#like a monster get in your way or something

[mintmatcha]

if wolf form beau somehow breaks free, is he immediately pouncing on reader? does he try to fight those urges?

tw: noncon ish, dubcon, werewolf fuckin

.

"Beau!" you try to push on to your hands, but he's too heavy, the sheer force of his bucking hips slamming you into the hardwood. Claws circle your waist and the press of sharp into your skin steals a gasp from you. Beau. Beau would never hurt you, you try to remember, but you aren't sure if that's still true.

Because this is not your Beau.

Your fears are sated as Not Beau he pulls his hands downwards and tugs, ripping at your jeans until they are nothing but tatters, strips that do nothing to protect your awaiting cunt. Panic has you quivering, but there's no denying how glossed your legs are with your own excitement.

"Shh," His voice is a rolling growl. His frame is so massive against you that his body is stretched well past your head, his long, angled legs easily two feet longer than your own. The heat of him contrasts with the chill of the wooden floor; his torso presses against your back and all you can do is wiggle and try to breathe under the growing weight of him sinking down into you.

There's a nudge.

You know Beau's cock is big. You've been staring at it during every full moon.

But when it presses against your wet folds, you're suddenly very aware that it's massive. The angled head runs across your pussy so gently thst it feels aimless (even though you know it's not aimless. It's very much aimed towards entering you, fucking you, breeding you-) and Beau let's out a gritted huff. this hips move again, then again, missing entering you and just fucking himself against your pussy. The grooves and ridges of his dick grind against you clit as he goes and you cant help but open your knees wider for him.

When he pulls away, this time farther, a large drop of precum drops down from his hanging cock, right on to your asshole. It feels unnervingly hot at first, but then it rolls down on to your cunt.

The heat spreads, blossoming from your clit all the way your womb. It's prickly and buzzing, this all consuming thing that simply, truly, purely-

Feels really fucking good.

This time, when his dick misses its mark and runs over your sex, the feeling is absolutely electric.

"Oh," The way the voice seeps from you is delightfully embarrassing. "Ooohh."

From above you, Beau growls in delight. Drool drips from his jaws, down onto the floor in front of you. You wonder if you tasted it, it would make your body hot like his other fluids seem to do-

That trains of thought is interrupted when the tip of his cock finds purchase. The pressure against your entrance shocks a gasp from you, but your body leans into it, helping the monster above you slip inside. The balance of pain and pleasure, dear and want, makes your legs quiver.

Half of his tapered tip sinks inside before the resistance of your body becomes too much. Your cunt pulses uncontrollably, the dizzying effect of his precum not enough to fight the discomfort, but also inching a burning want up your spine. Beau nashes his teeth together, gripping your arms harder as if you could possibly get away-

As if you could ever want to get away. No, as his cock continues to dribble into you, the twisted gut desire itches deeper and deeper, to a place you couldn't touch if you tried. You need his cock. Need it, even if it absolutely breaks you.

"Not gonna fit." His voice is warped in his canine mouth. At the peak of his transformation, he can barely manage a full sentence.

His hips jerk forward and you yip in pain.

"I want you," you whine. "Want you all the time, Beau."

He won't remember this.

"My husband was so small-" you whimper. "Need you to stretch me out over my fucking coffee cable. fuck me 'til I cry every morning-"

Beau reels back at this and you think you've said something wrong until he fuckes into your thighs again. His whole body hunches. flattening himself as close you as possible, coupling your head in his arms. That spit is now running down your neck, tricking to your shoulder blades as he fucks himself into you.

It's all greedy, selfish movements. and yet when his cock rubs against your wanting clit, you cry and beg and keen and---

When your orgasm hits, everything goes white. Sounds leave your mouth and you're too busy twitching to stop it. It's so overwhelming that it almost feels like your body had betrayed you. Beau seems to understand what's happening; his muzzle nips and nudges at the back of your head as he continues rutting harder and harder. He's only a couple moments behind you, burying himself into your thighs with a gnarled groan. His cuk is thick. Hot. And it pools under you in a ludicrous amount. A flicker of you is almost relieved; there's no doubt in your mind. That would have bred you.

"Waste," he grumbles as he pulls away. Without his weight, you can pull in a deep breath and the exhaustion hits you. You slump down, only for the hulking hands to grip at your waist and lifts you off of the ground.

Fear hits you again. A second round? You couldn't possibly. Your cunt aches and you haven't even been fucked-

He carries you over to the bed and those golden eyes catch you as he lays you back down. There's a careful inspection of your face and body, a touch of a bruise on your shoulder. When you don't react, he nods and leaves you there, atop the comforter.

Honestly, fully human men have treated you worse. As he skulks off to the other side of the room, an emotion in you dips. You don't want to be alone; you'd rather be with him, on the floor in a puddle of cum.

You need to keep him with you. Need to tempt him over.

"Beau," you call and he perks up immediately. "Come here."

The way something so massive suddenly caves to your whimsical gives you a sick satisfaction. You run your fingers through your folds and hold up your hand for him, letting the wetness string between your fingers.

"Taste."

Beau obeys. The mattress creaks under his weight as he eases over top of you, straining for your outstretched hand. His tongue is rough and thick, strong enough that he cleans your fingers in a couple strong licks.

"Good boy," you say. Surprisingly, the werewolf seems to like the praise. Good.

"Taste." You touch yourself again and rub it down the side of your neck. Again, the tongue do

"Taste." You hlaze your own tits with it. Beau licks and nips again, this time much longer than needed. Sleep is going to overtake you, but the attention and warmth of his body feels good to bask in.

"Do you like my tits, Beau?"

He groans an affirmative. The flicker of tongue against your nipple sends butterflies across your skin, but you can't pull yourself awake enough to enjoy it.

"Does human Beau like my tits too?"

"Yes," he grits into the fat of your chest just as you start to drift. "Human Beau likes everything about you. Human Beau wants you bred full too."

.

When morning rises, the room smells like sex. There's the comforting weight of a man on top of you, his face

From his place between your legs, Beau's human cock is pressed right against your sex once again, tip barely kissing your entrance. It's smaller, of course, but it's in no means small. It would still ache to take, still shake your legs-

You think, maybe, if you could tilt your pelvis just a hair, you could get the whole tip in without him waking up and ruining your fantasy...

[wosospacegirl]

dinosaurs and...sex? - Alexia Putellas

Summary: Alexia's girlfriend is way too stressed out for her own good, so she puts matter into her own hands (fingers)

Word count: 2.2k

Warning: (+18) fingering and oral (r receiving) and at the end suggestive to oral (r giving) because we are all switches here at wosospacegirl

A/n: I think I've found my niche in fanfic and it's writing nerdy lesbian sex...sorry it's repetitive but it's just so fun to write them...

this is a scheduled post because I *actually* have a dinosaur test to study to and I don't have alexia to eat me out so--

..

"Can I come in, or are you still acting like a monster?" Alexia said from the doorway, leaning casually against the frame. She was holding something, but you couldn't quite see what, mostly because your eyes had stopped functioning after reading the word Mesozoic for the ninth time.

You had decided to go to university.

 And now you carry that burden every day. Every. Single. Day.

It was finals week, and you were an absolute wreck. You were so stressed that you had caught the worst cold ever known to humankind. Why your immune system gave up on you at the slightest sign of stress, you didn't know.

Alexia had taken care of you and made sure you rested. But of course, that meant you hadn't been able to study for three whole days.

And now here you were, at Alexi's house, sprawled across her bed, surrounded by books that were open at completely random pages, with class notes you didn't even remember taking.

Your eyes hurt. Your head hurts. Everything hurt. But mostly your soul, because you felt like you barely had one. Surely you had long lost it between the Jurassic and the Cretaceous period.

And when everything hurt, it made you angry, because you couldn't study the way you wanted to. And when you were angry, you were rude.

Alexia had shown up (to her room, in her house) and asked if the two of you shouldn't take a walk or do something relaxing. AKA: She was getting stressed from watching you mumble like a maniac about something called…Coelurosauria?

You, ever the sweet and understanding girlfriend, had snapped at her, questioning why the hell she was bothering you while you were studying.

It wasn't a "Hi, Alexia, I'm sorry, I can't talk right now."

It was a "Oh my fucking God, Alexia, can't you leave me alone for two whole minutes?"

Alexia–who was actually sweet and understanding– didn't say anything. She just stepped closer to where you were sitting, kissed the top of your head, and left a protein bar beside you before quietly walking away, probably heading for a lonely walk around Barcelona.

You cried while studying the skeleton of the Brachiosaurus because you felt guilty afterwards.

You didn't want to be mean, but finals brought out the worst in you. Still, Alexia wasn't the one to blame.

You knew Alexia was back when you heard the front door on the first floor opening and then closing. You heard her taking off her shoes and making her way upstairs.

You felt the mattress dip beside you, and when you turned around, Alexia was sitting there. You gave her your biggest, most apologetic eyes. 

"I'm sorry," you said, genuinely.

Alexia looked at you, cupped your jaw, and brought your mouth to hers. She kissed you sweetly. "It's okay," she murmured against your lips as you closed your eyes. 

"I know you get grumpy when you're overwhelmed with school. No need to say sorry."

"Yes, I do," you said, breaking the kiss and flopping back onto the bed, almost like a starfish. Your book was lying open beside you as you stared at the ceiling. "I was rude, that's not okay."

"It is okay," Alexia said, as she hovered above you, her hair tickling your cheek. "Because you sound hot when you're mad."

You rolled your eyes and pecked her lips. "Okay, now you're stretching."

"I'm serious," she said, getting off of you and sitting cross-legged at the end of the bed. "You pout and your brows furrow…It's like  exactly the face you make when you're about to cum–"

"Okay!" you interrupted, throwing your book at her, your face burning. Alexia could be so crude when she wanted to.  "No talking about sex, or–"

"--you cumming?" Alexia teased, raising an eyebrow.

"Yes," you groaned. "This is literally the most boring subject ever. It doesn't pair well with dirty talk."

Alexia stayed quiet for a few seconds, and you took that as a sign to return to your notes and re-read them. You were lying on your stomach now,  your paper was spread out in front of you, when you felt Alexia climb on top of you and drop all of her weight onto your back.

