meiplays

[meiplays]

𝐓𝐫𝐢𝐜𝐤𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫’𝐬 𝐆𝐚𝐦𝐞

Gabriel x Reader – Spicy, Soft, Intense

Gabriel always showed up when the world quieted—when the sky poured and the streets shimmered like glass. Tonight was one of those nights. You sat curled on your couch in an oversized hoodie, mismatched socks hugging your ankles, cocoa cooling between your hands.

The knock at the door came like a dare.

You opened it to find him leaning against the frame—dry, golden-eyed, smug as ever.

“Miss me, hot stuff?”

You narrowed your eyes. “You only show up when you’re bored.”

His grin widened. “And you only pretend not to like it.”

With a dramatic sigh, you stepped aside. “Come in before you short out the lights with your ego.”

Gabriel swaggered inside like he owned the place, taking your cocoa and sipping it without asking. “You call this hot chocolate? Sweetheart, this is a cry for help.”

You snatched it back. “I don’t need a celestial food critic. I need a nap.”

“You need me.”

You blinked. He was close now—too close. That Gabriel kind of close. Electric, intoxicating. You could smell sugar and ozone on his breath.

“You’re tense,” he murmured, thumb brushing along your jaw. “Rough week?”

You hesitated. “Yeah.”

No tricks this time. No sparkles, no illusions. Just his hand, warm and grounding. Just him.

“C’mere.”

He didn’t wait for permission—he guided you gently back to the couch, settled in beside you, and pulled you into his lap with surprising tenderness. Your legs draped over his, your chest pressed against his, his arms a circle around your waist.

“You okay?” he asked, voice low, velvet.

You nodded. “Yeah. Better now.”

The movie flickered on, but you barely registered it. His hand traced slow patterns on your back, fingertips skating up your spine, then back down to your hip. Every motion whispered patience—but it was laced with something else. A low hum of want that curled between the beats of your heart.

“I could sit like this forever,” you whispered.

Gabriel’s lips brushed your temple. “Then I’ll stop time.”

You looked up at him, smirking. “Romantic. Slightly horrifying.”

He chuckled, and then—his lips met yours.

Warm. Deep. Focused.

He kissed like he meant to memorize you. Every inch of pressure and give. You melted into it, hands sliding into his hair, pulling him impossibly closer. His fingers dug lightly into your hips, his mouth moving over yours like he’d waited centuries for the moment.

Then it shifted—suddenly breathless and playful.

He nipped at your bottom lip, then pulled back just as you chased after him. Smirking. Teasing.

“You started it,” you said breathlessly.

“And I’ll finish it… if you behave.”

You rolled your eyes, grabbing the collar of his henley. “Behave? You literally ruined my shampoo last month.”

“That was an improvement.”

You laughed against his lips and kissed him again—deeper this time. He hummed, pleased, hand sliding up beneath your hoodie to rest at the small of your back. Still innocent. Still maddening.

“You’re a menace,” you muttered.

“And you love it.”

“I might.”

He beamed. “That’s all I needed to hear.”

You curled into him again, this time resting your cheek against his chest. The movie played on, forgotten. His fingers found yours and laced them together.

And for a trickster who’d seen the universe spin backward, who once made Vegas vanish just because he could—this? You? It was what made him stay still.

[meiplays]

✯¸.•´*¨`*•✿ ✿•*`¨*`•.¸✯

Wrapped in Heaven’s Wings

Pairing: Castiel x Reader (Platonic/Romantic, soft, soulmate vibes)

Word Count: ~500

Warnings: None — pure fluff and gentle emotion

Summary:

You curl against Castiel’s neck at night and feel his soft wings wrap around you like a cloud. His rare blush reveals how much you mean to him — his human, his mate. Wrapped in his embrace, you realize this moment feels like heaven itself.

You settle into the quiet stillness of the night, the world outside fading away as you curl against Castiel’s side. His presence is calm, steady—the kind of calm that seeps into your bones and makes the day’s worries dissolve like mist. You reach up and gently rest your head on his neck, the slight roughness of his stubble a contrast to the smoothness of his skin. It’s a simple gesture, but one you never get tired of.

Then, without warning but with perfect gentleness, you feel it: the softest, most delicate flutter of feathers brushing your cheek. Castiel’s wings are unfolding—slow, deliberate—and they wrap around you like a blanket spun from the softest silk and cloud-white feathers. It’s more than just a physical sensation; it’s like being cradled inside the quietest, safest place in all the universe.

You nuzzle your face deeper into the wings, eyes closing against the plush softness. The feathers feel so impossibly tender—softer than any faux fur blanket you’ve ever owned, smoother than satin sheets on a cool summer night. It’s warmth, it’s safety, it’s love in its purest form. You breathe in, catching a faint scent, something old and holy but also quietly human. It’s him. It’s Castiel.

And then you feel it—the subtle catch of his breath, a slight shift as his wings tighten around you, just a little. You open your eyes slowly and glance up, and your heart nearly stops.

Castiel’s face is flushed.

Not the pale, ethereal glow of an angelic being. No, this is real—an honest, human blush coloring his cheeks and the tips of his ears. For someone who has always struggled to express his emotions, to reveal the depths of what he feels, this blush is a revelation. You can see it in the way his blue eyes flicker with something tender, something unsure but so profoundly genuine.

You smile softly, your fingers brushing over the edge of his wings, as if to reassure him you’re here. You are his mate. His human. The one who makes an ancient, stoic angel like him soften, like he’s discovering new ways to feel—new ways to love.

Wrapped in his wings, in his embrace, you feel something incredible: like you’re not just lying with an angel, but inside a moment of pure heaven itself. The world might be dark outside, but here, in this quiet, wrapped in feathers and warmth, there is only light.

You sigh softly, resting your head back against his neck, and whisper,

“This... this is home.”

Castiel’s wings tighten just a little more, and you know, without a doubt, that for him, you are too.

╳°»｡ ∾･⁙･ ღ ➵ ⁘ ➵ ღ ･⁙･∾ ｡«°╳

[meiplays]

Kitchen Kisses

Pairing: Jensen Ackles x Fem!Reader

Rating: SFW (spicy tension)

Word Count: ~1k

Summary:

You’re just trying to cook dinner. He’s just trying to survive those tiny pink Juicy Couture shorts. Spoiler: he fails.

The kitchen smelled like garlic and seared onions, but it wasn’t the sizzling pan that had Jensen practically panting behind you.

