing you noticed was the wooden sign—probably as old as the house—nailed to the front door.

"The earth is the Lord’s, and all its fullness, the world and those who dwell therein. Psalm 24:1."

You remembered Jolene's words: "She helps around the church all the time."

There was a small symbol carved right under the phrase, but another crunching sound beneath your feet made you glance down. Dead lilies, dozens of them lying on the floor. Their petals were already dry and brittle.

Then, your eyes flickered to a rocking chair, sitting next to the door. Empty, but a teacup rested on the armrest—full and steaming.

You didn't knock yet.

Instead, you reached out to touch the teacup. The porcelain was warm.

The door creaked open by itself, just a little. Enough to notice how dark it was inside.

The music was clearer now—a female voice, something old and southern.

Your heart thudded hard in your chest.

Maybe she saw me coming.

“Hello?” You called out, voice barely above a whisper.

Nothing.

Then—

“Come in.” A voice came, softly, from somewhere deep inside the house.

#lottie matthews #lottie matthews x reader #lottie mathews x you #yellowjackets #yellowjackets x reader #yellowjackets x you

69 notes · View notes

daddymaster21 · 3 days ago

Text

Review time!!! I’m already scared by your authors note. Sorry this took so long!!!!

1. Is this the darkness??? Amara, sweetie, is that you????

2. All my homies hate the PTSD nightmares. Smh my head.

3. LMAOOO HER WRITING DEANS NAME ON HERSELF. ME TOO HOMEGIRL.

4. Mmmh. Not sure about that one, Princess. You don’t really have normal dreams

5. Ohhhhhh okay, death makes more sense

6. Man, she’s going even harder than Dean on how she wants to serve him. Which, like… same.

7. DEAN IS SMART AND HES NO LONGER ALLOWED TO THINK OTHERWISE

8. I FUCKING KNEW IT AHHHHHH

9. Fun fact: my birthday is two days before deans

10. Her and Cas are just Creatures, trying their best. I love them.

11. AHHHH THE SMILEY FACE DETAIL

12. Bobby and Sam going through it for real, trying to get their idiots to kiss

13. LMAOOO “PILLOW TALK”

14. NOT BOBBY GETTING THE CONDOM, THEA I CAN’T

15. “You wanted that boy before you even knew him” PLEASE MY HEART CAN’T TAKE IT

16. Yeah, it doesn’t count if you only think about doing something stupid!

17. Girlie. I don’t even know what we’re doing, but I’ll tell you what — it’s gonna stupid, and Dean’s gonna be pissed.

18. CROWLEY MY BELOVED!!! (If I drowned in Mark Sheppard’s voice, I’d die happy)

19. why are you British lmfaoooooo

20. This isn’t going to end well.

21. I’m just like Sam fr. Pretending to be stupid is HARD.

22. Yay!!! More nosy bitch hours!!!! (I love them learning abt each other through the dreams so much. You really knocked this one out of the park.)

23. John Winchester is IN DANGER.

24. Oh. Oh no. The image of him kneeling in front of her. In a church. Thea the symbolism is too good, send help

25. Dean, asked to suffer for everyone: I just don’t know if I can do it. It’s too much. Dean, asked to suffer for princess: truly, I’d volunteer for this.

26. He literally can’t sleep when she’s not there, his body wakes him up every time she leaves 😭😭

27. Team Creature!!! Aw man, if Jack is born in this universe, it’ll be Creatures all the way down!

28. They’ve GOTTA have a conversation, they can’t keep turning into awkward teenagers any time sex is involved

29. Dean describing wanting to fuck her literally just bc she exists lol

30. Jesus Christ WHY WOULD SHE KEEP KISSING YOU IF SHE DIDNT WANT TO KISS YOU. PLEASE I BEG ITS ACTUALLY SO EASY.

31. It’s okay. They’re just babies. I can be patient.

32. I- please??? Why wait??? Do that now, please??????

33. LMFAOOO THE CREATURES ARE FIGHTING

34. “She already explained them to me” I love her and Cas so much I can’t explain

35. literally the only thing I can say about this part is woof.

36. Listen. I know that Princess is gonna be the one who cracks first, but my god if I got to read Dean actually dropping to his knees and asking for that, I would combust on the spot.

37. She’s literally never been wrong about a monster, Cas, just work the odds. It was never gonna be a Cupid.

38. ….either Sam is gonna catch these hands, or this is the monster trying to trap Dean. I hope it’s the latter, but I think it’s the former.

39. Ohhhhhhhh he drank it cause Famine is in town. Alright, he’s forgiven. We’re good.

40. Dean is going to be Very Incredibly Normal and definitely not go out of his mind with lust for her.

41. THAT’S WHY CAS ATE THE BURGERS. OKAY YEAH I SEE YOU.

42. AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH HE ADMITTED IT

Final thoughts: I’m fucking FERAL right now. And scared for the next chapter.

Chapter 24 - Just Hold On

Series Masterlist - Main Masterlist

Author's Note: Huge chapter for fans of emotional whiplash, Dean's feelings, and Princess and Cas being creatures. Enjoy!

Chapter Title from Twin Skelton's (Hotel In NYC) by Fall Out Boy

Word Count: 19.1k

Chapter Summary/Warnings: You try to keep it together, get an offer, and Dean learns something about himself. Usual Warnings.

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

Chapter 23 - Chapter 25

Read on A03!

It’s smiling at you.

Everything is smiling at you, and you aren’t in control. There’s a hand on your neck—it might be your own—that’s strangling the Silver out of you, and you can’t feel the pain but only because you are far too big for anything like that.

You are everything.

Your nails are digging into something strong and cold, and black and titanium, and you’re ripping it open as teeth—those aren’t yours—sink a level lower than your skin. You want to stop. You have to stop. You wish you knew how to fucking stop, but it’s right in front of you, and you’ve never been good at control, and-

There’s a laugh, echoing in your ear. There’s gold and purple stained on the walls. The air is thin, but you’re not sure you need it anymore. You just need it to be over. For everything to fall away because you’re so tired, and you’re not in control, and you want to go home.

If you were better—less than a plague, less than just a cancer twisting into whatever’s in your hold—you’d stop. You’d save the choir of souls that are hanging right over your head, forming a stained glass of a picture you recognize, but don’t remember. You’d look up and beg for their forgiveness, because you didn’t mean to. You never mean to. But you’re sick and wrong and you’re a little burrowed in everything, and the teeth in your neck were going to bite Dean-

Dean.

He’s not here.

But that’s his Gold. And the Spiderweb is going haywire around you—light dancing off the walls and bursting like a supernova—and you’re fucking everything, and where’s Dean-

The world shakes. It rattles, and all the souls above you let out a high moan, and there’s a soft, delicate hand that’s brushing the hair away from your face and asking ‘are you strong enough, little one? Are you bright enough to bring the rat home?’

You’re not sure.

You still look at your hands, just to see. But all you find is Gold and pastel blue.

You’ve never been able to save either of them.

And the Sky is high over you, just a level past the souls howling for your attention. But it never does anything except fucking watch when you need it, and rip things in half when you’re trying to keep them.

It hurts so fucking much. All of it.

You just want to fucking go home.

And the strong thing cleaves apart.

The teeth—stained with blood and singing your name—crow like you’ve brought them a great gift. The hands on your face maybe turn to ash—or maybe they were never there at all—and in their wake is Gold. Shifting, strong Gold and pretty green eyes. You should be falling back into yourself, but the Dean before you isn’t real, so he can’t call you back home

And you can see it.

Tall. Thin.

Old.

It looks old.

Pale and hanging off of bones, smooth and quiet and content. None of it is trying to escape itself. It doesn’t seem all that interested in being here at all. It doesn’t run like a machine the way white-eyed demons do, and it isn’t humming with a neon power like an angel.

It just is.

And it doesn’t smile at you. It just tilts its head—not quite a head, more of a gentle, black shadow that looks like it should be hiding something, but isn’t—and holds your gaze.

It doesn’t really have a gaze.

It’s really only mist, in its eyes—not eyes, more like dying stars that have chosen to remain in a stasis—but the mist is boring right into you, and you can’t move.

You can’t look away.

But it’s not painful. There’s nothing wrong with it looking at you.

It’s not home. But it’s familiar. You might have known it your whole life, moving in its wake as it waited for you to find it, just so it could tell you this.

No.

You can’t hear it, but you can feel it in every dark space between the stars and under the dirt, in every decayed bit of life that’s pleading to be called back up. And it’s telling you it doesn’t want you.

And when you frown at it, you can feel it.

The power.

And everything shatters apart.

Your eyes fly open, but you can’t move. It’s almost paralyzation. Your body is still stuck in the nightmare, and your eyes are darting around but all you can see is the dark, and-

Dean.

He’s here. He’s fine. Knocked out at your side and snoring into the pillow, his hand resting over yours and his knee bumping near your thigh.

Slow breaths. Deep, slow breaths, and find what you can see. What you know is real, and not just another haunting terror.

You’re real. And right now, you’re yours. The Silver is dormant, and the Spiderweb is a little wired, but with every rumbling snore from Dean it settles back down. The sheets are sticky from cold sweat, and Dean’s shirt is bunched uncomfortably on your back. There’s no light leaking from under the door, so it must be impossibly early. Dean’s shoulder still has the bandage from his last hunt, and he’d whined like a baby when you put it on, but still grinned at you the whole time. The book Sam brought you is open on your side-table, and when you manage to sit up, you can still see Dean’s name in Enochian, written in pen on your forearm.

It’s only been a night. Nothing new has happened, and that wasn’t an omen or a vision, like Lucifer and the cage.

Only another nightmare.

And it hurts so much. There’s all the usual pain, but then there’s also the noose that’s formed itself around your throat, and it’s made of Death.

Death looked at you, and it didn’t want you. You raised him, and he told you no. And you don’t remember anything else but pain, and knowing that you’re something so horrible and sick and fucking wrong, that Pestilence calls you pure, and Death doesn’t want you.

It’s not like you can blame him.

You don’t really want you either.

Dean says to wake him up, when this happens. That if he’s off dealing with apocalypse shit, you should call him or go get Bobby. If you’re drowning in it—in the blue on your fingers, or dying stars seeping into your soul, or all this fucking pain that’s not allowed to kill you, because Death doesn’t want you—then you need to get him or Bobby. If there’s something hollow that’s spreading over your chest, and it’s filled with winding, distorted colors that are calling for you, but you can’t seem to reach, that you can’t just curl up and try to wait it out.

But he looks so peaceful. His mouth is parted slightly, and there are no lines in his brow of worry. No deep look his eye that reminds you that you’re just a fucking problem. That you’re making this harder for him, because he’d asked you to come home so he wouldn’t have to worry about you, but now he’s fucking worried anyway. He’s been texting you every day to make sure you’re eating, and when he’s home, he doesn’t move from your side.

You don’t deserve him. You’ve never deserved him. He’s always stronger than you’ve ever been, and he’s always too good to you, and he needs some rest.

When you dare to trace your hand over his cheek, Dean mumbles something you can’t make out and leans into your touch.

You’re not going to wake him up.

But you can’t just stay here. Can’t just sit in the pain, or it’s going to shred you into ribbons that Dean will—for some reason—decide are worth braiding back together.

You shuffle out of bed on unsteady feet, and Dean grunts, but doesn’t wake up. You’re moving quietly. Pulling on sweatpants—they’re a little too big, so likely Dean’s and not yours, but that’s better—and fumbling for a sweater and socks in your dresser.

You don’t bother with shoes, when you slip out of the door and down the stairs.

The jagged sticks and rock below your feet help you anyways.

You’re not sure where you’re going, as you walk through the yard. Not too far. You’d promised Dean you wouldn’t run, so you’re only wandering. Letting the cold wind and morning mist bite into your skin, until it starts to buzz with the relief of being numb.

And you walk in circles—sharp rocks cutting into your feet, but no blood on the dirt behind you—before you end up at the usual place.

The Impala is locked. Dean always locks it, because—even though Bobby’s yard has newer, better cars for people to steal—he’s careful.

He’s always so careful.

And Baby is covered in his Gold. She smells a little like him, too. Lingering cinnamon and leather, and it’s like a tiny haven you don’t deserve. A shield around you so that, when you lay on its hood, you’re not left alone with the Sky.

Staring down at you, and doing nothing but watching.

“I hate you,” you whisper, and your voice is almost swallowed in the wind. “I fucking hate you. Leave me alone.”

It flashes, but it’s not in warning. It’s a reminder.

It’s everywhere. You’re never going to escape it. And no matter how much you hate it, nothing will change.

The Sky will keep watching. Waiting.

And you’ll just keep growing sick.

You don’t know how long you lay here. Your fingers start to shake and the Sky blinks—now in warning, it doesn’t like when you damage it’s toy—but you just close your eyes. It hurts. Over all your nerves and sore in your gut, it fucking hurts-

“Son of a-“ Warmth wraps around you, and you squeeze your eyes tighter.

If you look at him, you’ll start crying. Again. And Dean doesn’t need that.

“Goddamnit, sweetheart.” He’s tugging you up, until your face is pressed right against his chest. “You’re fucking- How long have you been out here?“

You don’t answer. Your fingers just curl against his shirt—you don’t deserve to have him here, worried about you and holding you so close, but if he leaves you might split into a million fractures that scatter further than the universe—and the ache in your throat grows unbearable. You know you woke him up, and you made him come outside to get you, and you wish he’d just leave you alone, leave you to freeze into a glassy, perfect and docile statue of the monster that you are-

Dean mutters your name, and you shake your head. He’s keeping you wrapped in his jacket like you’re a baby kangaroo, and it’s so warm here.

His chest heaves with a deep sigh, and your arms shoot around his torso. He can’t go. This can’t be the time he decides to leave you. You should let him—you’re not something that can be saved—but you need him to grab you before you fly away, and your head is swimming with too much pain and you’re so tired-

“It’s okay,” Dean murmurs, his lips brushing over your brow, and a weak sound escapes your throat as your eyes start to sting. “You’re okay, Princess. I’m here.”

You’re not okay. You can still see him staring at you.

Death.

Not greeting you like a friend, but something more. Something worse.

But Dean’s here. And he’s slowly tugging you back, keeping you stuck to his chest as big hands frame your face. His thumb strokes down your nose as you collapse into his touch. The sting grows to a wet blur when you take a staggered breath, and drag your eyes open.

He’s watching you, so carefully. Holding you the same. As if you might shatter under his touch, or turn to ash if he blinks wrong.

So fucking careful.

“You with me?” Dean’s voice is barely a rasp, still clogged with sleep and deepened from the cold, and you swallow down a sob.

You did that. Made those lines on his brow appear with worry, make him wake up, made him come save you from drowning yourself.

And he’s more than Golden, in the fog of the slowly rising morning. He’s brighter than the Sky, and that odd, intangible thing his soul is made of is turning and glowing in the light.

Running through it, you can still see it. The shining, silvery river that’s always flowing inside him. That you wove there, and he’s never seemed to find it foreign.

And that’s likely because Dean can’t see souls. Can’t know that there’s a parasite burrowed into him, can’t even feel it.

But you can lie to yourself a little.

Say he doesn’t fight against it because you’d never hurt him.

Just like you tell yourself that he’s in your orbit by choice, and not because you demanded his attention like a loud, feral beast.

You’re only the beast to serve him.

But you’d climb up to the Sky and lay yourself on its alter, if that served Dean. You’d bow your head and let yourself be put on a leash, if you knew he’d be safe.

He’s still watching you.

He asked you if you’re with him.

So you nod, and whisper the only thing you can think of.

“All the way down.”

Dean’s throat bobs, and you get a small nod as he tugs you a little closer, and tucks your head right back against his neck.

“All the way down.” He murmurs, the sound from deep inside his chest and his heart beating right near your ear, and that’s all it takes.

The first sob is soft, and muffled in Dean’s shirt. He still hears it. Still holds you tighter, instead of shoving you away and leaving you to erode alone.

Maybe if he did, you’d grow into something better. A tall tree, that he could keep visiting, which would never hurt anyone again. You’d offer him shade in the summer and wood in the winter to keep him warm. And he could come back when he finds a better woman and marries her, and bring his future children to visit you, and you’d just be a tree, but you’d be Dean’s tree-

Your body is shaking with it, now. The pain, rolling out of you in heavy waves and clawing out of your throat.

“I-“ You sniff against Dean’s shirt, your nails digging into the muscle of his back. “I- I’m sorry- I didn’t mean to-“ Another sob wracks your body, and Dean’s arms tighten around you. “I’m sorry-“

“I know, ba- sweetheart. It’s okay-“

You shake your head—he doesn’t understand—and you’re not sure when your legs wrapped around his waist. You’re not strong enough to move them away. “I’m sorry-“

Dean shushes you, pressing another kiss to the top of your head, and then your face is back in his hands. His thumb pets down your nose once more until your breathing is even, and your tears dry out.

Baby. You know I love you, baby.

His gaze is driving straight into you. And you’re still sniffling and blurry eyed, but he only wipes your nose with his shirt, and lets out a long, heavy sigh.

“You wanna dance?”

You blink at him. “What?”

“Dance.” He mutters, his knuckles brushing the last lingering tear from your cheek. “You owe me one, Princess. C’mon.”

Dean starts to tug you forward, but you’re just staring up at him with an open mouth. You’re not sure you heard him right. Or that this isn’t just another hazy dream. But you can feel his warmth, and his deep voice is so clear in the night air, so it has to be real.

You need it to be real.

You don’t think you’ll be able to manage waking up and replaying this whole scene all over again like a cruel joke-

He sighs and bends down, holding your gaze with a slight frown. “Sweetheart, I can carry you if you need, but you gotta work with me-“

“Sorry.” Your voice even sounds fucking weak. “I- I don’t know what- You-“

“I’m asking you to dance with me,” Dean says your name, his voice low and soft, and your lips pull into what might be a pout. “Please.”

You couldn’t say not to him if you wanted to. And your nod is tiny, but Dean still sees it, and a grin you don’t deserve splits his handsome face.

And you can’t stop yourself. From reaching up and tracing his jaw, feeling the slightly prickle of stubble against your skin, and knowing he’s real. Golden and alive and—despite all reason—here with you.

But reason has never been either of your strong suits. And knowing you should shove him away and scream for him to just let you go, it would be so much fucking easier for everyone if Dean would just let you go, doesn’t help you at all.

So you let him help you to your feet and guide you inside, Dean’s hand on your lower back quickly turning into you stumbling a single step, and him hauling you up into his arms.

“I-“ He clears his throat as you climb back upstairs, his gaze fixed ahead. “Got that honey-cereal thing you like. When I went out with Sammy last night.”

You hum, letting your fingers play with the collar of his shirt. It’s better than scratching at your own skin. “Did the bar have a grocery aisle?”

“Nah.”

“So you just… Found it?”

Dean rolls his eyes, his lips twitching slightly. “Saw it at the gas station. There’s a pack of root beer’s waiting for you, too. Just don’t touch the strawberry ice cream. Hid a condom in there.”

“You- Why?”

“Don’t worry, Princess, it’s for Sam.”

“I think that’s more worrying-“

“Shut up.” Dean kicks open the door, poking your rib slightly and grinning at your small squeak. “He found a blonde chick last night that seemed pretty into his whole wet puppy thing. I’m trying to make sure he stays safe.”

You give him a flat look. “With an ice cream condom.”

“Yep.” He slowly sets you down to your feet, but doesn’t make a single move to pull away. “It’ll remind him.”

“I don’t think it will-“

“Well, sweetheart.” Dean grins down at you, his arm slipping down to hold your hip, and you swallow. “Good thing you don’t need to worry about it. If Sammy gets himself knocked up, I’m not lettin’ him dump the baby on us.”

You giggle, dropping your face into his chest, and you know what he’s doing. He always does it so well, until the pain is there, but faded slightly. Only a drum of your heartbeat—a little heavier than usual—and a pressure in your lungs that gets lighter with Dean’s every word. Your fingers are still tingling from the cold, but you can feel it when Dean takes your hand and tugs you fully against him. Your knees are okay, but you’re not worried about them giving out.

Dean’s here.

He’s got you.

“I- Uh-“ Dean sighs, and you look up at his almost nervous expression. “I don’t know if you want music, but- uh- I don’t have any-“

“You have a phone, De.”

“For calling people.” He grumbles. “Not music.”

You giggle again, not bothering to hide your smile. “You are going to make an excellent old man one day.”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m an idiot-“

“I didn’t say that.”

“You were thinking it-“

“No. I wasn’t.”

Your words are quick, a small frown on your face, and Dean raises his brows. “You got something you want to tell me, Princess?”

You sigh, resting your brow on his shoulder, and Dean starts to sway you back and forth.

The dancing.

You’re dancing. With Dean. And it’s less dancing and more letting Dean move you around in silence, but it has the same effect.

You’re a little dizzy.

A little drunk on the smell of him and the Gold that’s flowing all over you.

And the silence means to you can hear his breathing. Steady and slow and almost in time with your own, making you come down, down, down.

Back to Dean.

Always back to Dean.

“You’re not dumb.” You mumble against him, your free hand digging into his shirt. “You’re the smartest person I know.”

“Pretty sure you know yourself, sweetheart-“

“I’m serious.” You snap, pulling back to hold his gaze. “You are not dumb, Winchester. You’re the only reason I even know what I am.”

He frowns. “That’s-“

“You figured out I was mistranslating the Enochian in my head. I only asked Cas to look into the Magdalene’s because you gave me the idea.”

��You would have figured that out yourself-“

“It had never even occurred to me.”

Dean jaw ticks, his gaze locked onto yours, and you’re still dancing. He’s so close. His hair is mussed from sleep, his lips slightly swollen from the same, and it’s a good thing he’s got you. You might have fallen too far into him, otherwise. Dragged him down, until you were both on the floor and you’re straddling his abdomen, trying to show him. Prove that it hurts, so much, all the time, but you love him.

That even when you thought Dean was something that hurt, it was only because you didn’t get to have him at all.

And, for better or worse, he’s here now.

You’re not allowed to say you love him. Not allowed to show it.

But Dean’s hand squeezes yours once—checking in—and you squeeze it back three times.

It means I love you, now.

He just doesn’t get to know that.

“We’ll see if I make it long enough to be an old man,” Dean hums, and you blink.

He’s trying to divert the conversation. And you don’t want to let him, but he just keeps talking.

“And I’d get one of those iPod thingys, but they’re a million freakin’ bucks. I’m not made of money, sweetheart.”

You let out a slow breath, press your cheek back to his chest. Tonight, you’ll let him have it. “I could get you one. For your birthday.”

“You even know when my birthday is-“

“January 24th.” You mumble. “Soon."

You could swear you hear is heart stutter. “Ah. We’ve, uh- I didn’t think I told you that-“

“Think again, Winchester.” Sam had told you.

“You don’t have to get me anything-“

“Yes I do.”

Dean mutters your name, and you lean back with a glare.

“I have a whole untapped credit card to burn, Deano. Watch your fucking back.”

He’s still frowning. “But-“

“Shut up.”

A smile tugs at his lips. “So bossy.”

“Dean-“

“Alright, alright.” Dean chuckles, and you yelp as suddenly he’s twirling you around, then pulling you right back into his chest. “Whatever you want, Princess.”

You. The Spiderweb sings as you gape at him. I just fucking want you, Dean.

But you’re not allowed to say it.

So you hum, and let Dean keep swaying you in the silence. Your eyes are getting heavy again, and you can feel sleep creeping up the corner of your vision, even as sunlight starts to leak through the window.

You still don’t want this to end.

“You getting tired, sweetheart?”

“No.” You grumble, moving your free arm to hook around Dean’s neck. “Shut up.”

His laugh is low and deep and right in your ear. “I don’t know, you sound kinda tired-“

“‘M gonna stab you.”

“Okay, Sleeping Beauty. Let’s get you to bed.”

You shake your head, even as Dean pulls you up to his chest and you fold right against him. “De?”

He grunts, and you swallow, the sting of tears building back up behind your eyes. He’s so good. Strong and resilient and careful, and all you do is make him lose sleep, but he’s still carrying you to bed.

“I’m sorry.”

Dean sighs, and you feel his lip brush over your collarbone as he speaks. “I know, ba- Princess.”

You mumble something even you don’t understand as he sets you back in bed, and grab his hands when they cup your face.

“I need you to promise you’re gonna call me.” He mutters your name, and your lashes flutter as you try to hold his gaze. “I’ve gotta go with Sammy in a few hours, we’ve got a case in a nuthouse to take care of. We’re gonna use that truth-telling thing you did in-“ He cuts himself off, and you know why.

He’s trying not to remind you of San Francisco.

It’s sweet.

But it’s still going to hang over your head like a blade. You’re never not aware of it.

That’s how you ended up here in the first place.

“De-“

“We’ll only be gone a week, and I’m not gonna have my phone, but I’ll call you from the hospital line. And if start getting the urge to do something stupid, call it like crazy and don’t stop until they let me talk to you.” He’s frowning, his grip tightening slightly against you. “Please. I- Even it’s the middle of the fucking night, just call-“

“Okay.” You breathe out, settling down into the pillows. You’re too tired to argue anyway. “I will.”

Dean nods slowly, then raises his hand between your bodies.

Your pinky locks with his fast, and he leans forward to press a kiss to your brow as the hand still on your face strokes a line down your nose.

You let out a soft sigh, and Dean might be saying something, but you can’t really hear it.

It’s just Dean.

It’s always just Dean.

And you sleep dreamlessly, through the morning, and into the afternoon.

Your days are a little more flexible now. In the weeks since San Francisco, you haven’t been hunting. And the nights like these keep you from Bobby’s hunter fever, because you know.

It’s safer for you to be benched right now. Safer for everyone.

You’d raised Death. You’re not sure how you did it, but you hadn’t needed Cas to tell you that’s what happened. You, with only pain and grief and the Silver, had raised Death for Lucifer. And nobody is pissed at you about it—a bitter, raw part of you really wishes they would be—but they all agree you’re most useful on book duty right now. Trying to figure out where Death might be, helping Sam and Dean with easier cases over the phone, using your spare time to try and transcribe everything you can about the Magdalene’s onto paper.

You’d called Cas around midnight a week ago, when you were alone. Prayed to him carefully—just in case Gabriel was on the line again—and barely flinched when you’d heard his voice behind you.

“Dean says I am supposed to insist that you sleep,” he’d said as you turned around. “If you call me at night.”

You’d rolled your eyes. “Dean is dramatic. I’m fine.”

Cas’ head had tilted slightly. “Yes. You seem fine.”

“Was that…” You blinked at him. “Sarcasm?”

“An attempt at it, yes. Did it land?”

“Sure.”

“Good.” Cas had paused, still holding your gaze. “You do not seem fine, to be clear. You are… very bright.”

You’d scowled, rubbing at your wrists. “I thought I was supposed to be bright.”

“You are. It is just… Distressing.”

“Distressing? I’m distressing?”

Cas had nodded slowly. “There is a commercial Dean showed me. Where a dog dies, and it makes the other humans very sad. This is similar.”

You’d blinked at him. “So I’m a dog?”

“You are in pain. And it is distressing. To me.” Cas’ frown had deepened. “I can hear it. If you were not hiding yourself from my brethren, they would likely feel it to. Heaven would weep.”

“Oh.” You’d swallowed. “Sorry.”

Cas had shrugged. “Are you going to go to sleep now? Dean was very clear that you should either go rest, or call him-“

“Dean can shove it.” You’d kept your voice flat, even as the Spiderweb had howled at just the sound of his name. “I need to talk to you. I- I have some questions.”

Cas had paused, and you’d sighed.

“You did your job, Cas. I’ll go to bed after we talk.”

“Alright.” He’d nodded slowly. “What are your questions.”

You’d let out a slow breath, watching him carefully. “You want some ice cream?”

“Is that your question-“

“No. Do you?”

Cas had blinked at you for a second. “I have never had ice cream.”

“Well, let’s fix that.” You’d turned around, calling over your shoulder as you opened the door. “I think we’ve got strawberry and chocolate. You’ll love it.”

Cas had loved it. You’d sat in dark, letting Cas devour the whole bowl, then the chocolate carton as you turned your questions over in your head. You’ve been trying to track Ellen’s soul, but it’s as if she’s vanished off the face of the Earth. It’s not worth asking Cas about that, though, given the whole cut off from Heaven thing. And if none of Bobby’s hunter contacts know anything, she doesn’t want to be found.

You’ve still been searching though. If only to find Her and say I’m so fucking sorry. I shouldn’t have left, I should have saved Jo, I’m sorry and if you hate me, I understand, but just know that I’m so fucking sorry-

“You haven’t asked me your questions.” Cas had cut through your thoughts, and you’d sighed.

“It’s- You might not have anything. And it might be nothing all, but-“

Cas had said your name carefully, and you’d rushed out the rest of the sentence.

“I found this thing about Men of God, and I’m not sure what it means, and I- Angels are of God. So-“ You’d let out a heavy breath. “Yeah.”

Cas had stared at you for a long moment, then shaken his head. “I have never heard that phrase before. Was it in Enochian?”

You’d shaken your head. “I heard it. In English. From, uh- Lilith, Alistair, and Anna.”

“Anna?”

You’d nodded, and Cas had sighed.

“She was of a higher rank than I, in Heaven. And Alistair and Lilith were very old demons, both of whom seemed to be aware of you, but- I’m sorry. I don’t know what men of god are.”

“Alright.” It had been a long shot anyway. “I-“

“I can look, though.” Cas had jumped over you, and you’d blinked at him. “If you wish it. It might be able to help with my search.”

“Yeah, uh- Sure. Thanks.” You’d poked your ice cream—now only soup—with your spoon. “How’s the God search going, by the way?”

“Not well. There is… A lot of Earth.”

You’d snorted. “Yeah. Small, big planet.”

Cas had frowned. “Those are antonyms-“

“It’s a dialectic. Contradictory things that are both true.”

“Ah.” Cas had tilted his head at you. “I am sorry. That you have not been able to see it.”

“I’ve seen more of it than Sam and Dean.”

“Maybe. But there is- You are not Sam and Dean.”

