#Gradual Depth

[mollysunder]

I see Arcane's marketing is thrusting a lot of blue on Jinx's persona, which is fine, but also a misdirection! I argue that the use of blue on Jinx represents THE IDEA that others have of Jinx rather than representing who Jinx really is. Jinx's true color, the one she paints over those closest to her, the one that represents her is PINK. Jinx is pink!

When we see Jinx in pieces either in or out of show where blue is the predominant color in the palette it's signaling to us the audience that this the Jinx that is perceived by the world around her, which includes Piltover AND Zaun. In this essay I will---

[kagooleo]

i finally finished my riley shrine! it's best viewed on desktops (with firefox specifically) so it might look wonky on mobile devices 😅

this also serves as a soft opening of my nekoweb site! it's my personal blog outside of social media, and atm I have to do a Lot of transferring to and from my neocities, but at least my pages are still functional!

[mainfaggot]

how do you cut someone off

[amplexadversary]

I guarantee however good this new penis theft anime supposedly is, Machikado Mazoku/The Demon Girl Next Door is better.

Izumo Itō Trojan Horsed a lore-heavy urban fantasy with secrets and worldbuilding into a slice-of-life/moe girl magazine and it doesn't get near as much love as it deserves

Also the romance is really good. And the side characters. The occultist Ogura is probably my favorite but Liko, who we meet later on, is a delightful little shit.

[spoopup]

sonic discourse on twitter is uniquely stupid. and all of it makes me feel incredibly smart

[mechahero]

//Lambda has piss poor volume control when he’s speaking. Send post.

[lotus-of-stardollop]

My personal interpretation of each villager personality:

Peppy: Extroverted and very social. Gossipy with a wild imagination. Love to be the center of attention. Very verbally affectionate if they like you. Very bossy and mean-girl-esque if they dislike you.

Jock: Extroverted and very social. Brimming with confidence and love to be inspirational. Loud and energetic, can be exhausting just watching them. Himbos. Very competitive. Admires you and see you as an inspiration to them if they like you. Condescending and downplays your achievements if they dislike you.

Normal: Introverted and friendly. Gets along well with pretty much everyone. Prefers alone time however. Can find the other personalities a bit much to be around. Imaginative and overthink at times. Always delighted by you if they like you. Want nothing to do with you if they dislike you.

Lazy: Introverted and chill. Laidback and not bothered by much. Naturally curious. They’re kinda like the stoner friend. Admires you to an extent if they like you, though they don’t put you on a pedestal. At most expresses clear discomfort with you if they dislike you.

Snooty: Posh and pretentious. Very judgmental and gets repulsed easily. Can be rude and insensitive. Speak with no filter. Try their best to put differences aside if they like you. Outright insulting and repulsed by you if they dislike you.

Smug: Over-confident and full of themselves. Love to boast and brag. Flirty and uses flowery language. Perfectionists. Will be uncharacteristically bashful around you if they like you. Will go full throttle on their arrogance as a personal attack on you if they dislike you.

Sisterly: Compassionate and outspoken. Assertive with no hesitation to stand up for themselves or those they care about. Can be stubborn and sarcastic. Will be caring and look out for you if they like you. Will be threatening and express the urge to beat you up if they dislike you.

Cranky: Introverted and the rudest of any villager personality. Grumpy and bitter. Complains about pretty much anything. Short-tempered. Will be begrudgingly kinder to you if they like you. Very insulting and express clear disdain if they dislike you.

[screampied]

you always had a bad habit of falling asleep—not just anywhere though, but on sukuna ryōmen’s notorious throne. .

he hated it.

he hated how how you hogged up his space.

he hated how your near-quiet snores would echo through his poorly aged walls.

most importantly though, he hated how frustratingly cute you looked . . all scrunched up, curled up in a ball, and occasionally shivering a bit from the cool air that settled against your bare skin.

“tch..” he’d sigh, feeling his muscles ache with each step he took toward you. as usual, sukuna had just returned from some battle and here you were, always waiting for him to return. he’s probably told you over about a hundred times that you could have slept in his private chambers but no—you always preferred his throne. always.

you never told him, but part of the reason why you loved sleeping on it was because of his strong scent that always lingered on the piece of ancient furniture. a musky scent that you’d grow to always miss whenever he wasn’t with you.

“oi. you awake?” sukuna grumbles, and you shift a bit once he lifts you. you could hear him murmuring vexed curses under his breath as he positioned you to lean up a certain way. crimson-velvet eyes bore into your sleeping state and sukuna held back a snickering smile. “pft. ‘course not,” and you felt him starting to trod away with you snugly cradled in his broad arms. as sukuna made his way upstairs, he softly strokes a thumb underneath your nape. “brat. sleep in my bed next time. you’re gonna get back aches at this rate.”

despite his cold-hearted, rough exterior he was always gentle with you. only you. just you.

sukuna carried you in his arms like every other night—sometimes, he wonders if you do this on purpose. purposely falling asleep on his throne just so he could pick you up bridal style, bringing you back to his bed.

each step he took shook your entire body, and you let off a groan in your sleep from the abrupt bumps. “i know. i know little one. just a few more steps.” he rolls his eyes, secretly finding your slumbering state adorable. never in a million years would he ever admit it though.

as the wooden stairs creak—he continues to walk, occasionally looking down at you. right as he’s at the final groaning step, sukuna tenses a bit, feeling your head brush up against his soft exposed pecs.

his fleecy kimono was half open and you’re just buried in his arms, snuggling all against him like a needy cat.

the audacity. .

his pink slit brow furrows as he scoffs at the sight, bringing you inside his quiet spacious bedroom. gently, he starts to lie you down on the mattress but that’s when your arms wrap around him.

“eh? what are you-” sukuna grunts, and that’s when he collapses right against your chest. sukuna deadpans once your warm legs and arms sneakily snake around him—clinging onto him tight like a koala. “keh.. such a handsy pest, even when you’re dead asleep.” he clicks his tongue, letting you drag him further into the bed with you.

sukuna feels a strange feeling pooling near the very bottom depths of his heart.

it’s eerily strange . .

it doesn’t feel like the usual resentment, hatred, or even arrogance he feels toward others ‘below him’.

he finds himself melting into your tender touch, his chin gradually burying itself in your shoulder.

the soreness in his muscles started to subside as he was just on top of you—inhaling your sweet scent, stubbornly grumbling swears in your neck.

sukuna was feeling . . . soft.

he was so closely pressed up against you that he could feel the steady racing beats of your heart. each slow-paced ba-dump! that pumped out of your chest quickened by the second.

was . . he the one making your heart race?

sukuna heard how your shallow breaths significantly slowed, and your arms started to tighten more around his thick neck. he didn’t think he’d ever feel like this. whatever… emotion this was.

sure, he’s had to carry you up to his chambers so you’d sleep more comfortably lots of times but this- this moment felt more a bit different.

“i . . can’t sleep like this, y’know,” the demon breaks the silence, huffing at the awkward predicament he was in. sukuna was currently lying on top of you, hovering over you just so he wouldn’t crush your cute human body. with each longing second passing, he could already feel his limbs starting to ache from just idly hanging over you. “at least let me rest near the side.”

no reply.

sukuna scoffs again, realizing he’s practically talking to himself. but instead of responding with actual words—you cling onto him even tighter, your non-verbal way of saying ‘stay.’

“you’re even more annoying when you’re asleep,” he sighs, pinching his forehead. “fine.. i’ll- i’ll stay like this. here, with you. ‘s not like i plan to go anywher—” sukuna gets cut off once he sees you shifting a bit in your sleep again.

the silence was undeniably loud. with his lips mutely parting, he watches as you get more comfortable, letting off a few heavy exhales.

sukuna starts to ponder to himself. you looked so peaceful . . sound asleep.

he wondered what you were dreaming about. he was so busy staring at you while you slept that he didn’t even notice that he was starting to get drowsy himself. sukuna’s eyelids started to droop and he grunted, letting off an obnoxious yawn.

with watery eyes, sukuna stretches his arms before sinking his face back into your left shoulder. your warmth made him quietly purr into your neck. it was faint, but you heard it.

sukuna even mimicked some of your movements from earlier, softly rubbing his forehead against you as you held him close. “huh. this isn’t . . that bad,” he gruffly utters, his gravely voice pitching.

your chin rests on the top of his head, and sukuna gives you one last glance.

“i. . i love you.” he quietly whispers, thinking that just because you were asleep you couldn’t hear.

but- you did, you heard it all. every word.

little did sukuna know, you were actually wide awake the entire time. you woke up when he was carrying you up the stairs, but you just pretended to be asleep from that point up until now.

a small genuine smile curves on both sides of your crooked lips as your eyelids remain closed. in a sweet groggy voice, you instantly replied, “love you too ‘kuna. it’s about time you finally said it.”

sukuna’s eyes widen as his head quickly rises from against your chest. you’re looking down at him with very much open eyes now and the world’s smugest grin.

his cheeks—they’re burning, flushing with a rosy flamed color and you don’t think you’ve ever seen sukuna ryomen more embarrassed.

“you . . you didn’t . . hear that.”

“i definitely heard it.”

“ugh. i hate you.”

“i love youuu.”

“i… love you too, stupid cheeky human. now go back to sleep. hmph.”

[failbettergames]

Announcing Mandrake

You are the last of the Mandrakes, a sorcerous line of gardeners. At long last, you’ve returned to your family's abandoned home. Make friends, tend your gardens, and put down roots. Fish, gather and delve in the wilds. Make a place for yourself, and uncover the mysteries your family left behind.

The Lost Arts of Horticulture

Horticulture is a cursed and forbidden practice... except to you. You come from a long line of sorcerers who practiced the green and growing arts, and you’re able to grow such marvels as: runner beans! Cherry trees! The humble turnip!

And as your skills grow, you'll be able to plant stranger seeds, like thunder-calling taran, or rhewyn, which waters your gardens for you. Perhaps you'll even grow a goose-tree! (Where did you think geese came from? Other geese? Preposterous.)

Place beds, decorations and resting spots. Find, plant, nurture, grow and harvest plants both mundane and magical, and gradually expand your gardens into the tangled grounds of your family's abandoned castle.

A World to Inhabit

Discover a beguiling new world inspired by British history and folklore. A world of old, wild powers, of uncanny spirits that reside in those places mortals dare not go; of deep histories, and deeper mysteries.

You won't just work in your gardens. Forage for resources in the nearby woods and along the beach. Go fishing (but take care not to be cursed by the river). Delve into dangerous mines in search of bright minerals and stolen secrets.

Breathe life into the Mandrake lodge with your choice of furnishings and renovations; acquire old books, and spend the evenings reading in the candlelit comfort of your study. Learn to cook. Meet your neighbours, become entangled in their lives, give them gifts and learn their stories.

Fireside Menace

Long ago, the world changed. The Covenant of the Hearth decreed that the day belonged to humanity, but the night... the night belonged to other things. Now, all earthly lights save hearthfires go out when the sun sets, and the Mara ride the night-winds. Don't go out after dark – the night is not for you. 

For now. (After all, what self-respecting sorcerer follows the rules?)

Human, Humble Magic

Magic in Mandrake isn't about flashy fireballs and shimmering shields, but about folkloric ingenuity, whimsy and patience. Grow a cherry tree from seedling to maturity in seven days rather than seven years, then fashion your sorcerer's staff from its wood. Befriend a river. Eavesdrop on the dead. Spend a haunted night at the Butcher's Oak. Drink tea with the god who lives in your chimney. 

A Host of Lavishly-Realised Characters

Welcome to the village of Chandley. It's small, it's complicated, and everyone's got their own story. 

Meet Rosen – bee-keeper, candlemaker, rook-speaker – the even-handed village leader charged with steering this troublesome community of eccentrics. Or Gideon, the sombre hunter who makes pacts with the wild powers of the woods. Befriend Nessa, the village smith, whose kindness conceals the scars of an old tragedy; and Thackery, the effusive Voicer, who keeps technology that no-one – least of all he – fully understands. Visit the lighthouse, where Jory and Ruan Vicory live with young Tamsyn: the girl they saved from the sea, and who still hears voices calling to her from beneath the waves...

Chandley may be small, but it's old, thick with secrets, and set in its ways. Is it ready for the return of a Mandrake?