It was you—standing at the stove like you weren’t breaking every last one of his nerves in those tiny pink Juicy Couture shorts, the word “JUICY” stamped in glittery letters across your ass like a dare. The soft terry fabric clung to you like a second skin, riding up just enough to make him forget what year it was.

He leaned in silently, eyes burning holes into the back of your thighs before his hands slid around your waist, pulling you flush against him.

“Baby…” he groaned into your ear, voice already ruined with heat. “You tryna kill me?”

You gave him a smug little wiggle, you stirred the pot like nothing was happening. “I’m just cooking.”

He growled—growled—and his hips snapped forward, grinding into you with slow, possessive pressure. “You know what those damn shorts do to me. Walkin’ around with Juicy printed on your ass like you don’t know I’d ruin anyone who even looks.”

Your breath hitched as he dragged his lips along your neck, slow and sinful, teeth grazing just enough to make your knees wobble. His hand slid down to grab a fistful of plush velvet at your hip, tugging you back harder against him.

“Look at you,” he rasped. “So sweet, makin’ dinner for me- but I think we both know were very well distracted”

“Jensen—” you started, but he spun you before you could finish, your back hitting the cabinets with a soft thud. His eyes were dark, starved.

“Don’t ‘Jensen�� me when you’re wearin’ this, lookin’ like a snack and a half,” he said, voice low and dangerous. His hands gripped the backs of your thighs and in one smooth motion, he hoisted you onto the counter like you weighed nothing.

The cold marble hit your thighs, but all you felt was him—pressing between your knees, kissing you like he needed to breathe you in. His lips crashed into yours, messy and hot, his tongue sweeping in with purpose. He kissed like he wanted to ruin your taste for anyone else.

Your hands threaded into his hair, tugging as you rocked against him, desperate for more friction. The heat between your bodies burned hotter than the pan behind you.

He pulled back just enough to rest his forehead on yours, panting. “You in these shorts… you have no idea the things I wanna do to you. I see juicy and all I can think about is marking you up until everyone knows you're mine.”

You blinked up at him, breathless. “I already am.”

His smile was feral. “Damn right.”

He kissed you again, slower this time, but deeper. His hands stayed respectful—barely—but the energy was molten. A tease. A promise.

“I’ll let you finish cooking,” he murmured, lips brushing your jaw. “But you’re not wearing those again unless you want me to lose my mind.”

You slid off the counter, tugging him close with a wicked smile. “Maybe that’s the point.”

His hand smacked playfully across your backside as you turned.

He didn’t even pretend not to stare.

[meiplays]

Where the Road Ends

Pairing: Daryl Dixon x Reader

Rating: SFW (Soft Spice)

Word Count: ~2,260

Tags: slowburn, apocalypse comfort, Daryl being soft, protective Daryl, DOG!! (German Shepherd) , caretaking, first kiss, mutual pining, gentle tension

Summary: Daryl finds you and your loyal German Shepherd on the road, starved and unconscious, and something about you makes him stop. Slowburn feelings, caretaking, emotional tension, and a kiss that catches him completely off guard are all included.

A/N: y'all asked for Daryl Dixon! I'm starting a new series! I hope you guys like part 1<3

Part 1 – Found

The Georgia sun baked the cracked pavement, heat shimmering off the road ahead. Daryl squinted down the scope of his crossbow, scanning the tree line. The world was too quiet—no birds, no wind, no groans. Just stillness.

Then he saw her.

Collapsed half off the road, dirt on her face, her clothes torn and clinging like dead weight. Her chest barely moved—still breathing, but only just. A big German Shepherd lay beside her, ribs visible beneath matted fur, one paw resting over her leg like he was guarding her even in sleep.

Daryl approached slowly, crossbow steady, bootfalls silent. He nudged the Shepherd with the edge of his boot. The dog growled low but didn’t move.

“Easy,” Daryl muttered, crouching. He touched your neck—warm, but your pulse was sluggish. Dehydrated. Starving.

He hesitated. He didn’t do this. Didn’t pick up strays.

But he couldn’t walk away.

“Alright, girl,” he murmured. “C’mon.”

~

You woke to soft pressure against your lips. Water.

“Easy,” a voice rasped, deep and Southern. “Don’t choke.”

You blinked, the light blinding. A rough face came into focus—sunburned, scruffy, lines around the eyes from too many sleepless nights. He looked like he didn’t trust you. Or anyone. But something in those blue eyes was… gentle.

“Where…?” Your throat burned. “My dog…”

He shifted. “He’s right here. Won’t leave your side.”

Relief hit you like a wave, and you sank back into the cot, tears threatening. “Thank you…”

Daryl poured more water into a tin cup and handed it over without a word. He watched you drink like he was expecting you to vanish.

“Name’s Daryl,” he said after a long pause. “Daryl Dixon.”

You cleared your throat. “Y/N. And that’s Buck.”

The German Shepherd raised his head at his name, sniffed the air, and gave a small wag before curling closer to you.

The cabin was small—just a hunting shack he’d holed up in for a few weeks—but it was safe. You stayed in the cot for three days, too weak to move much, eating little spoonfuls of canned soup and jerky he rationed for you. Buck never left your side. Neither did Daryl, really.

He wasn’t used to company. He muttered to himself sometimes, talking more to the fire than to you. But he noticed things. Like how you liked your soup with more water. Or how Buck got nervous during storms.

On the fourth day, you found enough strength to sit up and run your fingers through Buck’s fur.

“You saved us,” you said softly, looking at Daryl where he sat cleaning his crossbow by the window. “You didn’t have to.”

He shrugged. “Didn’t feel right leavin’ you.”

You smiled. “Well… I’m glad you didn’t.”

He met your eyes for half a second, then looked away, ears pinking just a little.

It wasn’t supposed to be permanent. Just until you healed, got strong enough to travel again. But one week turned into two. Then three.

You helped clean the shack, boiled water, learned how to set snares from watching him. Buck started following Daryl around when you weren’t nearby—like he’d decided Daryl was part of the pack now. You noticed how careful Daryl was with his hands, how he never touched you unless he had to, but always hovered close, ready to catch you if you stumbled.

Every night, he built the fire. Every morning, he watched the sunrise while you slept, shoulders tense until he knew it was safe.

One morning, while you were gutting a fish he caught, you asked, “You always take care of people like this?”

He shook his head. “Ain’t people. Just you.”

Your hands froze. You looked up.

His jaw was tight, but he didn’t take it back.