You’d blinked at him. “What?“

“Dean told me what Anna said.” He’d murmured. “That your name is written in parts of Heaven I have not seen. And it does not seem to only be Heaven.”

“I-“

“May I ask you a question?”

You’d frowned, but nodded, and Cas had leaned forward.

“What do you love? Of what this species has created?”

“Humans?”

Cas had nodded, and you’d rubbed your palm as you thought.

“I- I don’t know. I don’t really think about it. But maybe- Nothing?”

Cas had frowned and opened his mouth, and you’d shaken your head.

“No, not nothing. Just- Nothing.” You’d sighed. “Nothing that we’ve created. I’ve never been happy because of something. Like I-“ You’d let out a long, slow breath. “You know my knife?”

“The one you keep in your jacket.”

“Yeah, that. It’s- Dean gave it to me. And I love my flask because Bobby gave it to me. And I- I don’t care about the thing itself. I just- I love other people. And the things we do for each other.”

That had been pure fucking nonsense. You’d known it.

But Cas had nodded slowly.

“I… believe I like that too.”

His attention had returned to his ice cream, and before you could push about the written in Heaven thing, he was talking about how he was fond of bridges.

And you’d remained benched. Researching and spending most days with Bobby, then trying not to smile like an idiot and kiss Dean’s big, stupid and pretty face whenever he came back.

No demons knock at the door, but Lucifer might be keeping them on a leash. The angels are still after you, but the only reason they haven’t landed on Bobby’s roof to rip you away is because you warded the place to Hell. Four sleepless nights, utilizing Sam’s longer arms to get the ceilings and serval calls to Cas—Dean scowling in the corner and muttering that he’s surrounded by crazy—and Bobby��s house might be the most secure building in the country.

So you read, and write, and pass the time trying to just get through it.

You will.

You always do.

When you wake up there’s a glass of water on your dresser, paired with a little paper note folded beneath it.

Nuthouse is in Alabama. Sammy thinks it’ll take five days, so with the drive we’ll be back next Friday. Call tonight, then when we get there - DW

You smile, and tuck the note into your pocket. Maybe you can track down Ketch and demand he give you the first note back—or search all Mexico until you find it floating on the wind—so you can start a shrine. Even the paper has a little Gold on it. And Dean added a little smiley face that he scribbled out at the bottom, and he’s the most adorable thing on the planet, and you love him.

It might be written all over your face, when you walk downstairs. There’s no other reason for Bobby to roll his eyes at the sight of you.

You stick your tongue out at him, but you’re not doing yourself any favors when you shuffle over to the coffee machine, and see that there’s extra left. Made with your grounds, and the cereal box waiting out for you.

A stupid, wide smile overtakes your face, and Bobby sighs.

“You look drunk, kiddo.”

“I don’t drink-“

“Wish you did.” He mutters. “Maybe it would give you the balls to tell that idjit you like him back.”

You flip him off over your shoulder—this isn’t a useful conversation to have right now—and focus on the cereal. Dean even cleaned your mug and left it out on the counter, right next to an empty bowl and spoon. And if it were anyone else you’d be pissed about it. About the coddling and gentle treatment, like you’re just a little girl. Like you can’t carve your way through demons with only a knife, or kill monsters with nothing but your head and hands.

But it’s Dean.

“You know about this case they got?” Bobby asks as you drop across from him, and you shrug.

“Dean said it was in psych ward last night. I think they’re going to try and get into it. But that’s all.”

Bobby raises his brows. “You’d already gone to sleep when Sam got the case.”

You sigh, giving him a flat look. “You know Dean and I sleep in the same bed, Bobby.”

“I don’t know shit.” Bobby holds your gaze. “Far as I was aware, you were just sleepin’, not having, uh- Pillow talk-“

“Jesus Christ, it’s not- We don’t-“

“I’ve told you, I ain’t gonna judge if ya are, long as you’re both aware of what’s goin’ on-“

“Bobby-“

“And you’re bein’ safe!” He runs a hand over his face. “I mean, if it comes to it, I’ll help ya, but now ain’t the time to be caring for a-“

“No.” You cover your ears with your hands. “Nope. It’s- We’re not even- Why would you-“

“Found a condom in my ice cream this mornin’.” Bobby shrugs. “Wanted to tell you that’s just gonna make it useless.”

Your face might be burning, and you glare at the cereal in the hope Dean can feel it, even halfway across the country. “Great. I’ll keep that in mind.”

“Good.“ There’s a long pause, and then- “You can do a hell of a lot worse than Dean, kiddo. And he’s fuckin’ dedicated to ya-“

“Bobby.” You poke at the lingering cereal, floating around in the milk. “Please.”

Bobby grunts your name, and you shake your head.

“We’re not sleeping together. Or dating. Or-“ You swallow, unable to finish the sentence, and Bobby sighs.

“You remember when you were nine, and I took you out to that safe house I got, in Alexandria?”

You nod, and Bobby clears his throat.

“Was supposed to be a break. I’d had a rough hunt with a wolf, and you’d been havin’ those nightmares where you’d wake up screamin’ that someone was watchin’ you. But I’d brought the boys up there, month before that. Your magic thingy had started gettin’ out of hand, and John was gonna drop them with me for the week, but I wasn’t about to have you runnin’ to Rufus’ when you were freakin’ out about how the lamps were tired and the walls were gettin’ sore.”

“Rufus stayed with me.” You mutter. “He brought me new crayons, watched soccer, and told me to draw whatever I was seeing. Then you came back and said you were glad I asked about monsters and not math.”

“Sam spent the whole week talkin’ my ear off about fractions.” Bobby mutters. “And you gave me one of those drawings. Drew me green and the grass gold. When I asked you why, you said cause you’re green, and I like grass.”

You swallow, dropping your gaze back to your hands, and Bobby pushes on.

“I keep that in my desk. With all your other…”

“Crazy shit?”

He chuckles. “Sure. But the point I was tryin’ to make is that I brought you up to Alexandria, but I’d forgotten to clear it out. Some of Dean’s shit was still lyin’ around, and you were goddamn fascinated by it. Few of those old movies he loves, car magazine he’d grabbed from a library, and a bunch of candy he’d nicked for Sam. Think that was the first time you ate candy. Your eyes got real wide, and you asked if there were other things that tasted like it. Then you watched all the movies three times, and asked me to bring you more of ‘em.”

The world is blurring a little again. “All you could find was Indiana Jones.”

“Yep. Got you that, and a root beer float, and you never fuckin’ looked back.”

“Bobby.” You don’t want to look at him. To see what you know, written all over his face. “I- I don’t- I can’t-“

“I know you can’t, kiddo.” Bobby lets out a long, slow sigh. “All I’m tellin’ you is that whatever the hell you two got goin’ on, it’s not new. You wanted that boy since before you even knew him.”

“I-“

“You don’t gotta do anythin’ about it. But if you think it’s nothin’, it’s not. I still remember Dean bein’ twelve and askin’ me why that blanket you kept on the couch smelled good. And he’s a dumbass, but he’s good for you.”

“He’s not a dumbass.” You mumble, and you don’t care if it’s not helping your case. You still have to say it.

Bobby only sighs. “I know he ain’t. But he can be. Just like you.”

You give a tiny nod, and keep your eyes fixed on your fingers. You’re picking at them again. “Can we please talk about something else.”

“You hear me? ‘Bout Dean?”

You nod, and hear Bobby let out a slow breath.

“Okay, then. What’d you wanna talk about.”

“Uh- How’s the hunt going for Death-“

“Same as it was last night.”

Your glare shoots up, and Bobby gives you a small, dry grin.

“Finish your breakfast, kiddo. Then we’ll talk Armageddon.”

You sigh, but listen.

And the hunt for Death isn’t really making progress. Wherever Lucifer sent him, it’s not for television appearances. Most of the day is spent playing the news in the background in hopes of blatant omens.

You won’t be useless. You might not be allowed to hunt, and you might lose Dean sleep by wandering out in the dead of night, but you won’t be useless. You won’t start screaming about Death in the middle of the night and make it Bobby’s problem. You’ll go sit on your bed and work on what you do best.

Weird things.

New spells and rituals, trying to resketch that map of Heaven, ideas for how to help Bobby or find Ellen. Through the whole night, ignoring when your eyes go dry and you can feel your teeth, because you won’t be useless.

True to his word, you get a call from an unknown number the next morning. Early the next morning. Your phone buzzing before the sky has even started to lighten, starting your attention away from the notes in your lap.

“Dean?” You pick up in a second, and he laughs from the other side.

“You know, one day you’re gonna pick up the phone and it’s gonna be the feds. Then you’ll have some explaining to do, Princess.”

You sigh, tipping your head back and smiling at the ceiling. "The feds don’t know who I am, De. Some of us are good at our jobs.”

“Hey, I’m good at my job. I got me and Sammy into this psych ward, didn’t I?”

“You did.” Your smile grows. “With my strategy.”

“Shit.” Dean mutters, and you let out a soft giggle. “I shouldn’t have told you that.”

“Nope.” You pause, fidgeting with the hem of your shirt.

Dean’s shirt.

Dean’s shirt that you’re wearing, because you’re an idiot who misses him and loves him and wants him all the time.

“I, um,” You swallow. “Are you there? And safe?”

You can hear him sigh through the phone. “Yeah. We’re safe. I mean, we got full bended and spread, but we’re safe.”

“Bended and-“

“Medical exam.” He grumbles, and you can almost see his sour expression. “It don’t know what the hell my ass has got to do with being bananas, but they still had to take a look.”

“Oh.” You flush, and force it to stay out of your voice. “That’s, um- Did it hurt?”

“Nah. It was fine. I-“ Dean cuts himself off, his voice dropping slightly when he continues. “Princess.”

Your flush is spreading. Growing hot between your legs. “Yeah?”

“Why the hell are you up right now.”

“You’re up-“

“I snuck out to leave you a voicemail so you had the number.” He snaps. “I didn’t think you’d actually be awake. Go back to sleep-“

“I never went to sleep.” You raise your voice over his, your knees drawing up to your chest. “I- I can’t.”

The line is only static for another second, then Dean clears his throat. “You wanna talk about it?”

“No.”

“Okay. You haven’t been-“

“I’ve been writing.” You whisper, turning one of your notes in your hand. “And thinking. But that’s it.”

“Good.” Dean mutters, and you hear a rustle through the speaker. He might be rubbing his face. “I can try and stay on the line with you, b- sweetheart, but if they catch me, I lose pudding privileges.”

You smile softly at the air. “Woe is you, Deano. I-“

“It ain’t that bad.” Dean speaks over you before you can convince him to hang up. “All they got is butterscotch.”

“Wow. Woe really is you.”

He chuckles. “You have no idea, Princess. You want me to stay?”

“Yes.” Your grip tightens on the phone. Like you can force his voice to stay with you. Please.”

“Alright, then. I had a great fucking milkshake on the road. Tasted like mint.”

“Dean, you hate mint-“

“I hate toothpaste. The, uh- sharp kinda mint-

“Spearmint?”

“Yeah. That. This was better than that. I’ll take you sometimes. If you- Uh, if you’d like.”

You smile into the air. “I’d like.”

“Good.” Dean coughs. “Sammy got a salad. Fucking health freak.”

You giggle, and stay on the phone until you blink, and realize the sun has long risen back into the sky, and you’re slumped across the mattress to Dean’s side of the bed.

He’s fine. The first thing Bobby tells you when you get downstairs is that Sam called that morning, saying they think they’re hunting a wraith and nothing else. If Dean was in trouble, Sam would mention it.

“Bobby.”

He grunts, and you push one of your papers across the table.

“Can you read that?”

“The Enochian?” He gives you a flat look. “No.”

“Not that.” You tap the bottom of the page. “That.”

Bobby sighs, and frowns at the paper. “Congelo.”

“Great. Now take this,” you shove a fistful of mint into his hands. “And keep it in your pocket.”

“In my-“ Bobby say your name with an incredulous expression. “What the hell are you talkin’ about-“

“It’s a defense.” Your tone is almost frantic. You can’t help it. “If you eat the mint and then say congelo, then everything within a ten-foot radius will freeze. I tried to keep it as simple as possible, but we’re going to have to up the salt in your diet and get you some pebbles to throw over your shoulder. And you, uh- You’ll have to keep the house about five degrees colder-“

“Kiddo, I ain’t doin’ any of that.”

“It’s not forever! It’s-“ You grab another fistful of notes, shoving them forward as if Bobby could read a single word. “It’s just until I figure out how to heal you-“

“No.” Bobby shakes his head, and you frown.

“But-“

“No. I don’t want you wastin’ your time on me.”

Your brows knit tight, and you scowl. “It’s not wasting time, Bobby-“

“It is if you’re lookin’ for ways to get me out of this chair instead of stop Lucifer.” He snaps. “I ain’t gonna lie and say I’m happy with this agreement, but I sure as shit ain’t putting myself before the damn world.”

“What if I want to put you first-“

“Then you need to remember that there’s no me, no anybody, if there ain’t world.”

You shake your head, your words growing strained. “What- What if something attacks you, Bobby. What if I’m not here and a demon gets to you again, and you can’t get to your shotgun. Then that’s three people that I could have helped, but I failed-“

“Hey.” Bobby grunts your name, and you take a slow, slightly shaking breath. “Breath. I got a piston on me, I keep extra guns places in this house that would shock ya’, and I know my exorcisms.”

“But-“

“If we’re bein’ honest, kiddo, my life expectancy is probably doubled in this chair. You’ve made this place more secure than fuckin’ Alcatraz. I’ll be fine.”

You take a heavy breath, your voice dropping under your breath. “People escaped from Alcatraz.”

“Yeah, three dumbasses who got themselves drowned.” Bobby sighs your name, rubbing his beard. “I’ll be alright kiddo. I got you lookin’ out for me, and if it makes you feel better, I’ll keep the damn mint. But I ain’t doin’ all the other stuff.”

You’ll take it. Just to give yourself a false sense of comfort, you’ll take it.

But it doesn’t help you sleep better. And the pain still crushes your lungs in the dead of night, but you don’t call Dean. He’s working. He needs the sleep too.

You’d promised you’d call him, if you were going to do something stupid. But you’re not. Every time you want to go outside and scream at the Sky until your voice is gone and your skin is frostbitten, you just keep writing under your hand cramps. It’s not even spells anymore. It’s Dean’s name in Enochian, a record of things you did that day, a bunch of fantasies you’re never going to speak aloud—that part comes with your hand between your thighs and a small gasp that sounds a lot like Dean—and a list of ideas for Dean’s birthday.

But it still hurts.

And you can’t just sit in it.

You take the knife and the Blade, as you slide out the door. You won’t need them—anything that can really hurt you will trigger the Silver, and then it’s everybody’s problem—but it will be good to have a defense in the morning, when Bobby asks what the hell you were thinking, sneaking of in the middle of the night. You brought a weapon. Everything was fine.

It isn’t.

Not really.

And you’re not really sure where you’re going. For a second, you’re driving the Firebird to the trail, ready to hike to the waterfall and see Jo—hiking at night might be a dumb idea, but animals tend to like you, and you do have your knife—but you’re not ready.

You can’t do it alone.

So you turn around, and end up at a bar. It’s the one Sam and Dean always go to. And you’ll always refuse Dean’s invitation, because they’re going to be drinking and you don’t want to be a bummer. The stick in the mud loser who can’t play pool, won’t drink, and is clinging to Dean’s side, stopping him from getting laid.

Sam had said Dean doesn’t look to get laid anymore.

That doesn’t mean he’d turn down an offer.

You try not to think about it.

But there’s still the fucking fantasy. Where you do go the bar with them, Dean’s only looking at you. Grinning at you and ordering you a Shirley Temple before guiding you to the pool table with his hand on your lower back, and talking to you through the whole game. Then he wanders over to your stool and stand between your legs, smirking at you before pulls you into a long, deep kiss-

“Are you waiting for someone, darling?”

You blink at the voice from your left—you’ve been staring at your eggnog for maybe twenty minutes—and nod. “Yeah, my boyfriend.”

The voice hums, and your skin crawls. It’s British, and all you can think of is Ketch. “Some boyfriend he is, leaving a lovely thing like you hanging.”

“He’s not leaving me hanging.” You shrug. “He’s a mechanic and I make him shower before he joins me. And I’m really not looking for company, so-“ You turn to look at Mr. British, and your words die in your throat. “Fuck.”

The demon is seeping and sticky and smooth. Blood red.

Crossroads demon.

His vessel is shorter, dressed on all black with a clean beard.

Easy body to hide.

You reach for your knife, and the demon just sighs.

“Don’t do that.” He tilts his head to your hand, and you scowl.

“Shucks, buddy, you don’t really get a say-“

“I am not here to hurt you.” He hums, taking a slow sip of his own drink. “No fun in that.”

You pause. The Silver isn’t rising anymore, but it’s not going back down either. Just humming in static. Waiting.

You don’t pull out the Blade, but you don’t move your hand, either. “No fun?”

“God, no.” The demons turns to face you with a smirk. “If I’m being self-aware, no point in trying, either. I’ve seen the news. As far as I recall, San Francisco never had hospital that looked like a hanging garden. Not until you visited it, anyway.”

The Silver flares slightly at that, and your words are pushed through your teeth. “What do you want.”

The demon laughs. “Think I’d rather introduce myself first, actually.” He extends a hand, his smirk growing. “I already know who you are,” he says your name, and you sit a little taller. “But I’m afraid I missed you, when your two handsome buffoons gave me a gentlemanly call. Crowley, King of the Crossroads, anti-Lucifer demon.”

Fuck.

You’re staring at him, trying to weigh the merits of stabbing him and running. If one demon found you, others could find you. And even if Crowley is—as he very pointedly said—against Lucifer, that doesn’t mean other demons won’t find you and call Lucifer-

“What’s wrong?” Crowley cuts through your cold panic, his brows raised. “Not a toucher?”

His hand.

You’re not going to shake it.

“You didn’t answer my question.” You say, pulling your hand out of your jacket. “What do you want.”

“Well, if we’re skipping formalities,” Crowley withdraws his hand, and his smirk grows. “I want to make a deal.”

“No.”

He sighs. “You haven’t heard my offer yet, you can’t just say no-“

“Yes, I can. No.”

“You are-“ He scowls, scanning over you carefully. “I’m not asking for your soul, darling. This isn’t another Dean’s got a year situation.”

You narrow your eyes, the Silver flaring slightly. “I’m still not interested.”

“Yes, because you don’t know what I’m offering-“

“I don’t care-“

“You will.” His grin returns in full force, wide and snake-like. “Because I can give you Death.”

The Silver flares again. Still too deep in your body to be dangerous, but brighter. You can feel how cold your glass is, from the ice in your drink. “Death.”

“That’s right.” He hums. “And since I can’t take your soul, all you’d owe me is one little favor.”

One favor.

Death, for one favor.

You’re not a fucking idiot. And Crowley might have played nice with Sam and Dean, but he’s still a demon. Still smiling at you from inside the vessel, hideous and crude and bloody.

But Death.

You could fix your mistake. You could make it better.

Dean told you not to do anything stupid.

“I know you have no reason to trust me,” Crowley says, before you can even open your mouth. “But I promise. I don’t break my deals, and I am very much in favor of a world without the Devil. He doesn’t even do any of the real work. Made us govern ourselves for years, he’s barely more than a figurehead.”

You frown, and speak before you can stop yourself. “Why are you British?”

He rolls his eyes. “Why are you American?”

“Touché.” You sigh and rub your thumb over your palm. “I-“

Crowley shakes his head. “Don’t answer yet. Sleep on it. And if you need proof of my allegiances,” Crowley leans forward, holding your gaze. “So I can offer you a step forward. For free.”

“Offer me- A step forward.” Your eyes narrow. “Why would you do that?”

“Call it an investment. I’ve been told some interesting things about you,” he drawls your name with a small shrug. “And while I’m not looking for friends, I’d have to be a fool to be on the bad side of the girl who kills angels and raised Death.”

“What’s a step forward-“

“You’ll have to find that out yourself, I’m afraid. But I promise I’m good on my word.”

You swallow, the Silver twisting in your body. “And it’s… free.”

Crowley nods, his grin never dropping. “As long as you promise to think about my real offer, yes. It is free.”

And Dean told you not to do anything stupid.

But thinking about it doesn’t mean you have to do it.

“Fine.” You lean forward, holding Crowley’s gaze, and his smirk grows. “I’ll think about it. Promise. Your turn.”

“Los Angeles, California. See what you find.”

You open your mouth to push, but before you can, Crowley snaps his fingers. And he’s gone.

Fuck.

——————

“Dean.” Dad grunted, and Dean’s sat up.

If Dad needed him, he always had to sit up. Look ready. Prove that he was listening, and that he would be worthy of whatever was needed. The kiddie gun Dad let him keep was in his pants. He couldn’t get into smaller spaces anymore, but he could strong-arm them open. Or just force himself into them, so Sammy didn’t have to.

Whatever it was, Dean would do it. He could do it. He always did it, and it hurt sometimes, but he was being fucking useful, so-

“Take these.” Dad muttered, passing a pair of scissors into Dean’s hand. “Go inside, cut some cloth, then come out. Anyone ask you what you’re doin’, you pretend you’re dull in the head. Understood?”

“Yes, sir.”

Dean didn’t understand. But he knew better than to tell Dad that. Then Dad would just give the scissors to Sammy, and while Dean could play stupid, Sammy couldn’t. Kid didn’t know how. He’d just freak out about getting caught and start making up frantic excuses until they were screwed.

But Dean could play stupid. He was good at it, too. And he’d figure out what Dad wanted.

Get cloth.

That couldn’t be too hard.

Dad had parked around the back of the Church. Out of the view of the road and—more importantly—patrolling cop cars. Dean had heard him on the phone with Bobby this morning, while Sammy was sleeping. Someone had ratted out the guy in room 105 at the motel on Kirk Street, with a bunch of guns and two kids that didn’t go to school. Now they had to wrap up the case and hit the road, before everything got worse.

That was why Dean was going in, and not Dad. Dad would be in danger.

Dean might be too, but no one was going to hurt a kid.

Usually.

And Dean had never been in a church before. He didn’t remember Mom being that kind of religious, and Dad always said ‘you’d have to be a crazy asshole to believe, knowin’ what’s out there.’ Sometimes they’d pass big, dusty churches on the highway, but they looked like nothing. Single-colored building with crosses stuck on the top, all wood or clay or brick. The door always seemed too big, and the signs all said things like ‘There will be judgement’, which Dean wasn’t sure was true.

If there was judgement, it was a little slow. Or misplaced. If there was judgement, Mom never would’ve gotten ganked, and Sammy would’ve gotten to know what normal was. If there was judgement, Dad would get to sleep more, and he wouldn’t ever be angry because everything would be fine.

Dean didn’t remember what fine felt like.

He was sure he wouldn’t be finding it in an old building that smelled like wet wood and smoke, with some old bald guy yelling at him.

And that was what he’d been sure all churches would be.

But this wasn’t that.

Maybe it’s because they were in a city. Dad rarely took them to cities. But Chicago had a problem, and Dad was the only person who could solve it. So, city.

And Dad rarely let them near churches, either. But here they were.

And when Dean shuffled through the too big doors, this wasn’t the wooden box filled with guilt and dummies praying to nothing.

It was big.

Beautiful.

A ceiling that seemed higher than the sky, and arches that curved over his head like doorways. There was a big organ at the front, stained glass windows lining the walls, and Dean felt small. He felt like he was somewhere he shouldn’t be. It was too bright and colorful, too well-kept and clean. That might be gold, lining the alter, all the benches were shiny and polished, and not one of them was going to give him a splinter.

It was empty. Oddly empty. It was a Thursday, but a place like this felt as if it should be filled with a hundred people, shouting and singing and doing church things. But it was just Dean, and the stature of the guy on the cross, hanging over the dais.

That looked painful. Really freaking painful.

Dean didn’t think he’d be strong enough to do that, if he had to. He knew the whole Jesus story—he wasn’t that much of an idiot—and if Dad asked him to hang himself for the sake of everyone else, he didn’t know if he could.

He wanted to be able to. Wanted to be worthy of whatever people saw in that guy, to make something this beautiful for him. Maybe if he bled enough, just one person would leave a flower at his grave. One person would sit on all those shiny benches, and think of Dean.

He would never be worthy of all this beauty. Of those painting on the glass of angels, or the spotless shine of the floors. A flower and one person could be all he asked for.

Maybe one day he’d earn it.

Right now, he had to get cloth.

There was no one to stop him wandering right up the steps to the big preaching area, and there was some red, soft looking fabric hanging off the alter. That could be what Dad was looking for. And if it wasn’t, Dean would just take the blow, then run back inside until his brain started freaking working and he figured it out.

He knelt down behind the alter—where nobody would see him, if they walked in—and raised the scissors to make a small, clean cut.

“What are you doing?”

Dean’s head shot up, and there She was. Sitting on the alter with hair shinier than the gold in the pews, looking at Dean with eyes brighter than all the sun leaking through the glass. Dean whispered Her name, his voice a little hoarse, and suddenly he wasn’t small anymore. He was kneeling, but at Her eye level. The scissors were smaller in his hands, and the alter was far from hiding his body from sight.

He didn’t want to be hidden from sight. He wanted Her to look at him, all the fucking time. And smile, and lean forward while holding his gaze.

“Dean.” Her voice was teasing, mimicking the tone with which he’d said Her name. He really wanted to kiss Her. “Why are we in a church?”

“I, uh-“ He cleared his throat, grabbing Her knee.

A little bit to steady himself, but mostly just to touch Her. Make sure She didn’t vanish into the air as the dream fell back into a boring pace.

“I’m working a case. With Dad.”

“Huh.” She frowned, glancing down at the scissors. “What?”

“He needed cloth from a church.”

“Why couldn’t he get it himself?”

“There were cops.” Dean shrugged. “And this isn’t that bad, sweetheart. One time he had me crawl into the sewer cause he dropped the wolf killing bullets.”

Her brow furrowed into a tight wrinkle. “Dean-“

“Yeah, yeah. I know.” He shrugged. “But shit happens. And he got the wolf.”

“I- How old are you?”

“Right now?” Dean frowned. “This is, uh- The ’89 case in Chicago. Woulda been ten.”

The little wrinkle deepened, Her lips falling into a full pout. “That’s-“

He sighed. “Look, Princess, I know. And I’ve come to terms with it-“

“I don’t care.” She whispered, Her fingers reaching up to trail his jawbone. “You didn’t deserve that, De. I- He never deserved you.”

Dean let out a dry chuckle. “That right, Princess? I’m just that good, huh.”

“You are.”

She was holding his gaze, and there wasn’t anything mocking in Her voice. She just had that little furrow in Her brow, a siren-like voice that might be the most gospel this stupid church had ever heard, and Dean didn’t even feel small now. The felt like he was something important, with how She was looking at him.

And he wasn’t.

But for Her, he’d always wanted to be.

“Well,” Dean drawled Her name, raising his brows. “Who would deserve me, then?”

She frowned. “Nobody.”

Dean blinked. She’d said it like She meant he was too good, when really nobody deserved having to deal with him. Deal with all his shit. The bits he’d forced into himself, the mud he’d been born into, the violence and horror that came with just knowing him.

And She’d said it so simply, too. Like it was a fact and not just an outright lie. Moving on before he could push it.

“You know, I’m from Chicago.” Her voice was a hum, Her fingers still lingering on Dean’s face. “Sort of. It was the closest city. I actually came to this church a lot.”

Dean frowned. “You did? If I’m ten, you’re-“

“Seven. Still with my family.”

“Huh.” He scanned over Her carefully, catching Her hand before She pull it away, and pulling Her a little further forward. Until he was higher on his knees, settled between Her spread legs and holding Her gaze.

“Dean.” She whispered, and he pressed a kiss to Her knuckles.

“What do you think woulda happened?” He murmured. “If we met then?”

“I- I don’t know.”

“I do.” He shrugged, taking Her face between his hands, and brushing his thumb over Her lower lip. “I’d start goin’ to church a lot more.”

She gave him a flat look. “Dean.”

“Yeah, baby?” He grinned at Her, and She flushed.

“You would hate church-“

“But I like you.”

She sighed. “You’d have to sit still for hours. Without music.”

“So I’d sit next to you.”

“My family wouldn’t have let you sit next to me.”

“Then I woulda snuck you out.” Dean shrugged. This was a stupid, impossible fantasy. That didn’t stop him from having it. “We’d hang out with they did whatever church people do, and if you still wanted to run away, I would’ve taken you with me. But if you stayed trapped with your douchebag family, I would’ve kept coming back, over and over, forever.”

She sighed, giving him a sad smile. “That’s a long time, Deano.”

“Nah.” He shrugged. “Not if I was with you.”

Her throat bobbed, Her fingers curling on the collar of Dean’s shirt, and She was so fucking beautiful. This was what the world should be worshipping. Her. But She shouldn’t have to suffer for it. She was too untouchable, too divine. People should be the ones bleeding for Her.

Dean certainly would.

And when She leaned forward, brushing Her lips over his, Dean understood how people could dedicate their lives to something they could never be sure was real.

This was only a dream. Dean was only crashing up into Her in the haze of light and color that was his dream, and only leaning Her down on the alter in his head. And he may never get this again, out there in the real world, but he didn’t care. He’d keep himself as Her shadow out there, and He’d keep Her like this in his mind all the time.

Sighing easily into his mouth and mumbling his name, pliant and soft under his touch but scratching at his back when he nipped Her lower lip or pulled Her tongue between his teeth.

Just for the idea of Her, he’d do unspeakable things.

And for Her herself, he’d bleed all over the floor if She asked it of him.

Everything Dean had to give was Her’s.

All the way down.

Something slammed right into his fucking face, and Dean’s eyes shot open with grunt.

“What the- Goddamnit-“ He dragged the towel off his face, shooting a very smug looking Sam a glower. “This is still fucking wet, bitch-“

“You weren’t waking up, jerk.” Sam shrugged. “C’mon. I already started the car.”

Dean frowned. “You- Why? If you think you’re driving-“

“I’m not driving, Dean. We just need to hit the road, if we want to get to LA before midnight.”