Out of the sudden, you had a book to your face as well–your zoology and evolution of dinosaur book.

Alexia cheekily snatched your notes, and before you could complain, her voice filled the room as she read the book.

"Thyreophora, often known as armoured dinosaurs, were a group of ornithischian dinosaurs that lived from the Early Jurassic until the end of the Cretaceous…"

You listened as Alexia spoke, and you couldn't help but feel as if she was… reading it erotically?

You felt her weight on your back, the way she held your book right in front of you, holding it with one hand while her other hand stayed pressed to your ribcage.

"Primitive forms had simple, low, keeled scutes or osteoderms," she continued, her voice low as she pressed more fully into your body like she was getting cosy, relaxing. "Oh, those are cool, right, bebé?" she said against your ear, and you couldn't help the shiver that ran through you.

You had known Alexia long enough to recognise when she was doing this on purpose.

Sometimes, you had the willpower to push her away and to fight back. You had to study, your exam was tomorrow!! But right now?

Right now, you wanted to be pliant.

"Most thyreophorans were herbivorous and had small brains for their size," she said, her hand slipping under your shirt, her cold fingertips grazing your skin just above your ribs. 

"Oh, does that mean they were dumb?"Alexia asked innocently, placing a kiss on the back of your neck.

"N-no," you stammered as you tried to move, but her body was still pinning you down. "Brain size doesn't really determine intelligence…"

Alexia hummed against your skin, letting the book fall onto the bed with a soft thud. 

Now her full attention was on your neck, she was licking your skin before sucking the it into her mouth.

"I thought the bigger the brain, the smarter?" she murmured.

She sat up from behind you and turned you over, leaving you flat on your back. Then she kissed you deep and slow, biting your lip.

"No, it doesn't mean that," you mumbled, lifting your arms as Alexia pulled off your shirt, leaving your torso bare. "W-what is intelligence, after all, right? It's a very human construct and we…."

Your breath hitched as Alexia kissed your stomach, slowly making her way down to your navel, then she gently tugged at the waistband of your pants.

You lifted your hips, helping her in the process of getting you naked.

"Keep going, amor, "Alexia said, kissing you just above your underwear. "I don't want to distract you from your studies."

Her fingers slid down to your centre, where the wet spot of your underwear was. Your eyes were closed now, but you knew Alexia was smirking.

"What were you saying about intelligence?"Alexia coaxed, her voice innocent, as if she wasn't doing anything wrong, as if she really was helping you study.

But thinking about dinosaurs or intelligence or anything was nearly impossible as she hooked her fingers into the sides of your underwear and pulled them aside, exposing you completely. She slid her fingers just above your cunt, spreading your weteness slowly around your folds, teasing you.

You moaned as Alexia pressed just the tip of your finger inside of your cunt, your hips moving, begging for more contact, but Alexia didn't give in. She wanted to make you work for it for a bit.

"If you don't talk," Alexia said sternly, kissing the inside of your thigh, "I'll stop. Keep going. Tell me about the subject."

You were in silence, your brain mush. It was like you forgot you even knew any words, let alone the evolution of ornithischian dinosaurs.

Although you were quick to remember it when Alexia took her mouth away from your body.

You clutched at her head, pressing her against your cunt. 

"Please, keep going–"you whined. "I-I was saying that intelligence is a human parameter, and we shouldn't judge other species based on it because it's honestly a very anthropocentric concept…"

"There she is, my smart girl, "Alexia purred. And just like magic, she slid her index finger inside of you, and your body welcomed it immediately. "What else can you tell me about those Thy… Thry…"

"Thyreophora," You breathed as Alexia slid another finger in, thrusting into you so slowly it made you want to cry. "There are two major groups, th-" 

You didn't even get to finish, because you felt alexia's hot breath against your cunt, her mouth touching your clit, wrapping her lips aorund itand sucking gently. "Fuck–more." 

Alexia slapped your thigh; it didn't sting, but it was a warning.

"Keep talking." 

So you did.

Alexia ate you out slowly as if she was savouring every single drop of your wetness. You were very aware she was enjoying herself way too much; you also knew she was doing it as a form of revenge, too.

But you didn't mind for her motives, not when she kept fucking you like that. She only stopped when you stopped talking. 

She really was taking your studies very seriously.

Alexia's tongue was thrusting inside of you. You didn't know how she had mastered the ability to penetrate you so deeply with her tongue, but you (once again) didn't care.

Her hands were pinning you down on the mattress, clutching your hip bones, not letting you move an inch as she continued to thoroughly pleasure (or maybe torture) you.

It took you a while to cum, but not because Alexia wasn't giving you what you needed, but because your body had trouble switching from stressed, anxious and overstimulated to relaxed.

Alexia didn't say a word about it. She didn't make you feel bad that it was taking longer than usual. She just kept her mouth on your cunt, as if she had all the time in the word.

And when you finally came, it felt like your body had truly relaxed for the first time in days. 

You felt as if all of your muscles relaxed all at once. Your eyes rolled back, and you yanked at Alexia's hair with a little more force than you were intending to, but she didn't complain. 

You were trying to catch your breath when alexia finally lifted her face from your cunt. 

She made her way up your body, kissing your stomach and your breasts before (finally) kissing you, and sliding her tongue in to let you taste yourself.

"See," Alexia whispered as she broke the kiss. She lay her head on your chest, her finger gently tracing your face. "I was right."

"Rigth about what?" You barely manage to say. 

"Your face when you cum," She said against your sking, kissing your collarbone. "The pout, the furrowed eyebrows."

You blink, still pretty much dizzy. "Did you make all of this... too prove a point?"

"Maybe," she said, smiling. 

"I hate you," you murmured, closing your eyes and letting your hands run through her hair.

"You don't," Alexia said. "You just came in my mouth, I think that was a love confession, actually."

You chucked at Alexia's words. 

Maybe it was the oxytocin running through your body stream, or maybe it was the quiet realisation that this was the first time you and Alexia were properly intimate in days, mostly because of your schedule at uni and her schedule at Barcelona.

You surprised yourself by lowering your head and kissing her again, your hands slipping under her shirt to trace the back tattoos you knew by heart.

Alexia kissed you back–and what was a sweet kiss–turned into something urgent.

"I want you," you breathed against her mouth, your hand curling around the back of her neck. "Now."

"Yeah?" Alexia smirked. "How?"

"On your back, legs spread open," you said.

"Okay," she simply said.

She did what you asked of her. 

She lay down, but she winced slightly when one of your pens dug into her back.

You watched her for a moment, admiring her, and then you undressed her completely. You took her shirt off, and then her training bra.

You wrapped your lips around her nipples, sucking them until Alexia was gasping, asking for more.

Without wasting another second, you pulled down her shorts and underwear in one go. 

You spread her legs apart with each of your hands and began kissing the inside of her thighs, biting them softly,  leaving teeth marks where no one would see them.

You were in your moment now.  Feeling hot and heavy, watching Alexia's cunt dripping right in forn of your face, how pretty her cunt looked, how ready she was for you.

But just as you were ready to taste her, Alexia said.

"Do you want me to read your notes out loud while you do it?"

You paused, your mouth still slightly open, looking up at her. You truly had a problem reading her facial expression.

At the same time that it looked like she was teasing you, it also seemed like the proposal was sincere, like she might actually do it if you said yes.

You glared at her, your eyes narrowing, trying to make your point across without having to use any words.

"Okay," she said quickly. "I guess that's a no."

..

A/n: Got the dino infos on Wikipedia!

Tag list: @footy-lover264 , @fortifyde, @naomigirmadefender , @neutraiise , @milkveed, @browercc , @ace-of-baked , @ikzzzya , @sky-the-trans-guy00 , @knight-16 , @wosohk04 , @evaissleepy13 , @papimapileon , @unpoppablebubbles @whiskeredshrimp-blog @goodloe-e @liloandstitchstan @s0ciety-cxv @dfwspky @karmajn @awosofavs @wosofavfanfics

[chunibyo-x-sorcerer]

"Sorta..." Daichi begins, "It's hard to explain. She's a vessel for Kinie, but at the same time, she's a demon. But...it's not my place to tell." Daichi said.

"I see," Konekomura said. From the looks of sorcerers, it must be really serious. And the way Itadori is talking about this. Kinie isn't the only one who is pissed off here. Shima, Izumo, and Shemei can tell this match is going to get bloody. "Well...we know that guy fucked up," Ryuji said. "So let's hope Rin beats up his teammate, too. They played around too much." Ryuji said.

"Shut up! I got this." Kris said, switching back into his form. Well..this is something. He didn't expect something like this. "I don't know what's going on here. But yeah...you're right." He said, wiping the bleeding from his nose and mouth. "I can do more than just turn into anyone that people love. I can also turn into your greatest fears!" He said, transforming his hand into scales and bear claws. "I can turn into a dog, a bear, a vampire, a demon, an oni, a werewolf, an alien, or maybe a-"

"Enough. Are you going to keep yapping like a dog or get to it. Anymore talking and I might just have to kill you."

"Huh?" Kris asked. "Kill me?"

"That's right. You're not even worth putting a mount. You're just an insect to be stomped on." Kinie said.

Kris grits his teeth and begins to laugh, "Oh! So you think I'm easy to kill. This bitch..." He begins to change now as he turns himself into something else. Not a human. But first, a bear but its arms grew humanoid as it has scales and claws, it sprouts horns as its neck grows, has talons for feet, and sports a long tail. He has a lion's head with red eyes.

"Hahahaha!" The monster named Kris laughs. "I show you what happens when you underestimate me!" He lunges at him, and Kinie smiles.

"Better..." She said before dodging a swipe from Kris. Meanwhile, Rina bit her bottom lip now as she began to take her sword out. "Those flames aren't going to scare me.

"..S..switch places? So...Kinie is part of Taz?" she didn't know that but Izumo can tell. This is a dangerous yet powerful demon. How did Taz make a contract with someone this powerful!?

"So that explains it...no wonder..." Miwa mutters nervous seeing KInie not happy right now.

"Well, knowing her, she's done with the mind games.......even when he pissed her off." Yuji said in a cold tone but they look seeing he was just as mad. He wanted to get at Kris for what he did but..again, Sukuna told him Kinie has this.