~

That night, you couldn't sleep. The air was warm, the fire crackled low, and Daryl sat outside on the porch, legs spread out, smoke curling from a cigarette between his fingers.

You joined him quietly. Buck settled at your feet. Daryl glanced at you but didn’t speak.

“Used to live in the city,” you said after a while. “Never saw stars like this. Thought they were just myths.”

He gave a quiet grunt. “Ain’t much use for 'em now. Just shine on empty places.”

You turned to look at him. “I think they still matter. Proof something beautiful’s still out there.”

Daryl’s lips twitched. “You always talk like that?”

“Like what?”

“Like… you still believe in stuff.”

You shrugged. “If I stop, I won’t make it.”

He didn’t answer, but you saw it—the softness in his profile. The ache he didn’t know how to name.

~

Days passed like dreams. Quiet ones. Easy ones. You started sleeping deeper, feeling safer. And Daryl?

Daryl watched you when he thought you didn’t notice. Brushed hair out of your face when you were asleep. Gave you the last of the good jerky even though he swore he liked the burnt pieces better.

He never said it, but he cared.

You knew. You just didn’t know what to do with it.

Then one night, it happened.

You were both in the cabin, storm overhead, the fire low and warm. Buck was curled in the corner, snoring softly. You were sitting cross-legged by the hearth, brushing dried mud off your boots. Daryl was on the couch behind you, fiddling with a broken flashlight.

“Hey, Daryl?”

He grunted.

“I’m not going anywhere. Not unless you want me to.”

He looked up, brow furrowing.

You turned, slowly rising to your feet. “I mean it. I’ve never felt safer than I do with you. Even before the world fell apart.”

He stared at you, blue eyes unreadable.

You stepped closer, heart pounding. “I know you don’t say much. And that’s okay. But I need you to know something.”

“What?” he rasped, voice low.

You leaned in. “I like you. A lot.”

Then you kissed him—soft, tentative, one hand resting lightly on his shoulder. His whole body tensed beneath your touch. For a heartbeat, you worried you’d made a mistake.

But then he kissed you back.

It wasn’t practiced. It wasn’t perfect. But it was real. His hands trembled as they found your waist, pulling you closer like he didn’t believe you were actually there. You could feel him shaking a little, like the kiss had hit him too hard.

When you finally pulled back, his lips were parted, eyes wide.

“You kissed me,” he said, stunned.

You smiled, brushing a thumb over his stubbled cheek. “Yeah. I did.”

He stared at you another long moment, then exhaled a shaky breath. “Shit.”

“Bad?”

He shook his head. “No. Just… didn’t think anyone’d ever… want me like that. Not you.”

You cupped his face. “Well, I do.”

His breath caught.

And just like that, you saw it—the moment he fell. The moment all his walls cracked wide open, and you slipped into his heart like you’d always belonged there.

He didn’t say much after that. But his hands were gentle as they guided you to sit beside him. His arms wrapped around you, pulling you close to his chest. You could feel his heartbeat, wild and loud.

“I dunno how to… do this,” he whispered.

“You don’t have to know. Just be here with me.”

You felt his lips against your temple. Not quite a kiss. Just… a touch. A promise.

~

The storm outside raged on.

But inside that little cabin, Daryl Dixon let himself love someone for the first time in a long, long time.

And you? You were exactly where you were meant to be.

To Be Continued...

...

[meiplays]

“𝐌𝐢𝐧𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐖𝐚𝐭𝐜𝐡, 𝐎𝐮𝐫𝐬 𝐭𝐨 𝐊𝐞𝐞𝐩”

Pairing: Soulless Sam x Reader x Demon Dean

Word Count: ~8,000

Rating: SFW but extremely spicy — heavy yandere, dark obsession, and intense possessiveness. No graphic content, but highly suggestive.

Summary: In an alternate universe where both Soulless Sam and Demon Dean exist simultaneously, they’ve set their sights on you — a solo hunter who thought you could vanish without a trace. But you can’t hide from them. Not anymore. Not when they’ve already chosen you.

═════════•°•⚠️•°•═════════

You feel them before you see them.

It’s in the subtle things: the creak of floorboards outside your motel room, the breeze that moves your curtains when the window’s closed, the scent of leather and ash clinging to your pillow. You’re being watched. Always. And not by something random or aimless — no, this is targeted.

You’ve done your research. Salt lines, sigils, iron. None of it works.

Because you’re not being stalked by some ordinary monster.

It’s them. Sam. Dean.

What’s left of them, anyway.

You met Dean first. That crooked grin twisted darker, black eyes glinting like obsidian. Demon Dean — charming, lethal, and terrifyingly patient.

“You’re interesting,” he’d said, standing over the fresh corpse of a demon you were struggling to kill. “Think I’ll keep you.”

Then Sam. Soulless. Calculated. There was no warmth in his gaze, no remorse. Just... interest. Cold and clinical.

“You’re not good at hiding,” Sam had said the first time he cornered you. “But it’s cute that you try.”

You ran.

Of course you ran.

Two months. Three cities. Five burner phones. One exhausted you.

But it doesn’t matter. No matter where you go, they’re always one step ahead—or worse, one step behind, close enough to let you think you’re safe.

Tonight, your motel room is too quiet. The air feels heavy. Your instincts are screaming.

Still, you move through the motions—check the locks, reseal the salt line, change into a soft tank top and shorts. You don’t bother pretending you’re alone anymore. You feel them. Watching.

You sleep with the lights on.

But sleep doesn’t come.

Outside, they watch.

Dean leans against a streetlamp, eyes fixed on your window. His jaw tics, tongue running over his teeth. Sam stands beside him, arms folded.

“She’s restless tonight,” Dean mutters. “Might need help winding down.”

Sam doesn’t blink. “She’s not ready.”

“Who says she needs to be?” Dean smirks. “She wants this. She just doesn’t know it yet.”

“She’s ours. Ours to keep. Not to break.”

Dean’s smile shifts, softer but no less intense. “Fine. But she’s mine to watch.”

Sam’s voice is ice. “Ours.”

They both look back at the window.

Inside, you’ve kicked off the sheets, arms stretched over your head, skin glowing under the lamplight. One leg shifts over the other, exposing more of your thigh.

Dean growls under his breath. “You’re killing me, sweetheart.”

“She doesn’t know,” Sam says.

“She feels us.”

And you do.

You wake with a start.

Knife gone.

Door open.

They’re here.

Dean enters first, wearing that grin that’s all teeth and heat. “Rise and shine.”

You scramble backward on the bed. “Get the hell out.”