“Before-“ Dean shook his head, and he could still fucking smell Her in the air. It hadn’t helped clear his thoughts. “Sammy, there’s no way we’re going right to the next case without-“

Sam said Her name, and Dean froze. “I know. You want to go back to Bobby’s to see her-“

“I- We need to check on Bobby and the Horsemen-“

“Sure, dude. But she’s gonna be there. So let’s go.”

“Be- In LA?”

Sam nodded, tossing Dean his jacket, and he caught it with a scowl.

“Why the fuck is she in LA, she’s still benched-“

“It’s her case.” Sam shrugged on his own jacket. “I guess she un-benched herself.”

He was way too goddamn relaxed about that. She shouldn’t be on a case right now. And it wasn’t just Dean being overprotective like Sam kept saying. Sam wasn’t there with Her, almost every night. Sam didn’t hold Her while she cried in the dead of night, or see that She was picking at her hands again, or notice how She’d been rubbing Her wrists until they were raw and looked rope burned.

Sam didn’t wake up to find Her missing from bed. Didn’t feel his heart jump into his throat as he ran outside to find Her, and have it sink right back down into a pit at the sight of Her. Shivering and curled into Herself, all the color drained from Her features.

Sam didn’t feel goddamn useless when he got Her to smile again, but still left Her in the morning.

Dean didn’t want to leave Her. Ever. If it were up to him, he’d live at Bobby’s and never stray further than he could hear Her calling his name. But the stupid fucking apocalypse meant he had to. And he wasn’t sure if it was the shit in San Francisco that had pushed Her too far, or something else she wouldn’t talk about, but he knew She shouldn’t be in the field. Shouldn’t be anywhere where She might hurt herself more.

And She’d agreed with that. Dean had double checked that She really was fine staying with Bobby, and She’d agreed.

So he wasn’t sure what the fuck was happening.

“What do you mean, it’s her case.” Dean narrowed his eyes at Sam, and the kid sighed.

“I mean she called last night, and she said I’ve got a case in LA. Meet me there. That’s it, Dean.”

“She called you?”

“Yep.”

Dean’s jaw clenched, and Sam gave him an amused look.

“Holy shit, dude. You were asleep-“

“Shut up.” Dean stomped to the door. “Call her for the details, then tell her to go back to Bobby’s-“

Sam snorted. “No. There’s no way I’m doing that.”

“I’m not asking-“

“No, Dean.” Sam gave him a flat look as they moved across the parking lot. “And glaring at me isn’t going to change my mind.”

“Sammy, she shouldn’t be hunting-“

“Then tell her yourself. I’m not jumping in front of that bullet for you.”

Dean scowled, and Sam let out a long sigh.

“Look, dude, you’re not gonna be able to stop her. You know that better than anyone.”

Dean did.

Son of a bitch, he really did.

And he only grunted at Sam and turned up the radio, but Sam didn’t need Dean to admit he was right. The little smirk on his stupid face meant he already knew.

Trying to stop Her wouldn’t work. It had never worked. If Dean went up to Her and said Princess, go home, he’d get a glare that might hurt just as much as being stabbed. Then She’d been pissed at him, and wouldn’t let him talk to Her, and if She started crying, Dean wouldn’t be allowed to comfort Her.

The best thing he could do was be there. With Her. For Her. Next to Her as her shadow, all the time.

Hopefully, this would be a quick case. If not a salt and burn, a monster that She could gank in Her sleep, and She just wanted them there to help her with. They’d take care of it, then maybe actually get to the beach this time around.

And that wasn’t what was going to happen. She wouldn’t have left Bobby just for a monster of the week.

She wouldn’t be waiting for them at the motel—the drive had been long, but Dean had only stopped for gas once and told Sam to hold it whenever he started whining about the bathroom—with Cas at Her side, if it was something that would be done in a day.

They were settled in, too. Cas sat at the table, frowning over some of Her notes. She beamed when She saw Dean—and it filled him with light and made him stand a little taller, ignoring Sammy’s eyes roll entirely—and stood up, crossing the room to pull Sam into a quick hug.

Sam got to go first. That was fine. There was no reason—at least not a logical one—that Dean should be hugged first, so he just rocked on his feet with his hands in his pockets, and he didn’t need to Her to hug him at all-

She almost slammed into him, and Dean let out a wheeze. It was tight. And long. And his arms wrapped around Her in a second, holding Her head to his chest and swaying back and forth slowly.

He could smell the fruit, and Her hair was so shiny, and Her lips were brushing against his neck whenever She took a breath-

Dean squeezed Her once, just to check, and She squeezed back twice.

His jaw clenched, and he held Her a little tighter.

Something was wrong.

“Hey, Cas.” Sammy cleared his throat, shooting Dean a should we be worried about this look. “You’re, uh- I thought you were still looking for God, right?“

Cas said Her name, and She pulled back from Dean’s arms with a sigh. “I can tell them, if that would be easier-“

“I’ve got it.” She took a pace back, looking between Sam and Dean with a small, tight smile. “I’ve got a lead.”

“A lead?” Sam frowned. “Like, on a horseman?”

She shrugged. “Maybe. Don’t know yet.”

Dean narrowed his eyes. “What do you mean you don’t know.”

“I know it’s something.” She gave him a grimacing smile. “Jury is still out on what.”

“How’d you find the lead.” She sighed, twisting the skin on her finger. “Research.”

Lie. That was a fucking lie.

But before Dean could call Her on it, Sammy was talking again.

“What is the lead?”

She walked back to the table with Cas, who gave Her a tight nod and passed her a paper without a word.

Maybe Sam was right. Maybe they should be worried about that.

“People are fucking each other when they try to have sex.” She said, and Dean couldn’t stop his smirk.

“I think that’s what’s supposed to happen, Princess.”

Flush. Hitched breath. Parted lips that feel into a tight frown. “I know that,” she muttered. “I mean they’re fucking each other up. Like, ripping each other apart.”

She held up the photo—red and gruesome with a lot of guts on the outside of bodies—and Sam recoiled.

“That’s… so gross.”

“It gets worse,” Cas muttered. “Another couple suffocated. To death.”

Dean frowned. “How the hell is that-“

“They were also engaging in sexual acts.”

“Sexual-“ Sam shook his head, then said Her name. “What sexual acts?”

Her voice was barely a mumble. “Uh- 69ing.”

“Oh.” Sam’s eyed widened. “Oh. Shit.”

Dean couldn’t look at Her too long. At how She was very obviously avoiding his gaze and rubbing at Her wrists, hiking her knees up to Her chest as she dropped back at the table. It was just sex. And maybe Dean imagined it with Her, every time he took a shower and whenever She was lying with him in bed—or when he was alone in bed, or when She bent over and he wanted to crowd all Her space and kiss over Her neck, or when She fluttered her lashes and pouted Her lips and it felt like a goddamn spell was being cast over him—but that didn’t mean this was weird. She didn’t even know Dean thought those things.

He was pretty sure She didn’t know.

If She knew, She’d never said anything. She would have said something. Or, more likely, stopped sleeping in a bed with him. And he played this out a million times before in his head—if She could see Dean’s desire and need for Her, spinning out of control from his soul and trying to touch Her, Dean always wanted to touch Her—but never stopped to circle around what if She could see it, and didn’t say anything, but didn’t hate it, either.

He wasn’t sure what to do, then. She might be waiting for him to something, just like the kiss in Florida. But Dean wasn’t sure, and he didn’t want to say the wrong thing or do the wrong thing and fuck it all up.

And if She wanted him, if She was flushed and nervous because of that, then-

Now wasn’t the time to worry about that. People were dying. Fucking each other to death. He needed to focus.

The more he focused, the faster they’d get through the case, the faster they got Her home, the sooner he could think about falling to his knee in front of Her and asking do you want me to touch you, baby girl? Are you thinking about touching me? Cause not a goddamn second passes where I don’t think I’d be a happy man suffocating between your legs-

“Do we have any theories?” Sam asked, moving to stand over the table and Dean clenched his fists. Focus. He needed to goddamn focus. “I know you guys have only been here a day, but-“

“We have ideas.” Cas cut Sam off with slow, careful words, looking to Her.

Still staring at the floor as Cas said Her name.

“The Enochian. Tell them about that.”

She frowned. “You tell them about it.”

“But you’re the one who found it, and translated it.”

“But you keep saying I translated it wrong.”

“You still got it, though.” Cas frowned, and Sam shot Dean another worried look. “Do you wish me to explain it?”

She swallowed, but shook Her head. “I- Yes. Please.”

“Fine.” Cas looked back to Sam and Dean. “It’s a cupid.”

She rolled Her eyes. “It’s not a cupid.”

“You said I could explain it. I’m explaining it.”

“But you have to say my side too-“

“Your side is incorrect, why would I give them incorrect information-“

“Cas.” Dean grunted, looking between them with a frown as he muttered Her name, and She blinked up at him with shining eyes. “What the fuck is happening here.”

She sighed. “We have a bet.”

Sam blinked. “A… bet?”

“I found Enochian markings on the victims.” Cas said, pushing another paper—this one covered with Her handwriting in the margins—forward. “It is a Cupid’s mark. One may have gone rogue.”

She shook Her head. “But it says meat.”

“It says mate. Meat is a mistranslation.”

“But the word mate in English is derived from meat. And the people were hungry.”

“Hold up.” Dean shook his head, leaning over to frown at the paper. “Mate? Like- Soulmate?”

Cas sighed. “No, Dean. Soulmates aren’t real. Unions are pre-ordained by Heaven for higher purposes, or chosen at the free will of humans. Mate means…”

Cas trailed off, giving Her a helpless look that she only shrugged at, and Dean cleared his throat.

“Sex. It means sex, right.” He frowned between them. “You two are allowed to say sex-“

“We know that.” She snapped, and Dean’s lips twitched as She snatched the paper back with a glare. She was so fucking pretty. “We’re just tired. We’ve been working this all day.”

Sam frowned. “So you can’t say sex?”

“Sam.”

“Oh- Uh, sorry.” Sam scratched the back of his neck, reclining slightly from Her glare. Dean couldn’t blame him. She looked scary. “So- Do we think it’s a Cupid?”

She said no at the exact time Cas said yes, and Dean sighed, running a hand over his face.

“Well, it’s gotta be something-“

“That’s the bet.” She said, crossing Her arms over Her chest. “If it’s a cupid, he wins. If anything other than that, I win.”

“Win?” Sammy frowned between them. “Win what?”

“She will buy me more ice cream.” Cas muttered. “And I will find her a cat.”

“Cas.” Sam said slowly. “You’re an angel. I don’t think you need someone to buy you ice cream.”

“And,” Dean grunted Her name, holding Her gaze. “You can’t get a cat.”

“Why not?”

“I’m allergic.”

“It… will not be your cat, Dean.” Cas frowned at him. “I am getting it for her.”

“Yeah, Dean.” She stuck Her tongue out at him. “He’s getting it for me.”

“But only if you win, right?” Sam frowned between them. “I mean, that’s how bets work-“

“I know how bets work.” Cas said Her name with a shurg. “She explained them to me.”

“And we’ve already shaken on this one.” She sat up a little taller, raising Her chin. “So that’s that.”

Sam had definitely been right. Whatever this was—Her and Cas both staring them down with smug expressions and a bunch of Enochian notes covering the table—was maybe going to give Dean a heart attack.

“Oh- Okay.” Sam sighed, shooting Dean a defeated look. “Did you guys make a plan?”

“We have had a plan for hours, Sam.” Cas’ tone was flat, and Sam blinked. “We were waiting for you to arrive, so it could be executed.”

“Exe-“ Dean shook his head. “Cas, I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about, but it’s damn near two in the morning-“

“We’re gonna go to bed, De.” She gave him a softer smile, and his heart might have just done a freaking flip. “But in the morning, I’m going to take Sam, and you’re going to go Cas, and I’m going to win.”

Cas frowned. “Unless it is a cupid-“

“It’s not a cupid.”

“The point of the bet is that it may be a cupid-“

“No, the point of the bet is that I want a cat-“

“Guys.” Sam raised his hand, raising his voice over theirs. “Splitting up isn’t a plan. I mean- It’s kind of a plan, but not really-“

“Don’t worry, buddy.” She gave Sam a wide grin. “You’re with me. And I’ve got a real plan.”

“Oh- Okay.” Sam put his hand back down. “And Cas and Dean-“

“I have a plan as well.” Cas gave Dean a small nod, and he felt a little frozen. “Dean, there is a diner down the road with burgers you will like. We’ll meet there.”

“We’ll- Where the hell are you going now?”

Cas frowned, rising slowly. “I do not sleep, and there are,” he glanced down to Her. “Other things. For me to attend to.”

Dean scowled. “Like what.”

“Things.” Cas’ voice remained flat. “I will see you in the morning, Dean.”

Sam’s eyes widened. “Wait-“

There was a rustle, and then Cas was gone.

And She was still staring down at Her hands, the skin of Her nails picked raw.

Something was wrong.

“Shit.” Sam muttered Her name, shaking his head. “Do I need anything for tomorrow?”

She shook Her head. “No. Just get some sleep.”

Sam nodded slowly, turning around with a clap of Dean’s shoulder. “I’m gonna go get our bags,” he muttered under his breath. “I’ll take whatever bed you guys aren’t in.”

Dean grunted an agreement, and didn’t look away from Her as Sam moved away.

The door closed, and he crossed the room to kneel before Her, his hands resting carefully on Her thighs. She could shove him away if She needed to. And it would sting over his heart and skin if She did, but he’d let Her.

She just met his gaze under Her lashes, a small furrow in Her brow.

She looked so fucking tired.

Dean muttered Her name, slowly reaching up to hold Her face in his hands. “You’re not supposed to be hunting.”

“I- You’re not my boss, Winchester-“

“But I’m your-“ Friend. Best friend. Pathetic guard dog. Shadow. “I know you, Princess. Better than anyone. And you need rest-“

“I- I know, okay. But I need to see this through.”

He frowned. “Why.”

“Because.”

Dean grunted Her name, and She shook Her head.

“I- I just do, okay. Please.”

She was saying please. And fluttering Her lashes slightly. And Dean was orbiting around Her, and falling up into Her, but goddamnit, this felt like a shit idea. She was lying about something, and he didn’t know how to push Her on it. He’d never been good at applying the right amount of pressure with Her. And Dean might be damn good at taking care of Her—brushing a little of Her hair back and running his thumb down Her nose—but he’d also been good at hurting Her.

He hadn’t hurt Her in a while. He never wanted to hurt Her again.

But he couldn’t make it better if he didn’t know what was wrong. He couldn’t protect Her if he was off with Cas for the whole hunt.

“Princess-“

“I- I want to go see it soon.” She whispered, and Dean frowned.

“See-“

“The waterfall. Where Bobby-“ She swallowed, and it clicked in Dean’s head.

“Jo.”

“I- I can’t go alone, De. I- I’ve been trying. And I can’t. And I promise I’m not running, and I know this is a bad idea, but it’s my lead and I have to do it-“

Her words turned into soft, weak tears, and Dean swore under his breath. He wasn’t making Her cry. But he wasn’t fucking helping either.

“I- I’m so tired,” She was falling over him, and Dean adjusted in a second. Pushing up to his knees and tucking Her into his chest. “I wanna go home-“

“Then go home,” he muttered Her name. “We can take care of this ourselves, cupid or not-“

She shook Her head against him. “No, I- It has to be me. I- I’m just tired.”

This was more than tired. She was leaning back with sniffles and pouting lips, and Dean knew this was more than tired.

But son of a bitch, he didn’t know how to push Her on it. And at least She’d have Sammy. He wouldn’t let anything happen to Her, if not for Dean, for Her. The kid adored Her. And She was strong. She’d gotten through months alone, right after Jo’s death, without a single scratch.

That Dean could see.

But he couldn’t push Her on that either. Or on whatever the hell She and Cas were up to. And it definitely wasn’t the time to talk about how—when he kissed Her brow and helped Her to her feet, guiding Her into bed and pulling off his shoes before falling at Her side—he couldn’t stop wanting to fucking kiss Her.

He needed to just be there for Her. Lay at Her side and take Her hand, carefully testing if She’d kick him out of bed like a dog if he tugged Her a little closer.

She didn’t.

And that should be enough. It had to be enough.

But it never was.

She shifted, in the night. Dean drifted in and out of sleep, and every time his eyes would open and he’d regain fully awareness, She’d have moved. Her body now facing his. Her chest pressed to Dean’s side. Her leg hooked over his waist, and their hands still tangled together.

Her face, burrowed in Dean’s shoulder, Her breath warm on his skin.

It was torture. It was the best goddamn torture in the world, because Dean got to hold Her—kind of—but it wasn’t enough, and now he couldn’t fucking sleep.

The rest of the night passed with lights on the ceiling, their hands pressed to Dean’s chest the smell of fruit and sugar getting him high on an amazing, horrible drug.

He shouldn’t think about it right now. It was wrong. Sick. She was his best friend, and She was in fucking pain, and She’d been crying in his arms only a few hours before.

But She was also humming softly whenever She took a breath, and nuzzling against Dean’s throat, and Her knee was real damn close to brushing against his cock. And in another world, maybe he’d be allowed to flip Her over until she was staring at him all pretty, splayed out below Dean and whispering his name in that siren-like way only She had ever said it. Then he’d kiss the sound off Her lips, and she’d hum softly and tug at his hair, and he’d give Her more. Give Her everything. All She’d need to do was relax into it, and Dean would make Her see all those stars that only seemed to shine for Her. Make Her feel that perfect, slightly pained paradise he lived in, whenever She so much as fucking smile at him.

He’d made Her scream his name until Her voice was hoarse, then wrap Her safely in his arms, getting Her whatever she needed before She had to ask. He’d fuck Her until She couldn’t walk, then carry Her wherever She needed to go. He’d praise Her and kiss Her until she was a flushed, fucked out mess, and kiss Her again just so She knew.

That as long as Dean had a say in it, She’d only feel good things. Be good places. Be happy.

He just needed to be the luckiest, most undeserving son of a bitch in the world, and be the one She wanted to be happy with. The asshole from the mud that hadn’t dragged himself up, but had hardened into clay. And She could mold him into whatever She wanted him to be.

Dean just really fucking hoped it was something where he got to kiss Her, and She stayed wrapped around him for maybe the rest of time.

He got up the moment light cracked through the blinders. He’d be fucked if She woke up first, and felt the raging boner pressed into Her thigh.

The cold shower sort of helped. The gritting his teeth, squeezing his eyes shut, and jacking off to the fantasy of Her in bed with him—curled at Dean’s side, smiling at him with fluttering lashes and maybe grinding onto his thigh while Her hands wrapped around his cock—helped a lot. And Dean dressed in the bathroom, grabbing coffee from the desk and setting in on the nightstand, with a little scribbled note that he was out with Cas, and to call if they got any leads.

She and Sammy needed the sleep more than Dean did, anyway. They both looked peaceful, and they’d both been beating themselves up every damn moment they’d been awake, and Dean had been trying to help them but maybe he was only making it worse-

Problems for later. Right now, Dean needed to get a start on the case. The sooner they wrapped it up, the sooner Dean could get Her home. Take Her to go see Jo. Maybe stop and get Her food—not that day, that day would be a lot more holding Her while she cried—and then find the words to ask am I allowed to kiss you still, Princess. And if I am, could we do more than kissing. Could you maybe see yourself holding my hand, wearing even less clothing when you slept, and letting me build you a house that might not be the fanciest thing in the world, but would be fucking ours. And you’d be mine, and I’d just keep being yours.

Always been yours, Princess. He stared down at Her like a fucking creep, tracing his hands over Her cheekbones. Never gonna be anything else. All the way down, right?

She didn’t answer.

So Dean headed out the door, and called Cas at the diner.

“How certain are you it’s a cupid?” Dean asked, right through a mouthful of burger—Cas was right, this place was awesome, they served burgers at six in the morning—and Cas sighed.

“I am positive.” Cas muttered Her name. “She is caught up on the semantics of the translation. I will admit that I’ve never seen a rogue cupid do something like this, but this year has been… full of firsts.”

Dean grunted. “Yeah, it has. Never seen an angel place a bet before. Or take orders from a human.”

Cas frowned. “I have taken orders from you, Dean.”

“Those were suggestions-“

Cas said Her name carefully. “I am speaking of her. You did not suggest that I ensure she slept.”

Dean scowled. “Well, did you?”

“Of course I did.” Cas frowned. “You asked me to.”

Dean blinked. “Oh, uh- Thanks then. You’re not really gonna get her a cat, right?”

“I will have to. If I lose the bet.”

“What, did you two make a blood oath-“

“I don’t have blood.” Cas paused, his gaze flicking down to Dean’s burger. “You are eating slower than usual.”

“It’s early. And you better lose that freakin’ bet-“

“I am confident in my theory, Dean. You can come with us when we get ice cream.” Cas was still staring at the burger, and Dean cleared his throat.

“How’d that other thing go?”

Cas’ gaze flicked back to Dean’s with a frown. “What?”

“Your other thing that you left us for. Last night.” Dean narrowed his eyes, and said Her name. “Was it something for her?”

Cas sighed. “If you are looking for me to tell you of our private conversations, Dean, it won’t work.”

“Why the hell not-“

“Because I won’t betray her confidence. Just as I wouldn’t betray yours about the bottle of her perfume that you keep in the bottom of your bag-“

Dean sat up. “How the hell do you know about that.”

“You asked me to grab you a gun, a few weeks ago. And I have eyes.”

“Well- I-“ Dean shook his head, leaning forward. “This is different, Cas. She might get herself hurt-“

“I will not let that happen.” Cas was looking at the fucking burger again. “Dean, I know how you are about your food, but-“

“Take it, man.” Dean sighed, pushing the plate forward. “I’ll get another one for the road or something.”

Cas nodded, grabbing the burger a lot faster than Dean expected, and he frowned.

“I thought you didn’t need to eat-“

“I don’t. I’m trying new things.”

That didn’t make a whole lot of sense.

Wasn’t enough time to push it.

“Well, if it’s a cupid, how are we gonna find it-“

“You won’t have to find it.” Cas shrugged, frowning around the diner. “This city is a high priority location for cherubim-“

“Cherubim-“

“Cupids. They are low level angels. Not a threat, though.” Cas nodded slowly, and it mostly seemed to be to himself. “I will find it and deal with it easily.”

Dean frowned. “Then what the hell am I here for-“

“The bet.”

“Ah. Right. The bet.” He let out a slow breath, turning over his fork on the table. “If cupids are angels, do you think this is a rebellion situation? Lucifer flips one of them, diapered douchebag goes around ganking anyone he can?”

“Cupids don’t wear diapers.” Cas took another bite of the burger. “They’re naked.”

“Course they are.” Dean muttered. “Awesome.”

Cas nodded, speaking through a mouthful. “And I am not sure of this one’s motivations. There is no reason for Lucifer to want a cherubim. Human love would not be… of his interest.”

“So you’ve got nothing.” Dean said flatly. “No motive, no theory, no explanation for why this might be happening.”

Cas shook his head, his mouth still stuffed with his burger, and Dean sighed.

“Dude, we’re going to fucking lose this bet.”

And Cas kept saying they wouldn’t. Dean got his second burger—Cas ordered his own as well, and they were good burgers, but not that good—before they left, and whenever Dean muttered that it would probably be better for them to be helping Her and Sammy, Cas shook his head and said it’s a Cupid. Only they make those marks.

But it wasn’t a fucking cupid.

Cas summoned the damn thing, and it crushed their freaking bones with hug, then started sobbing about how it would never do that.

“Are cupids good actors?” Dean muttered in Cas’ ear, and Cas sighed.

“No. They’re not.”

“So you lost-“

“Apparently, yes. Congratulations on your cat, Dean.”

Dean scowled—there needed to be a way to talk Her out of that—as Cas moved forward to comfort the sobbing cupid.

There was something off about this whole thing. There was a case here—people didn’t just eat each other—but if it wasn’t the cupid, Dean didn’t have a goddamn clue what it was. And She still hadn’t said how she actually found the lead, or given any alternate theories, and this cupid was sobbing, but both the vics had been marked with that meat or mate thing-

“Wow.” The cupid gasped, still hugging a very rigid Cas and staring at Dean, and he blink. “I’ve never seen anything like you.”

“Anything like-“ Dean pointed to himself. “Like me?”

The cupid nodded, and before Dean could open his mouth, the guy was naked and right in front of him. Poking him. His chest and face and arms and-

“Cas.” He grunted, his tensed with the effort not to throw a punch. “What the fuck is this.”

“I am not sure. Brother,” Cas caught the cupid’s hand, and it gave him an almost innocent expression. “I cannot recommend poking Dean Winchester-“

“I know, I’m sorry, it’s-“ The cupid took its other hand, and fucking poked him again. “Can you not see it? The bond in him?”

“The bond?!” Dean looked back to Cas. “What bond? I- Is there something in me-“

“There is nothing in you.” Cas sighed, and the cupid shook his head.

“But- Look at that! He’d so shiny, and I- I’ve never seen such intricate work, and it’s not even angel made-“

“It?” No punching. He wasn’t allowed to punch. “What is it? I- Cas-“

“You have a connection.” The cupid whispers, his eyes wide on Dean’s. “It is the purest love I have ever seen. It’s-“ The cupid grabbed Dean’s face between his hands. “It is beautiful, Dean Winchester. Your love.”

Dean was frozen.

His- He- That wasn’t-

Cas muttered Her name, slowly pulling the cupid away. “He’s seeing her. Cupids are more attuned to souls than the average angel. They can see the webs you weave for each other-“

“Webs?” Dean blinked, and his voice was hoarse. “Cas, I- What-“

“Human souls are the most complex in creation.” The cupid offered eagerly. “They are all made of other people’s souls, too! You have your soul, then little bits of all the souls that have affected you the most! And as a cupid, my job is to take my arrow and weave certain souls together, but you- Your love-“ The cupid tested out Her name slowly, and Dean was going break his own hand. “You love her so much-“

“Cas.” Dean felt like something was pressing on his chest. “We’re done, right.”

Cas nodded, and that was all Dean had needed to say. There was a whoosh and then both the angel were gone.

And it wasn’t pure.

Dean wasn’t pure. He was made of mud and guts, and the was a shadow, not some shining prince in a fairytale. He killed things for a living, he lied and cheated and stole, he was barely better than the fucking monsters he chopped the heads off of and burned like it was a sick fucking sport. At least they hadn’t gotten a choice. They’d just had shit luck, a bad draw of species, born evil and wrong without a say in the matter. Dean had made that demon deal. He’d picked up that blade in Hell. He’d failed to keep Sammy off the demon blood, and he’d just let those Hell’s assassins keep a gun to his head while Anna killed Jo.

And he’d held Her, after. And waited for Her.

But that was because it was a law of fucking nature. She needed to be good. If She wasn’t good, nothing was good. She was warmer than the mud Dean came from, and stronger than the oceans he’d drown in, if She asked him to. More vital than the air he was taking in shallow gasps. Brighter than holy fire.

And Dean still thought about fucking Her. About getting on his knees until Her legs were shaking, or stuffing Her mouth with his cock until She was moaning around him. That wasn’t pure.

She was ethereal, and brilliant, and made of damn stardust or something, but Dean had always known he’d only turn that into something bloodied.

He hadn’t.

He tended to Her. Been careful. Waited.

But- The cupid- It-

Dean’s phone rang, buzzing in his pocket and ripping through the air, and-

It was Her.

He picked up in half a heartbeat.

“Hey, Princess, what’s-“

“It’s not a cupid.” Her words were frantic, and Dean could hear how She was running out of breath, and Dean’s grip tightened on his phone. “Dean, it’s not a cupid, you have to tell Cas and come back right now, I- I need you-“

Fuck. “I’ll grab him, sweetheart, but- I need you to slow down and tell me exactly what’s happening-“

“Sam.” She whispered, and Dean’s blood went cold. “Fuck, Dean, he’s- We were looking at the morgue and I turned around for a second, but he was gone. And he’d been acting weird, and I’d seen that there was demon, but-“

Dean muttered Her name, and there was a muffled bang from the other side of the line. “What-“

“He took a hit of demon blood.” Her voice was so fucking soft. “I- I knocked him out. And dragged him back to the motel. He’s tied up. But I- I don’t know what to do-“

She didn’t have to know what to do.

That’s what Dean was for.

“I’ll be there in ten.” He muttered, already walking out to the Impala. “Keep him tied up, and don’t answer the door for anyone but me. We’ll deal with it.”

“Oh- Okay.” Dean heard Her shaking breath. “I- I’m sorry-“

“Don’t.” He grunted. The engine wouldn’t start fast enough. “You did good, Princess.”

“I hit him with a hospital poop pan.”

“And he’ll thank you when he’s up.”

She sighed, mumbled an agreement, and Dean forced himself to let Her hang up. It might be better to keep Her on the line. Just in case She thought of doing something reckless-

“Dean.” Cas appeared in the passenger’s seat, and the engine started.

“Thank Christ,” Dean muttered. “Cas, we gotta go-“

Dean said Her name, and Cas cut him off with a shake of his head. “I don’t think it’s wise for you to be near her, Dean. Not right now.”

“Cas-“

“I have a working theory.” Cas said, his words slow. “And it may be dangerous-“

“I don’t care.”

“Dean-“

“No, Cas. I don’t give shit what’s doing this. We’ll work on the case after. My girl calls me, I go.” Dean pulled onto the street with a scowl. Speed limits were suggestions anyway. “That’s it.”

Cas made the smart choice. He shut the hell up, and let Dean drive.

She was sitting on the edge of the bed, crossed legged and curled into herself, eyes a little red as She stared at Sammy across the room. There was blood dried on Her lower lip, and it was swollen from chewing. Blood on Her nails as well.

Sam was tied to the chair, his face still a little stained with demon blood, and bowing his head.

That was good. If Sam wasn’t fighting it, all they’d have to do is wait for the detox.

So Dean walked right over to Her.

There was nowhere else to go.

His arms wrapped around Her shoulders, Her face buried in his stomach as she held him back, and they stayed like that until Cas cleared his throat and muttered Her name.