"Kris, get up! Do something!" Rina shouts to see him on the ground before she tries to stand, blue fire surrounds her as she tenses feeling the heat. It was a lot more hotter that she looks seeing Rin standing but he was now coated in azure flames. His eyes were different too while gripping Kurikara.

"E..eh...."

"You...will..pay for that.." he snarled at her.

"Oh damn it.." she said.

[hitomisuzuya]

Suzu! I really love your works so remember to take breaks when you need it!

Also can I just say that I love your gamer/streamer scara so I want to see some more :”) maybe reader taking care of him a lot (checking up on him, bringing him snacks etc.), just being really sweet and scara takes care of her too like they get on it on his gaming chair or bj under the desk. It could be fluffy too! Or both! I don’t mind either way

I appreciate you so take care of yourself 💜🩵

streamer!scaramouche x fem!reader. smut. blow job. praise. soft!dom scara. consensual sexual activities on livestream.

aww thank you so much for your kind words, dear. i enjoy writing steamer scara❤️ i decided to use fall out as the game played. dogmeat is best boy.

much to scaramouche's chat's delight, you have been flitting in and out of his room since he started streaming. over three hours ago. his chat always lights up a little more than usual when they see you.

"okay, who is fucking my shit up in my settlement?" he grumbles, seeing there is a disturbance in his settlement. "oh, i see. some monsters got in. no matter, i'll just delete them."

several people in chat were calling out that dogmeat was in trouble. he largely ignores them, heading right to the heart of the problem.

you enjoy doting on scaramouche, and taking care of him. "hi, hunny. i figured you are hungry, so i brought you some chips, and some more coffee," you set the bowl of chips and cans of coffee down near him, coming to stand behind his computer chair.

"hi, chat," you greet, wiggling your fingers in a shy wave as you rest your chin on his shoulder. "dogmeat is in trouble?" you comment, reading the chat "go save him."

scaramouche rolls his eyes seeing the chat agree overenthusiastic with you. "why? he is a pain in my ass. thanks for the snacks though."

"go save him, please," you put your arms around him, skimming your hand temptingly down his chest towards his thighs, "if you do, i'll do something for you. i'll do that thing you really like," you brush your lips next to his ear, "i'll swallow with your cock still in my mouth."

something awakens inside scaramouche then. he never redirected his character so fast, and dispatched the monsters bullying dogmeat. "chat, there is a change in plans," he rolls his computer chair back a little as you step back, "you know the drill. you guys gotta pay to see this shit."

he allows his chat to see a teaser view of you getting on your knees, reaching for his zipper as you rest your head on his thigh. "feeling needy?" he asks, making it so that his chat has to pay to watch now, and giving them a few minutes (that's all they would need) to decide.

"mhm," you reply, nuzzling your cheek again this hip, quickly unbuttoning his jeans. he adores the blush on your cheeks as you reach for his cock once he frees it. his chat is able to start seeing things again just in time to hear you say, "i want to treat you. and," your tongue sweeps out to lick his cockhead, "i just really want your cock in my mouth."

you didn't mind doing this for him. it always helps him make a little extra money, and there was something about the eroticism of it all that really made you wet.

scaramouche sighs starting to relax as your lithe little tongue goes to work on his dripping cock head. you curl your tongue around and around, slowly sweeping the tip on the slit.

"my pretty, you are so fucking good to me," he moans, carding his fingers through your hair, pushing your mouth down onto his cock. "open wide like a good girl. show my chat how obediently you choke on my cock."

your cheeks flush at his words, your heart quickening in your chest. your gums lock wet and warm around his cock, the ridges on the roof of your mouth grinding delicious as you suck.

you muffle a moan on his cock as he gently pushes your mouth down further. his hips rock up, groaning as his cock rests in your throat. he strokes his fingers through your hair as you cough. his cock throbs in your mouth as your throat spasms around it, drool pooling from your mouth onto his jeans.

"fuck, you look so cute drooling on my cock," he gathers your hair out of your face, holding it as he gently bobs your mouth up and down on his cock.

his chat immediately sounds off in agreement. equally filthy comments about how good you are being for him pop up. and a few saying how they would like to see you dote on scaramouche like this again, but dressed in a skimpy maid outfit, complete with stockings and cat ears.

wet slurping noises fill the room as you flatten your tongue, taking him deep into your throat again. you moan seeing him reduced to the state above you.

he is a moaning, twitching mess, his hazy eyes locked on you as you lovingly suck him off. "shit, such a soft, and pliable throat," he groans, babbling a little.

seeing him, making him feel so good dampens your panties to cling to your cunt. you squeeze and rub your thighs together, choking a sweet whimper on his cock in an attempt to seek friction on your clit.

"how sweet," he moans to cover up his own whimper as cum ribbons salty into your mouth. "even with her mouth stuffed full of my cock, i can still hear how badly she wants me to fuck her," he strokes his fingers through your hair in appreciation.

[rainrot4me]

Hii!!!! I really like your stuff :3

How do you think the pastas would react to their S/O wanting to try period sex?

✦ . jeff the killer

“Blood doesn’t scare me, sweetheart.”

Jeff just raises a brow like, “That’s supposed to stop me?” This is a guy who’s usually covered in some other kind of blood.

He doesn’t flinch, doesn’t even hesitate. If anything, he gets a little smirk on his face. “Kinda metal, honestly.”

But he will make a few jokes about it—“Should I light some candles or summon a demon?”—and you’ll have to swat at him to get him to behave.

Will 100% brag about being unbothered.

✦ . ticci toby

“…Uh. Yeah. I mean—if you’re comfortable, I’m good.”

He’s a little flustered. Not because he’s squeamish—he’s seen far worse—but because you’re the one asking, and that sends his thoughts spinning.

He’ll ask a lot of questions to make sure you’re okay, and he’ll be a bit awkward at first, but he wants to make you feel wanted, no matter what.

The moment you reassure him, he’s all in. Just…maybe don’t joke about red wings. He’ll die on the spot.

✦ . eyeless jack

“You’re asking a surgeon if he’s bothered by blood?”

Jack tilts his head and hums like you’ve just proposed something mildly interesting.

He’s the definition of unbothered. Will keep the same calm tone and intense gaze, like he’s analyzing your comfort more than anything else. He does appreciate your vulnerability in asking, though. Might even praise you for being open.

You get a little extra softness from him afterward—gentle cleanup, checking in, maybe even cooking something for you.

✦ . masky (tim wright)

“You’re serious?”

Masky looks at you like you’re testing him. At first, it’s that quiet stare of “why are you telling me this” but it quickly shifts to “…Wait, you’re serious?”

He doesn’t care about mess—he’s practical, intense, and if it brings you comfort or closeness, he’s not backing out.

He probably won’t say much, but the grip he has on you says more than enough.

✦ . hoodie (brian thomas)

“If that’s what you want, then it’s what you’ll get.”

He doesn’t blink. He just leans in close and says it low. He has a quiet, collected dominance about him that makes you feel safe even when asking something vulnerable.

He might pull you into his lap, tuck your hair behind your ear, and murmur, “Just say the word.”

He does keep a towel nearby. Man’s prepared, respectfully.

✦ . kate the chaser

“Finally, someone who doesn’t flinch at a little blood.”

Kate grins, a little wolfish. “Messy? Sure. Problem? Nope.”

She’ll pin you down just to watch your reaction, hands gentle but grip firm. It’s kind of a bonding thing to her. She appreciates the honesty and boldness of asking—and respects that you know what you want.

She might even make a ritual out of checking on you afterward, cleaning you up, and curling up close in an almost protective way.

✦ . ben drowned

“Aren’t we like…already in a horror movie?”

Ben is a bit of a menace. He’s not grossed out, but he will make jokes. The first thing he says is probably, “Hot,” just to watch you squirm. He’s weirdly comfortable with the concept and makes it less awkward by not treating it like a big deal.

“Blood and gore? Boring. You being into it? Now that’s interesting.”

(He might even pause the game for you—maybe.)

✦ . clockwork

“You’re seriously worried about a little blood? Look at me.”

Clockwork gives you a look. She’ll lean in, smirk curling sharp, and tap her clock eye with her fingernail. “Honey, I’m literally part machine.”

She finds it kind of empowering, actually. You trusting her enough to bring it up? That earns you her full attention.

She’ll make sure you feel in control the whole time—gentle where it counts, but rough enough that you feel wanted.

✦ . laughing jack

“Darling, you think that’s gonna scare me off?”

He bursts out laughing, throwing his head back like you just told the best joke.

Then he wiggles his fingers and gets real close: “I’m already a monster, sweets. You think a little natural disaster’s gonna stop me?”

He’s dramatic, teasing, but also surprisingly attentive. Will make sure you’re cozy and comforted. Might bring you candy afterward just because he’s still Jack.

✦ . slenderman

“…If this is your desire, it is no trouble.”

Slender speaks calmly, formally, and never once lets you feel ashamed. His aura alone says this is natural, this is safe.

He respects your autonomy and doesn’t recoil or hesitate. You’ll find his movements slower, more purposeful, like he’s hyperaware of what you need.

And afterward? He brings you warm tea, clean clothes, and wordlessly braids your hair if you let him.

꩜ .ᐟ

[flwrkid14]

Ghosts of Gotham

They say Gotham is haunted.

Not just by the usual things—regret, poverty, old blood in alleyways—but by something else. Something stranger.

They say the shadows twitch wrong on certain nights. That if you walk the Narrows during a thunderstorm, your reflection in puddles might smile before you do. That if you laugh too loud after midnight, something laughs back—higher pitched, younger, aching with glee.

And if you ask the wrong people, in the wrong bars, beneath the flickering neon where the rogues drink and the bats won’t tread, you’ll hear about him.

They call him Joker Junior in the files. JJ in the headlines. The Painted Prince in the streets.

But his name was once Tim.

The lost Drake boy. The one they didn’t recover. The one who didn’t die—but didn’t escape, either.

He laughs like he’s trying to drown something. He smiles with too many teeth and talks to himself in riddles no one else can follow. And behind the greasepaint and the scars and the violet shadow of someone else’s madness… there was once a boy who loved maps and logic and riddles that had real answers.

He’s the one Gotham forgot how to mourn.