Beyond the firelight

Encounter the spirits, gods and bogles that live alongside the people of Chandley: the smiling revenant imprisoned in a tree, who claims he knows you (even though he's hundreds of years dead). Lonely, long-armed Granny Jakes in her hidden orchard, who offers you a sip of a drink that the world has forgotten how to make. The Regent of the Woods, bearer of a white crown. The shy thing that whistles an old tune in the depths of a mine no-one has worked in decades. Hroame, who is sometimes stone and sometimes not.

Come along with us

If you’d like to hear from us when we release Mandrake or upload a demo, please consider wishlisting the game on Steam.

Because Mandrake is complex and has some very unusual features, we’ll be seeking ongoing feedback from players. At first, that will be through playtests on Steam, and later we’ll be releasing Mandrake in Early Access.

If you’d like to hear about playtests or just learn more about the game, you can follow us here or sign up for our monthly newsletter, which covers music, internet ephemera, art and film recommendations, strange historical anecdotes, pigeons, various mines/caves/catacombs, and sometimes also updates on our games.

About Failbetter Games

Should you see this and not know us! Founded in 2009, we’re an indie game studio known for quality storytelling and highly atmospheric art. You might know us from our other games: Sunless Sea, Sunless Skies and Mask of the Rose, which are set in the world of our long-running browser game Fallen London. In a break from studio tradition, this is a game where you can't eat people.

[fu11ofshit]

𝘚𝘗𝘐𝘛 𝘖𝘕 𝘐𝘛 // Nerdmin x Reader

𝘕𝘦𝘳𝘥𝘮𝘪𝘯 𝘪𝘴 𝘢𝘭𝘴𝘰 𝘢 𝘮𝘶𝘯𝘤𝘩. 𝘛𝘩𝘢𝘵’𝘴 𝘪𝘵, 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵’𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘱𝘰𝘴𝘵. ⋆˙⟡ ( art by musapylsa)

cw : oral sex (f) receiving, fingering, spitting, and all that good stuff

a/n: yall give me requestss i will do themm

…

“I want you to spit on it.”

Armin looked up from between your thighs, his glasses slipping down the bridge of his nose as his hands were halfway through easing your panties down your ankles.

For a moment, a quiet intensity flickered in his eyes— his cheeks flushed, his breath hitched before giving you a small, deliberate nod.

Armin tucked a strand of hair behind his ear before leaning in. His lips parted, releasing a thick trail of spit that slid down your aching bud. You felt the wet heat trickle slowly over your clit, sinking toward your entrance. A broken groan slipped from your lips as Armin brought his thumb to where his spit had landed, spreading your folds open to let it glide over your core before firmly rubbing it in with your wetness.

You drew a haughty whine, as Armin’s thumb stroked slow, tedious circles on your clit. You arched your back in response, gradually rolling your hips against his addicting touch.

“It’s okay, I got you,” Armin said softly, before firmly driving his fingers into you, his pace quick and relentless. “Armin-!” You gasped, his fingers pumping in and out of you, every movement sending sparks through your core.

He angled his fingers in swift, controlled motions, pressing into the depths of your pleasure, drawing out your breathless moans. “You take my fingers so well,” he groaned, brushing his fingers against your sweet spot— making your toes curl and your legs tremble.

He liked watching you like this, unraveling beneath him from just his fingers alone. Your hands fondled your breast, desperate moans spilling from your lips. He kept his eyes locked on you beneath his glasses as he lowered his head, the tip of his pierced tongue finding your clit. He dragged it down slowly, and when the cold metal of his piercing met your swollen bud, he moved even slower, gliding it against you with maddening precision.

“Armin, fucccck,” you threw your head back, the sensation dragging you to your breaking point. Armin’s fingers still moved inside you, fast and unrelenting— while his piercing traced tight, teasing circles around your clit making you see stars.

He looked up at you, lips slick, breath heavy. “Come on my tongue,” he said breathless, almost like a plea. “Please.”

And you did.

Eyes fluttering, body trembling, falling apart on his mouth like it was the only place you ever belonged.

[floatyflowers]

Dark Male Lord Tremaine X Cinderella's mother! Reader

You are living a life of luxury as Lord Tremaine's new wife, residing in his grand estate with servants at your feet doing whatever they can to please you.

On the surface, everything appears perfect, a fairytale come true.

Your daughter, Ella, is treated with respect, a stark contrast to the cruel treatment often endured by stepchildren in such tales.

She shares meals with her stepsisters, participates in family outings, and is included in social gatherings.

Lord Tremaine seems fond of her, often engaging her in conversation and praising her accomplishments.

However, this happy facade begins to crumble three months into your marriage. Your health takes a downturn, a weakness overtaking you.

The cause remains a mystery, baffling both you and the physician summoned to your bedside.

Your decline is gradual, yet relentless, stealing your vitality day by day.

What was once a vibrant bloom of health has now faded, leaving you feeling fragile and vulnerable.

Adding to your distress, your once attentive and caring husband, Lord Tremaine, insists on confining you to your chambers for the majority of the day.

He cites concern for your well-being, claiming that rest is important for your recovery.

While you are granted access to the estate's beautiful gardens for a short period each day, your movements are otherwise restricted.

Adding to your woes, your time with your beloved Ella lessened with each passing day.

Lord Tremaine, citing the importance of your rest and the need to shield you from unnecessary activities, limits your interactions with her.

What were once frequent visits and shared moments now occur only occasionally, leaving you yearning for your daughter's presence and worrying about her well-being under her stepfather's watchful eye.

One day, while your husband was on a business trip, the physician paid you a visit and revealed that you had been given a medicine that weakens your body.

Of course, when Lord Tremaine returned you faced him with the truth.

You know what he did?

He only smirked before grabbing your hands into his large ones.

"Don't worry, the medicine will not kill you; it will keep you in check." He places one of his hands on the side of your cheek.

"I don't want you slipping from under my grasp like my first wife. The poor woman passed away so young."

You want to pull away, to scream, to do anything but sit here and listen to his morbid confession.

Yet, you only continue to listen to him as he speaks.

"She didn't understand,"

"Didn't understand the importance of our bond, the necessity of my...guidance."

He strokes your cheek with the back of his hand, his touch lingering too long.

"But you, my dear," his eyes lock onto yours, a strange intensity burning in their depths,

"You are different. You will understand."

Seeing you stay silent boosted his threats.

"Beautiful little Ella is my third daughter; imagine what will happen to the poor, sweet girl if you disobey me?"

"You wouldn't," you whisper, your voice trembling, though you know better. The cold calculation in his eyes tells you he would. He will.

"Of course not," he says smoothly, his tone almost soothing, as if he’s trying to calm a frightened child.

"Not if you remain compliant."

[comatosebunny09]

one in the head, two in the chest | sylus

— summary: the universe had a shitty way of reminding you of your place. — cw: headcanon format, character death, reader is not mc, written with female reader in mind, profanity, mentions of alcohol, blood & injury, sex mention, self-destructive behavior, jealousy, mutual pining, unrequited feelings, melodramatic af, ooc, mdni — notes: is it bad i’m laughing ‘cause @alfredosaws had me singing the chorus for “you give love a bad name” while writing this? listen, don’t judge me i needed to get this out, okay? thank you for reading this dramatic dribble. — now playing: riverside - agnes obel bullet to the heart - jackson wang

It was a partnership of convenience. A mutual agreement.

The terms were simple: Sylus offered you protection, a renewed sense of purpose, and redemption. You handled his opposition, luring them from the shadows and snuffing them out like a candle’s flame. 

You performed at his clubs while moonlighting as an assassin. His right hand. His femme fatale. The perfect cover. 

You also made money for him, attracting new clientele. It was a win-win.

You struck fear into anyone who would dare sully his name while he got to keep his hands clean.

He never badgered you about your past, and you never pried into his.

The arrangement was flawless. Until it wasn’t.

You didn’t bank on falling for him. 

There was no singular moment. No ‘aha!’ No record scratch in a romcom where you, the protagonist, realized, ‘This guy’s got my heart in a bind.’

No.

It was a culmination of things. A gradual descent into irrevocable madness. It was terrifying, like sinking into the depths of a murky sea, only you weren’t thrashing about as water filled your lungs.

Not at first.

You feared letting him down. Feared his rejection and disrupting the lifestyle you had grown so accustomed to. 

It was comfortable, the hodgepodge life you constructed with him, the twins, and Mephisto. 

You had his back, and he had yours. You were Bonnie and Clyde. You shit-talked and flirted, but it was harmless. 

Initially.  

Sometimes, the flirting was accompanied by lingering gazes, accidental touches, and lasting smiles that held a little too much yearning.

His treatment towards you didn’t help matters. 

He gave you free rein of his mansion. Gave you the codes to his safe houses around the city, his armories. Bought you expensive clothes and intricate costumes to wear when you performed at his clubs. 

Cars, jewelry, property. You named it, and Sylus gave it to you. 

He held you a little too possessively when you accompanied him to galas and banquets. Never corrected the other guests when they referred to you as ‘his lady.’

Anyone go to his nightclubs specifically requesting you? ‘No. Not this one. Choose someone else.’

He often summoned you to his quarters following your missions to tend to your injuries personally. 

Even let you fall into his bed when he filled you with too much wine over dinner at the mansion or when it was too cold to sleep alone.

Nothing ever happened, much to your dismay. He was always such an insufferable fucking gentleman. 

Your relationship was far beyond that of employer and employee. Yet you dreaded labeling it, fearing your dynamic would shift for the worst if he knew how you felt about him. You weren’t allowed to feel things for him.

One day, you’d become a liability he couldn’t afford to keep around. 

But he was so fucking nice to you. Showed you kindness and temperance in a fast-paced and vapid world. You didn’t deserve this warmth, but you didn’t want to let it go.

You didn’t have to run anymore. Didn’t have to jump from city to city, changing your name, hiding behind your glamor. 

He offered you security, safety, and predictability, where you didn’t know if tomorrow would be your last day on Earth. 

He coddled your need for independence. Wasn’t stifling or controlling, but he was your security blanket in case you needed him.

He showed you fleeting tenderness that gave you a glimmer of hope that maybe…

Just maybe he pined for you as much as you pined for him.

But you’d never admit it aloud, content with staying at his side, paying off an unspoken debt, even as your heart squeezed each time he showed you a flicker of affection.

Enter Little. Miss. Dazzling. Charming. Irresistible. Hunter.

She swept in like a whirlwind, turning your life upside down on its axis. 

He forced her on you. Never explained the intricacies of their relationship, just that she owed him a debt, and he brought her around to collect on it.

You unwillingly became her guardian, tasked with showing her the ropes and dragging her on missions or to meetings.

You hated the arrangement at first. She was all bright-eyed, smiling, and optimistic. Reckless. Strong-headed. In some ways, she was like you. A reflection of the woman you were years before the world robbed you of your innocence.

And she was a Hunter of all things. She could turn you in at the drop of a hat. You served on different sides of the law. There was no telling what information she was feeding the Association behind your backs.

Most of all, you grew to despise how she changed him. How his attention shifted, and she became the center of his universe.

He carted that fleeting softness he’d once shown you, to her. 

The man was playing Kitty Cards and sneaking plushies into the mansion for crying out loud. 

Singing, wearing bright colors, showing mercy.

The hunter was disarming in a way that you weren’t. Snuck into the fissures of his heart, effortlessly snatching him away from you.

You’d spent years getting accustomed to him. Getting him to crack a rare smile. It took her a matter of months.

You wanted to hate her so much. But with time, she grew on you, too. 

Crept her way into your heart with her waywardness, banter, and determination to make herself useful. To prove her worth. To find her niche. 

She surprised you time and time again. You thought she would crumble beneath the pressure. That she would eventually give in, realizing the nefarious life you led wasn’t for her.

But pressure formed diamonds, and she became more of an asset than a liability.

And before you knew it, you accepted your fate.

Like with Sylus, there was no singular pivoting point in your relationship. She just…grew on you like a benign tumor. 

She became something of a friend—someone you wanted to keep safe. You were inadvertently grooming your replacement. She was no longer your baggage. No longer a thorn in your side.

You had someone else you wanted to protect. Another relationship to nurture.

You started to look forward to the days she’d light up the mansion with her animated stories and colorful personality. Where’d she blunder up your missions but pull through in the end.

You were Thelma and Louise.

And she made Sylus smile in a way you never could. Laugh in a way you never could. Seeing your seemingly cold boss lower his defenses so much was nice, even if it wasn’t your doing. 

You sensed their relationship was cosmic. Something orchestrated by the universe. They were so close. So familiar. They had history, a connection that existed long before you stumbled into Sylus’ life. 