“You have connected it?”

“Yeah.” She sighed, and Dean stepped off to the side so She didn’t have to lean around him. “Meat. Mate. It’s hunger.” Dean frowned. “Hunger?”

“Famine.”

Cas nodded in agreement, and shot Dean an odd look. “I asked the cupid if it’s seen other cases like that. It said it had heard rumors, of pairings gone wrong. And lust is the most… potent of the sins-“

“So he’s been tailing after cupids.” She muttered, pushing to Her feet. “Sirens too. Found a few cases scattered across the country, but they somehow got missed. They start in Maryland.”

“Ilchester?” Dean muttered, and She nodded. “Shit, that’s where Lucifer-“

“I know. It’s Famine.” She let out a slow breath. “Cas and I will deal with it.”

She started to walk to the door, and Dean barely registered the words fast enough to grab Her around the waist with a scowl.

“You and Cas are not dealing with it-“

“It would be the most effective.” Cas offered, very unhelpfully. “I may be affected by the desires of my vessel, but I can overcome that.“

“And they can’t do shit to us.” She said, holding Dean’s glare. “Famine eats souls. Cas has grace, and if he does try to touch me, I’ll blow him up.”

Dean scowled. “I’m not exactly falling apart either, sweetheart-“

“Dean.” She squeezed his hand three times, Her gaze so fucking soft. “Please.”

God fucking damnit. “Fine. But if you’re not back by sunrise, I’m launching a search that’ll make a manhunt look like a lost sock-“

“I know.” She wrapped Her arms back around Dean’s neck, Her face falling into his chest. “Thank you.”

Dean only grunted. “Call me if you-“

“I will.” She was going to choke him, with the way She was clinging to him. He didn’t really care. “I fucking hate California.”

Dean let out a dry chuckle. “So we’re not goin’ to the beach.”

“Maybe we can try an east coast beach.” She mumbled. “I’ve always wanted to go to cape cod.”

Dean had been to cape cod. Lot of box houses and gray sand and dune. No place for a walking, breathing star.

But wherever She wanted to go, Dean would follow. Just like the goddamn shadow he was.

And he wasn’t going to just be reduced to dog, pacing around the motel and looking at the door, waiting for Her to return.

That ended up being most of the afternoon, though. The TV played in the background, Dean and Sam ate in silence after the kid had mostly detoxed, and every time Dean glanced at his phone, there wasn’t a new call or message.

“Why aren’t you affected?” Sammy broke the silence around dusk, his voice a little gravely. “I mean, you’re like, the hungriest guy I know, Dean.”

“And I eat when I’m hungry.” He shrugged. “It’s not that complicated, Sammy.”

“Yeah, but, if lust is something that Famine can feed-“ Sam cut himself off with a shake of his head. “I mean, you haven’t gotten laid in a while-“

“I take care of myself.” Dean muttered, and didn’t fucking know why he wasn’t affected. He just wasn’t. And he wasn’t a soul scientist or something-

The cupid. It could see him. It had said his- That it was pure-

“Maybe it’s- I mean, you do eat, and I’ve, uh-“ Sam cleared his throat, and Dean really needed him to just drop it. “Heard you-“

“Sam-“

“You’re loud, dude. It’s sort of a miracle that-“ Sam said Her name, then froze. “Holy shit. You should be like, all over her.”

“Sam.” Dean’s voice was almost a bark. He couldn’t find it in himself to be sorry about it. “I’m not affected. That’s it.“

“No, it’s not. You- Dean, even if we ignore feelings, you at least want her physically-“

“I-“

“And denying that isn’t going to do you any favors right now, so-“

“I’m not denying it.” Dean pushed the words through his teeth, holding Sam’s gaze with a scowl, and Sam blinked.

“You’re… not?”

“No. I’m not.” Dean was going to snap a few teeth. “You win, Sammy. I want her. I think about her all the time. I dream about her. She’s my whole, stupid world, and I can’t live without her, and I-“ He choked on the last words. Pure. “I know that I want her. But it’s complicated. And yeah, I’ve been thinking about fucking her, but I’m not feeling whatever the hell hit you and Cas, so I’m fine.”

The room was silent for long. Too long. Dean shouldn’t have fucking said that. He’d let a lot of Sam’s teasing about it slide, over the years, but this- She was holy. Sacred. And Dean couldn’t let the fact that he had feelings taint that, or let Sam ruin the very thin line he’s been walking for damn near nine years-

“Dean.” Sam’s voice was barely a rasp. “Oh my god, dude. It’s-“

“Don’t-“

“I knew.” Sam said quickly, and Dean frowned. “I mean, I’ve known. Everyone’s known. But I- I didn’t know.”

Dean stared at him. “Man, if you keep talking in riddles-“

“How long have you felt, uh- That? About her?”

“Yeah, no, I’m not showing you my fucking diary-“

“Dean.“ Sam sighed “I’m trying to help. Just tell me.”

It took a second to say it. This conversation fucking sucked. “Long as I can remember.”.

“As long as- You mean-“

“Yeah.”

“Oh. I- Do I need to say it?”

Dean let out a long breath, and shook his head. He understood. And Sam, to his credit, finally shut up. The detox wrapped up with Sam knocked out—his hands still tied together, and one leg to the bedpost for safety—and Dean just…

Waited.

For Her to come home.

He sat on the couch and stared at the door, and he was fucking pathetic. Dad would have shot him, if he could see Dean now. Would’ve yelled at him about lettin’ the lyin’ little girl boss him around.

All Dean would’ve had to say in his defense was that he liked Her bossing him around. She looked hot while She did it, and She knew what she was talking about all the damn time. And She wasn’t a liar. Not about the stuff Dad thought. She was just bright and consuming and amazing, and Dean knew when She was lying anyway, so it didn’t really matter.

Dad would’ve then snapped that Dean wasn’t being a man, havin’ Her do all the work. Sittin’ around on his ass like a bitch.

And Dean wasn’t sure what Dad had thought being a man was.

But to him, it felt a lot like when the door opened, She walked through without a single drop of blood on Her body but a heavy look of Her face, and Dean was the first place She went.

Before the bed. Before Her shoes were off, before Cas was even in the door.

She went to Dean. Folded into him, with Her arms back around his neck and their bodies slotted perfectly together, letting Cas take the lead as She just stayed in Dean’s arms.

“Famine’s ring.” Cas muttered, holding it up for a second before dropping it on the table, and Dean nodded.

“Did, uh-“ He glanced down to Her, and Cas understood.

“It was a clean cut. I stayed outside, she got him with her blade. Is Sam-“

“He’s feeling better.” Dean muttered. “How about you, man. Still craving burgers?”

“No. It passed.” Cas paused. “Dean, I believe we should discuss how you-“

“No. We shouldn’t.”

“Dean-“

“I know.” Dean muttered, his gaze flicking down to Her.

She was passed out. Warm against him. So fucking beautiful, even with Her hair knotted from the hunt and a little drool already falling from Her lips.

And Dean knew.

He knew when Cas nodded, and muttered that he had those other things to take care of, but to call if they needed him. He knew when he carried Her to bed, and She let out a soft, sweet sigh. He knew when She curled closer to his body, and Her hand moved into his like a magnet.

He’d felt it forever.

But he only knew now.

Pure.

It wasn’t pure. It was just big. Consuming. Easy to get lost in without ever needing a way out. Safe to be trapped in because he’d never want to be anywhere else. It was every single star, and all the planets Sammy used to love telling him about. The deepest parts of every ocean where light didn’t touch, so She’d told him that the fish made their own. The first time Dean had stepped into a church, and he’d felt so small, but wanted to be more. The loudest parts of all the songs he had memorized and all the words She knew that still would never be enough to properly say it. The whole universe, and then whatever was going to devour it in the end.

Her.

It was all Her. All the way down.

And it didn’t matter if She tried to rip herself apart again, or if She left a million more times. I didn’t matter if She came back and fell into his arms, or tried to take a bite out of him. If She screamed and cursed his name, or let him hold Her until the pit in his body was only light.

It didn’t matter that the world was ending. Or that She was being hunted by angels, or had raised Death, or had Lucifer making Her friendship bracelets. It didn’t matter that Dean might have to play puppet for an archangel, if he didn’t get killed in the process.

It didn’t matter that it was complicated, because it wasn’t. Everything else sure as shit was, but this wasn’t.

Dean loved Her.

And that was all the way down, too.

End Note: John Winchester turning in his grave right now. Good. I hope he explodes when they fuck.

I'm back!!! Thank you guys so much for waiting the two weeks! I posted a few bonus chapters in the pslams while I was on vacation, so check those out if you want to.

Thank you so so so much for reading!! If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3

Buy me a coffee!☕️

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chara-cat5 · 20 hours ago

Text

Lads isekai Au Ch 2

reader is gender neutral, warning: swearing, mdni

chapters 1, 2, 3, 4, 5

you woke to bright sunlight in your eyes. a soft groan escaped your lips as you turned in your bed, tugging your stuffed bear closer to your chest...

wait, bear?

your eyes fluttered open and you were met with the soft faded fur of your lovely snuggle buddy, rupert. but your relief was short lived, your surroundings still very much unfamiliar... looking around the room, it was definitely the guest room mia had sent you to the night before but now it was filled with your stuff. what the hell? a knock at the door startled you from your stupor, mia's voice muffled through the door.

"come onnnnnnn, we're gonna be late for work, sleepyhead!"

you scrambled out of bed, opening the door to find her in her hunter's uniform.

"oh, great, you're up quicker then usual. get dressed and then we can head out, 'kay?"

you blinked at her stupidly as she turned away toward the kitchen. maybe she meant she was gonna check for info on you at work... yeah thats it... you ignored the friendly way she spoke to you compared to last night, stumbling to the bathroom. you ignored the traces of you that had suddenly manifested in the apartment, the way the world had seemed to change over night just so you fit in it's puzzle. it's only after you get to the hunter's hq you finally give into the idea that something was wrong. maybe denial wasn't the best copping mechanism...

you looked at your desk with blank eyes. why did you have a desk? why did you work here? just last night you were a stranger who popped out of a tree and now you were roomies with the mc and also her coworker?? what the fuck?? playing pretend was easy enough for the work. it was just self explanatory paper work. the hard part was keeping up with people who acted like you were long time friends. tara and mia chatted with you like you were an unbeatable trio and you didn't have the will or confidence to argue. something weird was going on and you just rolled with it. don't draw attention to yourself. play the part. at least until you can figure out something to make sense.

you finally got a moment to breath after work. Mia mentioned something about meeting up with someone you couldn't be bothered to listen to. probably one of the men in her harem. you walked yourself back 'home', following the path you took to work. your thoughts were allowed to wander, to take in this crazy scenario. love and deepspace... a game you, for obvious reasons, had considered fiction was now reality. your reality. what did all this even mean? where did you fit in all this? a side character? another tara? you knew waaaaay too much about the love interests for that...

you let out a gasp, nearly dodging a door as it swung open into your path. so much for just mindlessly walking. you scowled as you tilted your head to glare at the person who almost gave you a broken nose, a head full of curly purple hair filling your vision.

"huh?"

he turned his head at the sound, blinking as he met your gaze with those blue-pink eyes of his. shit-

you reacted too slow, forcing your eyes down and moving past him, trying to seem uninterested. you were NOT ready to interact with one of them. you still had thoughts to sort out. feelings to stuff away.

"hey, you're miss bodyguard's roommate."

fuck.

you froze and turned back, meeting his gaze as he stepped closer. it was startling, almost unnerving seeing what had always been on phone right in front of you, his head doing that little tilt down thing. his lips were tilted up in a friendly smile, but it very clearly didn't reach his eyes. eyes that felt like they could see through your skin.

"m-miss bodyguard? am i supposed to know who that is, mister..."

he let out a huff, a pout falling to his lips. ever the expressive one, mr. fishy.

"rafayel. surely she talks about me. amazing, artist friend? she talks about you, roommate."

that gave you pause, a silent debate in your head. maybe talking to him for a little bit wouldn't hurt... it's not like he cared for anyone outside mc. you could understand your position a little better.

"she does? what does she say?"

he smirked at that, a cat like, shit eating grin taking over his lips. crap, that gave away so much!

"well, what does she say about me, Mx roomie?"

you couldn't help the groan that escaped your lips. this man-

"i asked first."

he hummed, stepping up next to you. you fell into step next to him, eyebrows furrowed as you gazed at the side of his stupidly handsome face.

"you asked first but you were also rude first so i think i should get to go first."

"you almost smacked me in the face with a door! how is that not rude?"

he let out a huffed laugh, standing up straight.

"you don't hold back, do you cutie. are you this sassy with everyone?"

"you do NOT get to talk to me about sassiness, mister."

rafayel was actually easy to talk to. you'd think you'd be nervous talking to him. rich artist, human hating lumarian, super handsome guy, but also really funny fishy boy. the two of you fell in to casual banter and before you knew it you reached mia's apartment building... you blinked at it before glancing to him, already spotting the pout on his lips.

"leaving me already? you still haven't shared any secrets about mia."

"guess you'll just have to ask again later."

you spoke before you thought, hands fidgeting with themselves. he raised his eyebrows, tilting his head before nodding. that unreadable look in his eye making your hands sweat.

"sure. i'll get miss bodyguard to bring you to my next art exhibition or something. see ya, cutie."

you watched him go in a daze before making your way inside. welp, guess you're buddies (???) with rafayel now. was that in character for him? he didn't act like you had met before which was a relief. means you don't have to remember an interaction you never participated in. but for someone who is just his precious mc's roommate, he was rather friendly. an act maybe. get on your good side since you're friends with mia. he was after her secrets, he said so himself. thats it.

you sighed as you entered what you were assuming was just now your room, flopping down onto mattress, face down. you rolled over after a moment, the blank ceiling filling your vision.

"okay... what's the plan?"

if you were gonna live here, survive in this world, how were you gonna do it? from mia and tara's conversation earlier, you were up to date on the story, mia having just returned from 'off time'. so you couldn't leverage any of your knowledge of the story to your advantage. but beyond that, what did you want? to survive, yes, but to thrive? and then theres your evol. that was something you would have to figure out too.

you let another sigh, your eyes falling closed as you rolled back over.

your life before too... friends, family. what about them? were they worried? were you dead there? in coma and this is just some crazy dream?

this was giving you a headache. and making you hungry. the kitchen was fancy and high tech. it was rather daunting even thinking about cooking, so you just grabbed a bowl of leftover fried rice from the fridge and hoped mia wouldn't mind. halfway through your meal, mia came home, tossing her bag next to you.

"is that my leftovers?"

you let out a laugh, her silly pout maying you roll your eyes.

"maybe. but i was hungry. you wouldn't want me to starve, would you?"

she sighed dramatically, walking over to you as she shrugged off her belts, tossing them haphazardly on the counter. she hooked her arm over you shoulders, resting her cheek against the side of your head. your shoulders went stiff for a second before you forced them to relax and if she noticed, she didn't say.

"can i at least get a bite? i'm hungry too, ya know..."

you let out a sigh, raising the spoon to her lips. she happily ate it, giving you a squeeze before walking off toward her room.

"i'm gonna go change, then we can watch tv, yeah?"

"sounds good, mia. i'll it set up."

you smiled as she went before moving to the living room. messing around with the remote for the tv, trying to figure out how it worked and then what to watch. once mia came back, in her loungewear, she plopped herself next to you, laying her legs over your lap.

"what is this?"

she gestured to the tv and you just shrugged, looking back to the remote.

"i don't know. i'm trying to figure it-er figure out what to watch still."

she hummed, running her hands through her long, straight hair.

"just go with our usual. they sent out a new episode a few days ago."

you chewed your lip, handing her the remote as you stood up.

"you get it. i'll fix up some popcorn."

you heard her let out a sound of agreement as you walked back to the kitchen, clicking through to what looked like Netflix. making the popcorn was easy enough, a button on a microwave like appliance. you also cut up a pair of apples for the two of you, placing both bowls on the coffee table. mia blinked at the apples, grabbing a slice.

"something healthy too. you can't just eat junk."

he rolled her eyes, putting her legs back in your lap when you sat down.

"okay, caleb."

you snapped your gaze to her at the name, but she didn't notice, busy eating and watching the screen. defiantly up to date. mia wouldn't joke about a dead caleb. but are you supposed to know he's alive?

"i'm just watching out for you. an apple a day keeps the doctor away and all that."

"now you defiantly sound like caleb. trying to keep away dr. zayne? he was always trying to keep him away when we we're kids. speaking of which, let me tell you the shit caleb pulled the other day."

you hummed in response but you were carefully watching her reactions. when she began to openly ramble about him, it became clear you were supposed to know. maybe you two were so close she'd tell you about her boys? it was clear she was comfortable with you, both with her speech and then the skin to skin contact. she also at off your spoon earlier. as you watched her animated expressions and listened to her rant about caleb, it was easy to be drawn in. you knew her story and now, you could know her too. be privy to her kindness, her friendship. being her friend, her supporting character didn't seem so bad. especially if it meant you could help her. lessen her pain for this dark story.

entity [user] encounter entity [rafayel]

affinity level [1]

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tagliat: @sleepisfortheweakpooh @plzdonutpercieveme @young-adult-summer @mentaltrouble2201

first time doing a taglist (open to any who ask :D) so i do not know if i did it right?? i hope i did

thank you for reading!!

-chara <3

#lads #lads mc #lads x reader #love and deepspace #caleb x reader #lads caleb #lads rafayel #lads sylus #lads xavier #rafayel x reader #lads zayne #sylus x reader #zayne x reader #xavier x reader

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pullmecloseman · 2 days ago

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Honor & Duty — MAUI

Honor & Duty chapter — MAUI

bob floyd x reader

summary: The Maid of Honor and Best Man land in Maui ready to tackle wedding plans. Between grabbing coffee and settling into their shared room, they find some quiet moments—but there’s definitely something unspoken brewing between them.

A/N: if you guys would please give me feedback and tell me what you would like to see in future chapters it would mean the world to me!!

MAUI, COFFEE & CHECKLISTS , A TOAST

The plane touched down smoothly on the runway, and as you pressed your forehead against the window, the landscape of Maui stretched beneath you in all its vibrant colors. The deep greens of the palm trees, the sparkling blue ocean, and the soft, sandy beaches seemed like a dream you had waited years to experience. But this trip was not just about soaking up the sun or escaping the routine. This was about a wedding, and the weight of your role as Maid of Honor pressed on you like the humid air outside the airport walls.

You gathered your belongings carefully, making sure your planner and notes were tucked safely in your bag. Months of preparations had led to this moment. Alongside Bob, the Best Man, you had spent countless hours coordinating flights, confirming vendors, and organizing events. Every detail had to be perfect, and the pressure to deliver was intense.

Stepping into the terminal, the warm, humid air greeted you immediately. The scent of tropical flowers mingled with the salt of the ocean breeze drifting through open doors and windows. The airport was lively with the buzz of travelers, but your focus was already on the familiar faces of your group. They were scattered throughout the terminal, some chatting loudly, others handling their gear with practiced efficiency. Phoenix was helping someone with a suitcase, her bright smile lighting up the room. Rooster was focused on his phone, and Hangman was making jokes that drew laughter from the others.

You found Bob standing apart near a large window, the sunlight casting a warm glow on his face. His duffel bag was slung over one shoulder, and his eyes scanned the crowd like he was calculating the next step in the plan. Unlike the others, Bob’s calm demeanor was a steadying presence. You had come to rely on his quiet strength through the many late nights spent planning. Despite the chaos, he was always there, organizing, reminding, and keeping things on track.

Your eyes met his briefly, and you gave a small smile. He nodded back, the faintest hint of a smile softening his usually serious expression. That simple exchange was a reminder that no matter how hectic things had become, you and Bob were in this together.

Phoenix’s voice broke through the noise, cheerful and warm. “Sweetie, are you ready for paradise?” she asked as she approached, her energy infectious.

You laughed lightly, feeling some of the tension ease. “I think so. After all the planning, it feels good to finally be here.”

She smiled knowingly. “You and Bob have done an amazing job. We all appreciate it.”

You glanced back at Bob, who was now reviewing the wedding schedule on his phone. “He really is the calm in the storm,” you said, grateful for his steady presence.

Bob looked up briefly and met your eyes. “Just trying to keep everything from falling apart,” he said quietly with a small smile.

There was a moment of comfortable silence between you. The long hours, the endless emails, and the countless phone calls had tested you both, but it felt good to see your hard work coming to life.

The group started moving toward the check-in counters, and you excused yourself to grab coffee for everyone. Starbucks had become your lifeline, a small moment of normalcy amid the whirlwind.

While standing in line, you felt a familiar presence behind you. Bob’s voice was calm and low. “Need some help?”

You turned with a smile. “Just keeping track of everyone’s order. You want your usual?”

He nodded. “Yeah, that sounds good.”

When the barista called your name, you picked up the drinks and started walking back. Bob reached for one of the cups, and your hands brushed lightly for a moment. The brief contact felt natural, a reminder of how well you worked together.

You carried the coffees back to the group, the warm sunlight streaming through the windows and casting patterns on the floor. Bob walked beside you quietly, both of you reviewing the schedule in your heads.

Later, the van ride to the resort was filled with chatter about plans for the week. You sat next to Bob, quietly going over the timeline and making sure you had all the details squared away.

Arriving at the resort was like stepping into another world. The polished wood floors, the scent of fresh flowers, and the distant sound of waves brought a sense of calm. The stress of planning faded for a moment as you took it all in.

The bellboy led you down a wide corridor to your room. You and Bob walked side by side, discussing minor details about the rehearsal dinner and vendor arrival times. The easy conversation was a welcome break from the usual rush.

When you reached the door and the keycard clicked in, you paused. Turning to Bob, you said quietly, “Looks like we’re sharing a room.”

He looked at you with steady eyes. “Makes sense. Maid of Honor and Best Man. We need to be in sync.”

You nodded, realizing that the next few days would be closer than you expected. The wedding and the planning would take all your focus, and sharing the room was part of that.

The door clicked softly behind you as you stepped into the room, the gentle hum of the air conditioning replacing the distant sounds of the resort. Warm wood tones and soft island décor welcomed you, the large windows revealing a swath of palm trees swaying against a brilliant blue sky. The scent of fresh orchids lingered faintly in the air, adding a soothing sweetness to the space.

You set your bags down near the entrance and glanced over at Bob, who was already unpacking methodically. He moved with a calm efficiency, folding clothes and arranging them in the drawers without a word, his quiet focus a stark contrast to the buzz of excitement you had felt earlier.

It was strange, sharing a room with him. Not because you didn’t like Bob—far from it. You respected him deeply, especially after months of working side by side on the wedding plans. But the closeness was new. The easy camaraderie that had settled between you in the airport was still there, but now there was this quiet awareness of the space you both occupied.

You pulled out your planner and flipped to the week’s itinerary, the pages worn from constant use. “So,” you began, sliding the binder onto the desk, “we have the welcome dinner tomorrow night, then Wednesday for exploring the town, and Thursday is all about planning the bachelorette party.”

Bob looked up, nodding. “The vendors are confirmed for Friday’s party and the rehearsal on Saturday. We should double-check the timeline with the florist and the caterers.”

You smiled. “I’m glad you’re here. I don’t think I could have handled all these details without you.”

He shrugged lightly, but there was a softness in his eyes you hadn’t seen before. “It’s what we do.”

You spent the next few minutes reviewing the schedule together, making notes about who was responsible for what and ensuring that nothing was overlooked. The rhythm was comfortable—the two of you slipping seamlessly into this shared role, partners in the chaos of wedding planning.

After a while, you paused and looked around the room, suddenly aware of the quiet. “Want some coffee? There’s a small café downstairs.”

Bob raised an eyebrow but smiled. “Sure. I could use it.”

As you headed down the hall together, the earlier stress seemed to melt away, replaced by the calm certainty that you and Bob were ready for whatever this week had in store.

The café’s warm light softened the edges of the day, wrapping around you like a quiet refuge. You watched Bob from across the table as he held his coffee, the steam curling up in lazy spirals. He looked calm on the surface, but you knew better. You could almost feel the gears turning behind those steady eyes, the way his jaw tightened just slightly when something was weighing on him.

For months you had been the Maid of Honor, balancing a thousand little tasks, juggling vendors, timelines, and the endless back-and-forth of wedding planning. Bob, the Best Man, had been your partner in this chaos, the one person who always seemed to think three steps ahead, keeping the whole operation tethered to reality. Without him, you weren’t sure how you would have managed.

And yet, despite working side by side for so long, there was still a distance between you — a space filled with unspoken thoughts and feelings neither of you dared to voice. It was as if the years of camaraderie had built a wall you hadn’t yet figured out how to climb.

You stirred your latte absentmindedly, letting your gaze drift to the palm trees swaying gently outside the window. The island was beautiful, serene, the perfect backdrop for what should be a joyous week. But your mind raced ahead to all the things left to do, the tight schedule, the expectations from Phoenix, Rooster, the whole squad. You could almost hear the ticking clock of the next rehearsal, the bachelorette party, the ceremony itself.

Your fingers brushed lightly against Bob’s across the table, a small gesture that felt heavier than it should. For a split second, you wondered if he felt it too — that quiet pull between you that simmered beneath the surface. But when his hand retreated, you told yourself it was just habit, nothing more.

Careful to keep your gaze casual, you said, “So, how are you feeling about all this? Maui, the wedding, the planning?”

Bob’s eyes met yours, steady and unreadable. “It’s a lot,” he admitted, voice low but even. “But having you here makes it easier.”

You swallowed the sudden rush of warmth and looked away, focusing on the soft ripples of steam rising from your cup. The easy calm of the café seemed to contract around you, suddenly heavy with what was left unsaid.

You met his eyes again, and there was something new there—something raw, tentative, like the quiet before a storm. “We have a lot to do,” you said softly. “But maybe… maybe we can figure it out together.”

Bob nodded, the faintest smile ghosting his lips. “Together.”

You sipped your latte slowly, stealing glances at Bob as he sat across the table, the afternoon light catching the edges of his face. He looked almost… vulnerable, though he would never admit it aloud.

You wanted to reach out again, to bridge the gap that years of unspoken words had built between you. But something held you back—a hesitation born of uncertainty. What if this changed everything? What if the comfortable distance was the only thing keeping you steady?

Bob cleared his throat, breaking the silence. “We should get back,” he said quietly. “There’s still a lot to go over.”

You nodded, grateful for the excuse. You stood and stretched, feeling the buzz of nerves that lingered like static under your skin.

The walk back to the resort was slower than before, the tropical air warm but the tension between you cool and taut. Neither of you spoke much, but the silence was heavy with meaning.

When you reached the room, the door swung open, and the reality of your situation hit you again. Two beds, side by side but miles apart. The space between them felt enormous all of a sudden.

You set your bags down and looked over at Bob. He was already unpacking, methodical as ever, but you could see the tightness in his jaw, the way his eyes flicked to the beds and away.

“So,” you said, voice softer than intended, “tomorrow’s schedule looks tight.”

Bob glanced at you, the usual calm in his eyes tempered by something unreadable. “Yeah. Lots to plan, lots to do.”

There was a beat, and then you found yourself saying, “I guess we should get some rest.”

He nodded, turning toward one of the beds. You hesitated before moving to the other, your heart pounding in your chest louder than the hum of the air conditioning.

You both stood there for a moment, the quiet between you stretching wide. The closeness of the room, the nearness of his presence—it all felt suddenly fragile and charged.

As you lay down, staring up at the ceiling, you couldn’t shake the feeling that this trip was about to change everything between you.

And somewhere in the dark, you knew Bob felt it too.

#bob floyd #robert floyd #lewis pullman #top gun maverick #top gun fanfiction #thunderbolts #bob floyd smut #bob floyd x reader #bob floyd x you #lewis pullman x reader #lewis pullman smut #jake seresin #top gun hangman #bradley rooster bradshaw #fanboy

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pink-nightmare-lab · 2 days ago

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✨🦇General!Lilia Vanrouge one-shot🦇✨

Summary: reader is a diurnal* fae and is curious about the nocturnal fae so she goes to their territory to satisfy her curiosity

*Diurnal: basically the opposite of nocturnal, in other words, most active during the day

Other info: reader is female and a faerie🦋

Side note: might turn this into a fully fledged fanfiction with multiple chapters, also, I don't know the word count but it's long

Also, everything is purely made up, I took some inspo from the Tinkerbell movies and used my own imagination, so yeah, nothing canon here but HOLY MOLY, it took me so long to finish this

You live in a beautiful village surrounded by big trees where fae of all kinds flutter by or walk, going on about their day while the warm sun shines through the trees and illuminating the village in a golden glow, flowers blooming in every corner and magic flowing through the cores of the trees protecting the village.

You were a diurnal fae, to be exact, a butterfly faerie, wings as soft as silk and delicate like the wings of the small butterflies fluttering by, there was nothing better than to fly around and feel the breeze caress your skin like a gentle kiss.

It was widely known that faeries have conflicts with humans for centuries now but even amongst faerie kind, conflicts exist too, for one, nocturnal and diurnal faerie don't seem to get along too well and usually stay out of each other's skin just to avoid unpleasantries.

Yet no matter how often the others warned you and told you all sorts of stories, you always wanted to see the nocturnal fae up close out of sheer curiosity, after all, what if they aren't as bad as everyone says they are?

It's dawn when you slowly arise from your slumber, stretching and letting your wings flutter before getting out of bed, the village slowly coming to life to proceed with their daily tasks.

Today or rather tonight will be different, tonight you're venturing outside the territory of the diurnal faeries and into the lands of the nocturnal fae, yearning to learn more about them since books don't cover much about them.

You put on a beautiful floral dress and your hair up so it won't bother you for today's flower caretaking amongst other butterfly faeries in the nearby meadow.

You flutter towards your closet and grab a dark brown cloak and stuff it into a bag for later, after all, nobody should see it's you and with those big wings of yours that resemble those of a monarch butterfly, they'd stick out like a sore thumb, especially in the dark forest of the nocturnal fae territory, big bright orange wings would certainly be an unusual sight over there.