People say he changed the city. That when he came back wrong, Gotham did too. That he left it cracked down the middle, laughing and bleeding, and no one dared to glue it back together.

But he’s not the only ghost in town.

Because they say another came for him.

Not one of Gotham’s own. Not Crime Alley born, or Arkham-bound. A boy, if you could still call him that. This one came with wind in his lungs and frost at his heels. With a laugh that froze the river and eyes that could see every version of the city stacked on top of itself like broken teeth. Glowing blue and ancient-eyed, like someone who knew too much about love and death and the cruel ways they blur.

The ghost didn’t belong to Gotham. But he stayed for him.

They say Joker Junior didn’t run when the ghost found him. Didn’t scream. Didn’t hide. Just looked at the boy glowing in the sky like a neon omen and said: “God, you’re late. I was beginning to think I made you up.”

And Danny—because that’s what the children call him now, just Danny—grinned like a god who’d waited lifetimes and said: “I thought I was supposed to stop you.”

Now they move through Gotham like a storm and its shadow. One trailing riddles, chaos, and grinning violence. The other bending light and chill, and humming softly to the bones of the dead.

They don’t save people. Not the way the capes do.

But the monsters scatter when they’re near. The haunted buildings go quiet. And the kids who get lost in the dark come back changed—smiling like they know a secret.

Some say Danny pulls Tim back from the edge every night. Others say Tim is the only thing keeping Danny from becoming something godlike and cold.

Others still say they’re both already long gone—and what walks Gotham now are just what love leaves behind when it starts to rot beautifully.

But here’s the part they all agree on:

They’re in love.

Twisted, terrifying love. The kind that warps magic and makes death look romantic. The kind that turns ghost stories into gospel. The kind you want to stay away from—but can’t help watching when it passes.

And sometimes, on Gotham’s highest rooftops—clocktower, cathedral, the burned-out pier of the old amusement park—they’ll dance.

Tim in blood-slicked purple. Danny in frostbitten black. Laughing like the world’s about to end.

And maybe it already did.

Maybe they're all that was left.

Or maybe—maybe—they were what came next. Love, haunting, and chaos in tandem. The prince and the ghost. The joke and the echo. Gotham’s newest myth. Its oldest curse. And the kind of love story you should never say out loud after dark.

[horny-marbles]

Hihi! Unsure if you’d recognize me as 🧃 anon over on Tiv’s blog,,(I’m always found in the trenches over there) but I’ve been lurking on here for a bit now and can hold silent no longer!

As a fellow Ej main,,,, I gotta ask u. Erm what’s ur take on what HE would be like during period sex??? 👉👈

Ehe I love your work sm!!!!

hiiii yes i know u!! OK SO i'm using this as an excuse to post this fic i wrote a few months ago because i wasn't sure if i'd be shunned off this app for it lmfao, so like. i hope you got your answer 🫡

(also this is just some munch behaviour, but p in v is basically the same. he WILL get rabies. godspeed if you're on your period while he has his rut, you might actually get dicked into a coma)

(also also i'm not the proudest of this one but i've been fiending to post it so WHATEVER go my cannibal bf)

Bloodhound (Eyeless Jack x F!Reader)

CW: period oral, multiple orgasms, kinda public

wordcount 2.6k

It took forever to get to this point with Jack.

He’s not emotionally available. He doesn’t date. He doesn’t cuddle. He doesn’t care—at least, that’s what everyone at the mansion thought. He always keeps a distance, clinically cold, silent unless necessary. Most creeps only interact with him when they're dying and hoping he’d patch them up in time. You? You got in somehow.

It started with shared silences. You didn’t push, didn’t ask invasive questions. You treated him like a person, not a monster, not someone you can get something from. Maybe that’s what cracked him open.

Nothing about it was fast. It was Jack, after all. Glacial patience, iron self-control. And he… was a project in erosion. Small conversations, slow touches. Letting him fix a cut on your hand, not flinching at his claws, letting him hear your heartbeat up close while he stitched you up.

It took weeks for him to even look at you like something more than another resident of the mansion. Even longer to speak to you like you mattered. And months before you saw him with his guard down. Just a little. A crooked smile when you said something that caught him off-guard. He was cautious—frustratingly so—but over time, he allowed you closer.

Something changed along the lines. Eventually, you broke through. Maybe it was your quiet persistence. Maybe it was just time. Maybe he got tired of pretending your presence hadn't become sought out rather than just a nice surprise on the occasion.

Whatever it was, you were his now. And he was yours. Carefully. Quietly. Privately. Like something precious. It was gentler than you could've anticipated, but it felt monumental.

You knew he was demon enough to survive off flesh. You knew his senses were heightened—he’d mentioned it once, bluntly, like a clinical report. “Everyone in this house reeks. I ignore it. Easier that way.” You didn’t ask more.

So when your period started, you didn’t even think to tell him. Why would you? You weren’t the kind of person to make a big deal out of it out loud. You’d stuff a pad in your jacket, pop some ibuprofen, sulk, call it a day. Maybe mention it if sex came up to make sure he wasn't squeamish, but otherwise—whatever.

He was NOT squeamish.

He was a fucking wreck, in such a visceral way that it knocked him off balance.

He didn’t realize it at first. Not consciously. There was just… a difference.

Your heartbeat was lower. Your temperature ran hotter. A subtle change in the chemistry of your sweat. Not bad—nothing ever was with you. But different. Complicated.

Jack tuned these things out. Hormones, sweat, stress, sex—this mansion stank of it. He’d learned long ago that the only way to keep his sanity was to ignore everything that wasn’t essential. If he let it in—really let it in—he’d never get peace again.

But this wasn’t the house. This wasn’t “ambient noise.” This was you.

And your scent had changed.

At first, it was small. Just enough to raise the hair on his arms. His instincts whispered to him in the background, tugged at the base of his spine like a hooked wire. Something important was happening. Something ripe.

The smell started sweet. Then it got wet. Iron and heat. Blood and sugar and skin. A slick, dizzying cocktail of copper and pheromones that made something deep in his gut twitch.

He realized—too late—that you were bleeding.

He’d smelled it before, of course. Lived with women in this house. It had never meant anything to him. Just another reason to stay away for a few days, let the hormone cloud settle and spare himself the migraine.

But this wasn’t just any blood. It wasn't the viscera and gore he was so used to when feeding. This wasn't about hunger and survival. It was about you. About everything else that came with it — your hormones, the heat under your skin, the scent of pain and lust and life. You were a walking furnace, and he was standing downwind from the smoke.

Jack hadn’t accounted for that when he lowered his defenses to let you in. He hadn’t even considered that it might affect him differently.

But now it was like every cell in his body was tuned to you. Your scent dragged claws down his brainstem, lit every nerve like a chemical explosion. His mouth filled with saliva he didn’t need. His muscles locked so tight it hurt to move.

And his cock was constantly throbbing. There was barely any angle to adjust, no distraction strong enough. His body was betraying him, rock-solid and aching, cock flushed and twitching behind his jeans like it wanted to rip through.

Not just hard. Rigid. Like his entire body was bracing against some invisible force. His shoulders tense. Jaw clenched. Claws scraping gouges into the inside of his palm just to focus.

He stayed away that first day. Locked himself in his room. Didn’t answer when you knocked.

But the second day, your scent wafted behind you when you passed by him in the hall, grazing under his nose like it was both mocking and luring him in, and his knees buckled.

You were too busy chasing your cramps away with painkillers and heat pads to notice your boyfriend's change in behaviour, though.

You never noticed the way he breathed around you, measured and tight and absolutely refusing to inhale through his nose. The way he kept his hands in his pockets, hidden, clenched. The way his voice went low and clipped when you got too close.

But the way he wouldn't even look in your general direction—allusive to an actual glance as it would've been—became too on the nose. The way his shirt clung to his chest. The sheen of sweat permanently on his collar.

His breath stuttered when you leaned over the sink at some point before heading to bed. You were just getting a glass of water.

And Jack folded like laundry.

“Sit down.” His voice was low, firm, strained. Out of nowhere.

You blinked and turned around slowly. “What?”

His head was tilted slightly downward, jaw clenched like he was about to snap it off at the hinge. “The couch. Sit.”

You sat, confused. Bracing for the talk. Surely, the strange behaviour meant he was just done, for some reason. That's what your homonal mind jumped to anyway.

He knelt between your legs without another word. Okay, so no talk.

You stare down at him.

He's kneeling. Still. Broad hands braced on your thighs, fingers twitching like he’s holding himself back from shredding you to ribbons. He’s staring at your padded pussy like he can see it through your pajamas, like it owes him money. Like it promised him something and he came to collect.

Your legs spread a little—not even fully open—but his breath shudders out like he’s been punched.

“Jack?” you murmur, half-laughing, half-nervous. “What are you doing?”

His claws curl tighter into your thighs. He doesn’t answer right away. You can see the war in his head, muscles in his jaw doing Olympics when they twitch. He lifts a hand and rubs his face hard, dragging clawed fingers from brow to chin like he’s trying to scrape the hunger out of his skull.

He leans closer. Breathes in. Then again.

“Fuck—”

It’s a hiss. Half-formed. Desperate. Almost makes you jerk back, not with fear or disgust, but with realization.

“Jack—people could walk in—”

“Don’t care,” he growls. Not harsh—just raw. Like it costs him to speak at all. “I'll kill them. You need to—fuck—open your legs.”

You’re already open, but you listen. You shift. Knees wider. Hips tilted forward.

The second you do it, he twitches. Full body.

And then he leaps. Not violent—but like a man dying of thirst finally handed a glass of water. He buries his face in your clothed pussy and groans.

You feel it all: heat, vibration, desperation. He’s nuzzling hard through the fabric like it’s not enough, like he needs skin, taste, your fucking soul. His breath is hot, fast. You can feel him mouthing you over the cotton, and it sends sparks ripping through your spine.

“Jack—Jesus—wait, I'm on my—”

“Exactly,” he growls again, this time muffled against your cunt. “I need this.”

He yanks at your waistband, fast but careful. Pants and padded panties yanked off your ankles and tossed behind him on the floor. He looks deranged, mouth slightly parted, nostrils flaring, sweat beading at his temples.

And then—without asking, without warning—he leans in.