You found yourself quietly bowing out of a competition you constructed in your mind. She was the better match—the better woman. 

Her hands were clean. Yours were crusted with blood.

You never stood a chance from the start. 

The closer you grew to Ms. Hunter, the larger the wedge between you and Sylus became. 

There was no definitive title to their relationship, at least not one you had heard of. But out of respect for whatever brewed between them, you bowed out, reverting to the rigid partnership you initially shared with Sylus.

To cope with your unrequited feelings, you became self-destructive.

You thrust yourself into missions, trying to keep your mind off things. No matter how hard you tried, you couldn’t snuff out the feelings you still had for your boss. How shitty of a friend you were, pining for someone who never was yours. Could never be yours.

You drank more. Sought out pleasures of the flesh from people whose faces and names you could never remember.

You skipped meals. Slept like shit. Your Evol was dwindling more each day, reflecting the decaying state of your psyche.

You were punishing yourself in a way. Didn’t think you deserved anything more than a quick fuck. Something to curb the urge. You wanted to be used. Wanted to feel something other than this gut-wrenching pain. This emptiness. 

You pushed everyone away, donning that mask of nonchalance you were known for. 

Sylus caught on, but you were too wrapped up in your emotional turmoil to notice. 

You felt like you were submerged in water, slowly drowning, your hand held out for someone to save you. And Sylus was reaching for it, desperately trying to pull you out. To pull you back to shore.

But you were too prideful to take it. Too prideful to admit you weren’t okay. That you were envious. Resentful. Falling apart at the seams. You were paranoid. You were quietly being shoved out of the picture, and one day, Sylus would no longer find you valuable.

Not when you were molding someone else to fill your shoes. 

You felt worse each day because people noticed you weren’t okay. You hated when anyone worried. When people pitied you. You were a big girl—you could take care of yourself. You’d been doing it for years.

Ms. Hunter forced you to confront your feelings one day.

Grabbed you by your shoulders as the sun set over Destiny Cafe, shaking the shit out of you, the table rattling between you. Told you anyone with eyes could see the chemistry brewing between you and Sylus and how you were running from it like a fucking coward.

You were both lovesick puppies, walking on eggshells around each other.

He changed, too. Your cold shoulder, your demeanor—it made him more wary. Careless. Wounded.

‘If you don’t talk to each other, I’m gonna lock you both in a room, and neither of you is coming out until you resolve whatever’s going on between you,’ she said, exasperated.

You scoffed. There was no way Sylus had feelings for you, too. Not when she was in the picture. Not when you were something of convenience, something to further his agenda, protect his assets. His shield. His ever-reliant guard dog.

You didn’t think yourself worthy of affection. You were a weapon. A murderer. Crass. Damaged goods. He deserved better. 

But she told you to give him a chance. To stop being so fucking blind. It was driving her ragged, watching you both tread thin ice around her.

She wanted to smack some sense into you. You smirked, placatingly patting her hand on your shoulder. You were rubbing off on her. She was rubbing off on you.

You tried to be more attentive thereon. 

Noticed every lasting, yearning look Sylus cast your way with those scarlet eyes. Every errant brush of fingers over your hand, wrist, neck, back. How his voice affectionately sloped whenever he spoke to you, a boyish gleam to his eyes. He was gentle and homely and trying. 

And you weren’t used to it. You were afraid of it. 

You still had your moments when you ran. When you shoved him away, thinking things were too good to be true.

An overwhelming part of you still believed you weren’t good enough.

But he was trying. Really trying. He didn’t even use you as bait anymore. Rarely sent you on missions where he knew you’d encounter some strife. He was more protective. More considerate, and it made your stomach twist.

Things came to a head one fateful evening. 

He called you as the sun sought refuge behind the horizon. You’d been dodging him for weeks.

You were seated at a cafe, trying to breathe. 

The conversation was intense. Emotional. You were misty-eyed as it drew to a conclusion. Voice all croaky, throat rubbed raw. 

You were tired of running again. Exhausted with pushing yourself to the back burner in favor of others. You needed to know what his intentions were with you. If he was serious about you. If he was sure you were what he wanted.

He told you he’d never been more sure of anything in his life. 

You cried. You fucking cried, pacing around in that stupid cafe. You hadn’t cried in years. You hated how it made you feel. You were pathetic. 

When his voice broke through the static on your cell phone, it simmered with emotion. He sounded suspiciously close, telling you to turn around.

You did as he instructed, accustomed to doing what you were told without a second thought.

He stood before you, his phone still held to his ear, anguish screwing up his brows, a forlorn smile curving his lips. 

You watched him, misty-eyed and wobbly-lipped. 

The cafe’s wispy curtains fluttered between you. The setting sun limned both your bodies in amber. It was like a dream. 

Unspoken words hung in the air, nebulous like a cloud. Neither of you had to say a thing. This feeling between you, it was practically tangible.

He was wordless when he conquered the space between you in two long strides, tugging you into the circle of his arms.

He smelled so good. Felt so warm. So strong. So safe. You crumbled. He held you as you cried, stroking over your back, whispering words of affirmation into the crown of your head. Apologized over and over again.

You felt stupid. Melodramatic. But he came for you. 

It felt kind of nice—having someone chase you for once. Having someone pour every bit of themselves into you when all you’d known were crumbs.

He made love to you later that night. 

Made. Love. 

You were used to hot, furtive, emotionless sessions where you often forgot your partner’s name.

But Sylus, he…

He was so fucking gentle and patient and attentive. Asked if you were alright every chance he could. Handled you like glass, ensuring your needs were satiated long before he pursued his own.

He made you feel full. Warm. Revered. 

Filled you to the brim. Covered you like a warm blanket on the coldest night. His praise made your toes go numb. Made hot tears scorch down your face as your tongue wrapped around his name in pleasure once more.

Your relationship blossomed thereafter. 

Your insecurities still beckoned you with their scraggly fingers from time to time. But Sylus treated you more like a lover. An equal. A partner. 

For the first time in over a decade, you felt genuine happiness. You were healing.

But it was short-lived. There was always a nagging voice in the deepest reaches of your mind, reminding you everything good would eventually meet its end.

You were awaiting a fireworks show at the pier with Sylus, Ms. Hunter, and her friends. The carnival was in full swing.

You were browsing the stalls littering the boardwalk. Ran your fingers over various trinkets, your lips aching with a smile.

You decided to grab snow cones for two of the most important people in your life. It was a sweltering summer night, the kind of weather that covered every bit of exposed skin in a fine sheen of sweat.

Your purchases were in your hands, and you returned to them. Your heart pulled at the sight that greeted you.

They were standing together—Sylus and the hunter—leaning against the rail. Laughing, smiling, teasing. They looked so comfortable. So cozy. Something out of a painting. So natural.

Even long after you and Sylus became exclusive, you still had days when your feelings of inadequacy crept in. 

But they still looked like they fit together better than you did. You felt like an interloper. Like you were witnessing something you had no business being a part of. The universe was sending you signals. Warnings you should’ve heeded long ago.

The snow cones melted in your hands, their sticky, cold sweetness dripping down your knuckles, you had been watching them for so long.

Someone called for you through the cacophony of the other carnival-goers, dredging you from your thoughts. You turned, plastering on a fake smile as you acknowledged Tara. 

You jogged towards her, tamping down those nagging feelings. Sylus loved you. They both did.

Time seemed to slow to a crawl.

There was a familiar whizzing sound. The smell of carbon. Smoke. A sharp pain in your chest. You were moored to the spot as your smile melted away.

The snow cones fell from your hands. It hurt to breathe. Hurt to stand. You looked down as the crowd erupted in horrified screams. 

Red lazily spilled onto your shirt between your ribs until it was all you could see. You looked up, your vision bleary as Tara’s panicked face blurred in and out of focus. 

You sank to your knees, the air siphoned from your lungs. You didn’t scream. You couldn’t. You were falling. Sinking to the ground when—

Hands. Hands were pulling at you from all angles onto your back. Frantic, muddled voices. Screaming. Shouting. Shoving.

The boardwalk rocked beneath you as people ran every which way. You couldn’t keep your eyes open. Couldn’t breathe, couldn’t speak, your voice gurgled and wet. The taste of iron was dense on the back of your tongue.

You felt weightless. You were being pulled into a familiar embrace. Swaddled in that familiar scent. Your cheeks were wet, but not from your tears.

Scarlet. You recall scarlet eyes flitting in and out of clarity as your vision darkened around the corners like a vignette. You reached up to touch them. To touch that warm, stubbled cheek. Trace those pretty, petal pink lips. That beautiful nose.

You were cold. So cold. So weak. Shaky. You managed a smile as blood flooded your chest. Filled the space between your teeth.

Your hand fell away, thudding against the floorboards. You couldn’t move. Why couldn’t you move? Why couldn’t you—

You were slipping away, the homely call of darkness pulling you under.

You don’t think you’ve ever heard him scream like that. It was blood-curdling. Devastating. Fire and brimstone. Like demons tearing through hell’s gates.

You wanted to comfort him. Never wanted to hear that sort of anguish in his voice again. But you couldn’t. Fucking. Move.

You were dying.

Maybe this was your punishment for tempting fate—his punishment for choosing you over what was already predetermined. 

Fate always had a way of mucking things up, didn’t it?

[khunwriting]

[Silent Musings]

Synopsis: Floyd thinks about his day and you as you sleep beside him.

Genre: Fluff

Notes: Lots of predatory/prey wording, written from Floyd's perspective, tried to write GN! Reader, Yuu!Reader

Pairing: Floyd Leech x Reader

When Floyd opened his eyes, the dorm room was still unlit and engulfed in a silent black shroud. Despite that, he had no problem seeing everything. Being from the Coral Sea, his eyesight was used to the inky depths, ready to fight anything that dared lurk in the deep or catch any unsuspecting prey.

Maybe that was why his gaze immediately shot to your face—a foolish little shrimp that dropped their guard in the midst of a blood-hungry predator. 

Floyd’s singular golden eye gleamed in the dark as he laid completely still. His body was covered underneath the tousled sheets that offered no warmth, just a vague feeling of something on his body. No, the only warmth that he greedily accepted was radiating off your sleeping body.

A silly little shrimp that fell asleep in his presence. 

Deep in his blood, the sight of such easy prey brought out his primitive urges. His long limbs longed to reach out, wrapping around their body with a suffocatingly tight grip. His lips longed to stretch wide, showing off razor teeth, dripping with saliva. His jaw longed to unhinge, ready to pounce and pierce into soft flesh and shred. 

Yet it was you, the magicless prefect. And because of that, the moray eel continued to lie beside you without a single twitch in his muscles. Just watching and drinking in every little detail he could commit to memory. 

Like how your chest heaved slowly with every breath, a soft snore escaping your parted lips every few seconds. Or how your arms wrapped around the decently sized shrimp plush you bought for him on a trip into town one weekend (it was admittedly goofy-looking with the uneven eyes and flimsy felt legs and antennas, but you gave it to him. So he sleeps with it every night since receiving it, ignoring Jade’s teasing remarks). Or how your eyes fluttered rapidly underneath your eyelids.

What were you dreaming of? Maybe you were dreaming of going through another chaotic day at NRC, running into some trouble because of someone in your shoal. Maybe you were dreaming of being back in your world, reliving some memories before you arrived at Twisted Wonderland.

Was it a good dream? He could only assume based on the soft expression on your face.

Were you dreaming of him maybe? Sevens, Floyd hoped you were dreaming of him.

It was pitiful how a tiny creature like you could make his ravenous heart thump quickly in his chest.

But it happened. Gradual, unassuming, and unexpected.

The first time Floyd saw you at the orientation ceremony, he thought that the whole experience was hilarious—the way you floundered about, incredibly lost and frazzled at the chaos surrounding you had him nearly doubled over in laughter. He brushed it off like it was the end of it, but, to his surprise, you stuck around. Rumors of the magicless human and the trouble that followed in your path spread like wildfire in NRC, yet he could never quite get a glimpse of you, aside from that one time you were spying on him and Jade with the rest of Heartslabyul guys. 

But then the final exams came around and you were suddenly among all the sea anemones, begging to help your reckless shoal. And everything fell into place from there. Your presence became more steady, and he suddenly noticed you around more and more (or was it that he subconsciously seeked you out instead?). While you were most definitely afraid of him at the beginning, at some point the frightful jolts eased away into excited hops and something in him shifted during that time.