Once you're ready, you flutter towards the meadow, some already there and tending to the moon flowers, preparing them for an upcoming festival, pollinating them with a special pollen and making sure no illness befell at least one of them.

While you scatter the pollen on the flowers, you carefully observe the guards, ever so often hiding beneath the big flowers to take a better glimpse at them, listening in and trying to memorise their patrolling pattern, technically, it wasn't forbidden to leave the village at night but when your reasoning is to visit the nocturnal fae and try to become friendly, well, that's another story.

When it finally becomes evening, it's time to get ready, you put on a cloak and wait around a certain area around one of the exits for guards to walk past and go towards another area to patrol.

It's your cue to leave and you quickly do so, not the fastest by foot but it worked, you only hope that nobody saw you else you'd be in trouble and then the mayor would be upset and then the ministers when they heard one of their subjects decided to dare to go to the nocturnal faeries.

You take off the cloak once you're a good bit away from the village, you decide to flutter towards the edge of the forest for the rest of this small trip till you reach the edge of the forest, staring into the other side, it looks much darker and dangerous yet it's no time to go back now after planning for so long for this adventure of yours.

From what you've heard, nocturnal faeries are rather "scary" looking, sharp fangs, horns, scales and just overall roughness, that they're pretty mean although that's debatable since you've met plenty of mean diurnal faeries in your life but oh well, those were just rumours, you don't know what exactly to expect but at least it's one step closer to get friendly with them.

Aside from curiosity, you had another reason for this trip...

A while back, you overheard guards whispering amongst themselves, the trees surrounding the village are growing weaker and need a special kind of pollen to restore their strength but their problem was that the remedy lied within the territory of the nocturnal faeries and they're oh so stubborn to ask for help in that regard, instead, they tasked scholars to find an alternative solution.

If those trees die, everything around them does as well, your village is highly dependent on that but most importantly, the moon flowers on the meadow are of highest concern but what makes them special is that they have healing properties and that they bloom the strongest on the third full moon during the festival, without it, aiding the injured would take longer and finding a healer might end up being too late.

To you, the answer was obvious, to negotiate with the nocturnal faeries, asking for help and offering something in return, it couldn't be that bad... but then again, you've never met an actual nocturnal fae.

As night grows closer, you put on the cloak, trying to blend in, the forest seems so much darker compared to the ones in your territory, the tree leafs rustle in the wind and the owls sing their songs, it's hard to see without a light but if you lit up a light it could alarm the wrong type of creatures, so instead, you depend on the moonlight to guide you.

After walking for an hour, you spot a distant light emitted from a campfire but then you also heard... screeching and growling? you're not sure if you're hearing dangerous creatures or actual nocturnal faeries after all but nonetheless, it's an opportunity to see them up close.

You lower yourself and walk along the bushes to try to get closer till you're close enough to peek through the bushes and see what you've found.

Your eyes widen at the sight, real nocturnal faeries! But from the looks of it, soldiers.

Their masks are put aside and they're resting and talking, you hold in a gasp at the sight, such sharp fangs, piercing eyes with a slit shaped pupils, longer pointy ears and as you've heard, some indeed have scales and horns, the rumours about them looking more rough and predatory certainly wasn't a lie and yet... there was something ethereal about them.

To your confirmation, that growling and screeching is indeed just them talking, such an odd yet curious language, you thought.

You decide to stay hidden and keep observing, clearly, it's very important! You were just about to take out your journal but then you remember just how good of a hearing they have so perhaps alarming them wouldn't be so smart, writing can wait but... if their hearing is that good, what if they already are aware of your presence? No, that can't be, else they would've already noticed by now.

You have a clear goal in mind, observe, plan and negotiate (hopefully), after all, finding the remedy yourself and just taking it would be thievery, so you can't do that, you'd be punished and you aren't exactly fond of that.

You spot a fae much smaller and slimmer than the rest, his skin was a beautiful shade of pale, he had sharp fangs like the rest but his red piercing eyes truly captured your interest, his long hair flowing in the gentle night breeze.

Judging from the way the others interact with him, he seems to be someone highly important but it was difficult to really tell if they'd listen to reason were you to actually approach them, you could make nothing of their screeching.

They truly sounded and looked so different from the faeries you're surrounded by all the time yet you couldn't help but look at them in awe, you want to know more about them and get to know their lives and everything else.

Now stuck in a dilemma, you're sure that approaching them head on wouldn't be the smartest idea, they'd probably just shoo you back to your home but you somehow need to at least befriend one of them.

After some more observing, you internally sigh, it's no use to keep watching them so you slowly back away and try to get away without getting noticed.

Once you successfully get away, you continue to walk deeper into the woods in hopes of spotting the sister tree of the ones surrounding your village but that advantage is cut short very quickly.

One step and suddenly a rope snatches your ankle and pulls you up, dangling you upside down.

You did not expect this whatsoever and now you're stuck hanging upside down, also having made quite the noise with the amount of leaf rustling due to the trap.

Your hair is a mess, the skirt of your dress hanging down, revealing the shorts beneath them, your bag fell down alongside your cloak, letting you wings free and making you less hidden.

You curse inside, trying to figure out what to do now while you meekly tried reaching for the rope holding your leg, your wings flutter in frustration.

"first you're snooping around and now you're stuck dangling like freshly caught prey, I must say... I've never seen your kind venturing into our territory, alone nonetheless" a deep voice from behind suddenly speaks up.

You freeze, unable to look behind you but you can tell that it must be one of the soldiers you saw earlier.

"Such beautiful wings, diurnal faeries truly live up to their names, you look like a soft delicate flower, like something that doesn't belong here"

You feel a hand gently caressing your wing, you gasp and slap him with your wing, it was gentle and didn't harm him but it was enough to startle him and to tell him to stop.

After a moment of silence, he's in front of you and you're met with those piercing red eyes again that you saw earlier, he looks like he's thinking with a stern face.

"Tell me, who are you and what are you doing here?" he asks sternly, leaving no room to back away.

"I'm just here for help, I need something that can only be acquired here!" you say after composing yourself.

"and pray tell what it is you're looking for? Not often does your kind come here, nonetheless all alone like yourself, a bit naive if you ask me" he replied unimpressed.

You huff "I came here with a purpose, thank you very much..." you reply back a little sassy.

He keeps looking at you sternly, letting you know he won't help you if you don't tell your intentions first, very clearly as well.

"Okay look... my village has these special trees with magic and they're growing weaker... there's a certain type of pollen that can make it strong again but the problem is, the sister tree carrying that pollen grows here, in your forest, nowhere else and those trees are super important to us..." you explain and the sigh, talking while hanging upside sure is exhausting.

He hums and then just looks smug "I see how it is, we have a little thief here"

You gasp frustrated "I'm not stealing! I'm here to negotiate with your kind! I was hoping to talk with any of you, get friendly and well, get the pollen since the higher ups refuse too!"

He looks contemplative before responding "I truly don't know if you're naive or actually brave for coming here but let me be clear, you can't just waltz over here, expecting to simply 'talk it out' with the first faerie you see, not to mention, we aren't on friendly terms"

You look a little defeated but still keep your composure "...at least please let me down?"

He sighs and cuts the rope, making you fall down with a groan, slowly getting up and reaching for you bag and cloak.

He watches you gathering yourself and evening out the skirt of your dress and removing a few leafs from your hair before looking at him.

"Look, in case you didn't realise, we're in the middle of a war with the Silver Owls, we don't have time for something like this, we're busy protecting our lands, including yours, so you better fly back home and stay out of danger, let the higher ups handle it" he replies while looking around, listening to his surroundings.

You look frustrated but quickly keep shut once he looks at you sternly once again.

He sighs and looks less serious "I've been gone long enough from the camp, it won't be long till someone comes looking for me, you're lucky you came across me, you should better hurry back home before anything dangerous can happen, I can't protect you just because you decided to have a little adventure here, I have my duties to attend to"

You put on your cloak and bag but before you can go, the nocturnal fae calls out to you again.

"the name's Lilia Vanrouge, general Lilia Vanrouge, in case we cross paths again, little lady"

Clearly he knows just as well as you, that this won't be the last encounter.

Once you reach your home without alarming the guards, you sigh, sitting down on your bed, thinking about your encounter with Lilia, it was a rocky start but you know you'll have to come back.

Nonetheless, you start writing down on your journal, everything you found out so far, but you must admit, despite their rough and predatory features, they are quite handsome.

You smile and put the journal away, getting ready for bed for another day of planning the next move.

"You're finally back, general, was it a Silver Owl?" Baur asks once he sees Lilia return.

"No, just a lost deer, nothing to worry about" he dismisses, before heading to his tent, the feeling of your wings still lingering on his mind.

#twisted wonderland #twst #lilia vanrouge #lilia vanrouge x reader #general lilia vanrouge #general lilia vanrouge x reader

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seospicybin · 2 days ago

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SEOSPICY PREVIEW.

DOUBLE FEATURE: FINAL CHAPTER

Lee Know x reader. (s,a)

DOUBLE FEATURE MASTERLIST

Synopsis: After a strange accident on movie set, you and a stunt actor, Minho, wake up in each other’s bodies. The two of you are forced to live one another’s lives while searching for answers. But the longer both of you are stuck, the more both of you begin to see each other differently.

Preview under cut!

...

It’s the last day of filming. The air on set buzzes with a kind of quiet satisfaction—the kind that only comes after long hours and countless takes, and now… it’s finally done. The final scene wraps, and applause breaks out from cast and crew alike. You hang back, watching as people surround Felix, patting his back and congratulating him with bright smiles and heartfelt words.

You wait by his trailer, bouquet in hand—something simple but thoughtful, wrapped in soft paper and tied with a black ribbon. When Felix finally approaches, a little winded from all the farewells, his eyes light up at the sight of you.

“For me?” he asks, smiling as he accepts the bouquet.

You nod. “Congratulations. You were incredible.”

He cradles the flowers in one arm and looks at you warmly. “Thank you for everything. All the help. The support.” Then, with a cheeky little grin, he adds, “And for that motorcycle ride that day.”

You chuckle, feeling a flicker of guilt twist lightly in your chest—but you brush it away. That was Minho. Still, you say, “And thank you for making my job easier. Always so nice to me.”

Felix shrugs, playful. “I think you know that’s ‘cause I like you.”

It catches you off guard. You blink. “Wait… what?”

He looks at you, slightly amused by your surprise. “I told you that before.”

Your lips part as you search your memory, and realization hits—of course. He told Minho. Not you.

Felix studies your face with growing curiosity. “Do you already know what you’re going to do about it?”

A soft laugh escapes you, more out of disbelief than anything else. So Minho didn’t tell you. Or maybe he meant to. Either way, you don’t feel hurt. Just… quietly amused by it.

You start to speak, but Felix chuckles first and says, “It’s okay. I know. You like Minho.”

You blink again. “You… know?”

He nods. “Pretty obvious. But it’s okay. I still like you. I just hope he treats you well.”

You feel your chest tighten with something tender. “Thank you,” you say, sincerely. “For being honest. For being… you.”

He smiles, softer this time. “I hope we work together again.”

You nod. “Yeah. I’d like that.”

And as if the moment calls for it, the two of you step into each other’s arms—no hesitation, no awkwardness. Just a long, warm hug shared between two people who understand each other, even if it didn’t end the way one of you had hoped.

When you pull away, he gives you one last sunshine smile before retreating into his trailer, and you watch the door close behind him. You smile to yourself, tucking the moment away gently, like a photograph pressed between pages. It’s a good ending, but something else is just about to begin.

...

DOUBLE FEATURE: FINAL CHAPTER full fic will be released this Friday, June 27th. Or you can read it early on my Patreon:

#seospicy preview #stray kids smut #skz smut #lee know smut #lee know x reader #skz x reader #seospicy fics #double feature series

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hvacfucker · 3 days ago

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Miscellaneous Hector Headcanons! SFW!

A short list of me contextualizing Hector in the real world versus the object world. Please feel free to comment your thoughts! Also, I haven't explored anything beyond Hector's romance route, (yes, I'm talking about [ ] which I don't yet know the details of!!) so please keep things spoiler free if you'd like to comment!

🎭 Hector lived, breathed, slept Shakespeare as a child/teenager. Like ugh, he'd never seen such beauty in poetry before! Every lesser-known sonnet, every underrated play, Hector studied them all, agonizing over Shakespeare's wit and mastery of iambic pentameter, hoping to one day emulate even just the faintest shadow of his literary prowess. In fact, so enamored with the mystique of theater, Hector secretly longed for the stage.

🎭 It probably comes as no surprise those dreams were never realized.

🎭 God, it took him ages to recover from his Hamlet audition. (Or, did he ever?) The hours he spent practicing his lines, the paragraphs upon paragraphs of dense analysis searing his retinas at 3AM. To think it amounted to nothing? Hector still cringes at that particular chapter of his youth.

🎭 He can still see his taped mark from behind the cover of red velvet. Feel how his legs turned to lead, willing them to step up, but they wouldn't— couldn't move. Oh and the sounds of the drama directors shuffling through their clipboards, somehow taking the driest sips of water as they conferred their watches over the winding minutes? Don't remind him. (Sorry Hector)

🎭 Yeah, turns out stage fright and acting exist as such irreconcilable antipodes it's simply possible for them to find any common ground. Let alone cease their vying for control over Hector's autonomy so that he might dare to try again. Life lesson swiftly learned.

🎭 Although, he makes for an excellent stagehand! Working behind the scenes, that's much more Hector's speed anyway. He's content to spectate from the shadows, wistfully mouthing Juliet's lines as she laments her dear Romeo, Hector's arm maneuvering the industrial-grade fan so that her curls gently dance in the synthetic moonlight at just the right rhythm.

🎭 Outside drama club, crew work is thankless, but it's something Hector takes pride in. Without stagehands, there'd be no production to enjoy, after all! (To me, Hector makes so much sense as a theater kid lmfao)

🎭 Side note: I used to live in the heart of a city that had Shakespeare fests/ren faire parades/events. I feel like Hector would attend those?? Fair-goers would even wear those feathered, masquerade-style masks and get allll dressed up. So maybe he'd utilize such costumes to help with his shyness? I could see him taking advantage of the roleplay pretenses to get out of his shell and embrace a crowd of like-minded people!

🏰 Hector also gives me the vibe of someone who adores The Princess Bride. It's familiar, humorously fantastical, oozing romance with juust the right amount of cheesy, and unapologetically sincere. It's so... safe, and brings him unrivaled comfort when he finds himself yearning for a romance a fraction of the fairytale of which Buttercup and Westley have. (And yes, I feel like he'd love Phantom of the Opera and V for Vendetta for obvious, masked romance related reasons)

💝 Speaking of romance, ohmigod, he's so corny when it comes to Valentine's day. The chocolates, the roses, the oversized, overpriced pink-furred teddy bear. Hector bought them all; tolerated the knowing looks as he waited in line at the grocery store, afterwards writing the most heartfelt card his lover has ever read. (Hector's the type to make someone cry with how personal his letters are.)

💝 If his partner were to reciprocate in kind? Well, he could cry too — wait, he is crying! This is the extravagant display he's longed for: the one where someone isn't afraid to show-off how deeply they're in love with him; how proudly they're committed; to the point they're even willing to endure a bit of social heckling, just as he did. Of course Hector's moved to tears. He just loves them so much! To think his lover could match his affections, he's elated and made humble all at once.

#date everything #hector valentino airnesto condicionado #hector date everything #date everything headcanons #hector date everything headcanons #i needed a lil break from my asks so i hope yall enjoy :3

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angel-writes-skz-here · 3 days ago

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Seduction

Prof! Minho x Student! Reader Synopsis: Minho's in town for Christmas break and he's got some questions that will need answers. Warnings: SMUT, unprotected p in v (Shocker! Fr be safe) oral (both rec.), fingering, pet names, soft Minho, romance. A/N: Christmas in June, my sweets! I apologize for the wait! But chapter 5 is here! I'll try to have chapter 6 out soon! Just bare with me! Ignore any mistakes, I'll proof read again later. Merry Christmas in June, y'all!! 😉 Xoxo💋

Previous Chapter Next Chapter

Merry Christmas

The sunlight from the morning peers in through the curtains of your living room, waking you up. You feel a pair of hands around your waist, the memory of everything from the previous day flooding back. You smile to yourself as you feel Minho shift in his sleep. Your hand lightly goes on top of his; cradling it.

You gently turn in his arms, his face looking peaceful as you study it. You smile as you notice his brown hair in his face, his lips slightly agape and a small bit of drool on the pillow underneath him; the way his body subconsciously contorted to fit yours swells your heart.

You run your fingers through his hair gently, watching him stir and a small smile creeps onto his face. You breathe out a giggle before his eyes slowly open. You both smile at each other; it’s like you’re in your own little world.

“Good morning,” you whisper.

“Good morning,” he smiles.

“I have some shopping I have to do today,” you mention as your eyes scan him.

“Can I come?”

“I’d love that,” you smile. The two of you get up and as you head off to your room you notice Minho grabbing his keys.

“I left my stuff at the hotel last night,” he mentions sheepishly.

“Thought I might kick you out?” you playfully ask.

“I wanted insurance, yeah.” He shrugs honestly. You smile and nod understandably.

“Well, you can get your stuff, because you’ll be here with me this week,” you smile as you walk up to him, cupping his cheek.

“If you want to be, that is,” you whisper and he grins.

“No where else I’d rather be.”

He pecks your lips before leaving to grab his things.

The two of you arrive at the mall, hand in hand, walking around. It's nice to be out in public, together, physically showing affection for once.

“It’s so busy,” he comments.

“Yeah, Christmas around here isn’t nearly the same as it in Korea,” you inform him.

“How so?”

“Eh, it’s more family oriented, everything practically shuts down. People spend time with family at home opening gifts, sharing meals together, it’s really nice.” You smile sentimentally as you walk into the next store, making the final purchases for your family.

“So, am I allowed to join your American traditions?” he asks cautiously.

“I don’t see why not, my parents and I do Christmas at their house that evening and on Christmas Eve. So, we can do dinner and I’ll let them know I have a friend joining me.” You say as you pull out your phone to send a quick text to your mom.

“Friend?” He quirks a brow with a smirk.

“I think it’d just be easiest to say friend, for now, I mean, I can’t say, “hey mom here’s my former professor from Korea that I fucked before he was my professor,” you say and he nods with a small chuckle. He peels off from you a little, looking at a few things, as you finalize your purchases.

“Ready to go?” you ask, bags in hand, grabbing his attention from the clothing rack.

“Huh, oh yeah. Let’s go,” he smiles.

“Hey, do me a favor, take these to the car, would you?” you ask as you round a corner. He smiles and nods, heading out to the car giving you enough time to slip into the jewelry store. There’s no way you were letting him go without at least one gift on Christmas morning.

You glance at the watches, finding the one you think would suit Minho the best. You purchase it quickly and you feel your phone start to buzz.

“Hey,”

“Hey, I um, I think I’m lost.” He chuckles looking around not seeing you.

“Ok, well I won’t be long, can you get back to the car?” You ask as you eye the lingerie store.

“Yeah, are you sure you want me to wait?”

“Yeah, I’ll be out soon.” You smile.

“Ok,” he says simply before hanging up.

You walk into the store, instantly spotting the red bow tie lingerie. You smile as you think to yourself how sweet it would be, making love by the fire place, the warmth of the room surrounding you, the two of you together finally on the same page, no one trying to hurt the other, the only thing on either of your mind’s simply being pleasure and closeness.

You quickly purchase it along with a new bottle of perfume, smiling to yourself like an idiot. You make your way to the car, hiding the watch in the lingerie bag.

“What did you buy?” He asks, rolling the window down as you head to the trunk.

“Some perfume I found on sale,” you say simply. Minho feels a slight disappointment but masks it and nods.

“Let’s get home, I still have to wrap,” you say as you enter the car again.

The night goes by quickly, Minho ordering pizza and, poorly, helping you wrap gifts. He gets into a fight with the tape, flicking his hand like a cat, only getting it stuck worse to his hands and now sweater. You can’t contain your giggles as you watch him and catch his hand, the heat from the small fireplace hitting your back.

“Have you ever even wrapped a gift before?” you ask through fits of giggles.

“Yes,” he pouts, his brown hair falling in his face.

“Well why don’t you get me some more wine,” you say as you get the tape unstuck. He purses his lips and hops up with your glass.

“Want some more pizza?” He calls from the kitchen.

“Uhhh,” you say as you fold up the last corner on the gift, “Yes please!” you say as you place it under the tree.

“Now tomorrow is Christmas Eve,” you remind him as he brings back your drink and pizza and sits down.

“Meaning we spend the night at your parents’ with family watching movies, baking cookies and having a good meal. I remember.” He says confidently. You smile.

“Good boy,” you wink and he quirks a brow.

“Excuse me?” he says as he moves the wrapping paper and backs you onto the floor.

“I said. Good. Boy.” You punctuate each word with a tap to his nose. He smiles down at you, eyes traveling between yours.

“I’m happy,” he whispers softly. You smile at him, stomach twisting with excited anxiety.

“Me too,” you whisper as you notice the light from the fire casting a golden glow on his face. Minho gently presses his lips to yours, sighing against you.

Later that night, once you’re sure Minho is asleep, you’re able to wrap his watch, hiding it towards the back of the tree so he wouldn’t notice it.

The next night you’re surrounded by family and friends, something about it feeling more nostalgic than you remember years previously. The laughter, the young kids running around and watching the Santa tracker; all of it feels warm, familiar, almost final.

Everyone welcomes Minho with open arms, practically making him feel like part of the family.

“So you two met over in Korea?” your mother asks as she stabs a piece of food with her fork, her eyebrows raised suspiciously.

“Yes ma’am,” Minho answers.

“How?”

You smile nervously at your mother.

“He offered to tutor me for this psychology class I had gotten behind in, and we just hit it off. Became friends and kept in touch.”

“So, you shared the same class?”

“Yep,” you smile.

“Funny I never heard you mention a, Minho,” she says cautiously hoping she pronounced it right and Minho nods, “before.”

“Oh yeah, well it was a last-ditch effort to stay but ultimately I thought it better to come home and ya know, I’ve been busy since I got back.” You smile and eat your food nervously.

The dinner continues on, everyone having wonderful conversation, so much so you don’t hardly eat. Except for the few bites taken earlier so you could stuff your mouth and not have to talk to your mom.

As the family begins making cookies, Minho whispers in your ear.

“I’ll be back, ok?” You look at him concerned, not noticing your mother’s watchful eye.

“Are you ok?” you ask quietly and he nods, desperate to kiss your forehead but he resists, simply squeezing your hand out of sight of the family.

“I won’t be long,” he says and grabs the car keys. He leaves without another word.

Sometime later Minho returns, helping decorate the cookies with your little cousins, the sight swelling your heart as he helps them pipe the icing. The kids pick on him a little and he laughs, getting them back, starting a mini icing war that ends with you having to clean both Minho and the kids up. The two of you smile at each other, the moments between you still surreal.

“We’ll see you guys’ tomorrow afternoon, ok?” your mother says before kissing your cheek and hugging Minho.

“You treat her well, you hear me,” she whispers in his ear firmly. His eyes widen slightly and he looks at your mother.

“I’m sorry, I,”

“We’ll see y’all tomorrow.” She smiles like nothing was said, bright and happy, and helps you out the door.

“What’s wrong?” you ask noticing the paler look on his face once outside.

“She knows,” he says.

“She thinks she knows.” You correct.

“She always was good at that though. Picking up on the little things. But it doesn’t matter,” you shrug as you approach the car.

“The only way she’ll know, is if we tell her.”

You pull into your driveway, and Minho instructs you to stay put until he comes out to get you.

You quirk a brow at him as you watch him run inside and you giggle as he runs back out soon after and opens your door for you; helping you out of the car like a gentleman.

“What the heck are you doing?” you giggle. He doesn’t answer just leads you inside out of the cold.

When the door opens you notice your living room fire place is going, candles are lit and there’s soft instrumental music playing. You stop, your breath catching in your throat as you feel Minho’s hands rub up your arms and help you slide off your jacket.

“What did you,” you look back at him, a soft expression on his face.

The room is covered in candles, the fire place going, drinks and snacks out for you, and fairy lights strung around the room.

“I had an idea and wanted to surprise you,” he smiles and pecks your lips before putting your jacket up for you. You walk in, the scene intimate, suddenly remembering the lingerie you bought.

“Give me a few minutes,” you smile and run back to your bedroom. You clean up a bit, get yourself dressed and spray on some perfume before you walk out in a silky red robe, and Minho’s brows raise.

“Wow,” he says and you watch his adams apple bob in his throat. You smile at him your heart beat erratic as you slowly step into the room.

“Technically, you don’t get presents till Christmas morning,” you tease, “But I figured in Korea, it’s already Christmas Day.” You walk up to him, wrapping your arms around his neck and his hands come to your sides, holding you close as he dips his head down, connecting your lips. Your fingers tangle in his hair and soft moans are exchanged.

You step away from him, slowly undoing your robe revealing the outfit you’d bought earlier that day.

Minho’s breath catches in his throat as he stares at you, and the silk ribbon that leaves little to the imagination. You let the robe fall off your arms into a puddle on the floor.

“Well,” you pause, “Come unwrap your gift,” you smirk as he races over to you, your lips reconnecting in a heated kiss and a soft giggle escapes your lips at his excitement.

Minho’s hands are steady as he looks down, your foreheads together, and he undoes the ribbon, watching it fall off your chest.

He whimpers at how beautiful you look. Truthfully, he’d forgotten just how beautiful you really are and his hands cup your chest, thumbs brushing over your buds as your head falls back, soft moans coming from you.

“Come here,” he says and places you on your back, the heat from the fire place keeping your frame warm.

“You’re so beautiful,” he says as his eyes travel down your body, noting the small piece of what the store called ‘underwear’ is covering you. He kisses your lips again, taking his time, worshiping, loving your body as his lips slowly travel down to your jaw then your neck. His teeth graze your skin, drawing goosebumps as his tongue flattens over your skin, a soft moan leaving you. You feel him smirk against your skin as he leaves open mouth kisses down to your collar bone, softly sucking at your flesh. You squirm beneath him as he kisses his way down to your breast, flicking his tongue over the hardened bud. You bite your lip, watching as his mouth closes around it, sucking slightly as he kneads the other with his hand, sending waves of pleasure to your core.

“Min,” you moan. He looks up at you through his lashes, gently biting the sensitive area. You hiss, watching him smirk as he lets go, giving the same kind of attention to the other; not in a rush. Savoring you like you’re his last meal.

He kisses down your stomach, lips dragging against your skin; peppering kisses at your waist line, teasingly. He can see the wet patch on your panties, and he chuckles to himself.

“You want me, don’t you baby?” you nod with your lip between your teeth as you watch him.

“Please,” you beg and Minho closes his eyes at your breathy tone, feeling his pants tent up. He removes his shirt quickly before settling between your legs, kissing up your inner thighs, nipping at the doughy flesh.

Your hips left near his face on instinct, and he hooks his fingers into your panties, pulling them down and discarding them to the side. His tongue is warm and wet against your core, and you both sigh as he makes contact.

“So good,” he whines into you, nose bumping your clit as he takes a deep breath. His tongue works magically, hitting all the spots that make you tick, watching and listening, figuring out your body; making it his mission to know it like the back of his hand. He smirks as his tongue circles your bud, feeling your hips roll against his face.

“God, Minho,” you gasp as his tongue enters your hole and your back arches off the plush rug underneath you. You grip onto his hair and roll your hips as his tongue goes in and out, tasting- treasuring you.

“Wanna live here,” his voice is muffled against you. His breathing gets ragged as his hips start to grind against the ground, desperate to get friction. His tongue moves to side, adding more a little more pressure, the two of you making eye contact. He reaches for your hand, rubbing circles onto the top of it.

“Minho,” you whimper as you feel the coil tighten in your tummy. He adds two fingers with his other hand, curling them up and he pumps them in and out, quickly matching the speed of his tongue making your head spin.

“Please keep going,” you whine as your hand goes to your breast to stimulate it, causing you to buck your hips as Minho swipes his tongue harder against your clit.

“Fuck I’m gonna cum,” you whimper.

“Cum for me, kitten. Cum on my tongue,” he mumbles against you and you cry out as the tightening in your stomach explodes, your body arching as he takes you through it, never stopping or slowing down.

“Such a mess,” he moans into you as he cleans you up. Your hips buck when he brushes your all too sensitive clit. He kitten licks, moaning at the taste and your face flushes.

He hovers himself over you, kissing you; allowing you to taste yourself with his chin and lips still glistening.

“Fuck I want you,” he groans as you palm him through his pants. He pulls back to undo his pants and slide them down along with his boxers. You sit up and your hands reach for him, tongue flattening as you tease his slit.

“Oh fuck,” he moans as his head is thrown back. He moves to sit down, your legs intertwined as he watches you. You pump a few times with your hand, watching him. His eyes flutter close as you squeeze him, teasing the slit once more with your thumb.

“Fuck stop teasing me,” he breathes out a laugh. You oblige, slowly sinking your head down.

You hear Minho sigh and feel his hand come to back of your head, resting in your hair. You swirl your tongue around the head as you come up, sucking on it harshly, causing his hips to buck.

“Fuck if you do that I won’t last,” he growls. You bob your head up and down again, creating a steady pace, Minho’s hips bucking up into you every once and a while. You pump what you can’t fit in your mouth, his moans and groans causing more arousal to puddle between your legs. You moan around him, sending vibrations through his body. He chokes out a moan, head tipping back as you hollow your cheeks and suck faster, desperate to get him to his release.

“Fuck you feel so good,” he whines as you feel him twitch in your mouth.

“God keep going,” he groans as you begin to taste more and more of his salty precum on your tongue.

“Ah shit, fuck I’m gonna cum.” He says and you moan, encouraging him and he does with a loud groan. He paints your throat a shade of white as his ropes spill down your throat, making you swallow everything, happily.

He gasps for air, chest rising up and down. You giggle at him, seeing his fucked-out expression.

“Something funny?” He asks a playful glint in his eye, and you simply smile at him as he gently tackles you back down to the floor.