You jolt when you feel the first tongue.

Wet. Hot and starved. It licks from the bottom of your pussy to your clit in one slow, savoring drag. A moan vibrates against you—deep, long, throaty—and you feel how hard he’s gripping your thighs now, claws pressing in like they’re the only things tethering him to the floor.

The second tongue follows. Then the third. One on your clit. One swirling around your folds to pick up any trace of blood like he's licking a plate clean. The last one dips inside.

You choke out a sound that’s not even a word.

Jack doesn’t stop. Doesn’t breathe. He’s full-body focused, shuddering between your legs like he’s being electrocuted with pleasure just from tasting you. His tongues move in urgent patterns—suckling, lapping, sliding inside you—and the third one curls deep, pumping in slow, sinful thrusts like he’s tongue-fucking your cervix.

He's drinking you. Literally. You feel the small gush as your blood mixes with your arousal and his growl deepens. His head tilts, adjusting his angle like he’s trying to get more of it, and he moans again.

Jack doesn’t moan. He barely talks.

But right now, he’s loud and messy and desperate, to the point where—if you could have a moment of clarity—you would think his mating season came early.

Slurping noises echo off the walls, obscene and wet. You realize again where you are—the common room—and your whole body flushes.

“Jack—fucking hell, w-what if someone walks in—”

His only answer is to suck your clit into his mouth while his third tongue curls up inside you, pressing so deep it makes your vision stutter.

Your hips buck. He groans, and the vibration rattles your bones.

He moves faster.

Tongue on your clit flicking now, licking in fast little swipes. Second tongue dragging figure-eights across your folds. Third tongue fucking you like it’s trying to crawl into your womb.

Your thighs are trembling. Your head tips back, hand flying to his head, burying in his hair. You feel his body—solid, trembling, tense with restraint.

You cum so fast it makes you choke.

It hits you like lightning, shattering through your spine, hips jerking, thighs locking around his head. You hear yourself whimper trying to stay silent, feel your body clamp around his tongues, and Jack just growls into you like it’s the best fucking thing he’s ever experienced.

He doesn’t stop. Not even when you’re shaking. Not even when the blood runs thicker.

He just pulls back slightly to breathe—and fuck, he looks wrecked. His mouth is soaked—chin slick with blood and spit, dark red smeared halfway up to his cheeks, coating his skin like warpaint. He stares at your cunt like he’s starving, heaving like it's hurting him to unlatch his mouth from your taste.

You see his hand now. The one not gripping your thigh with bruising force, wrapped around his cock. Fist pumping slow and vicious—like he’s trying not to cum from the taste of you alone.

Because he almost did.

You feel the heat of his stare. Like he’s burned every inch of your cunt into his brain. Like nothing else exists in this moment but your flushed, swollen pussy and the mess he just made of you.

He looks up at you with bloodied lips parted and tongues curling, one of them flicking over his bottom lip in a slow, hungry drag.

“You’re gonna cum again,” he says, voice rough and quiet like a threat. “You're gonna give me everything."

You whimper simply from the way he leans back in like he owns you, like he was born for this.

The first tongue enters slow this time—broad and heavy, pushing past your bullied entrance with a wet, obscene squelch. Your hips twitch. You’re already sensitive, but your body opens for him anyway, clenches like it knows what’s coming.

He groans low in his throat. You feel the way your blood drips down his tongue, how he laps it deeper inside you like honey from the comb.

Then the second tongue slips in. Coiling around the first like a twisting vine, filling and stretching.

You cry out softly, biting your lip. Jack moans, long and muffled and fuck just drown me in this pussy.

His third tongue curls upward, lashes across your clit in maddening, lazy strokes like he’s teasing you on purpose. Tongue-fucking up into your walls with two thick lengths, while the third plays you like an instrument.

You don’t even realize your legs are shaking again until your hips lift off the couch.

He follows, grinding his face deeper, mouth slightly clumsy from the way he's stroking his cock—so hungry and fast it's shaking his whole body between your legs. You glance down through half-lidded eyes just to see him leaking, twitching with every slick drag of his tongues inside you.

He’s drenched in you.

From the mouth down. His chin, neck, part of his chest where he pressed in too close. The scent of blood and heat clings to him like paint, thick and sweet and wrong, but he looks exalted.

“Fffuck,” he slurs against you. “Your blood—fuck, your cunt, tastes like fucking life—”

The words shake you. Filthy and sincere. He’s never been this devastated before, this starved. His tongues are working you over like you’re his last meal, like he’s feeding off of you. And fuck, maybe he is. Maybe something deep in his instincts, something more primal, is actually reveling in this.

His pace quickens. You can feel it—that edge coming again. Too fast. Too hard. Overstimulated but desperate, everything in your body pulling tight like a bowstring.

You grab at his hair, desperate to ground yourself.

One tongue thrusts hard, firm and deep. The second curls tighter, twisting against your walls. The third presses flat to your clit, and when he moans into you again, the vibration alone is enough to split you.

“Jack—Jack I’m—”

“Cum for me,” he growls. Muffled, throat clicking and rasping. Tongue still deep inside you. “Cum with my fucking name in your mouth.”

You do, and it leaves you raw.

Back arching. Hands clawing at the couch. Legs locking around his head so tight he grunts, but doesn’t stop. He leans into it, forces the orgasm to drag out, mouth still moving until you’re jerking, twitching, moaning high and sharp as your body convulses under the weight of your second release.

You have to pry him away with a weak hand on his forehead and a choked sob for him to unlatch his lips from your clit with a wet pop.

He’s panting against your pussy, blood and slick coating his face, and you can feel his body shaking between your legs with every feral pump of his fist, tight and harsh around his cock.

And he growls, low and feral, and you can only jerk back and look around to make sure no one was around as he cums hard between his knees, untouched by you, just from tasting your cunt and blood. Hot ropes splatter against the floor. His head tips back, face the most beautifully grotesque picture of bliss.

The room is silent but for your breaths. Heavy. Laced with the obscene stink of sex and blood and pure animalistic worship.

Jack wipes his face with the back of his hand only to lick the smeared blood off his knuckles. Not slow. Not seductive. Just hungry.

He looks at you like you’re the last thing he’ll ever need to taste.

“…We’re doing this every month,” he says, voice hoarse. “Every month.”

[moonlight-lillies]

you asked for kpdh requests yes? I-- anything with Abby. please i need more of this man, anything with this man.

there's more?! a lot of people fail to realize that there are other monsters in this realm. thank you for your submission! (idk why this took so long, i couldn't think of anything :[, but i got a random wave of creativity!) abs saja (ahn beomseok) x reader! CW: gave abs saja a real name, pure fluff, drabble!, ghost!reader

when you have lived a good life, you die. it's as simple as that. some fall into despair and look for ways to get revenge on those that have wronged them. others, like yourself, are content with how you lived your life.

ghosts are often overshadowed by the demons and the hunters, both having something to fight for; but ghosts, they just live the rest of their life as someone who gets to watch everything unfold.

you wouldn't have met beomseok if you hadn't died. it's a dramatic thing to say, but it is true. you died in 1912, beom sold his soul in 1809, and he was the first demon you met. it was love at first sight.

there are many different dynamics of couples in the monster realm. there's the typical werewolf and vampire, and the ghoul and soul-eater, but ghost and demon was a bit rarer. ghosts rarely invaded the human world, but with watching your boyfriend work to destroy the honmoon, you made sure you were at every concert and promotion.

possession wasn't common but for beom, you would do anything. and he would do anything for you.

sitting at a shrine, looking out at the desolate paths, you both didn't say anything. presence was enough. you had taken your 'idyllic' form, a term basically used for when you're not able to walk through walls.

beom just looked at you, lips parted, but no words formed.

"take a picture, it'll last longer." you deadpanned. tucking your hair behind your ear.

"have you ever thought about what a ghost idol group would look like?" he always did have the weirdest way of saying whatever was on his mind.

"have you ever thought of a jpop ghost idol group?" you responded, nudging his shoulder with yours.

"dope..." he said, nodding his head.

you laid your head on his chest, taking in the night air. beom's hand fiddled with your fingers, some of them popping. he looked down at you, to everyone else he was an untouchable idol, to you he was your other half.

he pressed a kiss to your temple.

"i know i'm not, like, romantical all the time, but i really love you." he breathed out. his eyes meeting yours.

"i know you do." you sat up, grabbing his hand and pulling him up from the bench.

you faced each other, hands interlocked, eyes never leaving each others. you stepped closer to him, wrapping your arms around his neck. his lips found your forehead, then your cheek, your nose, and then your lips.

you loved when he did that.

a big whirlwind of air sprouted beneath the two of you. leaves and sticks where pushed away as a crack of thunder was heard. but beom didn't move, he pushed himself into you more.

the light headedness wasn't only from the kiss, it was from what was happening around you. the life was sucked from flowers and small sparks of pink danced around hedges. you held onto his shoulders to ground yourself, the patterns that ran up his arms and neck pulsating under his shirt.

it was so dramatic, so romantic, but it was how you knew you two loved each other.

he didn't want to let you go, you didn't want to be let be go.

when you reluctantly pulled apart, there he was in his hanbok. all black, his patterns shining. you looked down, noting the white cloak you now wore, your eyes a pure white, skin glistening.

he offered his arm, the two of you in the forms that you fell in love with. you happily took it.

walking off into a realm far from here.

fin.

[kikiiidym]

heyyy i really like your writing, and i wanted to know if you could do one of the pjo & hoo boys with a curly haired reader? like a reader with long, curly hair like merida's one (fem!reader, pls) and could you add nico??

PJO/HOO reacting to you asking them to define your curls

Percy Jackson :

You groaned dramatically as you sat down with your detangling brush and three different curl products. “I can’t do it tonight. My arms are made of seaweed.” Percy poked his head into the room like a curious dog. “You okay?” You looked up at him. “Will you help me do my hair?”

Cue confused Seaweed Brain noises.

He blinked. “Uh… define? Like, in a dictionary? Wait—OH, hair. Got it.” “Define my curls,” you clarified. “It’s a thing.”