Sam steps in behind him, all stillness and steel. “That’s not going to happen.”

“Why are you doing this?”

Dean chuckles. “You really gotta ask?”

“You could’ve killed me.”

“But then we wouldn’t get to keep you,” Sam says.

Dean walks closer. “We watched. Every night. Protected you, even. From everything else. You think you’re still alive because you’re lucky?”

Your lips part, but no sound comes out.

“We chose you,” Sam says. “You’re the only thing we agree on.”

Dean’s hand brushes your cheek, slow and deliberate. “And now you’re done running.”

They don’t leave after that.

They take the other bed like they belong there. Sam by the window, always watching. Dean sprawled on the mattress like he’s king of the world. You try to ignore them. It’s impossible.

At the diner, they sit beside you, not across. Dean’s knee bumps yours. Sam orders your food before you speak.

At night, you hear them whispering while they think you’re asleep.

“She sleeps with her hand on her stomach,” Dean murmurs. “Like she’s trying to hold herself together.”

“She said my name last night,” Sam replies.

Dean grins. “Yeah. Right before she moaned mine.”

They laugh. It’s dark, intimate, wicked.

You should be terrified.

But you’re not.

You’re curious.

Worse — you want it.

They take over your life.

And you let them.

They train with you. Hunt with you. Sleep in shifts, like you’re some prize to guard.

Sometimes you wake to find Sam seated at your bedside, reading a book while watching you.

Sometimes Dean is closer — arm thrown over your waist, breath at your neck.

They’re always there.

And slowly, you stop fighting.

Because part of you wants to be claimed.

And no one claims like they do.

It’s storming the night you finally ask them why.

“Why me?” you whisper.

Sam sits at your feet, calm. “You’re the only one who sees us. Really sees us.”

Dean runs a hand up your back. “You didn’t flinch. Even when you should have. That kind of fire? It’s rare. We don’t share. But for you? We’ll make an exception.”

You look between them — one dark, cold, calculated. The other burning, hungry, wild.

“I should hate you both,” you whisper.

Dean chuckles, eyes flashing. “But you don’t.”

“No,” Sam says. “You never did.”

And he’s right.

-

You stop locking the door.

You stop pretending to sleep.

You stop running.

Because now you understand:

You were never meant to be alone.

You’re not prey.

You’re theirs.

And they were always coming for you.

Mine to watch.

Ours to keep.

═════════•°•⚠️•°•═════════

{Spicy Scene}

The night settles like a heavy cloak around the room, thick with silence but buzzing with electricity. You sit on the edge of your bed, heart pounding with a mix of anticipation and something darker — something thrilling. Dean is there, just inches away, shadows curling across his sharp jawline. His eyes don’t blink; they don’t look away. They hold you captive, fierce and relentless, like a flame licking at dry kindling.

From the corner of the room, Sam watches quietly, his gaze as steady as stone but burning with a hidden hunger. He leans against the wall, arms folded but ready to move at any moment. His presence is the perfect counterbalance to Dean’s raw, urgent energy — calm, calculating, impossibly patient.

“You don’t have to pretend anymore,” Dean’s voice is low, rough around the edges, almost a growl that makes your skin prickle. His hand moves slowly, deliberately, reaching out to brush the soft skin of your arm. It’s a touch that sends a jolt straight through you — sharp but warm, like a secret you’re only just beginning to understand.

His fingers trail down to your waist, pulling you closer with an ease that leaves no room for denial. Your breath catches when his body presses against yours, hard and undeniable beneath the thin fabric of your shirt.

Sam steps forward too, closing the distance with the silent grace of a hunter. His eyes flick down to the small knife clipped to your belt — a habit you’ve kept from your past life, a reminder you can still fight if you want to. He doesn’t touch it yet, but the way his fingers brush the hilt makes your pulse quicken in a way you can’t explain.

Dean’s lips find the sensitive skin of your neck first, trailing soft, possessive kisses along the curve of your jaw. You tilt your head, giving him better access, heart pounding so loudly you’re sure he can hear it.

“Mine,” Dean breathes against your skin, voice dark and possessive.

“Ours,” Sam adds, his fingers brushing your jawline as his eyes lock with yours — steady, intense, claiming.

You’re caught between them, the heat of their attention swirling around you like a storm. Dean’s hands move lower, settling on your thighs, fingers pressing through the fabric with a possessive firmness that makes your breath hitch.

Sam’s hand slides down your other thigh, the contrast between the two of them electrifying. Dean’s grip is rough and demanding, grinding just enough to set your nerves on fire. Sam’s touch is softer, teasing, like he’s learning every inch of you with delicate care.

Without breaking eye contact with either of them, you begin to sway gently against Dean, your movements slow and deliberate, like a lap dance without music — fluid, hypnotic, charged with meaning. Dean’s hands guide you, steady and sure, his body pressing into yours in a way that makes every nerve ending sing.

Sam’s fingers trace along the edge of your jaw, tilting your face upward so you meet his gaze again. His eyes are dark and endless, promising more — more attention, more control, more everything.

Dean’s lips descend to yours with a slow, deep kiss that speaks of ownership and longing. You respond eagerly, hands tangling in his hair as the heat between you ignites. The kiss is demanding but tender, a contradiction that only makes it more intoxicating.

From behind, Sam presses his body against your back, one hand sliding up to the nape of your neck. His lips brush the sensitive skin just below your ear, soft and teasing. You shiver, melting into the sensation, the way his breath feels like fire on your skin.

The small knife at your belt suddenly feels heavier, its cold metal a thrilling contrast to the warmth surrounding you. Sam’s fingers ghost over it lightly, then trail down your thigh again, the blade never touching but close enough to make your skin tingle with anticipation.

You arch your back, grinding gently against Dean’s hands, your body responding to every touch, every whispered word, every breath shared in the charged space between you.

“Yours,” Dean murmurs, voice thick with desire.

“Ours,” Sam repeats, his lips trailing a path down your shoulder, fingers tightening slightly on the knife’s hilt.

The world narrows to the three of you — a tangled web of heat, possession, and need.

Dean’s hands move up to cup your face, thumbs brushing over your cheekbones as he captures your lips again, this time with more urgency. You cling to him, every kiss a silent promise that you belong to them — body, mind, and soul.

Sam leans in, pressing soft kisses along your neck, fingers tracing the curve of your collarbone. His touch is electrifying, the blade of the knife teasing just beneath your skin, never cutting, only heightening the sensation.