“My girl,” he whispers before sliding in slow, eye contact being made the whole time. When he bottoms out the both of you sigh, the feeling other worldly as you feel the stretch and he feels the warmth of your body.

“God this feels perfect,” he whispers in your ear.

“Like you’re made for me,” he says as he starts a slow pace, thrusting slow and deep, making you feel every inch of him. You look into his eyes as he does, bodies and souls connecting as one.

“You take me so well,” he mumbles before planting a kiss on your forehead, resting his forehead on yours as he starts to pick up the pace, causing you to gasp and your mouth to make the ‘o’ shape, your back arching you into him.

“Feel good?” he asks in your ear.

“So good,” you whimper arms coming around his shoulders, nails slightly digging into his skin. His head falls to your shoulder, nipping at it.

“Minho, fuck,” you gasp as he hits your sweet spot hard.

“Yeah, baby?” He asks.

“I wanna ride you, please,” you whimper as you feel him slow down. He gently pulls away from you, only to pull you with him in his lap, helping you position yourself on top, slowly sinking down on him.

You whimper in response, and he holds you close, bare chests touching as you take a moment to get comfortable.

Slowly you grind your hips, bouncing up and down, causing your chest to bounce in his face. The new angle has your world stopping. Time doesn’t exist, life isn’t real and Minho is the only thing keeping your tethered to earth at this point. Quickly you begin to feel the coil in your stomach.

“Fuck you look so beautiful using me like this,” he says before sucking on your chest, one hand coming down to rub your clit making you scream as you hold onto his shoulders.

“Cum for me baby, cum on my cock,” he says and brings you down for a fervent kiss.

“Minho,” you whimper against his lips and Minho’s hand comes up to your throat, squeezing lightly.

“Fuck,” you let out in a high-pitched voice as your body explodes causing you to shake, and Minho thrusts up into you as he notices your rhythm failing as you go through your orgasm. You gasp for air once breathing becomes possible again, and Minho finishes right after you.

You’re both breathing heavily as you come down, sitting together, bodies as one, holding each other.

You hide your face in the crook of his neck, suddenly feeling very vulnerable.

“What’s wrong,” he asks, a slight chuckle in his voice.

“Just want you,” you say against his neck.

“I’m not going anywhere, baby girl.” He whispers into your hair as he kisses the top of your head. The two of you sit together for a moment, the low hum of the music creating a nice ambiance. Minho checks the clock and smiles.

“Merry Christmas, baby.” He whispers in your ear. You pick your head up, and look at him slightly confused.

“It’s midnight.” He smiles as he points to clock hanging up on the wall. You turn your head and check it.

“Merry Christmas.” You smile at him before pecking his lips and disconnecting your bodies.

Minho helps you get cleaned up grabbing a towel and warming it with water. Gently wiping between your legs and wiping himself off.

“How about a bath?” you suggest as he slides on his sweat pants.

“Actually, I wanna give you your gift.” He says as he hands you your robe.

“Huh?”

“Well, one of them,” he mentions as he unzips his suit case.

“It can wait till morning.” You try to stop him.

“Actually, it can’t.” he says as he pulls out an envelope and hands it to you.

“What is it?” you smile.

“Open,” he encourages and you pull out a certificate, your heart swelling and your breath catching in your throat.

“Minho,” you whisper as your read the paper. He smiles nervously.

“Come on, we should be able to see it.” He takes your hand carefully, grabbing you a pair of pants and a coat and you step outside into the quiet night. You look up into the sky and see it, your star.

“There, right beside the big dipper handle, you see it? Just beside it, shinning bright.” He points and you smile.

“I can’t believe you had a star named after me.” You whisper as you hug his side and look up at it.

“No matter how far apart we are, we can always be connected through this.” He whispers as he kisses the top of your head.

“Thank you,” you whisper and share a sweet kiss before heading back inside.

The two of you opt for a shower, washing each other off along with the sticky remanence of earlier activities.

In bed the two of you are curled up, staring at each other.

“So what does Christmas day look like?”

“Similar to what we did, but we get to have our own celebration in the morning.” You smile as your thumb rubs his cheek.

“And we get to watch cheesy Christmas movies and make breakfast and just chill the first half of the day.” You explain. He smiles and nods kissing your forehead.

“Good night,” he whispers.

“Good night,” you say and close your eyes.

The next morning you wake up to the sound of pots and pans banging together. It’s just past 7am and you slip on your proper pj’s and slippers and quietly watch from door way of the kitchen as Minho tries to figure out your appliances. He’s going back and forth from his phone trying to figure out how to make you something.

You watch as he puts the eggs in a bowl then looks back to his phone. Grabs the bread; back to his phone. Then whisks the egg, back to his phone and repeats the process until he has an egg-soaked piece of bread ready for the frying pan.

“Morning Master Chef,”

“Aish!” he jumps and drops the bread into the pan.

“You scared me,” he says you smile as you walk over to him and look at what he’s doing.

“Nah, no, back!” he says swatting the air with a spatula.

“Woah, what’d I do?”

“Go to the living room, I’ll be there soon.” He motions for you to leave. You smile to yourself as you turn on the tree, noticing a few more gifts under it than what was there when you went to bed.

You quirk a brow but wait for Minho to finish breakfast as you turn on the tv. Not long into A Christmas Story Minho brings out breakfast for the two of you; French toast with syrup and powdered sugar.

“It looks delicious.” You compliment and he watches as you try the food. You moan as the sweet taste hits your tongue. Eyes shutting.

“This is so good,” you assure him and he smiles, feeling relieved he did it right.

“I added some vanilla to the egg mixture for added flavor.” He explains.

“Recipe?”

“Did that one on my own.” He says proudly.

“Thank you, baby,” you smile as the two of you eat and half way watch the movie.

“So, places really do shut down today?”

“Mhm, you’ll see it later when we go to my parents’ house.” You smile.

After breakfast you help Minho clean up the dishes and the two of you sit down in front of the tree.

Minho distributes two boxes your way, and smiles.

“What in the world have you done?” you giggle.

“Just open them and see,” he smiles, innocent excitement taking over. You nod and grab his gift from the back.

“Here’s yours.” You smile and he looks flabbergasted.

“When did you,” he looks up at you confused.

“Yesterday,” you shrug.

“You go first!” you say and motion for him to go. He’s about to argue with you but instead doesn’t fight it and tears the wrapping paper off the box. He opens the box revealing the sleek and stylish watch. He pauses for a moment, emotions trying to get the better of him.

“I remembered how you always wore a watch to class,” you begin, “And I remembered our last night together, I saw it on the night stand and it looked warn. So I found this,” you mention and he doesn’t speak for a moment, shock over taking him.

“If you don’t like it we can take it back and you pick out what you do like,” you ramble and Minho leans over and kisses your lips.

“Shut up, I love it.” He says still in disbelief at the beautiful gift. He carefully takes it out of the box and puts it on.

“It’s beautiful, y/n. Thank you,” he says lowly. You smile, proud of yourself.

“Ok, he says as he blinks his eyes quickly, “You’re turn.”

You pick the box up with the red wrapping paper and undo it, revealing a small box. You open it to see a chain with an ‘M’ initial on it. It has your birthstone in the bottom right corner and his in the upper left. You grin as you hold up letting the light hit the jewels.

“When did you find this?”

“I found it in a shop a month ago, when I started planning my trip here,” he admits, a light blush painting his cheeks.

“You held on to this for that long?”

“Kept it nice and safe, yeah.” He nods.

“It’s beautiful, put it on me?” you ask as you take it out of the box.” He nods and you position yourself on your knees and allow him to drape the jewelry on your neck and he clasps the necklace together.

You smile as you look at the last box. You take the paper off the box and open it, revealing a delicate key.

“What, I have the key to your heart?” You giggle sweetly.

“No, well yes you do, but that’s a key to my house.” He says slowly. Your heart rate speeds up.

“What?” you ask, voice slightly pitched.

“I want you come back with me,” he says as he takes your hand. Your brows raise and your mouth falls open slightly.

“What do you say?”

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kaysfanficcorner · 3 days ago

Text

The Camgirl and the Millionaire, Part 3

Pairing: Harry Castillo x Camgirl Reader

Summary: Things get more complicated.

Author's Note: Well here we are. I had so much fun writing this chapter and I am incredibly proud of it. These two have captured my heart and I cannot wait to see this little story through to the end. Harry and his camgirl have been the highlight of my summer so far. Thank you for being along for the ride, and please enjoy one of the most explicit things I've written to date.

New note, 6/25: Also, I went back and made one small edit to part 2. In it, Harry said it was June. For the outline I have planned I needed to move things up two months to August, so now I just made Harry make a vague reference to it being summer. You’ll understand when part 4 comes out!

Warnings: Alcohol consumption; Mentions of THC consumption; Cursing; Flirting; Lying, which I assure you hurts to write just as much as it hurts to read; Angst; Fluff; SMUT in the form of unprotected sex, oral, cum eating, anal; A lot of feelings; Reader is thic; Reader is sort of goth; Reader has pierced nipples; Reader is a sex worker; I gave Harry an appendix scar, don't ask me why

18+, Minors DNI

Ao3

*****

Harry can’t quite believe himself, feeling legitimately nervous as he waits for you near the entrance, but still inside the events venue. Women don’t tend to make him nervous, not at this stage of his life at least. Somehow, someway, you make him incredibly nervous. Perhaps it’s because you’re nothing like anyone he’s ever felt attracted to before. With you everything feels strangely different. So different that he let himself go during the concert, not giving a single damn if anyone who he may know was paying any attention to him or not. But now, after coming down from his multiple highs, Harry’s sure he’d overdone it and he’s sure people will be talking come Monday morning. The question is, though, should he really care all that much?

Shortly after you both agreed to get food together, you declared that you needed to use the restroom and grab your things from the employee area in the back. You explained how you and Vanessa were able to get into the event in the first place with the help of that guy, Charles was it? The venue’s owner, evidently. Apparently Vanessa is usually at these events as an employee, which is in all honesty not much of a surprise. It all makes sense. As he stands there thinking about it, the puzzle pieces of how his evening ended up going in this direction have started clicking together. You’re not from this walk of life and you certainly would have never attended this event without the promise of the musical guest. Harry was only able to meet you due to some wild stroke of fate. Or luck. He’s not sure which.

Harry himself doesn’t care, but your lack of status makes things even more scandalous when he really thinks about it. He knows that his brow must be riddled with worry as you’re approaching him once again, looking much more casual than you had when you walked away. When he really sees you, though, the worry in him fades away.

You’ve lost about three inches to the tasteful black Jimmy Choos you’d been wearing, which you’ve now replaced with short ankle-high black socks and a pair of black and white checkered Vans. The classic slip ons, a shoe Harry hasn’t noticed anyone wearing in a long while. He supposes that they are still popular if you’re wearing them, but most of the people he interacts with on a regular basis would not go for skateboarding shoes even in the most dire of circumstances. It’s an intriguing choice, much like the rest of you.

Your hair is back to being drawn up from your neck and shoulders, though the look is much messier than the bun Harry had ruined in the heat of the moment. You’ve got a black sweater slung over your forearm, and the straps of the heels are looped through your index and middle fingers on that same hand. Your free hand comes to rest on his arm as you move in beside him. Somehow being shorter makes you even more adorable to Harry, and he’s once again thanking himself for taking the plunge to enhance his own appearance. Your height difference is exactly what he imagined for himself when the surgery was possibly just a disastrous idea. At his true height the two of you would be nearly eye to eye.

“There you are,” you say with a little grin. “I bid farewell to the lovers back there so I’m good to go when you are. Van says you better not murder me or kidnap me, or she’s gonna come after you. I told her I’d be fine with the latter and she better not try to save me and ruin our good time.”

Harry nearly chokes at the suggestion, the very notion of it shocking, but your giggle at his reaction is enough to calm him. “You really aren’t like other girls,” he says, at a loss for more to say than that.

“The highest compliment a girl can receive,” you agree, leaning into him slightly.

Harry looks around the room, noticing a few eyes on them, and he’s suddenly wildly ready to leave. His driver should be pulling up any minute, but he hasn’t heard the ding of a text or felt the vibration of a notification in his pocket yet. His eyes narrow a little as he regards you seriously.

“Listen, I want you to know that I don’t normally behave like that when I’ve only just met someone. I don’t know if I’ve ever behaved like that, actually. I apologize if I came on too strong on dancing with you, or singing those crass lyrics.” Harry says this with a self conscious little pit in his stomach.

A moment ago he felt very confident that dancing with you in such an erotic way had been the right call, but suddenly he’s not so sure. It’s not enough to throw him off his game completely, but thinking back on how sultry the last hour and a half of his life has been, in a very public place, a wave of true embarrassment surges through him. People like Harry aren’t supposed to act like that, at a charity event no less. He finishes the water in another large gulp, mostly as a way to avoid looking at you directly while you respond. He could really use the next liquid he consumes to have an alcohol content.

The look you send him is clearly one of gratitude. “Harry, you were great. You are great. I appreciate your concern for me, but I truly had the time of my life with you out there. I wouldn’t be standing here right now if you made me uncomfortable. No apology needed.”

What a relief washes over him. “As long as you felt safe and respected,” Harry adds, nodding once.

You’re nodding in return, smiling unfalteringly. “I felt very safe and very respected. A little worshiped, even. Singing those lyrics was absolutely the right call and at your handsiest you were still very respectful. Thank you for being a gentleman. That’s rarer than you may think these days.”

“Mhm, I’m aware that men in general suck,” he agrees, looking around the room nervously again.

Now that his integrity has been cleared up with you, he’s not so sure it will be for anyone else who was paying attention to him tonight. As Harry glances around, he catches the gaze of a haughty looking blonde woman whom he knows he went out with once, but can’t possibly recall the name of. Cynthia? Cheryl? Something with a C? Harry remembers thinking it was a fitting letter because she’d certainly been a bit of a cunt, the way she’d spoken down to their waitress being enough evidence of that. Someone like her is the antithesis of what Harry wants in a life long partner.

The unpleasant woman notices Harry looking and frowns deeply at him, clearly still scorned by his rejection. Then she sees you, how closely you’re pressed to him, and she gives you a once over which suggests exactly what she thinks of you. Her eyes land on your worn pair of streetwear shoes for a long moment, and her upper lip curls in an ugly sneer.

“Some women suck too, though,” he says with distaste, frowning a little. “Wait, that sounds sexist. What I mean to say is: I think most people suck.”

“Sucking as a person encompasses all genders,” you agree.

Your gaze follows his to the woman across the room, and Harry watches your brow raise, but then to his great surprise you blow the woman a kiss and lean into Harry even more as you lift up on your tiptoes to place a chaste peck to his neatly trimmed jaw. He’s certain it was one of his gray patches, and his chest swells a little. Normally he’d be horrified that you just did that, but seeing the other woman huff and walk off strikes a chord within him and that warmth he felt spreading through him earlier on in the evening comes back.

What a curious feeling.

Once you’ve clearly had your fun you ignore the woman completely, looking back at Harry with a sugary sweet smile on your lips as you rub your bare shoulder into his upper arm. “I may have some money compared to most but I’m not one of these stuffy broads. Maybe I’m wrong with this read, but I don’t think you would be hanging out with me if I was.”

“You’re not wrong,” Harry breathes, pleased to know that you’re actually seeing him. That feels new for some reason. “I have a feeling that people like her are going to talk, because we definitely gave them something to talk about…” he trails off, a smile creeping onto his lips as he remembers how your body fit against his so well.

“See, that’s the spirit! We had fun, so fuck those other people. And your reputation is safe with me. I’m not going to run off and tell the ‘who’s who’ that Harry Castillo is an incredibly sexy dancer. Or that his hands were all over me and it was the most amazing I've felt in another’s company since I can’t remember when. Or that his lips are addictive. I won’t even say that he’s quite handsome. Very bite-able.”

As you say that last bit, you’re leaning over to gently nibble at his shoulder through the white dress shirt. Harry could care less that you probably just stained it red with rouge. He’s never met a girl who wants to openly gnaw on him before, and his stomach flutters in response to it.

Harry’s shaking his head, wanting to reassure you that he wasn’t thinking about you like that. “It’s not you I’m worried about when it comes to my reputation, it’s the rest of these sharks. I’m sure at least one of them caught a whiff of blood in the water.”

You grin widely, laughing. “Yeah, well, my favorite character in Jaws is Captain Quint, so let the bastards try and take a chomp at you while I’m around.”

His left brow raises curiously. “Doesn’t the captain get eaten by the shark at the end of that movie?”

“That’s neither here nor there, but if it would make you feel better I’ll change my favorite to Sheriff Brody,” you giggle, then you change the subject. “Is our ride here yet?”

At that moment, Harry feels a vibration against his right thigh a barely audible ding goes off. “Actually, I think it is.”

*****

Harry links arms with you as the two of you descend the stairs leading down to the sidewalk, and the feeling of guilt slowly eating away at your gut gets a little worse. You really like this guy, and starting things out with a lie feels like it’s suddenly a huge mistake. But what if you come clean and he ends the night before you’re ready for it to end? Isn’t it best to see the rest of this night through and then see where things go with him after that? There’s still a good chance that he’ll disappear from your life after tonight and then you will have embarrassed yourself for no reason. And, again, it’s not that you’re embarrassed about your profession, but you’re starting to feel embarrassed for being a liar and a coward. That stings a lot, especially when the spark you’re experiencing with Harry feels like it's not nothing.

Apparently you got so lost feeling guilty and anxious just now, that you completely missed the fact that you and Harry have made it down to the crowded curb. As well as the fact that your favorite musician is no less than twenty feet away as he gets ready to climb into his limo, surely off to some club or afterparty. You also hadn’t realized that you've been staring directly at the handsome celebrity, or that you’re wearing a displeased look on your face, until Harry looks at you with an expression of worry on his own.

What Harry doesn’t realize is that you’re deeply displeased with yourself at this moment, but he must think it has something to do with him. He seems a little self conscious as he looks over at the famous man climbing into the white stretch, frowning as his chocolate eyes meet yours once more. “You know, I can probably find out what party he’s going to.”

Your eyes widen, shocked that he thinks you’re worried about that . “I didn’t even notice him, Harry. I was distracted by something else.”

“What is it? You seem upset all of the sudden.”

This is it. Your chance to tell the truth. Do it, do it, do i-

“The heels killed my feet,” you lie, adding a wince for effect, though your feet really do ache.

Apparently lying is just your fucking thing now, you think, shame filling you for a moment. Coward.

“ Oh ,” he looks utterly relieved, and you can’t help but wonder how he can be so confident at one moment and almost vulnerable at the next. It makes you wonder if he’s been a little deprived of certain things emotionally in his life, thinking that makes two of you if it’s an accurate read.

Just then a sleek black car pulls up behind the leaving limo, and Harry’s opening the door to the back seat for you. “Let’s keep those feet off the ground, then”

“Are you planning to sweep me off of them, Harry?” You flirt effortlessly, feeling a sense of calm wash over you again when he grins handsomely in response, fingers slipping in between yours. That’s it, just get your groove back.

“If you’ll let me,” Harry says, the air of if completely honest.

As he guides you down into the leather seat, your hands remain joined. He leans down to kiss your knuckles once before letting your hand fall down into your lap. Then the door shuts, and a moment later the door on the other side opens. You’re grinning at him as he slides in beside you. Literally right beside you, not just in the other seat. He’s even using that weird middle seatbelt that no one likes, body pressed closely to yours as you buckle yourself in too.

*****

Soon the two of you are instead seated across from one another in a twenty-four seven diner splitting a whole cheesesteak and a couple of cheap beers. Both of you remark that neither of you really eats food like this anymore, and that you’ll both regret it when you feel like shit the next day. But damn does it taste amazing. It also helps that you both took some generous hits on the dab pen again before entering the restaurant, making the greasy subs all the more alluring.

You’re grinning at him between bites and sips, practically moaning. “I’m so glad that they put cheese wiz on this the real Philly way. Fuck, I’m in heaven.”

He nods in agreement, chewing a hefty chomp of his own. “This is very delicious, which means it could definitely kill me. Are you from the Philadelphia area, then?”

“No, the Baltimore area. A dinky town outside of the city. Close enough to Philly, though. I still know a good cheesesteak when I taste one. I just know a good crabcake better.”

“I knew your accent was from one of the two. Philly didn’t feel right though.”

You smirk, “It’s the weird ‘o’ thing we do, isn’t it? I’ve never been able to shake that.”

Harry shrugs into another bite of his sandwich. “I think it’s cute.”

Downing the rest of your beer, you’re blushing as you tell him, “Well I like your voice a lot. It’s handsome and smooth, like rich caramel in my ears.”

Harry snorts into his own beer, shaking his head with a cartoonish grimace. “Caramel in your ears doesn’t sound pleasant. Come on, Miss author . Is that the sexiest thing you could come up with?”

“It sounded like a good phrase in my head,” you’re forcing yourself to laugh, ignoring the sick jolt of anxiety he just caused. There are a few bites of cheesesteak left on your plate, but your appetite is long gone.

Harry seems to notice how fake it sounds, frowning. “You know what? I’m going to quit teasing you about that. We don’t have to talk about your writing unless you bring it up. That was rude of me. Shit . I’m not doing a very good job of earning that trust we talked about, am I?”

Deflect, deflect, deflect. Be fucking cool about it. “It’s okay. I’m not that upset. I’ll admit that wasn’t one of my better turns of phrase, but I can’t help it that amber is the color of your energy, Harry.” Joking as an attempt to re-lighten the mood, you’re grinning when he makes a scrunched face at the reference. But then that lovely face of his morphs into a relieved smile, and your anxiety settles.

“You’re too funny,” he chuckles. “I like your sense of humor. It’s refreshing.”

With a fake scoff, you’re feigning surprise. “You mean to tell me that blondie from the venue back there wasn’t a funny person? I never would have guessed.”

“Shocking, I know,” he agrees, grin handsome as ever.

A wave of emotion rolls over you when you take a moment to really look at his face, at how beautiful he is and how lucky you feel to be here with him in this moment. The need to speak from the heart strikes you, and you let yourself go a little. “I’m having a really good time with you tonight, Harry. I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I think meeting you is the thing I’ll cherish more than the actual concert.”

“I feel similarly,” Harry says, reaching a hand across the table for you. You slip yours into his easily, and he gives a gentle squeeze. “Do you want me to take you home to your place after this?” Harry asks, eyes darkening a little as he waits for your answer. He looks both nervous and hopeful.

You reply honestly, “If I say no, that I’d like to go home with you instead, will you think I’m an easy slut? I don’t make a habit of going home with strange men, usually.”

Harry shakes his head fervently, laughing. “If anything I’m worried that you think I’m an easy slut. I typically go on a couple of dates before I bring someone home. I’m not twenty-five anymore.”

“Me neither. I can’t explain it, but this feels different for me. You feel different. You keep saying I’m not like most girls, but you’re not like most guys. Do things feel different for you tonight, Harry?”

He nods, “They do. You’re more than welcome to come home with me, if it’s truly what you want.”

“It’s what I want,” you say honestly, scared of what telling the truth in this regard means considering how much you’ve lied about everything else. Every time you’ve had the opportunity to come clean before it’s too late, fear has halted your mouth. Nothing’s stopping your wicked, traitorous tongue this time around, though.

“I like you a lot, Harry.” Confessing this with real emotion behind your words, you’re willingly making this more complicated. It’s as if you’re suddenly uncaring of the consequences you may eventually face for it, stepping blindly into a situation that simply can’t end well because you have to see where it goes regardless. You desperately need Harry Castillo to know exactly what he does to you, and for you to understand what you do to him. You need it more than you need to breathe.

“I like you too,” Harry agrees, smiling at you genuinely as he wipes his hands and discards with his napkin on the empty plate. He downs the rest of his beer, eyes darkening as the slice of lime slides down the neck of the bottle with the final drops of golden liquid. The way he looks at you feels almost predatory for a moment, like he’s deciding when to pounce.

“Now, tell me,” he says your name, letting it melt ever so slowly on his stupidly alluring tongue, “if this were one of your stories, what would happen next when we finally establish that the two main characters like each other?"

*****

Harry’s tongue is buried so deeply in your cunt that the end of his broad nose is simultaneously and unceremoniously kneading into the sensitive, swollen nub begging for attention just above your wanting slit. It occurs to you that you very well could get off from his nose if he keeps this up any longer but just when you think that, his appendages disappear, and the airy chill on your soaked mound is enough to sober you up a little. You’ve half a mind to complain that he stopped, beginning to prop yourself up on your elbows to look down at him.

But then there’s a swift, nonpainful swat to your inner left thigh.

“Lay back down,” Harry commands, growling in a voice dripping with a dominating tone that could send you off to the other side if you let it. “Nowhere near done tasting you yet.”

You’re on the kitchen island in Harry’s insanely lavish apartment, the skirt of your red dress pushed up over your waist to expose the lower half of you. Your black thong is hanging from the faucet on the kitchen sink, where it landed perfectly when Harry threw it behind his head without looking. You’d wanted to laugh at the bullseye, but Harry’s determination to get between your legs stopped you from being silly. Instead, you let him spread you, wailing and moaning as he proceeded to eat you out better than you’ve ever had it in your entire life. That you can confidently say, and you’ve had a handful of mouths bring pleasure to your body over the years.

Harry’s a pro beyond pros, knowing every little nuance to a woman’s most sacred of needs.

He proves that when you follow his orders, laying back down to give him full access. His tongue runs from the base of your slit slowly up to your aching clit, stopping to swirl around it a few times before suckling lightly. Then he stops abruptly, repeating the entire pattern all over again. Each time he shows extra attention to your engorged nub, your body heats up even more and the cries of elation spewing from your wanton mouth echo through the apartment’s high ceilings.

Harry Castillo is secretly a madman, you’re sure of it, and his sexual vigor is right up your alley. The man is still fully dressed. You have no idea what his dick looks like, or the rest of that surely inviting body, and he hasn’t even seen your tits yet. They are still firmly secured in the bodice of your dress.

Upon entering the apartment, Harry told you that if he didn’t get a taste of your pussy before the two of you did anything else, then he was liable to explode.

Hearing him say that as he effortlessly lifted your ass up onto the gorgeously finished wood countertop? That made you start to fall for Harry Castillo before he ever put his mouth to your flesh.

“Been thinking about this all night, sweetheart. Ever since we danced,” Harry says into your folds, hot breath and facial hair causing your back to arch in anticipation. He’s practically nuzzling your vagina with his entire face, spreading your wetness and his own saliva all over himself. You keep yourself neatly trimmed and waxed at all times thanks to your secret profession, and Harry seems to appreciate this immensely. “It’s even better than I imagined. So pretty and soft and wet for me, aren’t you?”

“All for you,” you breathe, pushing your hips forward to try and coax his mouth back onto you. “ Please , Harry,” you’re begging, voice husky and needy, “I was about to cum before you stopped.”

The chuckle Harry lets out is low and handsome, nearly sending you over the edge with the very sound of it. You feel his hands grip your thighs, spreading them even more. Then his tongue starts trailing each of your labia majora, one after the other.

“I’m well aware of that, sweetheart. I just wasn’t ready for you to cum yet.” A kiss to your inner thigh. “Soon, though, I promise. Just be patient for a little longer.” A kiss to the opposite thigh. “Let me take care of you how you deserve to be taken care of.”

Then, without warning, two of his thick fingers enter you at once. They wiggle about a few times, getting fully coated in your fluids, and then he’s pumping slowly.

Wide-eyed, your head tilts up so you can look to where he’s seated between your legs on the footstool he’d pulled up when this encounter began. “ Harry ,” you breathe.

“Yes?” He asks, grinning devilishly up at you.

“You’re amazing,” you say dreamily, grinning widely to yourself as your head lay back down.

Soon your orgasm is steadily building again, core tingling from the combination of his fingers curling sharply into your g-spot, and the darting flicks from left to right of Harry’s expert tongue. This time he doesn’t deny you, boring into your clit with more intensity as a third finger finds your entrance.

“Let go for me, sweetheart. Show me what you can do,” Harry coos lasciviously, then digs into his meal with a ferocity which finally tips you all the way over the edge.

Grunting and shaking, your body convulses with your hands braced against the countertop. It’s as if you’re trying to push all of yourself into Harry as the orgasm rocks through you, and then suddenly everything feels too sensitive and you’re hissing at him to lay off a little bit.

He does, and as you breathe heavily in the aftermath of your bliss, he trails kisses all over your stomach before laying his head down on your belly button. Hands shakily prying themselves from the wood, you snake them into Harry’s soft brown hair and begin to comb your fingers through it.

“You were so lovely,” he remarks, voice almost dreamy. “You came so beautifully for me, sweetheart.”

Your own voice sounds throaty, almost foreign to yourself. This isn’t like the fake voice you put on for work, this is real sexual tranquility. “Thank you, Harry. That might be my best orgasm to date. Not joking. I’ve received oral from a handful of people and I’ve never felt anything remotely close to what you just did."

“Well I will always try to ensure that your next one is still your best to date, then.”

Fuck. He’s talking like this isn’t going to be a one night thing. And after the tonguing of a lifetime, you know you don’t want it to be either. You’re so royally fucked, and he hasn’t even actually fucked you yet.

Realizing this, you begin to sit up a little, causing Harry to lift up from your belly and look at you curiously. So you quickly explain, “I need you, Harry. All of you.”

Harry stands, lifting you to sit up more with your ass sliding off the edge of the counter. He’ll have to clean that massive wet spot in the morning, but you pay that little mind as your bare feet touch the cool ground. Your knees begin to give out as your skirt falls to rest below them. Harry catches you easily as you wobble into him with a soft moan, and then without a word he’s sweeping you up into his arms bridal style. You’re a little nervous, given that you’re a few jean sizes up from someone like Vanessa, but he’s kissing you on the forehead as he easily carries you from the kitchen to the master bedroom with little strain.

There he lays you down on a bed of white satin, a bed so ridiculously huge that you can’t help but giggle at how tiny you feel laying in the center of it.

Harry’s unbuttoning his shirt, smiling down at you fondly. “What’s funny?”