Percy stood there like you just handed him a loaded celestial bronze brush. “...Babe, I fight monsters. I control the ocean. This feels like a harder quest.” To his credit, Percy actually listens. He tries his absolute best. He rakes the product through way too fast at first (like he’s sword-fighting your hair), but you guide him through the rhythm: water, product, rake, scrunch.

Eventually, he gets into it. At one point he pauses and goes, “Wait. Is this what Aphrodite kids do for fun? Because I kinda get it now.” “You’re gonna look like a goddess. Well—you already do. But now you’ll be a well-moisturized one.”

He squishes a curl, watches it bounce back, and grins like it’s the coolest thing he’s ever seen.

Haircare Skill: 6/10 (Great learner. Needs to slow down, and stop scrunching like he’s putting out a fire.)

Grover Underwood :

“Oh, yes! Of course! Nature blessed you with curls—it would be an honor to help.”

Grover is full of awe when it comes to your hair. He calls it “earth’s crown” and treats it with the same reverence he gives wildflowers and acorns.

How he helps: He uses way too much product, especially the “natural” ones. Your curls smell like eucalyptus and lemongrass for a week. But his fingers are soft and warm, and he sings little woodland songs while he works.

Sometimes he talks to your curls: “You’re doing great. Just relax and bloom, little spiral.”

Moment: “Curls are like vines. You don’t force them—you guide them.”

Haircare Skill: 6/10 (So much love. So much rosemary-scented chaos.)

Connor Stoll :

“Babe. My time has come.”

You had just flopped onto your bunk like a weary Greek goddess after war—except instead of a sword, your weapon had been a wide-tooth comb, and you’d lost.

You groaned, head hanging off the edge of the mattress. “I can’t do it tonight. The curl routine. The steps. The arm workout. I have no will to live.”

Connor peeked in from the doorway with a mischievous grin. “You calling for backup?”

You lifted a hand like a damsel in distress. “Please. I beg of you.”

His eyes widened, hand on his chest. “You… you want me to do your hair? Like, actually?” “Please. I trust you.” He gasped. “You trust me with the curls? Babe. This is a sacred honor.”

Then he dropped his voice an octave. “Activate… Curl Daddy 3000™.”

How he helps: It starts off ridiculous. He makes a grand show of inspecting your products like he’s a curly-haired sommelier. “Ah yes, this one has notes of coconut, regret, and post-shower desperation.” You slap his arm, laughing. “Just do it!”

Then something terrifying happens: he gets serious. Like, almost too serious.

He rakes through your curls gently, muttering to himself like a man on a mission. “Water first. Then product. No raking on dry hair, Stoll. You got this.” At some point, he pauses and goes, “These are type 3b spirals, right? Mid-density? High porosity? You need extra hydration.”

You stared at him like he’d just recited the Iliad backwards. “How do you know that?” He winked. “Let’s just say I’ve seen a few TikToks. For research purposes.” “Research?” “You’re hot. And I like watching people do satisfying hair videos, okay?”

He sections your hair like a pro, uses a misting bottle to rehydrate as he goes, and squishes your curls like he’s testing the bounce on Olympic trampolines. He even sings a dramatic fake theme song while he works: 🎶 Curl Daddy 3000, here to slay / detangling demons all the way 🎶

Every so often, he pauses just to admire your curls like they’re magical. “People fear the curls. But I respect the curls.”

Moment: When he finishes, he steps back and puts his hands on his hips like an artist admiring their masterpiece. “Oh yeah. She’s got volume. She’s got bounce. She’s got hold. She's got face. She's got body. Look out world.”

You glance in the mirror. Defined. Moisturized. Practically red carpet ready.

“I think you did it better than I do it,” you murmur.

He shrugs, smug. “I contain multitudes.”

Then he kisses the top of your head. “Next time you’re tired, you don’t even have to ask. Your curls are safe with me.”

Haircare Skill: 100/10 (A student of the internet, master of chaos, and shockingly gentle. Would 100% start a prank haircare channel. You’d be the model. He’d be the chaos.)

Luke Castellan :

“You want me to help you with your hair? You trust me that much?”

You sat on the edge of his bed, curls dripping onto a towel, shoulders drooping. It had been a long day—training, stress, the usual existential dread—and your arms simply refused to lift again.

Luke looked up from his book and closed it instantly. “Of course. Sit down, sweetheart.”

How he helps: He moves like he’s holding something sacred. You hand him the leave-in, the curl cream, the oil—he studies each label like it’s a prophecy.

“I don’t want to mess it up,” he murmurs.

“You won’t.”

He sits behind you and runs his fingers through each section slowly. Carefully. He doesn’t rush. You can feel how focused he is, like your hair is a language he’s learning one curl at a time.

He pauses sometimes just to kiss your shoulder. To tuck a damp curl behind your ear. To exhale softly.

“I didn’t have a lot of softness growing up,” he admits quietly. “But this? Taking care of you like this? It’s the kind of softness I want to keep.”

Moment: “I never thought I’d have something this soft in my life—this peaceful.”

You lean back against him and close your eyes, the scent of your curl cream mixing with the faint warmth of his hands.

“You’re good at this,” you whisper.

“I’m good at you,” he answers, and scrunches a curl with reverence.

Haircare Skill: 8/10 (Not perfect, but everything he touches turns into devotion. The curls come out lovely—and so does your heart.)

Travis Stoll :

“Wait—you’re letting me touch your curls? Babe, you trust me that much? I’m honored. I feel like I just got knighted.”

You were halfway through your post-shower routine, your curls wet and clumping without definition, and your arms were done. You called for him, half-jokingly. “Travis, come do my hair before I shave it all off.”

He peeked in like a raccoon, wide-eyed and immediately hyped. “Ohhh, you want the full Stoll Special?”

“No chaos,” you warned.

He held up three fingers. “Scout’s honor.”

How he helps: It starts silly, of course. He makes a little crown out of your microfiber towel. Tries to name each curl section like “The Royal Court of Spiral-Land.” But when you hand him the leave-in, he buckles down.

He gets weirdly focused. Like, tongue-sticking-out-while-sectioning kind of focused. He rakes through your hair carefully, occasionally mumbling, “This is so satisfying…” while watching your curls bounce back.

You catch him twirling a few around his finger like he's braiding ivy. “Look, I made a heart curl!”

“You’re supposed to be defining them, not flirting with them.”

“They’re an extension of you. I can’t help it.”

Moment: He finishes by scrunching gently and sitting back with this proud, goofy smile. “If loving your curls is wrong… I don’t wanna be right.”

You peek in the mirror. Defined. Bouncy. Surprisingly even.

“Holy crap,” you say. “You actually did it.”

He smirks. “Told you. Curl whisperer.”

Haircare Skill: 6.5/10 (Solid execution. Loses points for getting distracted halfway through and briefly trying to make a TikTok about it.)

Will Solace :

“YES. Absolutely. Sit. Sit down, goddess. This is my battlefield now.”

You barely got the question out before Will rolled up his sleeves like a seasoned pro. “Do you want the lightweight curl cream or the medium-hold? And I brought a wide-tooth comb. Just in case.”

How he helps: Will treats your hair like a sacred healing ritual. He detangles your curls gently while humming, uses the perfect ratio of water to product, and actually sectioned your hair before you even asked.

He even diffuses with a hairdryer on low heat. On low. Respectful king.

Moment: “Do you know how soothing this is? I think I’m healing myself just doing this.”

He kisses your forehead, then adjusts a coil that fell out of place. “You’re perfect. Let me help you feel that way, too.”

Haircare Skill: 10/10 (Hair god. Probably has a Pinterest board for curl types. Would run a self-care workshop.)

Nico Di Angelo :

“You want me to… touch your hair?”

He said it like you just asked him to handle radioactive material. The idea both terrifies and intrigues him.

You were lying on his bed in the Hades cabin, too tired to even reach for the curl cream. “Please, I’m exhausted.”

His cheeks flush. “What if I mess it up?” You smile. “I trust you.”

How he helps: Nico becomes eerily focused. He kneels behind you and carefully separates each curl like he's defusing a bomb. His fingers are cold but gentle, and he asks before doing every step. He even mutters little “sorrys” every time he accidentally tugs too hard.

By the end, he’s still not sure he did it right—but your hair looks great.

Moment: “These curls… they’re kind of like you. Wild. Untouchable. Beautiful.”

Then, in a whisper only you can hear: “And I would never change a single thing about them.”

Haircare Skill: 7/10 (Surprisingly careful and follows instructions to the letter. Afraid of leave-in conditioner like it’s a spirit from the Underworld.)

Jason Grace :

“I… don’t know how to do that. But I can learn.”

Jason takes your hair as seriously as he takes being a Praetor. He gets mentally prepared, asks for a step-by-step rundown, and salutes the conditioner bottle like a soldier reporting for duty.

How he helps: He’s gentle, very methodical, and so respectful. But he mixes up the products once and tries to apply mousse with gloves for “hygiene.” You have to stop him from overthinking it.

Still, his focus and care make the whole experience feel like a soft, golden dream.

Moment: “I’m starting to understand why you look so tired after wash day… this is a whole workout. You’re a hero just for dealing with this every week.”

Haircare Skill: 6.5/10 (He does well! Just needs to relax. He’s treating each curl like a Senate bill.)

Frank Zhang :

Reaction: “You want… me to help? Are you sure? I’ve never… I might mess it up…”

Frank is so nervous at first, like he’s afraid your curls will turn into snakes if he touches them wrong.

You reassure him, and he kneels behind you with the careful gentleness of a knight polishing his lady’s armor.

How he helps: He asks for approval after every step. “Is this okay?” “Too rough?” “Too much product?” It’s endearing, and honestly, he ends up doing really well.

Every so often he just stares at your curls and mumbles something like, “Whoa... they’re so pretty up close.”

Moment: “This is like… art. Your hair’s like a painting, and I don’t wanna mess it up.”

Haircare Skill: 8/10 (Tender baby bear. Only flaw is over-worrying. But you’ll feel so loved.)

Leo Valdez :

“I GOT THIS! I watched a YouTube video once. Wait, where’s the diffuser? Is that the one that looks like a UFO or…?”

You ask for help and Leo immediately turns it into a science project. He’s hyped. Possibly too hyped.