His ever-swaying mood swings became more manageable when you were around. Floyd could be in the worst of moods from whatever got him down, but just the sight of you from across the hall or courtyard had his heart all aflutter and he wasted no time scooping you in his arms right then and there. Jade and Azul noticed this change right away—and maybe that’s why you were here in his bed today.

For whatever reason, the world was out to get him that day. At first, some guy from Savanaclaw scuffed his shoes right after he had cleaned and polished them the night prior. It was fine till Floyd got caught shortly afterwards with bloody knuckles and a battered beastman, so came the long lecture and write-up for detention. Then, Floyd was getting hounded on by professors left and right about missing assignments and failed tests. What tipped it all off was when he got paired up with some squeamish frosh in potionology, and the Scarabian student was so fidgety that he dumped the wrong amount of dawn-weed and subsequently made the potion blow up in their faces.

Once the bell rang and he knocked some teeth out of the freshman, Floyd retreated back into his dorm room with a glare that had everyone scattering. Already deciding to skip the rest of the day, the eel fell onto his bed and bundled underneath the covers. 

He didn’t know how long he laid there in the dark, just seething and wringing his shrimp plush between his fingers, but the door creaked open and shut within a few moments. The person crept closer to his bed and Floyd already knew who it was by gait and footfalls.

“Floyd?” And there was your pretty voice. “Can I lay next to you?”

Wordlessly, he shimmied towards one side of the bed and you seemed to get the hint. You simply took off your shoes and gently lifted the blanket to lay at his side. You didn’t look frightened by his scowl nor did you tense at his unblinking, glowing eyes. Instead, you, the little shrimpy, just smiled softly and gently ran your fingers through his hair. It was like the tension in his shoulders ebbed away and he let his eyes shut to bask in the affection.

So that’s where he was now: Laying in the dark and watching you sleep with his heart beating sweetly for you. The once roaring and angry tsunami that crashed inside of him had quieted into tender lull waves, lapping at his heart. 

Again, it was pitiful how such prey could reduce his heart to mush. But, Sevens, were you the sweetest thing in his eyes. A little feeble shrimp with the prettiest eyes and kissable smile.

Oh, how Floyd wants to dress you up with chains of pearls, sea glass, and coral and give you all the scales and teeth you’d want, if it meant you’d be in a symbiotic relationship with him. You’ll ease his frazzled heart and clutch his face in your gentle hands and he’ll smother you in kisses and protect you from all the other beasts out vying for a taste of you.

He’d do it all for you, and he wishes he wasn't such a coward. Like all moray eels, he has to be 100% sure you feel the same way or else he can’t will himself to make a move. 

So he’ll do what predators do best. He’ll wait. 

He’ll sit and wait. Until he gets a whiff of your reciprocated love and knows your heart beats for only the name Floyd Leech, then will he strike and cradle your bleeding heart into his own hands.

Till then, he’ll be content watching in the dark and waiting for the time to go for the kill.

[tahbhie]

Reasons Why 80% of Romantic Plots Fall Through.

Haven't you wondered why a romantic story you have so much hope for suddenly flops? Whether it's yours or not, let's see what could be the problem.

• Relying Too Much on the Outcome

Unfortunately, no romance is complete without an arc. In other words, it is more than just the intimacy. When writers don't allow the relationship to develop naturally, it feels forced. Rushing to the final romance without building a solid foundation will make the story feel shallow and unconvincing. Take your time, flesh out the idea, and follow the plot gradually.

• Creating Unnecessary Victimization

I often see writers make the mistake of portraying one character as too weak or pitiful only for the sake of it. This unnecessary victimization can undermine the character's depth and make the story less compelling. Your readers won't cry along with a female character whose decisions are pretty sour compared to a five-year-old. It's just simply annoying.

Instead, both characters should have strengths and weaknesses, make realistic decisions, making them more relatable and balanced.

• Cringy Conflict.

Realistic conflict is essential for a compelling romance. Over-the-top or contrived conflicts can make the story feel forced and cringy. Conflict should come naturally and blend perfectly into the plot. It's not advisable to pop a challenge that's definitely not necessary in the name of 'keeping the stakes high.'

Rather, focus on creating believable challenges that the characters must overcome, adding depth and authenticity to the plot.

• Neglecting Other Emotions Outside Romance.

It's not only about love, or roses, or dinner nights, or lucky dates with the billionaire. Show the other emotions fighting for dominance: the hurts, pains, joy, frustration, desperation, anger, sadness, jealousy, anxiety, or even moments when a character falls out of love with the other and can't understand their feelings.

Focusing solely on love can lead to a one-dimensional story. For a well-rounded narrative, explore these emotions to create a richer and more immersive experience for the readers.

• Underdeveloped Characters.

What's a story without a fully-fledged character, especially if they are the main character in a story?

You might have heard people talk about the importance of backstories and others saying too much of it tires them out, but here's the thing—balance. It's what people fail to incorporate. I'll try to cover this in any of my upcoming blog posts. Follow to keep up.

To better understand why we should cry for, laugh with, pity, admire, adore, scold, yell at, advocate for, and smile with your character, we need to know why they are what they are, who they are, and why they make the choices they make.

It's important to create characters with distinct personalities, backgrounds, and motivations. When readers care about the characters, they become more invested in the story and its outcome.

And that's my Christmas gift from me to you 🎁. Merry Christmas 🎄

[bluemerakis]

────────── ᝰ bluemerakis ༝༚༝༚ ───

❝ this one’s on me ❞

─ ۶ৎ ─

pairing ୨୧ dean winchester x fem .ᐟ reader

warnings .ᐟ s4 .ᐟ spoilers, cussing, dean’s really just suffering omg, and he’s also like, secretly smitten over reader; small age gap, a slow-burn build up to car sex, grinding, nip sucking, oral f receiving (he’s such a tentative munch pls), unprotected p in v, fluff. lmk if I forgot any :))

synopsis — dean’s physically free of hell, but he finds that his own demons have never really left him. having already made his fair share of bad decisions, he figures that it couldn’t hurt to make one more—the pursuit of you.

word count ~ 10.5k (i’m done apologising y’all know how carried away i get 🤟)

──────────────────────

Rowdy occupants teetered throughout the local bar, their cheers and protests slurred by this evening’s two-for-one special on all drinks. The bar was lively enough on most nights, but always in a manner sophisticated enough for Dean to enjoy a glass or two in comfort. Now, the space had become a raging fest of body against body, and the music was so loud that he could feel the ringing of his ears pressing all the way into the back of his eyes. The abrupt change in atmosphere felt personal, like it’d been specially planned to further tug at Dean’s gradual undoing.

His elbows were propped onto the bar top before him, fingers restlessly tapping at the sweaty, glass keep of his beer. All around him, barmaids wove frisky lines to tend to drunken groups seated along either side of him. Occasionally, one of the girls would attempt to cast their hook into him with an overzealous offer to top up his drink, and a candid nibble of their glossed lips, but he’d nicked their lines at the ready.

Any other night, he would’ve jumped at the opportunity to show those gorgeous barmaids a time to remember, but as of now, he had other company to entertain—the unwanted and persistent voices in his head. Sounded insane, huh? Quite frankly, he was starting to feel the part. It was making him a bit of a downer, and that wasn’t much his style with the ladies.

Dean’s head lolled between his hunched shoulders, where he glimpsed his lonely reflection in the bubbling amber of his drink. He realised he must’ve stood apart from the bar’s bustling and cheerful atmosphere like a sore thumb, sat in broody silence as he indulged his second beer with a hefty frown on his brows.

He could have scoffed at the idea of being alone. If only onlookers had the ability to peer into the depths of his tainted mind, then they’d know that he was anything but alone.

True silence was a luxury Dean had long since been robbed of. It was a concept that held hands with peace, but there was no peace to be found in a soul as wretched as his. He didn’t deserve it—not after everything he’s done.

Those years he’d spent wrapped up in hell had remade his psyche in all the worst ways. And even now, as he walked amongst the living once again, it felt as though a fraction of the underworld had carried through and engraved itself in his very DNA.

He felt tainted by its touch—heard the way it mocked him with the voices of all the strangers he’d tortured to spare himself the same turmoil. It looped in his mind like a sadistic ear worm. Every hour, every minute, every damn second of the day. And to top the icing on the screw you cake? He had no idea how to make them shut the hell up.

It hadn’t always been that way, though. The first time it happened had been a rough week or so after his return. He’d taken on a rather grim job with his brother—a chain of victims that had been tortured to the death by a rogue demon. Dean had let out a wry scoff when Sam had first told him the details. He had a hunch on what that was about.

The demons hadn’t had any say in Dean’s release from hell. If it were up to them, they’d have kept him in a glass display for all eternity. When Cas had pulled him from the fiery depths, the angel had just about pissed off every single demon down there. They knew they couldn’t lay hands on Dean and drag him right back down to his eternal misery, so they’d taken to doing what they did best—causing havoc. And they’d found just the way to make it personal.

Each victim the brothers had found had been tortured in a different way—methods that were all too familiar to Dean. Methods that he’d invented. He’d had years to become creative. Each sighting had mortified him, and he’d had to swallow several times to suppress the bile adamantly reaching up to strangle his airways. What hurt him the most, though, was having to put on a detached facade for Sammy. His brother had no idea what Dean had been through down there. . . what he’d done down there—and why should he? He’d be more than eager to offer up a steaming fest of pity and guilt if he knew the truth, but Dean didn’t deserve any of that. It was all his own doing. His choice.

Cas might’ve liberated him from his physical hell, but he’d never truly been liberated from anything. Most of the suffering had always come from within, anyways.

They’d never found the demon responsible for the murders. It almost made Dean believe that he’d reverted back to his primal nature and killed all of those people himself. He’s hurt people before, so what was stopping him now, right? Maybe he’d done it in his sleep. Maybe, as soon as he’d let his head hit the pillow and dull his battered mind into a much needed deep sleep, all the worst fragments of his subconscious would pull together into some twisted alter ego that came to kill at his unspoken will.

Had Cas freed an innocent that day, or had he just unleashed another, wretched demon into the world? Boy, if it was the latter, Lilith surely had nothin’ on him.

The voices had started ever since that disturbing case, and they were yet to leave him alone.

It’s almost as if that cheap, goddamn knockoff on the real events of his life had been last switch that needed flipping to tune his mind into hell’s channels. Now, he heard them all—the voices—at every frequency and at every volume. And it didn’t matter how hard he cranked up Baby’s radio, their agonising pleas would always pull through in a haunting backtrack. One time, while he and Sam had been on the road, the voices had grown so loud that it made his eardrums feel as though they’d implode. It had hurt like a bitch, pushing him to the brink so that he’d lose control of the wheel and swerve into oncoming traffic. Thankfully, dear ol’ Sammy had been quick enough to grab ahold of the wheel and steer them clear of the looming truck they were en route toward.

The truck’s bellowing hooter had set him straight again as it whipped past the rear, almost as though it were the stern chiding needed to pipe those asshole voices right back down. His brother, bless his soul, had offered to drive them for the rest of the day, quiet concern alight on his features. But Dean had declined almost instantly. Sam hadn’t pushed to know what had overcome his older brother in that very moment; he’d known enough to pin it onto the aftermath of hell.

For the rest of that day, the younger brother had said nothing about it, but he did cast a few, fleeting glances with those damned puppy eyes of his. Dean pretended not to notice. Furthermore, he’d chosen to forget that that instance had ever happened. Fake it til y’make it, right? He didn’t need to look worried—didn’t need to make Sammy worry.

How his brother had grown up unmarred by Dean’s personal shit was beyond him—but he was thankful for it. And he’d continue to withhold that burden from his brother for as long as he could. This hell business? It was his alone to bear. Sammy needed no part in his suffering, and Dean doubted his brother could do much about it, anyway.

Man, the younger Winchester could do no wrong. It almost sickened Dean to know that they shared the same blood. He supposed it created a balance in nature, like how a coin had two sides—one lucky, and the other anything but. It wasn’t hard to know which side was his. Wasn’t much fair, but which aspect of his life had ever been? No matter. For Sammy, he’d keep on flippin’ that damn weighted coin if it meant that he could keep his brother safe.

Dean shifted atop the uncomfortable bar seat and sniffed away his restless thoughts, bringing the thawed beer to his lips. His nose dipped into the glass as he downed an eager gulp, the lukewarm beverage engulfing his tongue with a warmth he would’ve rather claimed from a skimpy barmaid. But alas, he’d made himself the promise to keep any and all contestants from playing this whirlwind of a game that was anything remotely related to his life.