You’re shaking your head, laughing. “This bed is ginormous, Harry, and I haven’t called something ginormous since I was a kid. But it’s an appropriate adjective, this thing is cartoonishly big.”

“Is that such a bad thing?” He asks, smirking. His shirt is gone, now his undershirt. The body hidden beneath is one well maintained with diet and exercise, defined lean muscle tone showing you as much. Naturally tan, with dark body hair and an appendix scar, he looks so utterly beautiful to you. His hands are going for his belt, and suddenly you’re up on your knees, scooting forward towards the edge of the mattress. “Wait, please let me,” you ask sweetly, hands already reaching for the black leather strap and silver buckle as Harry’s hands instead move to find the zipper leading down the right side of your red dress.

As you unbuckle him and slide the belt from its loops, discarding the thing to the side, Harry is simultaneously unzipping you. He lifts the fabric, tugging upwards, and your arms lift to accommodate the rising garment as it’s peeled from your body. Harry, aware of how nice the dress is, gently hangs it over the back of the stylish black accent chair across the room. As he turns to really take in your fully nude appearance, a warm smile so sweet crosses his features. There’s lust in the expression, sure, but his eyes wash over you several times and each time it looks as if he’s almost overwhelmed by what he sees.

“I’ve never seen pierced nipples in real life before,” he remarks, mesmerized by them as he leans forward to cup both breasts in his hands. The pad of each thumb runs gently over the black barbells, stimulating the raised nubs of flesh nestled between.

For a moment you’re self-conscious about them, frowning a little. “Are they too much? Ex-goth girl, remember? They’re a relic of the past, but I loved them too much to get rid of them. The lip and the eyebrow had to go, though.”

Shaking his head, Harry frowns a little too. “Please don’t be embarrassed. I love them. It’s just a little new for me, that’s all. Will I hurt you if I play with them?”

Relieved, you smile at him with a shake of the head. “No, as long as you’re careful not to yank too hard, obviously.”

Harry takes that as permission to dive in, and both his hands and his mouth spend a good few moments ravishing your ample breasts. Squeezing, pinching, licking, biting.

“You’re so lovely,” Harry says your name, “what a prize you are. Though, I don’t entirely know what I did to win.”

“As if you’re not a prize too,” you say, rolling your eyes a little as finally he moves his crotch back within reach. You make quick work of undoing his trousers, and then he helps you yank them down his legs, stepping out of them. Gripping the elastic waistband of his black boxer briefs, your movements are slow and deliberate as you pull down and forward. The trail of dark hair below his belly button is growing wider and thicker by the inch, trimmed neatly but still prominent. Slowly the base of him becomes visible, and then in one swift move his erection is springing free.

A little gasp escapes your lips at the sight of him, not only pleased to see his foreskin still intact but truly shocked by his size. You’re not entirely sure how long he is, certainly long enough, but the massive girth of him is really what makes your mouth water. The anticipation of that thing stretching your walls is enough to make your core heat up again, ready for round two.

“You like him?” Harry asks, smiling down at you as one of his hands strokes your hair.

“I love him,” you agree, licking your lips as you lean forward to take him into your hand. Harry moans, hips bucking slightly. Having worked with an uncircumcised cock before, you know how to grip him and gently pull downwards, unveiling his swollen head and the delicious little bud of precum waiting for you. “Now this is a prize. You even get to unwrap it,” you say with a flirtatious giggle, adding, “and dare I say it's ginormous . There I go using that word twice in one night.”

When your tongue flicks out to lick that offered drop, Harry’s whole being seems to melt into you a little. Grinning, you widen and slowly take him into your mouth. Adding a little bit of pressure and suction, you slowly begin to work him in and out as the hand gripping him continues its rhythmic pumping. The little whimpers he’s making for you are music to your ears.

“Oh shit , sweetheart, you’re doing great, keep going,” Harry’s encouraging, both hands in your hair now as his eyes slip closed and he throws his head back a little. “ Fuck .”

You’re gagging, trying your best to fit all of him down your throat as a bit of drool dribbles down your chin, when suddenly he’s stopping you. He’s pulled out and he’s trying to push you to lay down. He even leans down to lick at one of your pierced nipples, his hand resting between your breasts as he pushes.

“Wait, I wasn’t done yet,” you pout, reaching for him again.

Harry growls, a primal noise from a refined man such as he, and he’s urging you backwards onto the white bed more. As you lay out below him and the gorgeous man is crawling between your legs, they instinctively bend and come to wrap around his hips a little. Your hands come to rest in the middle of his back, fingers gripping in anticipation of what’s to come. Then you feel the tip of his cock pressing into your entrance and, still slick from Harry’s treatment of you in the kitchen, your cunt welcomes him into your body easily.

A great cry escapes you as the width of his cock stretches you out considerably, the line of pain and pleasure blurred as your walls clench and squeeze, half trying to accommodate him and half trying to expel the painful intrusion.

Three slow, gentle pumps are all it takes for Harry to enter you all the way to the hilt, and when his tip presses painfully into your cervix, the moan you let out is quite guttural.

Then his lips are on yours, and your legs are hooking behind him at the ankles as he really begins to pound into you. His hands come to your ass, sliding below each cheek. With the leverage this gives him, Harry lifts your hips from the mattress completely. Thrust after thrust he’s relentless, and another orgasm is already starting to build deep within your needy core.

“You’re going to make me cum again,” you whine between heavy breaths. Head lifting up to bite into his bicep, the need to cling to him for dear life has taken over completely. The only thing you have left to grab him with is your teeth, and so you do.

“That’s it, sweetheart,” Harry’s mouth is against your ear saying, “taking me so well like a good girl. I was right when I sang that to you earlier; Little pussy fits my dick so perfectly.” He pulls your ear lobe into his mouth, nibbling on the soft flesh as you writhe and whine for him. “You’re going to cum again, this time with my cock buried all the way inside you, sweetheart. Need to feel you contract around me. Then, if you’ll let me, I’m going to fill you up with mine.”

Fearful, you practically start to push him off of you, terrified of the consequences if he were to cum in you. “I’m not on the pill! Or anything!”

He stops thrusting for a moment, looking down at you seriously as he brushes hair from your eyes and kisses your forehead. “I had a vasectomy a few years ago. It was my forty-fifth birthday present to myself when I decided I definitely don’t want kids.” After he says that, he begins to slowly gyrate his hips into yours again, and you’re lifting to meet his movements in tandem.

Then you kiss him with everything you’ve got.

“ Fuck, Harry ,” you moan, “I think you might actually be fucking perfect for me.”

And with that, he fucks you until you’re practically braindead, completely stupified by his cock. You ride him a little, and then he’s on his knees taking you from behind off the edge of the bed. For a moment he migrates things to the bathroom, where he props you up on the sink and pounds into you standing up.

Then it's back to the bed with your legs straight up his body, crossed ankles resting on his right shoulder. He’s holding them in place with his right hand, and his left is gripping into your thigh so hard you’re sure to have five small bruises where his fingers are indented into your smooth, damp skin. Harry’s done an expert job of edging you once more, changing positions each time you start to get close, his own stamina and restraint a marvel. It’s starting up again, though, and this time he’s not stopping to switch things around.

“Close again, Harry,” you spout out through thick moans, a small part of you wanting him to prolong this more even though the rest of you is screaming in agony for release.

“Go ahead,” he says sweetly, smiling as he kisses your calf and looks you right in the eyes. “Let me see that face while you cum for me. You look so beautiful stuffed with my cock, sweetheart. Show me .”

Then he bites down on the same spot he just kissed, and your second orgasm overcomes you. Your muscles clench around him so hard, clinging to the very thing causing them to do so. Harry lets out a gorgeous sounding moan, leaning more of his weight into your legs as the pleasure of it seems to take hold of him.

He’s parting your legs as you come down, twitching against him as he readjusts into a more basic missionary position. Your arms come to wrap around his neck, just as your legs move to wrap around his waist. Shortly after that, Harry’s own grunting cries of culminating ecstasy are ringing throughout the high ceilings of the bedroom. He’s convulsing against you and you’re instinctively cradling his head, peppering his cheeks and forehead with little kisses to guide him through it. A few more gentle pumps and he’s eventually sliding out of you with a great sigh. There’s almost instantly a distinct leaking sensation running down the crack of your ass.

He’s kissing your forehead, then looking right into your eyes as he gets comfortable beside you. “You okay?”

“I’m great. How are you?

“I’m perfect, sweetheart. Just perfect.”

“Your body felt so good, Harry,” you’re sputtering out, grunting as your own body is again twitching in a brief aftershock of sexual bliss. “Everything felt so good.”

Harry is nodding in agreement, looking up at the ceiling with this handsome little grin playing at the corner of his mouth. Shaking his head, his eyes are filled with wonder as if looking up at a star splattered night sky. He looks so youthful to you at that moment, de-aged ten years for a split second. “I haven’t had sex that great in- Fuck . I don’t know if I’ve ever had sex that great, and I thought I was having great sex pretty regularly. You’ve single handedly and irrevocably changed my life tonight. I hope you know that.”

You’re also looking up at the ceiling, deep breaths causing your breasts to rise and fall. What Harry just said is so true that it almost hurts to realize it. Things have changed, feeling suddenly like so much more than the one night stand you’d been anticipating. It doesn’t seem like the high endorphins is making you think this way, though. You’re well aware of what that feels like. Something about this night with Harry Castillo feels real. More real than anything you��ve ever felt with another. “Same goes for you, handsome. Ruined all other men for me in a single night together. It’s practically criminal.”

As you look over at Harry, his hair mussed and face flushed, a blush creeps into your cheeks at the notion that the wetness you feel running down you is actually him . Allowing him to finish inside was a genuinely new experience for you, and the thrill if it is so unlike what you were expecting. If anything you assumed it was going to feel gross. Cum always equalled babies in your book, so you never thought it would ever feel this amazing to know some of it is buried deep inside you and the rest of it is dripping onto the bed below. To know it’s the cum of this man in particular? That adds an extra layer to the feeling.

It felt so different to embrace your lover in the heat of his orgasm, being so used to the empty, cold sensation of a pull-out and the inevitable warm spray to some other part of your body. There’s always been this sudden disconnect right before the moment of a man’s climax, but with Harry you got to ride it out with him, completely connected all the way up until the end. Connected in a way you never have been before, not even with a female partner. The notion of this stirs something deep within you, and your heart swells for the man placing kisses to your shoulder while he’s catching his breath.

The most satisfying peacefulness washes over you as you tell him, “I’ve never let anyone cum inside me before.”

His brown eyes darken slightly, and Harry looks both surprised and a little pleased with himself. “Really?”

“Really,” you’re grinning, “I don’t want kids, so that shit was always very off limits. I’m not sure how to explain it in a way that you would understand, but that was very special for me. Thank you, Harry.”

He leans over, grinning like a madman before kissing you passionately. “It was an honor to fill you up, sweetheart. I’d do that every single day if you’d let me.”

*****

You and Harry ended up spending the entire weekend together against your better judgement. The longer time you spent in his company, the more the stupid fucking lie was hanging over your head. But your weekend with Harry proved to be downright magical, and the more the two of you got to know each other, the less easy it started to feel to come clean. You thought about doing it so many times, and each time your anxiety would stop you. What if he truly hates you after he learns the truth? He might not, you never know. But even after so many long talks and lovely sex and shared laughter, the truth is inevitably going to change the way he looks at you. The very thought of that sends your nervous system into an overload, and strikes a deep crack through your already straining heart.

Harry Castillo makes you feel the way the romantic novels that you most certainly do not write make you feel, and your greedy ass wasn’t about to go and fuck up what was turning out to be the best seventy-two hours of your life thus far. Morally gray as it may be, Harry could know the truth after your beautiful weekend together. You felt that you deserved at least that before you light the fuse that will blow this situation to hell whether you want it to or not.

It’s as if you’re using your budding feelings for Harry to bargain with yourself for victory, but either way you’re liable to lose and deep down you know that.

The charity concert was on a Friday, so when the two of you woke up late into the morning on Saturday, Harry asked you if you wanted to stay for a while. He’d already taken the liberty of having his assistant drive over with a few different outfit options for you, and one swimsuit. All correct sizes, and all something you would have picked out for yourself, which gained Harry even more points in your book.

‘A while’ started with french pressed coffee and a hearty breakfast of scrambled eggs and avocado toast, all made by Harry himself. Then ‘a while’ progressed into having sex again, this time on the living room couch, then once more on top of his washing machine after he’d started a load of laundry. You’d joked about how you could use another load too, and Harry ran with it. He ate his own cum out you while the machine whirled to life under your body, just before filling you up with even more of him.

After that, the two of you went down to the lavish pool in Harry’s building. An over the top extravagant amenity with a gorgeous view of the city, and probably the nicest pool you’ve ever had the pleasure of swimming in. Once the two of you started to horseplay, however, things very quickly took a turn for the sexual once again. Harry’s finger had slipped inside of your tastefully high-waisted bathing suit under the water, and when his hidden erection pressed up against your bare leg, the pool was a thing of the past.

That time he fucked you in his shower, bent over at the waist as hot water cascaded around your already enflamed body. When you begged him to take your ass in lue of your pussy, the man in question had moaned into your shoulder, “you’re a dream come true, sweetheart,” and he delivered what you asked for beautifully.

His assistant also brought you a small handful of basic beauty products to choose from. As you were later lathering on a serum nicer than any brand you’ve ever bought, even with your recently raised standards, it dawned on you that Harry probably spent at least five or six hundred dollars, if not more, on all of these things for you. That kind of casual spending, on you no less, made your head spin a little.

You may pamper yourself all the time, but it’s wildly different when a man like Harry Castillo is the one doing the pampering.

In the evening Harry ordered takeout from his favorite place in Chinatown, and given that the both of you didn’t have a single bodily fluid left to give, the night was filled with conversation, snuggles, and soft touches. He let you pick out a movie, and the two of you fell asleep spooning on his couch (also ginormous, by the way) halfway through Bram Stoker’s Dracula from 1993.

On Sunday, after breakfast and one more go around in the oversized bed, Harry took you to the Central Park Zoo. His almost boyish energy around all of the animals was so endearing to you, especially when he lit up for you around the bats. Given that the winged animals played an integral role in the events which led to your dalliance with Harry, he felt the need to commemorate the weekend by purchasing you a stuffed one from the gift shop. You never even saw him go for the register, preoccupied by a rack of silly t-shirts. So when he presented it to you upon exiting, you’d thrown your arms around his neck and kissed him right there in the middle of central park. All the while your mind was screaming at you to tell him the truth, but you listened to your body instead.

From there he took you to a ridiculously nice Italian restaurant, where he confessed to you over pasta that he’s never been in love and he’s scared that he never will be. That confession had shocked you, even more so when he quickly followed it up with a warning that if you said yes to what he was about to ask, then you were taking on the risk that he’s incapable of the feeling all together. The notion of him being incapable seemed silly, considering how affectionate he’d been with you thus far, but you kept that thought to yourself.

Then Harry reached across the table, and the next confession came pouring out of him. He told you that he wanted to try to feel love, and he felt something with you that he honestly hadn’t before. Not love, not when you barely know each other, but that spark that they talk about in the movies. One little spark, but enough to grab his attention and hold it fast.

After making your head spin with his honesty, he proceeded to say that the last couple of days truly meant a lot to him and, with the deepest sincerity in his chocolate eyes, Harry Castillo asked if you would let him see you again. Seriously, and exclusively.

Your answer was the easiest one to give in the world, and yet instead of shining bright like the sun as it should have been, your heart suddenly felt much more like the moon hanging ominously over the city. While the front facing side of your heart swelled a bright, glorious red for the possibility of a relationship with this man, the side cast in shadow was already starting to shrivel and turn gray with guilt.

*****

As you finish frantically pacing the floor and vividly telling a couch faring Vanessa everything about your weekend with Harry, sparing her the gorier sexual details, your stomach lurches and your heart sinks. While you’ve been wildly wrapping up the story, a great, ugly scowl has been slowly encompassing her normally beautiful features. There’s no hiding from your best friend, that’s just a fact.

“Listen, I know what you’re going to say,” you try to diffuse, hands up.

“Listen my ass ,” she says your name sharply, stabbing you right where she wants to.

You wince .

“I’m glad that got your attention, bitch.” With that, Vanessa pats the cushion beside her. “Sit down, your energy is stressing me the fuck out .”

“Sorry,” you say, complying.

“We are both grown-ups here, so I’m going to speak plainly.” Vanessa bores into you with her dark eyes, making your throat seize up. “You know what you need to do, or you’re going to fuck up what is potentially the best thing that’s ever happened to you.”

“I know,” you breathe, frowning. “I’m going to have to finish one of my novels and get it published."

Vanessa groans ferociously, hands clawing over her face. Then she whacks you in the head with a pink throw pillow. “No, you stupid slut! Tell him the fucking truth! If you let this go on too long the damage will be too severe to repair.”

“Yeah, I know that,” you say, hanging your head. You’re going to have to hit the bong several times in order to sleep tonight, the horrid pit in your stomach will make sure of that. “Fuck, Van. I really am stupid aren’t I?”

“You are. But I love you, and maybe if you handle this situation correctly then Daddy Warbucks will love you too,” she says, grinning a little as she uses the silly nickname. You can already tell she’s going to drive that into the grave with over-use.

Her change in mood warms you, and the anxiety melts away a little. Feeling more like yourself, you send her one of your signature, Vanessa exclusive eyerolls. “Are we really going to call him that?”

“If you’re really going to date him I am,” Vanessa giggles.

“What if he really can’t feel love, Van?” You ask her, frowning.

Vanessa shrugs. “If that’s even a real thing. Sounds to me like he just hasn’t been in real love yet, not that he simply can’t feel it. But if it is true, then at least he was an interesting chapter of your life and a good lay. Date him for a few weeks before you worry about that, anyway. What if you’re the one who doesn’t end up loving him?”

As she says this, your phone buzzes against the coffee table. Reaching over to grab it, your eyes bulge a little at the name associated with the text notification. He just dropped you off a few hours ago, surely you’d assumed it would be a few days before you heard from him again. But here he is, making your heart flutter from the other side of the city.

Harry Castillo: Two nights with you beside me and I’m spoiled rotten. You were right. This bed is ginormous. Sleep well, sweetheart.

“I think he’s going to make not loving him incredibly difficult, Vanessa.”

*****

Monday morning Harry’s seated in his office doing the complete opposite of working. He’s on his phone, which makes him a hypocrite considering he recently instructed the management team to start cracking down on that with the associate employees.

He simply can’t help it. You’re literally all he can think about, to the point that he’s a little worried that something is wrong with him. You’d responded to his text last night, but you haven’t said anything to him since and he’s fixating on whether or not it’s appropriate to text you again so soon if you haven’t texted him first.

Fucking cellphones, Harry thinks bitterly, chiding himself for behaving like a teenager as he sits the phone face down on the glass top protecting his cherry desk. He looks at his computer, opens an email, reads the first three words of the subject line, and then he’s picking up his phone again to check it despite the fact that he knows it hasn't gone off.

Nothing. He groans, feeling like an idiot as he reaches for a sip of coffee. He doesn’t put the phone back down, though, instead he pulls up his camera roll and the couple of photos of you he snuck over the weekend.

The first is of you, in nothing but one of his black t-shirts and a lacy black thong, your back mostly to the camera as you sip on a mug of creamy coffee. You’re looking contently at the view from Harry’s kitchen window, sunlight streaming all over you. He loves your profile in that one, and the way the light accentuates your features.

The next is a photo of your naked silhouette in the frosted glass of his shower.

The third photo is of you at the zoo, happily captivated by the animals and paying no mind to the fact that Harry just had to capture how beautiful and carefree you looked in that moment.

He’s never taken candid photos of a lover before, nor has he obsessed over receiving a text from one. He certainly never paid this much mind to when Lucy would or would not contact him, and he’d been prepared to marry the woman for Christ’s sake.

Harry also never once called Lucy ‘sweetheart.’ Or any pet names, now that he thinks about it. Never a ‘baby,’ or a ‘honey.’ Not once. He would always greet her with a simple, somewhat awkward ‘hey you’, and he mostly just called her by her name.

You come into his life and suddenly he’s throwing around the term of endearment like his life depends on it, and somehow not hearing from you yet is driving him mad with anxious energy. Harry Castillo is a man who is very rarely anxious.

What is wrong with him?

There were a lot of people at the charity event, and at the zoo. Maybe he’s coming down with something. Yes, surely he’s getting sick and that’s why his head’s not on straight.

Then the phone vibrates in his hands, and your name flashes just above the image of your grinning face. His heart leaps from his chest, breath hitching. He taps it before it can swoosh away with the rest of his notifications, and a feeling of calm washes over him as he reads the message.

You: Missing your avocado toast this morning. :(

It shows that you’re typing, and then a second message pops up. This one is a photo, however. In it, you’re wearing a black graphic t-shirt advertising what he’s certain is the band Type-O Negative . Your hair looks insane, adorably so, and you’re pouting cutely over a sad looking cup of yogurt.

Harry’s got half a mind to cancel his meeting and take you out for brunch, but before he can even think of a response to text you back with, his younger brother is barging into his office without knocking. He’s the only person besides their mother who can get away with that .

“What, Peter? I’m busy,” Harry says, not looking up from his phone.

“You don’t seem very busy to me. Is that her you’re texting?” His brother’s voice is saying.

Harry looks up sharply, glaring. Words aren’t necessary.

Peter grins, plopping himself into the chair across from Harry’s desk. He takes a long sip of his own black coffee, eyeing Harry the entire time. “I originally came in here to complain that I missed the surprise Bad Bunny show, which I’m very upset about. Charlotte being pregnant is ruining all my fun, but don’t you dare tell her I said that. Anyway, then I heard a rumor that you found yourself a new woman at the show, and that the two of you got to know each other very well on the dance floor. I just had to come hear all about it.”

Harry’s eyes narrow even more at his annoyance of a sibling. He loves him, but he could also strangle him at any given moment. “Get out of my office, Peter. I need to prep for the meeting at eleven.”

“Yeah cause you were doing that so dutifully before I walked in,” Peter laughs, taking another generous sip. “So is that her you’re texting, then? What’s she look like?”

Harry groans, “Yes, it’s her.” Then his eyes flick back down to the open text thread, and when they land on the adorable photo of you with your pathetic yogurt, the joyful little smile which creeps onto his lips simply can’t be helped.

Peter’s jaw drops, “ Oh . Oh fuck , Harry. This is a wild development. I wasn’t expecting this today.”

Harry’s gaze moves back to his brother, eyebrow raising at the look on his face. “What on Earth are you talking about?”

Peter’s sharp laugh is one of disbelief. “She’s the one, man! I’m calling it. You’ve never looked like this before. Not once in my entire life have I seen that fucking look on your face. It’s the only explanation!”

“Bullshit, Peter,” Harry scoffs, looking away but not back down at your image. He has to consciously make himself not, knowing Peter would notice and use the impulse against him. “You know my opinion on that.”

“Whatever, big brother. Suit yourself. As the one of us who has fallen in love, I think I know what I’m talking about. But I’ll let you figure that shit out for yourself. Wait until Charlotte finds out, she’s going to go nuts.” As he says this, Peter is already getting up to leave. “See you in the conference room. Please actually prep for this though. I need you out there. Text her back and then think about her later. Trust me, it gets easier the more you get used to it. Love is fucking weird, man.”

“I am not in love with her,” Harry argues, shaking his head. If anything, what he’s feeling is infatuation more than anything else, right?

“Keep telling yourself that, bro. And for the love of Christ, get your shit together for this meeting.” And with that, Peter is gone as quickly as he came.

Harry looks around his large office, at his view of the city below, and wonders if there’s any validity to what his brother just said. Another vibration goes off in his hand, and the excitement he feels is like a jolt of caffeine straight to his heart.

Only, it’s just his calendar reminder letting him know that his next meeting is in fifteen minutes. The deep disappointment he feels leads him to conclude that Peter doesn’t need to get Harry’s hopes up like that, but there’s a nonzero chance that his baby brother actually knows what he’s talking about for once.

*****

Masterlist

*****

Taglist: @cheyxfu @notahappystan

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starkeymeow · 2 days ago

Text

❛ we make each other alive . .

does it matter if it hurts? ❜

I’M COMING, WAIT FOR ME.

PLOT you enter the hunger games a proud weapon of your district, only to find your sharpest blade is the boy beside you, and you’re not sure which one of you the capitol wants to break first.

CONTENT chapter twenty-eight, best read in dark mode, rafe cameron x reader au, rest of the bloodbath + teaming up, rafe and y/n are separated, catching fire events idk, peeta wtf

main masterlist | series ml | tag list | previous

you haven’t killed anyone yet.

your fingers are aching from gripping the hilt of the sword too long, the wet leather slipping in your grasp as you haul it behind you. your thighs burn as you move, muscles screaming it’s too big, this damn place. it’s too open and yet too closed.

you slide to a stop near a splattered patch of blood you don’t look too long at. the sword clatters to the stone, left behind in a decision you don’t even think about. you don’t need it. you’re quicker with daggers, more accurate. two are strapped to your thigh, another in your hand, one more hidden at your ankle.

you don’t want to fight, not until it’s necessary.

you start running again. your shoes slap against the wet rock, water flicking up at your ankles as you sprint toward the next spoke. everything’s noise. you duck low when you hear a blade sing near your head, and then you’re slipping behind another jagged ridge of stone and praying you don’t get caught.

you keep moving until you hear your own voice shout before you even realize you’re doing it, “finnick!”

he turns at the sound. he’s a few yards ahead, looking over his shoulder, wet hair plastered to his forehead, trident clenched tight in his grip.

he hears you, but he doesn’t come to you. your steps slow as you reach them. you see katniss now, bow raised and trembling in her hands. mags is there too, her shoulders hunched and small.

finnick doesn’t speak. he just tosses a brief nod to you before diving into the water, arms slicing in fast strokes.

you step closer to mags, your hand resting gently on her back. her shoulder is trembling slightly beneath your fingers. she doesn’t look at you, but you feel the squeeze of her arm move just enough, like she’s saying go on, do what you have to do, so you do.

you break off from her, moving to katniss’s side just in time to see the water stilling, only the faintest ripples now. katniss lowers her bow.

your eyes dart to where finnick just dove. you don’t see anyone anymore. not peeta, not the tribute who pulled him under, nothing but water.

your dagger slips a little in your hand. “is he—?” you whisper to yourself. your eyes dart left to where peeta was, then down to the water, but you can’t see anything past the surface.

you shift closer, breath catching in your throat. your legs are tense, your knees bending. you’re debating whether to jump in, whether to help.

a cannon fires.

you freeze, and your heart lurches violently, slamming against your ribs. katniss exhales and drops her bow to her side. her face stays blank, but her eyes are wide, searching, desperate.

you look again, search for ripples, for bubbles, for anything to tell you which one of them died, but there’s nothing.

you don’t say anything. none of you do. because if peeta’s gone, if he’s the one who just died, everything could change.

but no one moves. you don’t know if they’re holding their breath too or if it’s just you.

you don't have to look at her to know the panic within her. it’s in every inhale that turns into a gasp, in the way she tightens her grip on her bow like it’ll save her from what’s already happened. you don’t know her well, not personally, not like you do rafe, but you know fear. and that’s literally what she sounds like right now.

your hand stretches out before you even realize what you're doing, reaching instinctively for mags on your other side. she doesn’t flinch when your fingers wrap gently around her arm. it grounds you. maybe it grounds her too.

you all watch as someone floats to the surface.

at first, you can’t see their face. it’s just a back but it turns your blood cold. the fabric clings to their skin as their body floats facedown, swaying in the water like a ghost.

no one says a word.

katniss gasps again beside you. your fingers dig into the fabric of mags’s sleeve.

whoever it is, whoever won the fight, hasn’t revealed themselves.

you don’t know if you’re hoping to see peeta resurface or if you’re just terrified of what happens if he doesn’t. your hand finds the hilt of your dagger again, not because you think someone’s going to come for you right now, but because you need something else to hold.

because if you already lost peeta, if you already lost a piece of this plan, you don’t know what that means. for any of you.

in the distance, finnick’s still swimming. he hasn’t stopped since he dove in, and for a second you don’t even think he registered the cannon.

it isn’t until he slows that you realize he’s seen it too, that the fighting is over. he stops, treading water now, gaze locked ahead.

you grip mags tighter. the body is still bobbing.

then just when your heartbeat threatens to crack your ribs, another head bursts through the surface. he gasps, flailing.

you jolt, a breath catching in your throat as peeta sputters and spits out water, his hands swiping blindly through the current like he doesn’t know where he is, who’s around him, or which way is he needs to swim now.

relief hits you so hard you nearly drop your blade.

mags exhales beside you, and though she doesn’t say anything, you feel the pressure of her relax under your fingers.

he’s okay. he’s alive.

for now.

you squint at the other body, the one still floating, and finally you recognize him. the male from district ten, you think. just a bit bigger than peeta, stronger-looking, but not quick enough. the capitol probably had some hopes for him.

his cannon already fired and you feel no guilt. you can’t anyway. not for him. not for anyone who tries to take down peeta, or katniss, or finnick, or johanna, and especially rafe.

your eyes flick toward the cornucopia. you mean to look at peeta again, maybe to make sure he gets out of the water okay, maybe to call out to him, but when you glance past katniss, you realize she’s not looking at him anymore.

her chest rises and falls too fast to be calm, but her eyes are locked forward, intense, focused. you follow her gaze, and your stomach sinks.

there are four of them.

they’re grouped up near the cornucopia, standing tall, plotting together.

gloss and cashmere, you recognize them first. but this time, they aren’t alone. they’re flanked by two others: victors you’ve seen before but never spoken to directly. district nine.

gloss must’ve recruited them. or maybe they approached him, knowing you and rafe wouldn’t be part of the pack this year. same with finnick since he has mags here, not that he would have agreed anyway.

it was supposed to be different. the careers always band together in the beginning. you were supposed to play that role. you and rafe were the golden pair, the capitol’s favorites. but not this year.

this year, you made yourselves unavailable. and clearly, someone took your place.

you glance at katniss again, but she’s already backing away like she knows they’ve been spotted too long. you step closer to her without thinking, keeping mags in your reach.

you don’t know if gloss saw you, you don’t know if cashmere recognizes you from this far, but it’s only a matter of time.

you shift your weight. the sun is hot overhead, but it feels fake. everything does, even the air.

you just need to find rafe, to know where he is. you need to see him with your own eyes before this day gets any worse and someone else’s cannon fires.

but for now, you’ll just stick with this group and hope the others are okay.

eventually you’re not sure how long you’ve been running anymore. your limbs are numb, your breathing erratic, and the jungle feels like it’s closing in on you from every angle. your sweat clings to your skin, mixing with the saltwater that still hasn’t dried since the bloodbath.

leaves whip across your face while vines try to snare your ankles. your boots slam against the uneven floor as you leap over a large root, hand up to swat a curtain of ferns out of your way.

you don’t slow until you’re sure no one’s following. and even then, it’s only when you find a patch of open space, just wide enough for all of you to stop without stepping on top of each other.

you crouch low, hands on your knees, gasping. katniss and peeta come in behind you, breathless too. finnick follows a few beats later, carrying mags on his back. he barely looks winded.

your entire body feels wet, still from the lake, the sweat, the heat. the humidity sticks to you like glue. your hair’s stuck to your forehead and neck, strands curling up from the moisture, wild around your face. you curse under your breath, slicking the mess back behind your ears with shaky fingers.

you almost feel dizzy, unsteady, and you reach over without looking and press your hand to finnick’s arm just to balance yourself as you crouch. it’s just instinct, but when you lift your head, you notice katniss watching. her eyes flick down to where your fingers are still curled around finnick’s bicep.

you raise your brows a little at her. you know that look. you need to let her know you and finnick don’t have a thing, that he’s still with annie.