You feel yourself fall deeper into the storm of sensation, lost in the possessive, obsessive devotion pouring from them both. It’s intoxicating — dark and sweet and dangerous.

And you wouldn’t have it any other way.

...

[meiplays]

🖤 Scene: "Driving With My Darling" – A Twisted Duet

~

Demon!Dean x Reader x Soulless!Sam (AU)

🎶 Song Inspiration: "Driving With My Darling" – And One

✂️ Warnings: SFW but contains themes of kidnapping, obsession, emotional manipulation, and dark romance.

The Impala's engine growled as it sped down the deserted highway, the night cloaking the world in darkness. You sat on Dean's lap, your wrists bound, the scent of leather and gasoline filling your senses.

Dean's fingers tapped the steering wheel in rhythm with the song playing softly from the radio. He leaned in, his breath warm against your ear.

> Dean (singing softly):

"Driving with my darling..."

"Faster than I should..."

His voice was low, almost tender, but laced with a possessive edge. He glanced at you, a smirk playing on his lips.

> "Your turn, sweetheart," he murmured.

You hesitated, heart pounding, but something compelled you to respond.

> You (voice trembling):

"He says he's gonna love me..."

"Forever if he could..."

Dean's grip tightened slightly, satisfaction gleaming in his eyes. From the backseat, Sam chuckled, the sound devoid of humor.

> "She sings so sweetly," Sam said.

❤️‍🩹

[meiplays]

“𝐋𝐨𝐫𝐞 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐋𝐚𝐩 𝐓𝐢𝐦𝐞” 💝

𝐏𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: 𝐒𝐚𝐦 𝐖𝐢𝐧𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐱 𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: 𝐍𝐨𝐧𝐞- 𝐉𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐩𝐮𝐫𝐞 𝐟𝐥𝐮𝐟𝐟.

✩.･*:｡≻───── ⋆♡⋆ ─────.•*:｡✩

You climb into his lap without a word, legs draping over his like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Sam Winchester doesn’t even flinch—just shifts slightly to make room, one arm curling instinctively around your waist like he’s done this a thousand times.

"Comfortable?" he asks, voice low and warm, that post-hunt rasp still clinging to his tone.

"Mhm," you hum, fingers immediately finding their way into his hair, gently combing through the chestnut waves like you’ve claimed them. “Now tell me some lore.”

Sam chuckles under his breath, resting his chin lightly against your shoulder. “You sure? I can get real annoying with this stuff.”

“That’s the goal, Sammy.”

And just like that, he’s off—talking about ancient Norse relics, the real origin of werewolf myths, and how one obscure demon in the 1600s supposedly had a pet cat that could predict earthquakes.

You nod occasionally, more focused on the way his hair slips between your fingers, silky and soft and a little damp from the shower he took earlier. Every now and then, he glances at you, eyes crinkling when he catches you not listening, just watching him like he’s your favorite book.

You lean forward and kiss his jaw mid-sentence. “Keep going.”

And so he does—his voice your favorite sound, his arms the safest place on earth.

🩷

[meiplays]

Title: Home is You

Pairing: Castiel x Reader

Word Count: ~650

Genre: Fluff, Hurt/Comfort

Warnings: Post-hunt exhaustion, wing cuddles, soft kisses, emotional comfort

Summary: After a rough hunt, you and Castiel come back to the motel. No words, no explanations. Just quiet hands, angel wings, and the kind of love that makes you believe in peace again.

You don’t say a word when the motel door clicks shut behind you. Neither does he. The silence isn’t awkward—it’s heavy with exhaustion, with everything the day wrung out of you.

Your jacket’s still halfway off your shoulders when Castiel’s hands find you. Gentle. Warm. Careful, like touching you too roughly might shatter something fragile. Like he knows how close you are to falling apart and would rather carry every broken piece than let you drop.

“You’re hurt,” he says, voice low, more breath than sound.

“Just tired,” you mumble.

He doesn’t argue. Just helps you shed the day, starting with the jacket, then your boots. Then he’s tugging you toward the bed with fingertips so soft you could cry. You go willingly. Always do with him.

And when he lies beside you—body firm, grounding—you bury yourself in his chest without thinking. Like instinct. Like home.

Then his wings unfurl.

They don’t burst out like some dramatic storm. They bloom. Slow and reverent. Feathers rustling in a hush, wrapping around you like the warmest blanket in the world. They smell like rain and grace and something older than time.

You sigh, melting.

One of his hands finds your waist. The other weaves into your hair. His lips brush your temple with the kind of tenderness that makes your heart ache.

“I have you,” he whispers. “You’re safe.”

And you believe it.

God, for the first time all week—you believe it.

The kisses that follow aren’t rushed. He kisses you like there’s no place else he’d rather be. Your brow. The tip of your nose. A soft, lingering one at the corner of your mouth. You smile into it, hands curling in his shirt like you could anchor yourself there forever.

“I missed you,” you murmur.

“I never left,” he answers, pressing a kiss to your hair. “But I missed you, too.”

Feathers shift around you, brushing your spine, calming every nerve. You swear the wings hum when you breathe. His heartbeat under your cheek is steady. Everything else fades.

No monsters. No salt lines. No blood.

Just warmth. Just peace.

Just him.

“Stay,” you whisper.

He doesn’t hesitate. “Always.”

And that’s it.

That’s the moment you realize:

You’ve never been safer than when you’re held in the arms—and wings—of an angel who chooses you every time.

[meiplays]

“𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐃𝐞𝐯𝐢𝐥 𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐊𝐧𝐨𝐰”

Pairing: Possessed Sam x Reader

Warnings: Dark themes, possession, intense possessiveness, some struggle/tension, mild cursing, SFW but very spicy, slowburn

Word count: ~2,000

The bar was empty except for you wiping down the counter. Closing time had passed, but the quiet was a comfort—until you felt the air shift. He was here. Sam. But not the Sam you knew. His eyes were black, endless and cold, swallowing the light.

“You always wait till closing?” His voice was low, a rasp full of amusement and hunger.

You didn’t answer. Your heart slammed as he closed the distance. His hand landed beside your head on the bar, steady and sure. His other hand slid to your waist, fingers tracing slow, deliberate lines beneath your shirt.

“You smell fucking good.” His breath brushed your ear. “Vanilla and sweat. Addictive.”

His tongue flicked out, tracing the delicate skin at your neck’s base. You froze, shivers ripping through you.

“Scared?” he whispered, black eyes burning through you.

“I should be.”

His grin was wicked. “You should be.”