Was this how celibate priests felt? ‘Cause man, it sucked. Not that they’d know the feeling of that, either.

He lowered the partially emptied drink back onto the bar top with a bitter scoff, eyes downturned to where he twirled the glass base within the ring of moisture it had bled onto the wood.

“Something funny, or have you just finally gone insane? Called it, by the way.”

Now that was the last voice Dean had expected to hear tonight. And in a bar, of all places—somewhere your holier than thou self had once sworn to never set food in outside of hunts. Granted, you were probably just being dramatic, but the thought still amused him.

He needn’t turn much to witness your figure. You slunk into perfect view as you took up a seat beside him. “Fancy seein’ you here,” he greeted through a lazy half-smirk, lifting his glass in a one-sided cheer.

You shot his drink a pitiful glance before returning his curious stare with an amused smile. “And I’m sure the bar hates to see you coming,” you retorted lightly, averting your gaze as you lifted your hand to wave over the bartender. “Whiskey, neat, thank you,” you said sweetly once the man had approached.

Dean risked a quick sweep of your figure—adorned with a dress so simple and casual, it shouldn’t have beckoned for his attention the way that it did. But honestly, this was one of very few times he’d seen you in anything other than your hunting or roleplay attire. And to be a little more honest, it was a view he could get used to watching.

Your head swivelled to face him for a brief second, which was enough to pluck his eyes away from what could be considered leering, if he’d made a point to stare any longer. And he was oddly tempted. But you quickly turned to face the bartender once more, initiating friendly chatter while he poured your drink with an extra chirp to his tone. You tended to have that effect on people, making bonds both meaningful and meaningless wherever you trod. Shit, look at the way you’d so easily strolled into both Sammy and his life. He wasn’t one to let strangers linger around, but for you, he’d made some sort of exception.

Dean lowered his head to study his glass once more. It was a view he’d long since grown tired of, but it was for the best. He shouldn’t be looking at you like that, anyway. You were Sammy’s friend first, and with that connection came the unspoken obligation of keeping his destructive hands off of you.

Sam had met you all the way back college. You weren’t the brand of friendship Dean would’ve expected his former anti-hunting brother to delve into—being a hunter and all—but that fact had only been disclosed after an unfortunate day of you being caught in the crossfire of one of their cases. It was a day Dean had thought you done for, for sure, but then you’d gone and surprised the both of them with your hunter’s wit, immobilising the threat like it’d been nothing of a challenge.

Dean would never admit it to your face, but you were a whole lot more knowledgeable than himself and Sam combined—and that’s considering that his brother is a colossal nerd before anything else. Since then, you’d stuck around, always helping Sammy with the nit-picky bookworm bullshit that Dean had never had much desire to do. He’d thank God himself for the lucky find that was you, if the big man in the sky really existed to begin with. Even after having met the angels, who were by no means impressive (save the girth of their dick nature), he couldn’t be convinced that there was a God who’d sent them here.

His attention strayed back to you as you reached across the bar top with a cash tip in clutch, which the bartender drank in with slightly flustered eyes before refusing it politely. Dean found himself huffing softly at the sight of it—not long after he’d come in, he’d seen that same bartender lay a fit on one of the occupants who’d refused him a tip after wrapping up the bill. He could’ve guessed that the demanding air you brought to the place had something to do with it. You didn’t mean to do it—demand things your way—it was just a string of events that always managed to fall into place whenever you showed up.

It was a quiet allure you’d always had to you. Dean could call you a good-luck charm for it. It made him want to hold onto you, just a little tighter, but he’d be selfish to do it. And whatever found it’s way into his grasp always seemed to shatter.

You reached for your glass almost shyly, as though you felt some slither of guilt for not being able to compensate the bartender’s effort, before turning to face Dean more directly. You tilted your head in the slightest manner, free hand brought up to cradle your cheek in poise as you gazed at him. “What did you mean by that, anyway?”

He frowned lightly. “What did I mean by what?”

“Fancy seein’ you here,” you mocked in a tone far too deep. A shameless grin spread your lips before you lifted your glass to take a sip—your eyes holding a glint he couldn’t quite decipher. And he didn’t try to linger on your stare for long enough to find out. There was some pull to it—like a getting caught in the sea’s rip current, and it made him feel something he couldn’t quite place. Or wouldn’t place, for the sake of keeping things unattached.

He glanced off to the side with a simple shrug. “Nah, I mean, you’re always off chasin’ some fairytale with Sammy. Just figured the two o’ya woulda found a fresh tail to nip by now,” he said nonchalantly, glass brought to his lips as he took a tense swig that finally emptied his glass.

“Well, yeah, but it’s after hours now. And I need a break, just like you,” you laughed. “Besides, I think you of all people could take the biggest break from chasing anything for the time being—which I’m glad to see you doing, by the way.”

He offered a simple nod of acknowledgment before lowering his glass and swirling the beer around his tongue, racking his tired brain for the next thing to say. It irked him a bit. Part of his charm was that chatting it up with the ladies always came easy. Who the hell would be be without it? But something about tonight—about you—had him feeling like a gawking numb-nut with a desperate need for a wingman.

He swallowed his sip and cleared his throat somewhat self-consciously, finally mustering up the courage to face you again. You had your fingers wrapped around your glass now, your eyes narrowed in eager focus and the corners of your lips slightly upturned—all while you sat waiting for him in patient silence. A silence that had no reason to make him feel. . . anxious, but it did. Were you doing it on purpose? Did you even know what you were doing?

Get it together, man, you’re blowin’ it, he said silently. You always do. Where do you think this’ll go? Nowhere. It’ll all crash and burn. Burn. Burn, the voices taunted. They’d become far too comfortable in his head, and now they had no shame popping up during his any and every conversation. Whenever the hell they pleased.

Mouthy bastards.

He ignored their jeering and settled for poking at the past, hoping it would invite you to carry the conversation he was so clearly dropping. “Now, correct me if I’m wrong, but I seem to remember you sayin’ somethin’ ‘bout how bars are home to sad men and madly horny men. So, that begs my earlier surprise that the Judgemental Judy herself showed up at the weepin’ whorehouse,” he said with a light chuckle.

You seemed more than happy to perk up at his teasing, a sight that made him ease off the clutch on his glass. “Well, maybe—just maybe, I have the guilty pleasure of making fun of sad sobs like you afterhours. I mean, the job gets so dull sometimes, you’ll forgive a girl for having a stupidly fun hobby.”

Dean narrowed his eyes slightly. “You callin’ me a loser?” He asked through a grin.

Your shoulders lifted in the most dramatised shrug you could’ve possibly mustered. “Dunno, Dean,” you sighed. “Are you?”

He shook his head through a weak grin—not as a response to your question, but at the way you always found it in yourself to tease him with thinly veiled insults. He could’ve gotten mad over it, but it had become something like a tradition between the two of you—the very soul of your friendship. Now, he’d let you compare him to every depicted loser in the literature of insults if it could have you both sharing a hearty laugh by the end of it. If it would buy him a second longer of your presence.

You can’t have her. Not yours. She’ll break if you touch her, the voices pressed on. He never could place any of them—not to a face, not even to a name. But he must’ve known them, must’ve met them face to face when they’d been strung up for a beating by a weapon of his choice. The voices were right, too. Dean could tell himself he was a blacksmith, that he’d have the power to handle you in a way that would only make you malleable without breaking. But at the end of the day, he always managed a slip up. He knew he’d swing a little too hard, or bend you a little too far, perhaps even just hold you with a little too much force.

He’d break you the way he’d broken everything else. The way he’d broken himself.

“Are you okay?” Your slightly concerned voice broke into the chasm of his torment, causing him to raise his brows with a growing awareness.

“Yeah, no, I’m all right,” he attempted to say casually, coaxing forward a smile to reinforce his statement. But you didn’t look convinced—and why would you be? You knew him better than that. If anything, you might’ve been the one person who knew him better than Sammy. Not because he’d necessarily allowed it, but because you were scarily observant. He didn’t like how vulnerable that made him feel, but he couldn’t deny the facts, either. And he’d rather be faced with the hard truths than entertain myths forged for his own comfort.

“Come on,” you sighed all-knowingly before your leg crossed over the other, your whiskey pushed aside as you leaned yourself in a little closer to him. “What’s wrong, Dean?” He held his breath at the sudden closeness, but he wasn’t fast enough to miss the sweet caress of your perfume. It wafted beneath his nose like a taunt, and it fuelled the voices in his head even further.

Run away now, Dean. Save her. You’re doomed. Don’t doom her to the same fate. Don’t be selfish. Those words bit at his chest. Shut the hell up, he seethed silently, but they’d never listened before, and they wouldn’t listen now. You can’t shut out the truth, one sniped back.

He turned his head to the side. “Nothin’s wrong. Been a long day, that’s all. Sammy’s been wearin’ me down with all the hell crap. I just need a damn break.”

“I think that’s what you call brotherly concern,” you said, inching forward in your seat so that you nudged at the corner of his vision. “Is it so bad having somebody check up on you from time to time? Can’t do everything on your own, Dean, even if you like to think so.”

Dean released his glass and pushed it away from him, wringing his fingers out before he began to play with his ring. How could he tell you—tell anybody that this was something he could only do on his own? There wasn’t a single thing you or Sammy could do. It wasn’t the sort of thing that the books you skimmed through for hunts had an answer to. Traumatised man struggles to confront his tainted past. Now that’s a book that might’ve come in handy. But he wasn’t about to take a stroll through the local library’s self-help section, and reading it would only feel slightly validating if it’d been assigned by somebody with the degree to back the premise.

Besides, even if he’d been willing to talk to somebody who could help him, he’d surely be given a one-way ticket to the looney bin after the first session. Which wacko got to spew tales about the voices in their head without waking up between four padded walls the next day?

Dean cleared his throat dismissively. “Hey, uh, how’d you get here, anyway? Sammy drop you off?” He asked, eyes still glued to his fiddling fingers before he lifted his head to try and scout out the bartender. He could use another drink to drown the nerves he felt lingering within, and hopefully also drown out the voices while he was at it. You know, kill two birds with one stone and all that.

“Took a cab,” you answered hastily—a clear indication that you had no intention of entertaining his bullshit small talk. “I notice things, you know?” You added more earnestly, something that told him he wasn’t getting out of this one so easily.

Oh, trust me, I know, he remarked silently. He could’ve said the same about himself, especially when it came to you.

For instance, he noticed the way you’d never been a big drinker—how you’d only order something whenever he did. Obligatory pressure? Maybe, but he also noticed the way you always ordered the same whiskey. It was a whiskey he’d chosen for you the first time you’d gone to a bar together, and it was the same one you currently nurtured so gently between your fingers.

He noticed that you tended to care from a distance that didn’t feel suffocating, like making him that piping hot cup of coffee in the mornings he’d be too tired to pluck himself from the sheets, or all the times he’d gone days without eating and then woke up to a breakfast you’d prepped and plated at his bedside table. Hell, even all the times he’d left the motel in a scramble and forgotten essential equipment or some personal belonging, and you’d been right by his side, calm as a cucumber while you procured the items from your backpack.

Even now, you’d come all the way out here to keep him the company he’d never asked for, but that you must’ve known he needed. It was slightly more transparent than the rest of your previous acts of care, but he didn’t mind it, especially because you never tended to hassle him about his problems the way Sammy did. Up until now, at least. It was the little things like that that defined you in his eyes, things he’d come to admire about you.

Honestly, when it came to you, Dean couldn’t do anything but notice. You gave him the sort of impression that there was nothing you couldn’t try and fix. But she can’t fix you, a voice barked at him. You can’t be fixed.

Oh, piss off, you ass-probing sons o’ bitches, he spat internally. I’m not tryna get fixed. He wasn’t naive.

He shifted slightly in his seat as he grew more desperate for a numbing release, his eyes searching the bar frantically. But the bartender seemed to have disappeared entirely, and he gave a barely audible huff at tonight’s rigged luck. There goes the fuckin’ rescue. If he had to endure whatever mushy heart-to-heart was about to come next, he’d rather have done with some more alcohol to cull the consequences.

Almost as though you’d read his mind, the glass you’d been savouring was pushed in his direction. He glanced at you with slightly widened eyes, then gave a tiny dip of his chin.

“Thanks, but I prefer mine on the rocks,” he said thickly. Nothin’ like an icy gulp to remind me where the hell I am. That’s right, Hell. You’ll be back there in no time.