How he helps: Leo’s method is… chaotic good. He puts too much leave-in conditioner on one side of your head, then forgets to use gel on the other. But he talks to your curls like they’re sentient:

“Behave. Be bouncy. Don’t embarrass me in front of my hot girlfriend.”

He ends up with curl cream on his nose and some in his eyebrows. But you’re laughing the whole time.

Moment: “Curly girl method? Pfft. More like curly genius method—wait, is it supposed to be this crunchy?”

Haircare Skill: -4/10 (Fails scientifically. Passes emotionally. 10/10 would let him do it again just to watch him talk to your curls.)

Octavian :

You were exhausted, flopped dramatically on a Roman lounge couch, your detangling brush abandoned beside you. “I don’t have the energy, Octavian. Please. Help me or bury me in a toga.”

He glanced up from his scroll like you’d offered him a rare relic. “You want me to tame the storm of your curls?”

You nodded pitifully.

He placed his scroll down, stood up slowly, and rolled his sleeves like a priest before a sacrifice. “Bring me your finest tools. This will be my masterpiece.”

How he helps: Octavian treats this like a ritual. He doesn’t just section—he maps your head like a Roman general planning a siege. Each product is applied with precision. He scoffs at store-brand gel and pulls a jar from his own stash. “From the Venus cabin. Only the best.”

He says things like “This curl clumps like a Senate faction. We must break it apart to restore order.”

And he loves scrunching. He treats your hair like he’s sculpting a statue. Gentle but with deep control. Like he thinks your curls represent the fall of Rome and the rise of natural glory.

Moment: “If Rome had statues of women with curls like yours, maybe it wouldn’t have fallen.”

You blink at your reflection—defined, shiny, coiled to perfection—and can’t even argue.

“Octavian?”

“Yes, my darling?”

“…You’re terrifyingly good at this.”

He bows. “I accept your worship.”

Haircare Skill: 9/10 (Meticulous. Dramatic. Smells faintly of lavender and tyranny.)

[annlyticalarchive]

CHAPTER TEN: A Week of Normal

”You will be different, sometimes you’ll feel like an outcast, but you’ll never be alone”

Mark Grayson X Kryptonian/Clark Kent! Reader

Prologue|Chapter Nine|Chapter Ten (Here)| Chapter Eleven

w/c: 4.8k

a/n: the buildup of calm before the storm. but hey, Murphy’s Law needs to show up sometime

“Mark.”

“Mm.”

“Mark.”

“Mhm?”

“I need my arm. I need to type.”

You and Mark were in your apartment, sprawled on the couch. Jimmy had left to grab lunch with Lois, both of them shooting you catty, knowing grins on the way out. You’d decided to stay behind, determined to get some actual work done.

Which would’ve been easier if Mark weren’t half on top of you, one arm wrapped around your waist and pinning your dominant arm to your side like he was trying to merge into your ribcage.

“The four of us agreed to get work done,” you reminded him, craning your neck to glare at the crown of his head.

“We are getting work done,” he mumbled, flipping another page in the book he'd been slowly parsing through for the past hour. “You’re thinking about writing. That counts.”

“No it doesn’t. I need my hand.”

“No you don’t. Just type with one.” He smirked and tightened his grip slightly. “You’re Superwoman. You can type fast enough with one.”

You gave an exasperated sigh, then wriggled your arm free despite his indignant whine. He shifted to lay more across your torso instead, clearly sulking, but still made no move to leave the couch.

“What’re you writing about?” he asked after a beat, finally looking up at you. His lashes were thick and his eyes soft. Not quite puppy dog eyes, more like a concerned hamster or a sad hedgehog.

You tried to keep your face neutral. It only half worked.

“Political corruption,” you said as you returned your fingers to the keys. “Lois is covering those Frankenstein rumors.”

“Frankenstein?” He blinked. “Like the monster?”

“I guess?” You shrugged, still half confused by Lois’s explanation. “Apparently there are families not getting the remains of soldiers back. Just nothing. It’s only started happening recently. People are saying the government’s been collecting them. Experimenting.”

Mark frowned, setting the book down on your knees and sitting up straighter. “That sounds really messed up. You think it’s real?”

“I don’t know. Lois thinks there’s something there. She’s deep-diving into it. She’s already three FOIA requests in and managed to get a source to call her back.”

“That’s basically confirmation,” he muttered.

“Not exactly,” you said, clicking a few tabs closed. “But it’s smoke. Where there’s smoke—”

“—There’s a conspiracy,” he finished with a small smile.

You huffed a quiet laugh. “Pretty much.”

He tilted his head, leaning against the couch cushion to get a better look at your screen. “And what about your piece?”

“Local rot,” you said. “Fake charities funneling campaign money. Politicians pocketing money from state construction companies. Big-city grime that never gets a 

spotlight. But if I put one on it...”

“Someone’ll care.”

You nodded. “Hopefully.”

Mark nodded along, then glanced down at his book, one of his dad’s ‘sci-fi’ books. He’d been trying to make sense of them lately. Every few pages, he looked more and more conflicted.

“I keep reading these and trying to figure out what’s real,” he said. “He makes himself look like a hero, but sometimes there’s these slips.”

You paused your typing. “What kind of slips?”

He flipped to a dog-eared page and held it up. “This one, he talks about grieving a comrade. But he doesn’t describe them, not as a person. Just their usefulness.”

You stared at the page, then back at him. “He didn’t think of people as people.”

“Not even other Viltrumites, sometimes…” Mark said.

The room went quiet for a long moment. You closed your laptop slightly, giving him more of your attention.

Mark leaned back into you again. His head found its way to your shoulder, and you let it rest there, your hand brushing lightly through his hair.

“You know,” he murmured, “I hope they weren’t like yours.”

You blinked. “What?”

“Your people. The planet. I hope they weren’t like my dad’s.”

You were quiet for a second, then smiled a little for him. “It’s gone. Whatever it was, whoever they were… they don’t define me.”

“Still. I hope they were better.”

You nudged his temple gently with your own.

Mark’s shoulders relaxed against you, and for a while, the only sound was the soft ticking of your apartment clock and the hum of traffic far below.

“…Still think you need a mask when you’re out, though,” he added suddenly.

You snorted.

“Lenses for the wind,” he offered, voice teasing.

You rolled your eyes. “You’re never letting that go, are you?”

“Never,” he said with a grin, tilting his head up to look at you again. “I’m going to win this one, eventually.”

You hummed noncommittally and leaned over to press your forehead, then your lips against the top of his head.

Mark jolted then froze like a man struck by a lightning, just for a second, before he visibly melted into you.

You didn’t stop smiling for the rest of the afternoon. Even when Jimmy and Lois burst through the door with armfuls of takeout.

𓈒⠀𓂃⠀⠀˖⠀𓇬⠀˖⠀⠀𓂃⠀𓈒

“Tag!”

Oliver chimed as he slapped Mark square on the back and took off running again. Mark groaned dramatically, slowing to a stop and watching his little brother dart across the yard like a greased-up lightning bolt.

“You’re bad at this!” Oliver yelled over his shoulder, clearly delighted with himself.

You stood by the back door, two plastic water bottles in hand. The afternoon sun was high and bright, the kind of sticky summer heat that clung to everything and made even the grass feel like it was sweating.

Miss Debbie was out, Mark hadn’t said much about it, just that she had errands and he was on Oliver duty. He’d asked if you’d come help, claiming he needed “extra hands,” but judging by the way he kept smiling whenever you handed him something or sat close, you were pretty sure this was less about supervision and more about spending time with you.

Not that you were complaining.

Currently, they were on round fifty-seven of a game that was somewhere between tag and capture the flag but involved absolutely no flags and wildly inconsistent rules. You weren’t sure how it was scored. If it even could be scored.

You could see Mark slowing down, not from lack of enthusiasm, but from sheer heat. He looked about one more lap around the yard away from face-planting into the lawn.

“Isn’t there a game where I can just lay down on the floor?” he groaned as he jogged over to you and reaching for the water bottle you held out.

“Mark Grayson, ladies and gentlemen,” you teased, “Protector of Earth, defeated by a seven-year-old.”

Mark uncapped the bottle, but before drinking he pressed it to his forehead with a relieved sigh, as if this plastic cylinder of lukewarm water had saved his life. You handed the second bottle to Oliver, who barely took a sip before shouting like he’d had an epiphany, “Hospital!”

Mark blinked at you like you might have the answer. You just shrugged and echoed cheerfully, “Hospital, Mark.”

“Okay, I don’t know what that means, but it sounds like a trap,” he muttered.

Oliver was already rushing away, motioning dramatically. “You have to come with me! You’re hurt, you broke your leg!”

“I—what?” Mark blinked down at him. “When?”

“Ten seconds ago! When I tagged you!” Oliver gestured wildly to the grass, where a stick now lay, apparently marking the site of the imaginary injury. “You fell and then you broke your leg and now you need surgery!”

“I didn’t fall, you didn’t make me fall!”

“That’s not my job!” Oliver insisted. “I’m the doctor, not gravity!”

You snorted into your bottle, and Mark sent you a flat look over his shoulder.

“Oh, come on,” you said, “go get fixed, mister.”

“I don’t know why I brought with you,” he mumbled as Oliver grabbed his hand and started tugging him toward the plastic patio chairs, one of which had now been converted into an imaginary hospital bed.

“Because you like me,” you called sweetly.

“Unfortunately.”

You grinned and sat down in the grass, watching Oliver poke and prod at Mark’s leg with a plastic ruler he’d ran inside and pulled from his school supplies, as well as an armful of other ‘supplies’.

“This might hurt a lot,” Oliver warned seriously.

Mark visibly braced himself, as if he was expecting Oliver to just start hitting him with the ruler. “Awesome.”

“Wait,” Oliver said, squinting at the ‘injury’. “There’s a bug in there.”

“A bug?” Mark echoed.

“Yeah. It’s why your leg broke.”

You bit your lip to stop from laughing.

“Oh, okay, so now I’ve got bug bones,” Mark muttered.

“I’m afraid it’s common for heroes with goggles.” You piped in, unhelpfully. “Bugs get confused and think you’re one of their own.”

Oliver gave him a proud pat on the knee. “Don’t worry. We’ll fix your leg.”

He proceeded to slap a random assortment of cartoon Band-Aids onto Mark’s pants, then held up a juice box like a serum.