His lips crashed onto yours, fierce and claiming. One hand tangled in your hair, pulling your head back, exposing your throat. The other pressed you hard against the cold bar edge. His mouth was urgent, teeth grazing your lip.

You kissed back, wanting him despite the danger.

When he broke away, his black eyes searched yours like drowning.

“Told you. Doesn’t matter who’s driving. You want me.”

Then he vanished. You told yourself it was over. You were wrong.

Two weeks later, midnight. A knock at your window. You open it to find him—drenched, flannel clinging to lean muscles, black eyes glowing.

“Let me in.”

You hesitate but slide the window open. He slips inside like smoke—silent, heavy, desperate. No words. Just raw hunger.

His hands grip your face, cold and shaking, lips descending on yours. Your back hits the wall, his body pressing you tight—hips to hips, chest to chest.

“Sam—”

His lips part, eyes flickering with pain. “I tried to leave it behind.”

You swallow. “But I taste you in my dreams. Smell you everywhere.”

His tongue traces your neck, slow and hungry. “You haunt me.”

Your fingers tug at his hair. “You’re not supposed to be here.”

He laughs, hollow. “I’m not supposed to want you. But here we are.”

He kisses you again—slow, deliberate, dark promise. Fingers dig into your hips. You arch, needing him.

When he breaks the kiss, forehead against yours. “You’re the only thing cutting through the noise.”

“I don’t know if I’m Sam anymore.”

“But you—you feel real.”

His lips brush your temple. “You still want this?”

You nod. “Then don’t run.”

His hands slip beneath your shirt, fingers tracing fire, breath hot on skin.

“I could swallow you whole.”

You shiver. “Show me.”

His mouth claims yours—fierce, dark hunger in every touch. His black eyes drown in yours.

“I’m yours,” he breathes. “Until the end.”

You tremble, desire and fear blurring.

Days later, he’s back. Darker, needier, storm barely held. Waiting in your apartment, eyes burning hellfire.

Without a word, he grabs your wrist—hard, sure—and slams you against the wall, cornering you with fierce intensity. Your breath hitches, heart pounding.

“You think you can run from me, sweetheart?” His voice is low, rough, raw need.

His grip tightens as he drags you to the bar counter, pressing you against it. He stands between your legs, heat radiating off him.

His hands cup your face, tilting your head up. Black eyes search yours—dark, desperate, possessive.

Then he claims your lips—fierce, demanding. His mouth crushes yours, tongue teasing, tasting, pulling you deeper into the fire. One hand slides down, fingers digging into your waist.

You try to pull back, trembling, unsure. Your hand darts to your bag, pulling out a demon blade—a weapon meant for moments like this.

“Don’t fucking do that.” His voice is a warning growl as he knocks the blade from your hand with one swift move.

You freeze. His lips hover near yours, breath hot and ragged.

“You can fight me,” he murmurs, “but you’ll lose.”

Your resistance melts, leaving only raw need. You lean into him, surrendering.

He smiles, wicked and wild, and kisses you again, sealing the promise in a hunger that’s dangerous and right.

[meiplays]

Title: My Little Crow

Pairing: Crowley x Reader

Warnings: Pure fluff, soft!Crowley, pet names, mild possessiveness, emotional intimacy, Hell imagery, throne cuddles

Word Count: ~850

Summary: In the heart of Hell, Crowley lets down his guard for the only soul who ever made him feel human. His little crow.

A/N: Because we all deserve to be pampered on the King of Hell’s lap. He might rule with fire, but for you? He melts.

꒷︶꒷꒥꒷‧₊˚꒷︶꒷꒥꒷‧₊˚

(The ai generated image of Crowley & Reader - Chefs Kiss)

The throne beneath you is stone and shadow, carved from pride and centuries of sin. But none of that matters—not when you’re curled up in Crowley’s lap, your body draped across his like you were made to rest there.

His hand strokes slow patterns on your back, the other tangled in your hair, knuckles brushing lightly behind your ear. His touch is gentle in a way that almost feels dangerous. As if softness, in this place, is the most forbidden thing of all.

“Settle in, my little crow,” he murmurs, voice all gravel and velvet. “The kingdom can wait.”

You sigh against him, your nose tucked beneath the edge of his collar, breathing in the scent of smoke, scotch, and something only you get to know. Something warm.

He presses a kiss to the crown of your head.

And then another.

And another.

“My precious little crow,” he whispers between kisses, each one like a litany. “My secret. My softness. My damnation.”

You smile, eyes half-lidded. “That’s dramatic, even for you.”

Crowley chuckles, low and fond. “Don’t mock me when I’m being sentimental, love.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

You shift, nuzzling closer, your legs draped over his thigh and your fingers lazily tracing the buttons of his shirt. His gaze drops to your hands—delicate, familiar, his—and for a moment, the weight of Hell, the politics, the games… it all vanishes.

“You make me forget what I am,” he murmurs. “What this place made me.”

“You don’t have to forget,” you say quietly. “Just… let me see the rest of you.”

He kisses you like an answer—slow, deep, and reverent. Not hungry. Not impatient. Just his little crow in his arms, his throne no longer cold, no longer empty.

“You’re the only creature who’s ever perched here without trembling,” he says against your mouth, and you laugh into the kiss.

“Maybe because I know you’d never drop me.”

His brows lift. “Never. I’d tear this place down first.”

There’s a flicker in his eyes then—something fierce, something feral—but it softens the moment you press your forehead to his. You can feel his breath against your lips, his hand cradling the back of your head like you’re the most delicate, most dangerous thing he’s ever touched.

“You’re mine,” he murmurs, not like a command—but like a prayer.

You nod, whispering, “Yours.”

Crowley tilts his head, lips ghosting over your cheek, your jaw, your throat. “My little crow,” he says again, like the name alone is sacred. “I should be punishing a traitor right now. Or at least brokering some ridiculous deal. Instead…”

“Instead, you’re pampering me,” you tease.

He smiles against your skin. “As if you don’t deserve every drop of it.”

You melt into him, the firelight flickering in the corners of the throne room. His hand roams from your waist to your shoulder, slow and languid, his thumb sweeping gentle strokes over your arm. Each movement says mine in a language older than words.

You wonder if any demon watching would even recognize him like this—crowned in shadows, but holding you like a star fallen into his lap. You wonder if they’d dare speak of it, the way the King of Hell becomes something else when his little crow is near.

He presses a kiss just below your ear. “I’d burn this whole bloody pit to keep you safe.”