“the thorns in my spine?” you say, voice hoarse as you straighten just enough to meet her gaze, “they fucked up my back. it’s never let me crouch the same since.”

her expression doesn’t change. she says nothing, so you look away, jaw clenched, the discomfort in your back throbbing dully now that you’ve mentioned it. stupid of you. why say anything? you hate talking about it. not because of the trauma behind it, just now that it’s on your mind you feel it even more so.

you don’t want sympathy anyway. you want to move.

“we need fresh water,” peeta mutters, still catching his breath.

you nod distantly. you don’t even have the energy to respond. you’re locked in, focused. you have to be.

a moment later, a cannon fires.

then another.

and another.

you barely blink.

“guess we’re not holding hands anymore,” finnick says after a beat, glancing behind him, then toward katniss and peeta. a corner of his mouth tugs up as he probably thinks about caesar’s interview a day ago.

katniss looks serious. “you think that’s funny?”

finnick he leans closer, his voice calm. “every time that cannon goes off, it’s like music to my ears,” he says, raising his hand and pointing behind him toward the sky, then lowers his hand, “i don’t care about any of them.”

“good to hear,” katniss says, reaching back and unsheathing a machete from where it’s strapped beside her arrows. it’s almost like a small threat in itself.

finnick doesn’t move. “want to face the career pack alone?” he asks evenly. “what would haymitch say?”

you lift your head just in time to see her glare hard enough to cut through him. “haymitch isn’t here,” she replies.

“guys,” you murmur, your voice barely above a whisper. you’re still staring at the floor, tired of the tension already.

peeta glances between them, then exhales, pushing himself up to stand. “let’s keep moving.”

katniss doesn’t say anything. she holds the machete for another second before offering it to him. peeta takes it silently.

the rest of you follow. finnick gently helps mags back up onto his back, and then without a word, he offers you a hand too.

you hesitate, then take it, just long enough to let him pull you up. you let go as soon as you’re upright and take a step back, brushing your palms over your thighs and glancing around the jungle. every sound sets your nerves on fire.

you stare out at the trees before you keep walking.

you’re not even sure how long you’ve been in the jungle anymore. time stretches thin here, you forget that there’s no clock to check for time. and you can hardly tell where the sun is coming from to determine it either, not that you could if you tried, anyway.

peeta leads now, his machete swinging in arcs as he clears the way. you’re thankful for the path, even if your shoes are dragging with every step.

you’re behind him, finnick and mags are behind you, then it’s katniss keeping watch in the back. the formation makes you feel safe in theory, but it doesn’t stop your thoughts from running ahead of you. far ahead, to rafe.

you still don’t know where he is. you haven’t seen him since this morning, and death recap hasn’t run yet. the thought of knowing you could only find out he died through watching his face in the sky gnaws at you like a second heartbeat in your ribs.

he’s fine. you keep telling yourself that. he has to be.

he’s trained for this. he knows how to survive. and if he’s not with allies, then he’s alone, and you hate the idea of that even more, but he’s still alive. you know he is. you’d feel it if he wasn’t.

you keep your head down and press forward, pushing a branch out of your face, smacking a bug off your shoulder. you’re sweating like hell, your boots squelching through soft earth, and it still feels better than being dead.

you stomp forward. it’s all instinct now.

until suddenly, everything flips. a sharp yell cuts through the air like a shot. katniss.

“peeta, no!”

your head jerks up just in time to see the arc of his machete catch the faint glint of something overhead. it’s too thin to notice, too quiet to hear. and then there’s a sound, not quite a boom but more like a flash of energy, that buzzes in your teeth and claws down your spine.

it’s electricity.

before you even have time to react, peeta’s body flies back, launched like a fucking ragdoll, his weapon clattering out of his hand as he crashes into you, knocking the air clean out of your lungs.

your back hits finnick and mags behind you, and hard. then the wind leaves your chest, and you’re rolling on your side, then on your stomach, coughing and trying to breathe, trying to blink through the blinding green and yellow blur of jungle all around you.

you spit onto the ground, wipe your mouth, then look up, heart hammering in your ears.

“peeta?” katniss’s voice is shaky, too scared.

you twist toward her, eyes darting. he’s on the ground, still, and he’s not moving. katniss is already crawling across the few feet between them, practically throwing herself at him. she grabs his face, her hands trembling.

“peeta,” she says again, this time like she’s begging, but his eyes are shut. his arms are limp.

you can’t tell if he’s breathing, if this is one of those cannon moments. another peeta death scare, but this can’t be it.

katniss keeps whispering his name over and over while you lay there, chest heaving, hands clawing around a few leaves on the ground. behind you, finnick makes sure mags is okay where she is, eyes flitting between katniss and the direction they just came from.

you can tell he’s thinking the same thing: forcefields maybe, but not any that just act like a dull wall. this entire place is wired to kill, and they’re not even trying to hide it.

“he’s not breathing,” katniss warns. her hands are shaking against his face. “he’s not breathing! peeta!”

your heart drops. you don’t even have time to process before finnick is moving all the way around katniss and to the other side of peeta’s body. he nudges katniss to the side with more urgency than force, but it doesn’t matter. she snaps, recovering and grabbing for her bow, already reaching back for an arrow.

but before she can even nock it, your hand is there. you grip the front of the bow and stop her from raising it. she sees finnick in the same second and realizes he’s not attacking or hurting peeta, but that he’s helping.

he’s already lowering his face to peeta’s, breathing air into him. his movements are smooth and practiced, like he’s done this before. he probably has. you stay there, next to mags, whose hand you grab silently, just to anchor yourself to something.

katniss lowers the bow again. she doesn’t say anything else but she crawls forward.

finnick leans over peeta’s chest, starts pressing in a steady rhythm. “come on,” he mutters under his breath. “come on!”

katniss leans over peeta’s face, brushing her fingers over his jaw, her voice trembling. “please wake up,” she whispers. “peeta, please—”

you can barely breathe watching it. it’s surreal, like something out of a nightmare you can’t move through. the thudding in your head matches the beat of finnick’s hands pounding against peeta’s chest.

mags squeezes your hand. you glance at her briefly. she doesn’t speak. she just gives you a look like, i know.

finnick drops his head down again, ear to peeta’s chest. you see his jaw tighten. he shakes his head once, quick, and goes back in. another round of compressions, then mouth-to-mouth again.

katniss can’t stop crying. she’s in full panic mode, sobbing, and the tears are constant as she brushes her fingers through his hair. it’s unbearable. it goes on for what feels like forever until peeta gasps awake.

his chest rises fast. he coughs, his eyes still closed, but he’s alive.

you feel relief hit your spine as katniss lets out a noise that doesn’t have a name, but it’s part-laugh, part-sob. she leans over him, close to him, whispering something only he can hear.

finnick backs up slowly. he doesn’t look proud. he just breathes, wipes the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand, then turns to mags, crouching to check her over quietly.

you’re still watching katniss and peeta when you feel finnick’s eyes on you. you glance over. he’s already looking at you and you hold his stare for a moment.

you’ve spent months with him and the others just mocking what passes for love when it’s broadcasted on a screen, when it’s sold to an audience, when it’s made into a weapon, mostly because of what you and rafe had already gone through.

but watching katniss and peeta now?

it doesn’t feel fake. it doesn’t look fake, and finnick sees that too.

he raises one brow just slightly. not in challenge, just enough to say, maybe we were wrong. you don’t smile, but your lips twitch. it’s this silent, mutual truce passes between you and finnick, a nonverbal conversation that says: this feels real.

he gives a small nod but nothing more is said. you turn back to the couple on the ground. katniss cradling peeta’s face, peeta’s chest still rising like he doesn’t know what happened. and for now, that’s enough.

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gav-san · 3 days ago

Text

“No Takebacks" 3

Masterlist here

No Takebacks Masterlist

One Piece Masterlist Here

How it began Word Count: 4K

Chapter 1, Chapter 2, Chapter 3, Chapter 4, Chapter 5

Chapter 6, Chapter 7, Chapter 8, Chapter 9, Chapter 10

You are, to put it mildly, a spectacularly clean and deeply informed person.

You bathe regularly. You organize your notes. You have backup plans for your backup plans. You do not cause public scenes unless they are worth it. Unfortunately, this one was.

Because apparently, telling the truth about Lord Velcot’s very unfortunate incident with a spiced pear, a stolen wig, and three goats has consequences.

Who knew nobles were so sensitive?

The guards chased you down cobbled alleys, and your beautifully polished boots are caked with harbor mud. You duck into a quieter corner, heart hammering, and come face to face with a man leaning against a stack of crates, chewing a toothpick, and watching you like you’re a particularly interesting card game.

"You're in a bit of a hurry," he says. “Ex-boyfriend?”

You eye him warily. "Do I know you?"

"Not yet. But I hear you know a lot of things. And I'm in the market for information."

You don’t have time for this. "And you’re offering what, exactly?"

He jerks his head toward the ship just past the dock. “A ride. Quiet. No questions, except the ones I ask.”

You study him. Weathered. Sharp-eyed. The kind of man who doesn’t waste words or tolerate lies. You make a split-second decision and nod.

“Fine.”

You make it to the ship without being seen. You narrow your eyes at the size. It is beautiful. Stunning, even. A grand silhouette against the horizon, red sails snapping proudly in the wind. You expected something stately, maybe even majestic.

It’s too dark to tell.

“So,” you say, brushing dirt off your sleeves, “you the captain?”

He barks out a laugh. “Me? Hell no.”

You freeze. “Wait. What?”

“Captain’s below,” he says, grinning. “He’ll want to meet you once I tell him I brought aboard a high-value gossip with nice hair and good boots.”

You blink.

“You’re not the captain?”

“Nope. Name’s Benn Beckman.” He offers a hand. “First Mate to the Red-Haired Pirates.”

And that’s when you hear it. The laugh. Low. Friendly. Infuriating.

Shanks.

Your blood runs cold. You know that bounty. You’ve stared at the poster enough times to curse the smile.

You whirl on Benn. “You brought me aboard a Yonko’s ship?!”

“Careful,” Benn says, clearly amused. “He’s fallen for worse attitudes.”

“Worse than me?”

He shrugs, grinning. “You’ll fit right in.”

Frankly, you don’t care. You’ve had a very long day of being chased, betrayed, and slandered over what should have been a hilarious and harmless anecdote involving a pear and a powerful man’s poor choices. You accepted Benn Beckman’s offer because he looked capable, unbothered, and most importantly, clean.

And to his credit, he was.

He helps you up the gangplank without ceremony. You think maybe, just maybe, you’re safe.

The ship, however, is something else entirely.

You step aboard the Red Force and are immediately met with what can only be described as a deeply committed level of nautical chaos. Not the kind bred from incompetence; no, this is curated, almost artistic. Like someone had taken the concept of a functioning pirate crew and given it a bottle of rum, three chickens, and a head injury.

There’s laundry—actual dirty laundry—hanging from the rigging, flapping proudly like the sails of domestic surrender. A pair of polka-dot boxers snaps you in the face as the wind changes. You look up. They wave at you.

Near the helm, two shirtless crewmates are locked in what appears to be a very serious swordfight.

With baguettes.

They parry with the grace of seasoned warriors and the idiocy of men who have not tasted fear since puberty. One of them shouts “en garde!” in a terrible accent before taking a bite out of his weapon mid-duel.

You catch sight of a chicken. It’s wearing an eyepatch. You blink. It’s still there. It stares back, solemn and ancient, as if it has survived battles you’ll never understand.

The scent of rum hits you next. Not just a scent. A presence. The rum is in the air. The planks beneath your feet creak with the ghost of spilled drinks and bad decisions. You swear the wood itself is tipsy.

You stop mid-step, overcome by the visceral assault of sight, sound, and questionable life choices.

“It’s a pigsty,” you whisper, horrified. Then you blink again, gaze sweeping over the sun-drenched deck, the howling laughter, the chaos woven with joy and freedom. You swallow, shoulders slumping.

“A beautiful pigsty.”

Benn strolls past you like none of this is strange. “Home sweet home.”

You gape at a mug crusted with something you pray is not jam. “You said quiet ride. You said no questions. You did not say I’d share air with feral pirate frat boys.”

“Mm.” Benn eyes the deck. “They’re housebroken. Mostly.”

You side-eye him. “Why does it smell like aging citrus and despair?”

“It’s lemon oil,” he says. “Someone tried to mop. Once. In 2003.”

You inhale slowly, then blink at the sheer volume of abandoned teacups, rum bottles, and suspicious socks.

And that’s when he appears. Barefoot, laughing, and wearing a half-buttoned shirt like it’s a lifestyle.

Red hair. Ridiculous grin. No concept of personal space.

“Oh?” he says, clearly amused. “New passenger?”

You freeze.

This man is everything you go out of your way to avoid. Loud. Disheveled. Ridiculously charming. Probably sticky.

You look at Benn in betrayed silence.

He shrugs. “That’s the captain.”

You point at him in slow horror. “That thing is the captain?”

Shanks beams.

“Don’t worry, I’m mostly socialized for indoor behavior.”

You almost jumped overboard.

Benn claps you on the shoulder like this is fine and mostly to keep you dry. “Welcome to the Red Force.”

You murmur, “I would like to go home now.”

Too late. Someone hands you a drink. Someone else asks if you’re the new quartermaster. The chicken clucks approvingly.

The ship sways.

So does your patience.

You sigh. “At least I’m not the one who smells like cheese.”

“Yet,” Shanks adds brightly.

You stare at him. Then at Benn.

“This is your fault.”

Benn lights a cigarette like he has all the time in the world and no reason to rush. The smoke curls slowly between his fingers as he leans against the rail, watching the chaos unfold across the deck with the kind of patience that only comes from long exposure to nonsense.

“Yeah,” he says, casting a glance in your direction. “But you’re not boring. So I’d say we’re even.”

You blink at him. Then at the ship. Then at the man dueling with a mop while wearing a long coat and absolutely no pants. You look again at the chicken. It’s still wearing the eyepatch. You could swear it gives you a nod of recognition.

You should leave. That would be smart. Logical. Strategic. But the guards are still combing the port for you with the zeal of men promised a bonus, and your name is now traveling on the wind with the kind of scandal usually reserved for pirates, murderers, and bad poets.

The Red Force may be a mess, but it floats. Which is already more than you can say for your reputation.

Benn doesn’t try to convince you. When you hesitate near the gangplank, he exhales and raises one eyebrow.

“If you’ve got something worth trading,” he says, voice even, “I’ll make sure the captain lets you stay aboard until the next island.”

You weigh your choices. Running into town would be suicide. Turning yourself in would be stupidity. That leaves you with pirates.

“I have information,” you say at last, slowly.

He doesn’t react much, but the air around him seems to still. “We like information.”

“But I want terms,” you add, folding your arms.

His mouth curves, the faintest twitch of a grin. “Let’s hear them.”

You gesture toward the ship, nose wrinkling as someone swings past on a rope, yelling triumphantly while wearing only one boot and a sunhat.

“If I give you something valuable, I want a ride. A clean bunk. And someone has to mop something. Or bathe. Or both.”

He tilts his head, amused. “That’s a bold list.”

“I’m flexible on the mop,” you say, voice even. “But I will not negotiate on the bathing.”

Benn’s hand extends again, steady and solid.

There’s a pause.

Then he laughs. Not mockingly. His laugh is warm and low, edged with honest amusement, like you’ve said something no one else had the guts or sense to say. Like you’re the first fresh breeze to hit this deck in years.

“You want to trade intelligence for soap and a mop?”

“Yes,” you reply flatly. “I don’t care if I’m surrounded by pirates, but I refuse to live like a damp sock in a locker room.”

Behind you, a voice cuts in, cheerful and far too comfortable.

“What’s this about socks?”

You don’t need to look. You already know who it is.

The barefoot, red-haired disaster. Wearing yesterday’s shirt and today’s grin, looking like he just woke up from a nap he didn't plan and liked it anyway.

You lift a hand and gesture vaguely in his direction without turning. “That one. He’s not allowed near my quarters until he can pass a smell check.”

Shanks sounds delighted. “You want to trade for hygiene? That’s a first.”

You finally turn to face him.

His smile could outshine the sun, and unfortunately, he knows it. The hair is tousled, the shirt is unbuttoned at the collar, and there’s a suspicious smudge of ink or possibly rum on his neck.

You meet his eyes and don’t blink.

“You’ll thank me when your crewmates stop losing dice to mold.”

Shanks looks like you just proposed marriage.

Benn exhales smoke and mutters under his breath, “Oh no. He likes you.”

You frown. “Is that a problem?”

Shanks leans forward slightly, eyes bright. “It’s only a problem if you plan to survive.”

You stare at him.

He smiles wider.

You already regret everything.

Benn, in true first mate fashion, steps in before your brain can start planning escape routes. He leans in, clearly entertained.

“And what are you offering?”

You raise a brow, unimpressed. “How about Lord Velcot’s shipping ledger? The one that proves he’s funneling sea stone under a fake spice route.”

The grin on Benn’s face drops half an inch. His posture doesn’t change, but his attention sharpens like a blade being quietly unsheathed.

Shanks lets out a low whistle. “You’re just full of little treasures, aren’t you?”

“I am. And if you don’t clean that table,” you say, pointing at the sticky wooden monstrosity near the helm, “I’ll find another pirate crew. Preferably one with working soap.”

There’s a long pause.

Then Shanks laughs. Loud. Bright. Borderline offensive.

“Done,” he says. “Ride, bunk, and someone will mop. Hell, I’ll mop myself just for the story.”

You stare at him. “You’re joking.”

“I’m absolutely not.” His grin spreads like a man daring the universe to top this moment. “Benn, get this woman a mop. And someone to fight over it.”

Benn sighs like a man who has already seen his future, and it includes too many suds and not enough peace.

“You’re going to be the death of me.”

You tuck your notes back into your coat and follow them onto the deck.

Later, you sip tea in the sun and watch as Shanks dramatically splashes soapy water across the boards in what could only be described as a barefoot, interpretive dance about the concept of cleaning. He’s shirtless. There are bubbles on his nose. It’s unclear whether any actual cleaning is happening, but morale is up.

You smile to yourself.

You may be trapped on a ship full of chaos gremlins, but for once, you are in charge of the mop.

The crew likes you immediately.

Unfortunately.

You hadn’t planned on charming them. That wasn’t the goal. You were just trying to barter your way out of political fallout and away from the kingdom of cursed pears. But apparently, sarcasm, a visible disdain for clutter, and the ability to identify seven kinds of mold growing under the deck planks is downright hilarious to pirates.

They howled when you called the crow’s nest a sweaty crypt. They applauded when you slapped a dirty plate out of someone’s hand with your notebook. One of them tried to give you a chicken as a sign of respect.

You had no idea what to do with that.

They start calling you Doc, even though you’re not a doctor. Or Boss, depending on the day. Someone tries “Mom” once. You draw a knife without breaking eye contact. It never happens again.

You wish you liked them.

Truly.

But they’re filthy. Every last one of them reeks of salt, stale liquor, and the ghosts of forgotten laundry. You’ve seen things. Unspeakable things. A cup being rinsed and reused without soap. A man blow-drying his armpits near the lantern. Someone—probably Yasopp—eating something he dropped on the anchor chain and declared “still good.”

You considered setting the ship on fire once. Just to start over.

The only one who seems halfway civilized is Benn Beckman.

And he can’t be trusted. Because he listens to Shanks.

You learned that the hard way after you sat Benn down and politely explained your list of basic human decencies. Clean linens. Sealed storage. A fireproof filing system. You even wrote it out on proper stationery. Benn nodded with grave understanding, the picture of cooperation. Very calm. Very reasonable.

Five hours later, you opened the door to your freshly “cleaned” quarters.

Shanks was inside. Shirtless. Reclining across your cot like he had personally conquered it. He was drinking from your emergency rum stash with the smug air of a man who knew he shouldn’t be there and had every intention of staying anyway. In one hand, he held up a mop like it was a weapon, a trophy, or both.

“I mopped!” he declared, proud as sin.

“With what?” you demanded.

He pointed to a bucket. The contents were murky. Brown. Possibly sentient.

Beckman leaned into view from the hallway, chewing the inside of his cheek like he was deciding whether to laugh or flee. “He tried.”

You had nearly thrown yourself overboard.

Now you keep a spray bottle of industrial-grade disinfectant on your belt like a sidearm. The crew refers to it in hushed tones as blessed firewater. Some say it burned the sins off their souls. Others claim it just smells like lemon death.

You don’t care. You use it liberally.

You sleep with your back to the wall. You wear gloves when touching anything communal, including dice, maps, and whatever horrifying substance Lucky Roux calls “stew.” You keep an eye on Benn at all times.

But sometimes, when you catch him watching you with that slow-burn smirk, with the sharp glint of humor behind those steady eyes, like he knows exactly what kind of chaos Shanks dragged aboard, you wonder how long you can keep up the wall.

Because even if he is dangerous… He did refill your soap. And label it.

Now you’re drying your gloves over a barrel as the Red Force drifts lazily into port. The sun warms your back. The spray glistens on the ropes. For a brief moment, it almost feels like peace.

Shanks sidles up beside you, barefoot again. Pretending not to stare. Failing.

“You don’t have to leave,” he says.

You don’t look at him. You glance toward the docked ships in the distance, then down at his shirt. It has three stains. One is definitely jam. One might be ink. The third remains unidentifiable and probably deserves its own bounty.

“You’re wearing yesterday’s crimes,” you reply.

“But I smell like today’s breeze.”

“You smell like bad decisions and damp rope.” You flick a speck of something off your skirt and turn away. “I’m staying at an inn.”

“You could stay in my cabin.”

“I’d rather be arrested.”

He laughs, soft and low, like he enjoys the chase. You don’t look back.

You do not stay onboard for long.

Not because of the danger. Not because of the pirates. Not even because someone tied three spoons together and declared it a revolutionary navigation system while two others cheered like they had just solved gravity.

No.

You leave because you genuinely fear contracting a yeast infection from prolonged exposure to whatever biological terror is festering below deck.

You make it eight days. Eight heroic, disinfectant-soaked days.

By then, you have seen things. Terrible things. A sponge used for both boots and dishes. A sock employed as a makeshift coffee filter. Shanks, offering you a drink from a cup that had visible algae blooming like it had dreams.

You had stared at him in silent horror.

He leaned in, entirely too casual, and murmured with that maddening grin, “Don’t worry. I’m naturally fermented.”

That was it.

Something in you snapped. It wasn’t loud. It was surgical.

Within the hour, you were off the ship, pacing the harbor like a woman possessed, armed with a checklist, a full coin purse, and enough rage to fund a small revolution. You did not say goodbye. You simply shoved a note into Beckman’s hand and disappeared like some shadow-born avatar of responsibility and bleach.

The note reads:

Thank you for the ride. Please tell your captain that if he ever tries to flirt with me again while smelling like smoked socks and mystery fruit, I will file a formal complaint with the sea itself.

P.S. I hired a battalion of cleaners. You’re welcome.

P.P.S. Burn everything in the galley. Start fresh.

Two days later, the Red Force is crawling with uniformed, appalled, and absurdly expensive professionals. They come armed with scrub brushes, industrial gloves, and what may or may not be a priest. Holy water is applied liberally. Possibly exorcistically.

Shanks finds the whole thing hilarious.

“She paid for this? Really? That’s so generous.”

Benn doesn’t say much. He lights a cigarette and stares out at the sea. The note remains folded and tucked in his coat pocket, a faint crease at the corners where he keeps unfolding and refolding it. He looks like a man who saw the hurricane coming and let it dock anyway.

Because he knows.

You will be back.

Eventually.

After all, you still owe him information. Unfortunately, he still smells like cedar and is quiet competent.

You and Benn Beckman keep in touch.

Much to your ongoing dismay and your intense, justified distaste for his crew.

It begins with letters. They arrive without ceremony, sealed with a wax stamp that looks like someone crushed it beneath a boot. The pages inside are warm with the scent of tobacco and smugness. His handwriting is steady, economical, infuriatingly attractive. He writes in neat lines, clipped observations, sharp wit folded inside every sentence.

The contents vary. Rumors. Coordinates. Unverified sightings. Sketches of strange devices or ships caught using old, outdated codes. Sometimes, entire pages are devoted to mocking the hygiene rating of whatever new vessel he’s endured.

You write back.

Reluctantly.

Not because you enjoy it. Absolutely not. He is useful. That is all.

Your letters are precise. Waterproof ink, ruled margins, folded into thirds like any rational human would. You include bullet points. You underline statements like “I am not your contact. I am your cleaner.” One time, you enclosed a pressed flower. Labeled it carefully in red ink.

“This is what a normal person should smell like.”

Shanks found it charming. Unfortunately.

He refers you to interesting clients, which is usually code for irritating criminals with good coin and boundary issues. You vet them yourself. Half get rejected outright. The other half are tolerable, for pirates, and pay in full. You survive most encounters with your dignity and your laundry intact.

In return, you occasionally pass along corrected Marine patrol routes. Never enough to be considered a betrayal. Just little timing gaps. Slight detours. Adjusted weather patterns that help a ship slip into a port unnoticed, or avoid an inspection by thirty precious minutes.

It is not treason.

It is practical.

It is efficient.

It is also, depending on your mood, the only reason you haven’t tried to set Benn Beckman on fire.

And the Red Force does have ethics—not cleanliness, not order, not even basic definitions of personal space—but ethics nonetheless. That counts for something.

Besides, you are careful. Those ships you clear? They carry cargo, not people. Medicine, not weapons. And if someone tries to lie, you find out. They do not lie again.

Your network grows. Quietly. Efficiently. Smartly. The sort of network that doesn’t raise alarms, only eyebrows.

One day, Benn sends you a note.

Four words. No signature.

Need a favor. Urgent.

You groan, throw a pillow, pace your clean floor with clean feet and pure, distilled irritation, and then check your map.

You write back.

Is the red-haired one involved?

Unfortunately.

Fine. Send soap first.

He does. Lavender-scented. Wrapped in wax paper and respect. You hold it in your hand for five whole seconds before sighing like someone who has seen the cost of every decision.

You never should have gotten on that ship.

But you definitely should have charged more.

The next favor is messy.

Not morally. That part is simple. Some Celestial-backed trade ships have gone suspiciously quiet, and the rumors whisper about human cargo. You start digging. The maps are faked. The portmasters are bribed. Someone has the audacity to route through a canal that floods with raw sewage every third tide.

You send Benn a letter:

Your next client owes me two things: payment, and new boots. I am never returning to Shitwater Shoals.

He replies with:

Client says thank you. I say sorry. Shanks says ‘what’s a shoal?’

You burn the letter. Then send another.

If I die on one of these jobs, my ghost will mop your deck until it sparkles.

He sends back a bar of vanilla soap and a note that reads:

Then maybe the ship will finally be clean.

You are still not sure if it was flirtation or a cry for help.

Despite your contempt for the Red Force’s ambiance—its filth, its mystery stains, its tendency to celebrate bad ideas with fireworks—Benn never sends you jobs that waste your time. The favors are always worthwhile. Always interesting.

Rare documents. Stolen codes. Forgotten alliances wrapped in noble crests and blood-stained ledgers.

You work in silence. Bill in silence. Live alone. Clean. Far from the roar of drunken singing and the scent of salt-stained leather and over-oiled swords.

Until, every now and then, a new job arrives. Folded into a plain envelope. Delivered by hands that never ask questions. From a port you wouldn’t trust with your laundry.

Your name is scrawled on the front. Inside, there are coordinates and notes in Benn’s clipped handwriting.

No greeting.

Just the rough little BB initials scratched at the bottom like an afterthought. Or a signature.

Every time, you roll your eyes. Mutter something acidic. Stare at yourself in the mirror like you might still choose a different life.

You never do.

You pack your notes. Tuck a vial of disinfectant into your sleeve. And go.

Sometimes, you think about the Red Force.

Not fondly. Never fondly.

But with the kind of exhausted tolerance that allows you to mutter things like, “Idiots. But manageable idiots.”

And when Benn writes again:

He asked if you’re still mad.

You reply:

Define mad.

He laughs.

You never liked pirates. Not really.

But you’re starting to tolerate the bastards.

And that is, undeniably, worse.

#gav story #romance #one piece #shanks x the plot #shanks x reader #red force #cleanliness #akagami no shanks

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