“Oh, I know, but if we’re gonna have this conversation—and we both know we will, you’re gonna need something stronger.” You nudged your glass another inch in his direction, modelling a clear-cut expression that told him not to argue any further. “Take it. This one’s on me,” you added with a cheeky smile. It was on you, only, it hadn’t cost you a dime.

Dean watched you for a few seconds longer, his tongue poking through to drag along his lower lip in silent debate. She’s not going to stop. She’s going to find out who you are. She’ll leave you. Just like everybody else. You’ll be alone. All alone. Alone. Again.

Neither of you moved to claim the drink—you out of protest, and him out of something far darker. All you did was cross your arms onto the countertop as you shared his silence, watching him through those calculating eyes of yours that made him feel a little too seen. Just what was going on inside of your head?

“All right,” he relented, slowly reaching across to clutch the glass. He brought it toward himself before lifting it to you in good gesture. “Cheers,” he said, then with a pause, his head tilted in silent consideration. “Again,” he added wryly.

You gave a tiny smile of victory, and the sight made his heart skip a beat. He immediately dropped his attention to the drink, where he brought it in for an eager drain. But his hand hesitated midway when he spotted the evidence of where your lips had settled for its first sip—the coloured print of your kiss overlapping the rim he’d planned to taste just seconds before.

“What, a little lipstick scare you?” He glanced up in time to see your eyes lifting from the same print on the glass rim, only to fix him with a slightly daring grin.

“Nah,” he answered almost too eagerly. He could’ve cursed himself for acting like a rattled school boy. He lifted the glass to his lips and took a long, hearty gulp of the whiskey. It seared every inch of his insides for the entire trip down to his stomach, but the burn was something different and oddly welcoming. With a smack of his lips and a sigh of relief, he set the remainder of the drink down and flashed you a content smile.

Suddenly, you were leaning toward him, your hand reaching for his face. The sight made his heart race, and all he could do was lean back an inch in his seat, as though you had a case of cooties he was trying to avoid. “Hey, uh—woah,” he laughed nervously, and then he didn’t make any sound at all. Your thumb was pressed against his lips, but it didn’t hover for long before it did a brisk swipe and your arm retreated back to your side.

“Lipstick smudge,” you told him innocently, but he caught that delighted look on your face, and he knew then that you were perfectly aware of the effect you seemed to have over him.

Dean’s head buckled to conceal the heat in his cheeks—hoping that it hadn’t reached your attention the way everything you did reached his. “Yeah, well, at least buy a guy a drink first,” he chuckled hoarsely.

“Technically, I already did.”

He gave a series of minuscule nods that depicted his defeat. “Touché.” Technically, you hadn’t bought anything—you’d gotten a freebie. But he supposed it was the sentiment that counted.

“Anyways, as I was saying,” you continued your earlier agenda. “I notice things, Dean.”

She’s going to find out exactly who you are.

“Oh, yeah?” He muttered half-heartedly, the heat in his cheeks vanishing only to be replaced by a feeling of dread. His chin perked up when he caught sight of the bartender creeping into the corner of his eye. There you are, ya prick. He lifted his hand to wave the man over, before he finally turned to face you. “Like what?”

He knew exactly what, and so did you. Where to begin was the real question.

Luckily, the bartender appeared just in time to offer a preparatory interlude, which he gratefully seized at the throat. Turning to the man, he leaned onto the counter. “Hey, man, could you fix the gal over here with a. . .” He trailed off with a questioning glance in your direction.

“I’m good, thanks,” you refused politely, but Dean could make out a hint of impatience peering through.

He cocked his head slightly. “Suit y’self,” he murmured, then faced the bartender again to order himself another round to down after he finished the whiskey—drown your sorrows, or whatever it is they say. But your hand reached into his space with far more sense than him, silencing his impulse before his lips could even split to give the order.

“He’s good, too,” you told the drinks master, and the man glanced between the both of you before settling on you with a knowing smile and taking his leave.

Dean turned to you with a slight pout and a ruffled frown. “Man, seriously?”

“Yeah, seriously,” you retorted bluntly, hand retracting back into your own vicinity. “I’m not carrying your drunk ass out of here. And neither is Sam,” you added when Dean attempted to argue his brother onto his case.

“Yeah, fine, whatever,” he mumbled, reaching for the singular, remaining drink he was apparently being limited to for the rest of tonight. But he didn’t take another sip just yet. Instead, he used the glass as more of a coping device, his fingers wrung tightly around its fragile body. And he couldn’t look at you while he waited for you to say whatever it is you had to say; he wasn’t strong enough to confront that particular Pandora’s box head on.

“You haven’t been okay for a while now,” you began. His teeth reached to bite the already-raw skin of his cheek. “And I know that it’s because of. . . you know—” he did, “—the things you’ve been through during your time in Hell. I mean, I can’t imag—”

Dean already knew the ending of that sentence before you finished it, and all the spite he’d garnered within drove him to face you with unintentional hostility. “No, you can’t,” he snapped gruffly, but he came to regret it shortly after seeing the hurt creep into your expression. With a sigh, he turned away from your crippling stare, his head shaking lightly in defeat. “This is why I don’t wanna talk about it. . . you and Sammy, you can’t understand what I’ve been through down there—what I had to do down there.” Go on, tell her. Tell her about the monsters in hell. Tell her about the biggest monster of them all.

“You still need to talk about it, Dean,” you urged gently. He noted how soft your tone was, almost as though you were afraid to push him too hard, whether it be with your choice of words, or with a single, harsh pitch in your voice. “If not to me, then to Sam, at least. I mean, he’s your brother, I’m sure he understands most things that other people wouldn’t.”

“Nah. . .” Dean murmured, his voice trailing off as he picked at his battered brain. He brought the whiskey to his lips and took a sip, savouring the burn in his chest. He hovered the glass in the air. “Sammy. . . he can’t help me with this. He shouldn’t have to, anyway. I’m the big bro, I gotta keep my head on for ‘im, y’know?” He glanced at you finally, and he didn’t realise how shattered he must’ve looked until he saw heartbreak soften your eyes.

His attention flickered down to where your crossed arms faltered, your hand briefly reaching forward as though you’d wanted to offer some slither of physical reassurance, but something else had kept you from engaging. He wished it hadn’t.

“Well,” you murmured, that same hand rubbing tender patterns along your forearm. “You don’t have to keep your head on for me.” Dean glanced up at you in surprise. “You’d be stupid to try, anyway. You’re not fooling me, Dean.” You gave a light laugh of defeat. “You’re not even fooling Sam. But the difference is that you don’t have to share that burden with him if you don’t want to. . . but you can share it with me.”

Could he, really? He couldn’t help but feel as though once he did open up to you, you’d realise the true magnitude of his shit. Only then, you wouldn’t be able to back out. You were too kind for that sort of rejection. But you’d both become miserable, and he didn’t think he could do that to you of all people.

With a slight jerk of his chin, he said, “‘fraid I can’t,” and gulped down the last of his drink to flush away the guilt of the mere sound. He hissed through gritted teeth as he placed the glass down with a bang, something that caused a few loiterers to glance his way, but he ignored them as surely as he’d been doing this entire night. “We should get back to the Motel. Bet Sammy’s startin’ to wonder if he should give me a call and chew me out over missin’ your curfew.”

“Dean—” you started, but he stopped listening.

He reached into his jacket pocket and plucked out his wallet, fingers prying the worn leather to slip out a hefty note. He folded and plopped it onto the countertop, his chin dipping in a brief thanks to the bartender who’d begun to saunter over and claim the bill. “Thanks, man,” he murmured, rising from his seat as he buried his wallet once more.

When he did finally make eye contact with you again, you had this sullen look to your features, but he tried not to show the way it made him feel. Feeling guilty? Like a douche? A prick undeserving of her time? After she came out all this way to speak to you. Tsk, the voices sneered.

Piss right off to hell. You first.

“Come on.” Dean jerked his chin at you, averting his gaze almost immediately when he saw your eyes narrow. He half expected you to start arguing, or to continue sitting there in a determined protest, but much to his relief, you rose up before him in a nerve-wrecking silence.

He glanced back at you, noting the light shake of your head before you let slip a hopeless scoff. Before he had a chance to prompt you further, you pivoted on your heels and whipped off into the busy bodies suffocating the bar. Behind you, your perfume lingered like a tantalising trail of candy, one that he knew he’d have no return from if he followed. But he did, anyway—the same way Hansel did Gretel because something about you had always felt like the home he’d never had. Even if he might burn it all down eventually.

He kept you in his sight all the way until the bar’s entrance, where you both eventually slipped out into the cool, unwelcoming air of the night. Dean drew up beside your hovering figure, his hand brought up to cradle your back and guide you to where he’d parked the Impala. He tried to catch your eye to ask whether you’d like his jacket because he felt your faint trembling beneath his hand, but you seemed to stop noticing he existed. Maybe that was for the best.

When you reached the passenger’s side of the car, Dean released you to reach for the handle. It clicked open, and he widened the door with an usher for you to climb inside. But all you did was stand there, tussles of your hair carried in hypnotising whisks by the night’s nipping breeze. He caught the scent of your shampoo, the same one he often found himself breathing in too deeply whenever he’d man the shower after you. And he could still remember it’s name—some limited edition crap he’d forced himself to memorise so that he could find another bottle like it and gift it to you on your next birthday. You’d been complaining for a good month that your current one was running dry.

He didn’t much like the idea of gift-giving, it wasn’t exactly his forte. But he knew the way you and Sammy both lit up at the mere thought of it. Besides, he’d be rude not to return the favour after having received gifts for his birthday from the both of you. Who are you fooling, boy? The best gift you could give her is to get out of her life. Don’t bother playing pretend with anything else.

You finally turned to face him, which instantly halted any and all thoughts he’d slowly been drowning in. There was some new resolve furnishing your features—brows furrowed, lips slightly parted and nostrils flaring with the weight of your own thoughts. But before Dean could ask the first thing about it, your hands came to wrap around his jaw, your lips pressing against his in a firm kiss.

Your lips were so warm against his, so soft that he could’ve fallen deeper into their padding. And he wanted to, so desperate for their welcome that he had to bring his hands up in a gentle bracket of your neck to keep himself from falling prey to his deepest desires. He pulled his lips from yours almost regretfully, keenly aware of your lingering warmth. There was so much emotion brimming in your eyes as you gazed up at him, but he saw uncertainty glare the loudest. He wished he could’ve said something—done something to displace it, but he had to remember where his priorities lay. In keeping you safe. Away from everything that was him.

“We can’t,” he murmured softly.

“Why not, Dean?” You answered with equal volume. He felt your thumb stroke across his stubble.

His lower lip fell loose with a heavy sigh, his head buckling in your hold. “We just can’t,” he repeated.

He waited for a reply, for any sound that echoed your frustrated with him, but you said nothing as your hands fell away from his jaw. He was forced to release his hold on you when you backed away from him and ducked into the salvation of the car’s privacy, his hands collapsing to his side in regret. He lifted his head to the sky with a brief breath of strength before he reached to shut the Impala’s door and tensely made his way around the fore. When he slipped into the driver’s seat, you’d already taken to the view of your window, hand cupping your cheek as you stared at anything that wasn’t Dean.

Fair enough.

He got Baby up and running, carefully picking his way out of the bar’s crowded lot before they hit the road winding toward their motel. The drive’s scenery was quiet, a stark contrast to the earlier atmosphere, and it made the air between yourself and Dean a whole lot tenser. There weren’t many cars, or people, found wandering by at any point of the trip, so it truly felt like the two of you had been locked alone in a room to confront the unspoken elephant. But he wasn’t so eager to pick at that fresh scab. Besides, what else more did he have to say that wouldn’t end up hurting you?

It felt like a lifetime had passed when he pulled up at the motel, the lot desolate save another car somewhere down the line. You finally shifted from your position of gazing out the window, but it wasn’t to look at him. It wasn’t even to reach for the handle that’d free you from this suffocating place beside him. Instead, your head was turned forward as you gazed through the windscreen.

“You’re one stubborn shit, you know that?” You said suddenly.

Dean followed your lead and decided to focus on the bug stain streaking the windshield just above the view of his wheel. “Yeah,” he scoffed knowingly, his fingers restlessly tapping the wheel’s rim.

“You’re just so determined to let yourself suffer alone—as if it makes you righteous in sparing us the hurt. But in reality, we’re already suffering. I mean, we’ve all got our own shit going on, right? The only thing making it worse is that somebody we care about is going through something unimaginable, but we don’t know how the hell to help him because he just won’t talk about it. Because he’s scared about—I don’t know—making us accomplices to his problems, I guess.”