“I know.”

“And if anyone touches a feather on my little crow’s head…”

“They won’t,” you interrupt, smiling softly. “No one gets close enough.”

Crowley leans back, watching you with something dangerously close to awe. His fingers find your hand, threading through your fingers with unexpected tenderness.

“Stay,” he whispers. “Just like this. A little longer.”

You settle against him again, the beat of his heart beneath your ear, his hand wrapped securely around yours.

“I’ll stay as long as you’ll have me.”

Crowley’s voice is quiet. “Forever, then.”

In the heart of Hell, its king sits on his throne—not alone, not cold—but with his little crow curled in his lap, kissed soft and worshipped quiet.

And for once, the fires do not roar.

They glow.

[meiplays]

I'm thinking of writing my first Daryl Dixon drabble!

I'm also thinking of writing a Sam Winchester Fic?

[meiplays]

Queen of the damned sanctuary part 1-11 is posted!

[meiplays]

Queen of the Damned Sanctuary

Chapter 11: “I'm The Only Wife He Needs.” 💍

━━━━━━༺༻ ━━━━━━

“if looks could kill, she would be ten f*cking feet underground”

She didn’t expect to walk into hell with his hand in hers.

The loft had been quiet. Safe. It gave her space to breathe after everything—the ring, the proposal, the way Negan looked at her like she’d hung the damn moon. She thought maybe she’d walk back into the Sanctuary stronger. More certain.

But the moment the gates closed behind them, something in the air shifted.

People watched. Not just the usual second glances thrown at Negan like offerings to a god, but real stares—lingering, cutting, full of silent conversations she wasn’t invited into. Like they all knew something she didn’t.

Her hand stayed tucked in his, fingers laced, grip tight. He was warm and solid beside her, leather brushing her arm with every step. And yet—her stomach turned.

It happened when they reached the lounge.

Five women, grouped like a curated display. Silk dresses. Flawless makeup. Perfect posture. And then there was her—the redhead—with lips like cherries and a gaze that didn’t drift once. Not to the floor, not to her. Just to him.

And she smiled. Slow. Knowing.

“Who are they?” she whispered, voice low against his neck.

Negan gave a soft, almost amused breath. “Oh. You never met the wives.”

Wives.

Her feet kept moving, but something in her froze. She’d never seen them before—never even heard him talk about them. But now she couldn’t unsee them.

The redhead tilted her head, eyes skating over Negan like she’d never been replaced.

That was all it took.

She stopped, tugged hard on his jacket, and yanked him down to her mouth. No warning. No gentle start. Just a kiss—rough, raw, and full of intent. Her hands curled in his collar, her body pressed into his like she needed to brand herself into his skin. His surprised groan vibrated against her lips before he kissed her back, open-mouthed and all in.

When she pulled back, her pink sparkly gloss was smeared across his mouth. Like a signature. Like war paint.

She turned to the wives, voice flat. “Still confused?”

The redhead’s smile cracked. None of them answered.

Negan huffed out a quiet laugh as they walked away, and she made damn sure the diamond on her hand caught the light. She didn’t look back.

She didn’t need to.

That night, she didn’t leave his side. Not for a second. She sat next to him during meetings. Pressed herself against his side in the hallways. Curled into his lap on that worn leather couch like he belonged to her—because he did.

And the whole Sanctuary noticed.

Later, when the doors were shut and the world outside faded, Negan stood in the doorway, arms crossed, watching her with a crooked smile and something softer in his eyes.

“Jealous, huh?”

She didn’t answer. Just applied a fresh coat of gloss with her finger and leaned back on the couch.

He crossed the room and tilted her chin up with two fingers. “They don’t mean a damn thing,” he murmured. “Never did. You’re not just different. You’re it.”

His thumb brushed over her ring.

“You’re the only one I got on one knee for.”

She didn’t speak, but the smirk tugging at her lips said everything.

His mouth was still faintly tinted pink.

And they all saw it.

....

[meiplays]

Chapter 10: “The Quiet Between”

Queen of the Damned Sanctuary

SFW | Soft Filler | Post-Proposal | Loft

💘🌸🌺💐

You can ask the flowers, I sit for hours

Tellin' all the bluebirds, the bill and coo birds

Pretty little baby, I'm so in love with you

❦

~━━━━━━♡💗♡━━━━━━~

The wind had cooled by the time they reached the loft. The ride was quiet—her arms around his waist, chin against his back, but her mind somewhere else entirely.

She never thought he’d actually do it. Not Negan. Not the man who ruled with a bat and a grin. But there he was, on one knee before the entire Sanctuary like it was the most natural thing in the world—like she was his world.

She needed space. And surprisingly, he didn’t fight her on it. Just grabbed his coat, nodded toward the bike, and said, “Then let’s go.”

Now, in the stillness of her loft, the dust in the air felt sacred. The soft, lived-in scent of old books, worn blankets, and something cinnamon clung to the wooden beams above.

Negan dropped his jacket onto the velvet couch like he’d done a dozen times before. He stood near the window, arms crossed, staring out at the forest like he wasn’t sure what came next. The golden hour painted his profile in a wash of warmth she didn’t know he had in him.

She sank into the couch. “You surprised me.”

“That was the point, sweetheart,” he muttered, glancing back with a half-smile. “Didn’t think I had it in me?”

“I didn’t think you wanted that.”

“I didn’t either. Until you.”

The quiet stretched comfortably between them.

“I love you, y’know,” he added, more serious now. “Ain’t just a power move. Not just for show. That ring was real. You’re real. And I wanted to give you somethin’ no one else could.”

She swallowed the lump in her throat. Her eyes burned.

He crossed the room slowly and sat beside her, close but not pushing.

“You don’t have to say yes right now. Hell, I’d wait forever if I had to. But I’m not lettin’ you go. You’re mine. That ain’t changin’.”

She reached out and took his hand, threading her fingers through his.

The guilt about Daryl was still there, lingering like smoke after a fire. But the comfort of Negan beside her—the warmth of his voice, the weight of his love—made her heart ache in a way that felt like home.

Maybe she didn’t have the answers yet. But in the loft, with him, she didn’t need them all at once.

For now, the quiet was enough.

🌸

[meiplays]

Negan edit

[meiplays]

The things I would do to that man just because he's sitting in a throne. Excuse me but I would climb him like a tree.

[meiplays]

Title: Consumed: When Leviathan Castiel Takes What’s His

Pairings: Leviathan Castiel x Reader

~

Summary: You should’ve listened when he said run.