Dean’s head buckled to the view of his lap as he listened to you talk, gripping the wheel’s rim a little tighter as he strangled the emotion threatening to take ahold of him. He heard you shift in your seat, noting as your knees turned toward him for a more direct confrontation. He didn’t think he could endure your frustration for any longer without finally cracking, and that scared him.

“When will you stop being so selfless, Dean?”

He allowed that question to linger in the air. Him, selfless? He wasn’t sure he’d call it that. To tell the truth, though, keeping his mouth shut had slowly been wearing him down. And it was almost as though walling off both you and Sammy had allowed the voices in his head to get as bad as they did. He knew all of this, but still he couldn’t find it in himself to open up. He’d never been good with rationalising his emotions, or with asking for help to do so. After all, growing up, he’d had nobody to ask. So he’d done the only thing he knew how to—suck it up and act the steadfast parent so that he could take care of Sammy. And ever since, he’d never quite learnt how to step out of that role, or how to take care of himself.

“I guess I’m just not ready to talk about it, yet,” Dean admitted in an unsteady murmur. His lower lip began to quiver, and he hated the way no amount of clenching his jaw seemed to quell it.

The hand he’d hovered on the wheel moved hastily to wipe the moisture he felt brimming on the cusp of his eyes, and he swallowed hard to fight his urge to flee the car. There was a loud silence from your side that made his ears ring; he wished you would say something—anything—before his voices did.

“I get that,” you said eventually. It made him release a breath he didn’t know he was holding. Your hand came fourth to rest on his shoulder, which made him drew a sharp, shuddering breath, despite your warmth seeping through his layers in a way that should’ve soothed him entirely.

“I just need you to know that you don’t have to do everything on your own,” you continued. “It gets exhausting. Trust me, I’ve been on my own for practically my entire life before I met you and Sam.” You paused when Dean turned to face you. “You wanna know something? Humans weren’t made to be alone—to do things alone. We’ve never been strong enough. That comes back to bite some people in the ass, but I’d say for people like us, it’s a blessing. So count them, Dean.”

And finally, as Dean sat stewing in his vulnerability, held hostage under your intense stare, he understood what glint had been in your eye all along. He couldn’t look away from it anymore. As if you seemed to witness his change in demeanour, the hand on his shoulder began to trail down the sleeve of his jacket in a suggestive caress. It set a fire to his chest, one that made him breath a little deeper for the air you seemed to be stealing from his lungs.

“Listen. . . you’re Sammy’s friend,” he pushed out weakly, an attempt to reason against his pressing urges. He hoped that by saying it aloud, he’d be able to silence the part of him that craved the pursuit of you. But for once, amongst the many voices in his head, he could hear his own—loud and clear in it’s true hopes that you’d be braver than he felt and make nothing of his poor argument. That you’d be brave enough to give him the permission he’d been withholding from himself.

You gave him this subtle squint—he caught it briefly in the thinning of your lashes. And then there was the slight hitch in the corner of your lips. The sight made his heart flutter up an inch. For all the voices in his head, he wished he could hear yours right now. Did you want this as much as he did?

Eventually, he caught you leaning closer to his yearning self. “So?” You murmured, the challenge accentuated by the purse in your lips. “I’m my own person before I’m Sam’s friend. I think I’m pretty capable of making my own decisions and dealing with the consequences that come after.”

Dean’s lower lip sank open at that, his brows quirking on anticipation. “I can’t promise you that. . . this, whatever it is, will be an easy ride,” he said. That I’ll be easy to love, he added silently.

You fixed him a long stare, your lips pressed into a thoughtful line. “I told you, Dean, this one’s on me,” you murmured.

This time, he knew that you weren’t alluding to the drink.

You’ll regret this, the voices barked. That’s my own damn decision.

Slowly, he began to lean in toward you, holding your stare and feeling further encouraged by the eager glint that seemed to grow in their breath-taking depths. The voices in his head blared a united jest. She doesn’t want you, she only pities you. You’re going to ruin her, just like you ruin everything else. You think Sammy’s going to forgive you when you break his closest friend? Traitor. Some big bro you are. You’ve always been selfish. He pushed back a mental answer. Shut. It. They didn’t listen.

He felt his heart begin to thud a little harder at his chest, but he gave a hefty swallow to dampen the feeling, and before it had a chance to return reinforced, he pushed his lips to yours.

Silence.

For the first time in what felt like ages, there was silence. Blissful, unequivocal silence. As if your touch was the antidote he’d needed all along to quench the fire hell had set alight to his brain. As if you’d been the missing incantation he’d needed to chant to keep all his demons at bay. And it made him greedy—this taste of peace you seemed to offer him. So he claimed more of it, the kiss deepening as he brought up his hands to cradle both delicate curves of your jaw. In turn, your hands flew up to bracket his neck, before drawing sensual lines all the way to his nape. Your touch was as gentle as he’d imagined, and as kind as he knew you to be, and he craved more of it. More of you. All of you.

Goddammit, he shouldn’t, but he did. He was only human, after all—even if he was all the worst parts of one.

He pulled away briefly to take the view of you in, lips parted in a slight pant. You mirrored him well, the gentle glare of the lamppost light reflected across your slicked lips. The sight made him burn with a more feral desire. He just had to have you. He was far beyond fending off his selfish desires now.

“Dean?” You called softly, an unsure twinge to your tone. You must’ve thought that he’d begun having doubts about pursuing this because there was a sudden, anxious furrow to your brows. But your hands didn’t falter from his neck, and he sure as hell wasn’t letting you go, either.

“C’mere,” he breathed softly, releasing your jaw only to slide his hands down your waist and to your hips, where he settled a firm grip to encourage you onto his lap. You followed his flow so naturally, hands sliding along the toned slope of his shoulders to grip there for support. You manoeuvred across the conjoined seat and reached the first leg over his lap, which Dean cupped at the thigh to steady you onto him. “Yeah, there ya go, you got it,” he murmured encouragingly, and your other leg followed shortly after until you comfortably straddled him.

You tilted your head up to drink in the impala’s ceiling, which could manage a graze of your nose if you lifted yourself any further. “Bit of a tight fit, isn’t it?” You giggled, glancing back down at Dean. He wanted to bottle the sound.

“Hey, she’ll do plenty fine,” he chuckled huskily, his hands comfortably settled at the meat of your hips. His thumbs rubbed tentative circles across your clothed skin, and he watched the way your lower lip drew into a subtle bite. It drove him nuts. He found himself leaning up to reach for your lips once more, but you held him back with an index finger to his chin.

“And just so we’re clear, I don’t have a curfew,” you said pointedly. Dean knew you were alluding to what he’d said back at the bar.

His lips split with a thankful grin. “Hallelujah to that,” he drawled huskily before lowering his lips to deliver a playful nibble to your finger. You let slip a giggle the most bubbly he’d ever heard before plucking your finger away and replacing it with your hungry lips.

His hands found their way below the hem of your dress, where he rubbed a firm line up your thighs. The touch coaxed a moan from your lips, poured into his mouth like the drizzle of honey—he couldn’t help but lap it up. Your hands wandered messy lines up and down the expanse of his neck, even going so far as to tousle his hair. The stimulation drove him crazy and sent a jolt down to his core. The longer your lips spent entangled, the more he felt his jean begin to strain beyond his control—but he didn’t have much adoration left to conceal. If anything, he wanted you to know exactly how you consumed every part of him.

He pulled away from the kiss, chest heaving as he fought to catch his breath. “You have no idea how long I’ve been wantin’ this,” he husked. “Wantin’ you.”

He could see the way the kiss had left you breathless, too, and strands of hair had fallen from the keep of your ears to messily frame your face. God, you looked beautiful. “Your damn fault for taking this long to pursue it. I’ve given all the signs, Dean Winchester, but you are as naive as boys come.”

He reached up to tuck the hair behind your ears, making a point to trail his fingers along the contour of your jaw as a knowing smirk felt out his lips. “Nah, just a good ol’ case of self-restraint,” he murmured.

“Oh because you know what’s so good for you?” You teased. Even under the dim lamplight, he could make out the rosy tint to your cheeks.

“I damn well do now.”

“Then show me.”

Dean grinned at your blatant challenge, hands moving to grab at your hips. He slowly began grounding you against his erection, which plucked from your lips a series of noises that began to grow more and more lewd with each passing second. He felt your nails digging into his shoulders, the padding of his jacket cushioning the sensation into gentle kneading. He couldn’t help but grunt with each blissful stroke against him—god, he could do this all night. It wasn’t long before you’d taken over the job entirely, your hips stirring back and fourth across his lap to a slow, tantalising rhythm that made his head loll back against the seat.

“Fuck,” he grunted, his teeth grit as he endured the waves of pleasure riding its way through every nerve of his body. His fought the urge to flutter his eyes closed, to drown in the darkness of his euphoria because there was no way in hell he was missing a single detail about you—lower lip nibbled, fluttering lashes, heaving chest, a show all for him.

“You like that?” You asked thinly, your eyes fluttering closed as you threw your head back with a single, harsh push of your hips.

“Like it? You’re killin’ me over here,” he pushed out—a gruff, strained sound as he battled the heat accumulating in his groin. The demons, the angels, every asshole out to get him could go stuff it. At the end of the day, it was you that was going to be the sure death of him.

You let out an impish giggle, your hands releasing his shoulders to plough through your hair in the most seductive manner you could manage. It made him clench his jaw, made his grip on your hips a little firmer than before.

“You’re so goddamn beautiful,” he praised breathlessly, eyes fluttering through his lashes as he gazed up at you. You were mesmerising, in everything that you did. You didn’t ever have to be doing much for him to want to stare. Existing was enough. Doing more than existing was a bonus.

He saw the way you lit up at that compliment, and it made him want to shower you with many more like it. Hunting had its kicks, but fuck, this—you—he could find himself addicted. That should’ve made you dangerous, especially when you were all he needed to take to stifle the voices. But he couldn’t pull away from you now. He wouldn’t. In fact, it only made him want to hold onto you more fiercely.

Your hands reached back for the steering wheel as you sought out just the angle to intensify your movements, and that’s when you accidentally struck the hooter. The both of you jolted with the noise, which made your hands fly up to cup your mouth in both horror and amusement, your hips stilling against his lap.

Instinctively, both Dean and yourself turned to glance through the windscreen, zoning in on the door that lead up to the three bed motel you’d been renting for a good month or so. A few tense seconds passed, but the door never opened to reveal an inquisitive Sam, and you both let out with a breath of relief. You collapsed onto the crown of Dean’s head with a fit of laughter, practically hugging his head. He burrowed into your chest with his own chuckle as his hands dragged up your body to wrap around your waist in a hug.

“I’m thinkin’ maybe we should move this party to the backseat,” he murmured against you.

You pulled back to face him, hands entangling at the nape of his neck. “I think that’s for the best,” you giggled, leaning down to place a tender kiss on his lips. He loved how gentle your touch felt, like he was being admired more than desired—something to savour and not to lap up like a greedy, guilty cheat meal. It made him feel valued, and he’d take every damn second of this night to return the favour.

He received your kiss eagerly, eyes falling shut as he basked in your soothing warmth. He found himself breathing a little deeper, your scent streaming in to envelop him further in your essence—as if he craved to be remade in your image. Then, much to his disappointment, you pulled away and left his lips bare as you began to shift from his lap. He watched as you reached past his torso to bend yourself over the seat, and then with a few noises of effort here and there, you heaved yourself over—your flailing foot nearly striking his eye in the process.

“You good?” He called back, twisting in his spot to catch you sprawled on your back along the seat. Oh, you were comfortable, all right.

“Just get over here, Lover Boy,” you giggled, hands grabbing the empty air.

Dean chuckled and shifted onto his knees with a grunt, carefully reaching over the seats to place his hands on either side of your torso. He got the last of himself over so that he towered over your waiting figure, the necklace permanently wrung around his neck slipping his top to dangle toward you. Your eyes latched onto it curiously before you reached up to hold it between cautious fingers. He half expected you to ask about it, but instead, you released it and wrapped your hands around his neck, as if nothing other than him mattered in that moment.