But you didn’t.

Now, the man you knew is gone—replaced by something dark, hungry, and utterly obsessed with claiming you.

❀•°•═════ஓ๑♡๑ஓ═════•°•❀

Warnings: Contains dark themes, possession, intense emotional and psychological tension, implied supernatural elements, slowburn romance, SFW but highly suggestive/spicy content, character transformation.

You should’ve listened when he said run.

But you didn’t.

You froze, barely able to breathe as you stared across the lab. Sam and Dean were down, dazed, bleeding—Castiel was on the floor, clutching his head, choking out thick streams of black sludge that hissed when it hit the tile.

And then he looked up.

And you knew.

That wasn’t Cas anymore.

His eyes locked on you—those clear, ocean-blue eyes—but behind them something twisted was watching. Something ancient. Something hungry.

You took a shaky step forward. “Cas?”

His body jerked. His back arched inhumanly as the sludge poured from his mouth and eyes, pooling around him like tar. He shuddered—and then stillness.

And when he looked up at you again, it was no longer agony you saw in his face.

It was possession.

Pure. Undiluted. Desire.

His gaze dragged down your body like fire licking silk. His lips parted. He licked his bottom lip with slow, wet intent—and smiled.

You staggered back a step and hit the wall behind you, a sharp gasp catching in your throat.

The emergency lights flickered overhead, and in that pulse of brightness, you saw it.

A monstrous flicker of wings—Cas’s wings—but wider, corrupted. Dripping with shadow. Etched against the wall like smoke made solid.

A cruel trick of light—or a glimpse of something real.

He stood, impossibly graceful for a man falling apart. His coat was torn, soaked in black. His skin glistened with sweat and ichor, veins writhing beneath it like something was swimming under the surface.

“I… consumed them,” he said softly, voice thick and unnatural. “Too many. Too much. But they’re still mine. And you…”

His eyes narrowed on you, head tilting slowly like an animal scenting prey.

“You’re the only thing that ever made this vessel feel whole.”

You trembled as he stepped forward. You should’ve run. Should’ve called for Dean, for Sam—should’ve done anything.

But you couldn’t move.

“You always looked at him with those soft, trusting eyes,” he murmured. “You thought you were looking at an angel. But you were really looking at me."

You opened your mouth to speak—no idea what would come out—but he was in front of you now, hand lifting to gently trail black-streaked fingers along your collarbone. It burned, but not in pain. It was like his touch branded you.

“You’re afraid.” His voice was reverent now, hushed. “But you want to understand. Don’t you?”

His fingers curled just slightly into the fabric of your shirt. His head dipped, lips brushing just beside your ear.

“I could show you things even angels are forbidden to know.”

You gasped, half in shock, half in something you didn’t want to name—and his breath hitched against your skin.

That smile returned—crooked, too wide, too human.

“You want it,” he whispered, voice dropping to a growl. “You want me."

Your breath hitched again. Your spine pressed harder into the wall.

“I’m not Castiel,” he said with dark finality. “But he’s not coming back.”

He leaned closer. “Would you rather mourn him—or stay with me?”

You didn’t answer.

Because some dark, shameful part of you didn’t know anymore.

But he saw it.

He felt it.

And that was enough.

With one last gaze that scorched through you, he stepped back—dripping grace, smirking like a god wearing the memory of a man.

“I’ll return for you,” he said, voice echoing unnaturally through the lab. “When the others are done breaking.”

And then he vanished into the black.

You didn’t sleep for two days.

Dean kept pacing. Sam kept checking books, half-wincing with every movement. You kept watching the windows like they might drip black.

And when he finally came back, it wasn’t with thunder.

It was silence.

You were alone in Bobby’s safehouse kitchen, the flickering light above the sink humming softly as you filled a glass with water, hands still shaking from a nightmare that hadn’t ended with waking up.

And then—he was there.

No sound. No flutter of wings. Just the thick sense of wrongness that crawled over your skin before you even turned around.

“You said you’d come,” you whispered, not facing him.

“And you stayed.”

His voice was deeper now. Rougher. Like something inside was dragging claws along his throat.

Slowly, you turned.

He looked like Castiel. But every line was looser. More fluid. Like the vessel didn’t quite fit anymore, but was being held together by sheer will.

"Why are you here?"

His eyes glinted, not with light—but hunger.

"To collect what’s mine."

He stepped closer.

You backed into the counter.

His hand came up, not to hurt—but to cradle your jaw. Thumb brushing the corner of your mouth with quiet reverence.

"You’ve thought about it,” he murmured. “What it would be like. If he ever broke. If he ever touched you like he thought about when he believed you were asleep."

Your heart pounded.

"You’re lying."

He smiled.

"He wanted you. But he was too righteous to take."

His thumb trailed down your throat.

"I am not."

He pressed closer. Not touching—hovering. His mouth brushed your cheek, then your jaw, then lower.

“Say no, and I’ll leave,” he said. “But say yes… and I’ll show you what it feels like when a god falls for you.”

Your mouth parted, breath trembling on the edge.

You should say no.

You didn’t.

You whispered, "Yes."

And the world burned.

He kissed you like he owned the act of desire—like every taste of your mouth was a sacrament. His mouth slanted over yours with a possessive hunger that made your knees weaken, and he caught you effortlessly, lifting you onto the counter with a low growl that vibrated against your chest.

"You taste like prayer," he rasped between kisses. "Like something sacred meant to be defiled."

You gasped, fingers tangling in his hair as he kissed down your neck, dragging his tongue over every pulse and tremble. His hands explored your body with reverent sin—touching like he was worshipping and claiming all at once.

"You feel that?" he whispered, grinding against you slowly. "That’s the universe tearing at the seams just to keep me from taking more."

You arched against him, unable to answer, drunk on the press of his body and the raw power bleeding from him in waves.

"You want to be ruined," he growled against your shoulder. "Not gently. Not sweetly. Utterly."

He kissed the corner of your mouth, then your jaw, then lower, trailing his tongue down the center of your chest, every inch a slow burn.

“You belong to me now,” he breathed. “Body, mind, soul. Don’t lie to yourself. I see it in you—how much you crave the monster.”

And as his hands slid under your shirt, thumbs brushing skin with electricity, as his grace wrapped tighter around you in phantom touches—you didn’t deny it.

Because there was no going back.

You had said yes.

And Leviathan Castiel never gave anything back he claimed.

«────── « ⋅ʚ♡ɞ⋅ » ──────»