Before he knew it, he was pulled down into a kiss, and he leaned down even further to get lost in the taste of you. His hands lowered along your body to find the hem of your dress, where they fastened around the material and began dragging it up and over the curves of your legs. When he’d gotten to your torso, he broke off the kiss to lift himself a fraction, your hands coming up to aid the removal of your dress. He slipped it over your head and tossed it onto the floor before moving to shed his own jacket and layered shirts. The clutter of your shoes falling to the floor sounded some ways behind him, and he took a moment to do the same, shrugging off his boots into the oblivion below.

He took a moment to glance you over, almost naked save the pretty set of lace underwear. He’d pictured this moment far too many times than he’d like to admit, and now he drank in your every curve, scar and blemish, and marvelled at the soft sheen of your skin to the point where he hoped he’d come to memorise you. Somewhere in the mix, he picked up the sweet tang of your lotion.

“God,” he pushed out absentmindedly, his hands moving to rub soft lines down your waist.

“A believer now, are we?” You poked, your back arching an inch off the seat as you bathed in his endearing touch.

Dean jerked his chin. “I mean, come on,” he grinned, doing another sweep of your body before he leaned down to litter soft kisses along your neck. Your head caved further into the seat, broadening the horizon for his appreciative lips to explore as they pleased—and they did.

He drew passionate lines all over the curve of your neck, even managing a sneaky trail up to your ears, where he nibbled lovingly at the lobe. You giggled, the sound pure music and bliss to his ears. He wandered all the way down to your collarbones, experimenting with light nibbles along the tender anatomy before he soothed it with a slow kiss. You let out a passionate moan that spurred him on, the strain in his jeans becoming far tighter than he could bear, but he couldn’t stop himself from exploring every inch of you just yet. He intended on pressing all of your buttons—desperate to know just how many sounds he could coax from you.

He dipped down to place a kiss on your breast, so perfectly hoisted by the bra he sought to slip from your body. He pulled back in a light pant, his hands coming up to fulfil his wishes. Thankfully, it was one of those that unhooked in the front. It sure as hell would save the extra effort. While he reached for the clip, your hands wandered up his muscled forearms, thumbs tracing over the veins of your choice. He stole a glance from you, noting how you seemed as enticed by him as he felt by you, before he turned his focus back to your bra with a sheepish grin on his lips.

“What’s got you more flustered than a frat boy with a serious crush?” You asked, your hands straying from his arms to trail down his toned abdomen.

Your touch stopped just shy of his navel, but the heat carried all the way to his groin. “Don’t you play games with me,” he warned through a smirk, the bra’s clip coming undone. Slowly, he parted the cupping, his breath usurped by the view of your spreading breasts. “Y’know what, play as many games as you’d like—but keep the damn view, will ya?” He chuckled, aiding your efforts to shimmy the bra straps from your shoulders.

Your hands hovered half-way over the hem of his pants, framing his gently carved v-lines in admiration. And then you began to undo the button of his jean, the zipper splitting downward in a slow and steady whir that hoisted his primal urges. You made a point to simultaneously tug at the hem of his underwear as you pulled down his jean, which he shifted to help aid the removal of. He felt mildly embarrassed at the way his manhood bowed with eager anticipation, but you drank in the view with flustered eyes, lips thinning with an exhilarated grin that told him you were marvelling in the spell you’d cast over him.

When you met his gaze again, there was this almost pleading look to your eyes. He answered your silent prayers by bowing down to place tender, thorough kisses all around the curves of your breasts, even taking a moment to adorn your hardened buds with a hot swirl of his tongue and a gentle toying of his teeth. This action alone seemed to tug at your last thread until you’d unravelled into a mewling mess, slurring his name in a manner that made him never want to stop. His hands came up to squeeze your breasts a little harsher than he’d intended to, but you let out an approving groan that left his grip steadfast as he continued his toying.

The hands you’d settled into his hair was the last straw he needed to finally drag his attention lower, where he instilled sloppy, hasty kisses all along your stomach. He reached the hem of your delicate lace, hands gliding over the meat of your hips to hook his fingers under the waistband and yank it down your legs. You discarded the undies eagerly, and with his newfound access to your womanhood, he gave you a content smile before dipping between your thighs to drag his tongue through your slicked folds. He curled his arms around your propped thighs, his nose burying against your clit as he lapped up your core at slow and steady pace. He deliberately took his time to draw all manner of patterns along the tender skin, keenly listening for any hitch in your moans that indicated he’d found a sweet spot. The sound of your undoing? Now that was a voice he’d gladly allow to plague his mind—all day, all night.

He could tell by the progressive loudness of your moans and the more frantic jerking of your lower half that were close to your limits, so he intensified every flick and whisk of his tongue to help carry you to that point.

“Dean—stop,” you breathed out suddenly. Immediately, he withdrew from your proximity with a concerned glance in your direction.

“You all right?” He asked, releasing his grip on your thighs to rub calming circles along your sensitive skin. “If I pushed too far, I’m sor—” he attempted to apologise, but you were eager to cut him short.

“No, it’s not that!” You said quickly, propping yourself onto your elbows to take the view of him in better. “You’re doing amazing—you’re amazing,” you said through a soft smile, your cheeks blown red by a combination of your stimulation and your almost undoing. “But I don’t want to finish just yet. I want to feel you—all of you,” you explained.

Dean caught on quickly, his heart lurching a short distance. “Yeah—yeah, of course,” he murmured, inching his way back up toward you, where he leaned in to brush his nose against yours tenderly before he dipped to place his yearning kiss onto your lips.

“I want you so bad, Dean,” you murmured between kisses—a sweet, breathless sound that cooed into his ear.

“You have no fuckin’ idea how mutual the feeling is,” He breathed, answering your plea by reaching down to grab ahold of his manhood. He delivered a quick, preparatory pump along the length before he pressed it to your slicked folds and dragged it down to your entrance. You let out a sharp moan at that, the kiss temporarily seizing.

Slowly, he began to insert himself into your warmth. You drank him in so eagerly that he couldn’t stop a strained moan from slipping his lips.

“Oh, man,” he mumbled huskily, head collapsing just past yours as he drove himself into the first pump—so controlled and calculated as though he were afraid to hurt you. You seemed appreciative of his pace, your hands coming up to wrap around the toned contours of his back. “You still good?” He checked in as his hips retracted for the second stroke, angling himself to achieve just the right curve that would boldly reach your sweet spot.

You mumbled a feeble mhm, your fingers burrowing little divots into the muscle of his back. That confirmation cemented him, and he took on a steady pace within you, one hand reaching down to grip your thigh in support. It wasn’t long before the impala began to sway under his growing pace, each powered thrust of his hips against yours providing all the momentum needed to rock the steadfast steel. The mingled tune of your moans and grunts filled the isolated air of the car, the windows tinted with a secretive sweat bled from your combined body heat. It carried on for a while, and he could only hope that nobody was around to witness it.

His high came on strong—and embarrassingly, a lot more quicker than yours. He’d blame it on his infatuation with you. That, and the fact that he’d practically cleansed his brain of the mere thought of you. It’d all been necessary to spare himself the torment of fawning over every aspect of your existence, but now that he was finally afforded the opportunity to truly taste you, could he have blamed himself for being greedy? Still, he throttled the urge to scatter his pleasure, straining and waiting as you reached your own breaking point. He knew you were near when he felt the twinge of your nails against his back, and he brought both arms up to straddle your head as he pressed a desperate kiss to your lips.

With a single, deep thrust of his hips, you both spluttered a weepy breath. The knot in his core dissipated into an elated, white haze that consumed his every sense. For a moment, all he could do was hover himself over you, his lips splayed against yours as he grunted into you. Your lips tangled in breathless bouts of air, occasionally snagging in a weak kiss.

“You’re amazing,” he breathed against your cheek, placing a kiss onto the flushed skin.

Your hands came up to cradle his face and push him just far enough to drink him in. “I adore you, Dean Winchester,” you whispered lovingly. “I always have.”

The way you gazed at him was enough to throb his debilitated heart, and suddenly he felt rejuvenated within—as though you were all the motivation he needed to keep on powering his way through this cruel experience he’d come to call surviving. You made him want to do more than survive. You made him want to live—if not for himself, then for you. You were the type of person he’d have fought himself free of hell to return back to. And now that he was back, one thing was for certain—he’d keep on fighting to ensure his place on this earth. To remain beside you.

Dean had never been too good with words out loud, so he gave you a soft smile that he hoped could convey a fraction of what he felt for you. He removed your hands from his jaw, crowning each with a kiss before he shifted your bodies into a comfortable spooning session. Your back curved into his chest, your lower half perfectly conforming to his as he held you against him like you’d slip away if he relented for even a second. And you laid like that until a gentle, shallow rhythm of breathing overtook you, sleep coming to claim you with a haste he envied. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d slipped into dreamland as quickly as that—and when he did, his nightmares would turn up like an eager workaholic reporting for dawn duty.

Now, with you nestled between the arms that had come to memorise the shape of loneliness, he didn’t mind laying there in wake. He listened to the gentle whisper of your flaring nostrils, taking in a fraction of the peace etched across your partially concealed face. He was glad that somebody else could draw peace from him and claim it in the way that he’d never been able to claim for himself. He was glad that somebody was you.

It had always been you.

He’d been the biggest fool trying to convince himself otherwise.

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a/n: trying out a new format here bc the old one is exactly that. old. n e ways. first Dean fic—be kind to me!! :’) this was so daunting to write, but boy did I have my fun with it. i hope y’all enjoy this piece, i haven’t been able to get this sad sad man out of my mind. i just want to hold him close at all times. also i’m not responsible for any typos i’ve missed bc it’s currently 2 am and i’m scrambling to get this out. the drafts are sick of it.

thank you for reading! all likes, comments & reblogs are deeply appreciated! ᡣ𐭩ྀིྀིྀི

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[theaawalker]

Steps to Write a Cunning Femme Fatale

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1. Establish Her Persona

Define Her Allure: Craft her as enigmatic, charming, and intelligent. She should draw people in with her charisma and mystique.

Give Her Depth: Avoid clichés by giving her a unique backstory, motivations, or vulnerabilities that shape her actions.

Choose Her Strengths: Highlight skills like manipulation, resourcefulness, or combat abilities that give her an edge.

2. Shape Her Role in the Plot

Decide Her Purpose: Determine if she’s an ally, antagonist, or morally gray character, and how her actions drive the story.

Design Power Dynamics: Show how she wields control or influence over other characters, often exploiting weaknesses.

Weave Intrigue: Keep her intentions ambiguous to maintain tension and mystery.

3. Build Her Relationships

Contrast With Others: Develop relationships that show how she contrasts with or complements other characters (e.g., a vulnerable hero or a rival villain).

Show Complexity: Explore the layers in her interactions, such as her ability to mix truth with deception.

Reveal Gradually: Unfold her true nature over time, leaving both characters and the audience guessing.

4. Create a Striking Appearance

Use Symbolism: Incorporate elements of her look that reflect her personality, like bold colors, sleek outfits, or unique accessories.

Convey Confidence: Show her self-assuredness in the way she moves, speaks, and holds herself.

Highlight Ambiguity: Blend qualities that make her both alluring and dangerous (e.g., a soft smile hiding sharp intent).

5. Show Her in Action

Establish Power Plays: Showcase her intelligence and cunning through strategic actions, manipulations, or daring risks.

Create High Stakes: Put her in situations where she must outwit others or face consequences.

Balance Strength and Vulnerability: Let her excel in some areas while occasionally exposing a flaw or fear to humanize her.

6. Develop a Satisfying Arc

Choose Her Outcome: Decide if she triumphs, meets her downfall, or remains ambiguous at the story’s end.

Reflect Growth or Decline: Show how her actions shape her destiny—whether she evolves, succumbs, or holds her ground.

Tie Back to Themes: Ensure her arc aligns with the overarching themes of the story, like betrayal, love, or revenge.

Examples of Femme Fatales in Stories

1. Film Examples

Phyllis Dietrichson (Double Indemnity): Uses charm and manipulation to pull others into her schemes, embodying the classic femme fatale archetype.

Mal Cobb (Inception): A tragic yet dangerous figure, her motivations blur the lines between reality and illusion.

Nikita (La Femme Nikita): Balances vulnerability and lethal skill, creating a layered and compelling character.

2. Literature Examples

Catherine Tramell (Basic Instinct): A brilliant, enigmatic writer whose intelligence and seduction make her a master manipulator.

Milady de Winter (The Three Musketeers): A cunning and ruthless antagonist, she uses her wits and charm to outmaneuver the heroes.

Amy Dunne (Gone Girl): Subverts the idea of victimhood with her calculated and chilling actions, redefining the femme fatale for modern audiences.

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