“Drink this. It’s my special formula.”

Mark took the juice box with solemn acceptance. “I’m healed.”

“Good.” Oliver turned toward you. “He has to rest for six hours.”

“Oh no,” you said, pretending to be shocked. “He’ll have to stay inside in the AC and eat snacks.”

“The horror,” Mark added flatly.

Oliver turned back to him. “But you still have to play again later. Because I’m winning.”

“I don’t even know how you score this game!” Mark cried, waving his hands in frustration.

Oliver pointed a finger squarely at his own chest. “I make the rules. Big brothers can’t win.”

You burst into laughter.

As Mark groaned and sunk back into the lawn chair, you stood and walked over, brushing your fingers through his hair as you leaned down to press a quick kiss to his forehead. He looked up at you, and even through his mock suffering, you could see the spark in his eyes.

“Alright, inside you two, I’ll even turn some juice boxes into icicles to cool off.” You offered as you stood straight and walked inside.

Oliver yelling as he sprints after you, “Icicles!”

Mark simply let out a tired huff of laughter as he pushes off the deck chair and follows the two of you back inside.

𓈒⠀𓂃⠀⠀˖⠀𓇬⠀˖⠀⠀𓂃⠀𓈒

“Thanks for coming,” you said, slinging your arm out. The disk of metal scrap went soaring across the open field like a shot, and not even a second later, a white blur launched after it, your new dog tearing through the air like a comet. “It means a lot to us.”

“Of course,” Mark replied, standing comfortably at your side. He chuckled as Krypto skidded to a halt, proudly returning with the flattened piece of scrap hanging from his jaws. “You’ve had dinner with me and Mom tons of times. It’s about time I met yours.”

“I know,” you said, brushing your hair back as Krypto dropped the disk and immediately sat down, tail wagging. “But we both lived in the city. Smallville’s a good bit away. So, thanks.”

He didn’t answer right away, just looked at you with that half-lidded fondness that made your stomach flip. Then he turned and whipped the disk back into the sky. Krypto yipped and bolted after it again, leaping over a fence post eagerly.

“You nervous?” he asked gently, his eyes still on the dog but his voice focused entirely on you.

You took a breath. “A little. I mean, they’ve met you before. Just not like this.”

“Like my shirt’s tucked in?”

You snorted. “No, like— like my boyfriend.”

Mark blinked once, then turned fully toward you, a smile breaking across his face. “I mean, I’ve been calling you my girlfriend for a while now.”

“I know.” You nudged his shoulder. “But it’s still different when it’s Pa asking you questions about your intentions while busting out his old shotgun.”

Mark paled slightly. “Wait. He’s not actually going to—“

“No, God no,” you laughed, “but you believed me for a second.”

“I did. I really did.”

Before you could keep teasing him, the sound of screen door hinges creaked behind you.

“Dinner’s ready!” your Ma called from 

the porch, waving a towel in one hand.

Krypto was already sprinting back with the disk when she spotted him. And she smiled and waved at him too. Ma and Pa had been taking care of him since Jimmy told you that the apartment was not pet-friendly, much to your despair.

“He’s housebroken, right?” You asked lightly.

“We’re still figuring that part out,” She admitted.

Mark leaned in. “That’s a no.”

“Shut up,” you hissed, trying not to laugh as you followed Krypto and Mark back up to the porch.

Inside, the house smelled like warm bread, roasted vegetables, and something sweet baking in the oven. You’d never realized how deeply comforting the scent of home could be until you’d been away long enough to miss it. It wrapped around you like a blanket the second you stepped in.

Your Pa was setting plates down on the table when you entered. He looked up, nodded once at Mark.

“Evenin’,” he said simply, but you could hear the difference in how he normally greeting Mark. This one was harsher in a way.

“Thanks for having me,” Mark said, standing straighter.

“Thanks for giving us a heads up so we make enough food this time,” Pa replied without missing a beat. Then he cracked a small grin.

Mark flushed. You nearly choked on your own laugh.

“Pa,” you muttered.

He shrugged. “Just saying.”

Dinner was lively. Krypto sat obediently near the kitchen door, occasionally thumping his tail on the floor when food was passed around. Mark, bless him, did his best to eat slow and act like he hadn’t been struggling to even stay in college. Your Ma asked him about school, what he had planned to do. Pa asked about your work.

The normalcy of it all made your chest ache.

At one point, you looked up and found your mother watching you. Her eyes softened when you met them.

You smiled shyly and took another bite of cornbread.

After dinner, while Ma packed up leftovers and Pa headed out to check the well pump, you and Mark stepped out to the porch again. The sun was dipping low, the sky turning the same soft pink and gold you remembered from childhood.

Krypto was curled near the porch swing, belly exposed to the cooling air, twitching slightly in his sleep like he was chasing something in a dream.

Mark leaned against the railing, hands tucked into the pockets of his jacket.

“They love you,” you said after a beat, your voice soft.

“You think so?”

“I know so. Ma gave you second helpings without even asking, and Pa didn’t re-interrogate you.”

“He did ask if I knew how to fix a tractor.”

You shrugged. “That’s practically a welcome into the family. Next time you come over he’ll let you help him with the fencing.”

Mark smiled faintly, his eyes scanning the horizon. “I can see why you are the way you are. Not just your folks. It’s quiet out here. It’s nice.”

You leaned into his side, your arms brushing, the wood creaking under your combined weight. “It was a good place to grow up. It still is.”

He was quiet for a moment. The cicadas buzzed lazily in the distance, and the last bit of sunlight painted everything gold. Krypto huffed again and rolled over, tail flicking.

“You miss it?” Mark asked finally.

You didn’t answer at first. The question settled somewhere heavy in your chest.

“All the time,” you admitted. “I miss Smallville, the farm, my parents… The city just doesn’t have what we have here. The air smells different. You can see the stars and the horizon. People wave when they drive by.”

Mark reached out and took your hand, gently threading his fingers through yours.

“Really?” he asked, tone soft, but incredibly teasing.

You glanced down at your hands before smiling up at him. “That, and the city couldn’t put together a good fairground even if they tried. Funnel cake, rigged games, pie-eating contests, a barely put together ferris wheel, they don’t get it.”

“Well,” he said, raising a brow, “you’ll just need to take me to the next one, won’t you?”

“You bet I’m taking you. The city has nothing on a Smallville fair weekend. You haven’t lived until you’ve seen the lights of them at night.”

Mark let out a low, amused laugh and shook his head. He pushed off the railing, stretching slightly as he started down the porch steps. “You ready to head out?”

You hesitated, rubbing the back of your neck with a sheepish smile. “Actually… I’m staying the night. My folks still get worried if I’m flying after dark. Some habits die hard.”

Mark turned halfway back toward you, a slow grin spreading across his face. His eyes sparkled with something that gave you butterflies, and also made you want to flick him right in the forehead.

“So,” he said, dragging out the syllable, “if I wanted to stay the night too…”

You crossed your arms, giving him a flat look. “You’d be on the couch. Or in the barn.”

“Barn, huh?” He tapped his chin like he was weighing the options. “Hayloft’s not bad. Pretty private. Romantic.”

You snorted. “I promise you, it’s not.”

“It could be. If you’re there,” he said smoothly, stepping back onto the porch and wrapping an arm around your waist.

You rolled your eyes but didn’t pull away. “You’re impossible.”

“I’m charming.”

“You’re trying to be charming.”

“Is it working?” He winked.

You opened your mouth to argue but he leaned in, brushing his lips just barely against your temple. The softest touch. Not quite a kiss, but enough to stall your breath and freeze the words on your tongue.

Suddenly, every sense went haywire. You could feel the warmth of his skin, hear the soft rustle of cornfields beyond the fence line and, unfortunately, your super hearing decided to kick in just in time to register your parents’ conversation inside the house. Something about dessert. Your mom’s asking if there’s still whipped cream in the fridge.

Not exactly the best romantic ambiance.

You exhaled against his shoulder, forehead resting there as you smiled despite yourself. “Maybe not here. Not with my parents twenty-five feet away.”

Mark’s breath caught just slightly, then he gave a quiet laugh, warm against your hair. “Got it. No seduction in radius of parents.”

“You say that like you’re disappointed.”

“Oh, I’m very disappointed,” he admitted easily, eyes sparkling. “But I get it. See how healthy and well-adjusted I am?”

You leaned back enough to look at him fully, your hands sliding down to rest at his hips.

“Come on,” you said, looping your fingers through his belt loops and tugging him gently back toward the porch door. “You’ve earned some pie before you leave for the night.”

𓈒⠀𓂃⠀⠀˖⠀𓇬⠀˖⠀⠀𓂃⠀𓈒

“Okay, give me the sheet,” Mark said, holding out his hand expectantly.

You groaned and flopped dramatically over the back of the couch, but still handed it over. “You’re not even subtle about enjoying this.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he replied, cheerfully ignoring the noise you made as he took the cheat sheet. “I’m just being a supportive boyfriend. Helping you study. Being helpful.”

You shot him a glare as he turned slightly, hunched over the notebook like a goblin crafting riddles. Which, to be fair, he kind of was. Just a goblin with excellent bone structure. And muscles. And way too soft looking hair.

You’d always been good at languages when they were living, breathing things, things you could hear, mimic, practice in class or on the street. But this wasn’t like that. It wasn’t Latin, it wasn’t French. It wasn’t even fucking Klingon.

It was dead. And not just dead, completely extinct.

The alphabet was beautiful and maddening, full of glyphs and curves that your brain still tried to match to Earth sounds, even though it wasn’t made for someone who was raised on the Latin alphabet. And without anyone who actually spoke it, or knew the cadence, or pronunciation, or even grammar rules, you were working with a cipher and a prayer.

So you’d been going slow. Memorizing letters. Trying to figure out context. And having Mark write random, simple sentences for you to translate to keep your brain flexible.

But this one?

You stared at the paper, squinting like maybe that would help. “Mark, what is that?”

“Hmm?”

You pointed at the sentence. “Mark. This is anything but simple. What am I reading?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said innocently, holding the notebook just out of reach. “Just gotta read it out loud. Maybe it’ll make more sense that way.”

You gave him a flat look. “Mark.”

He wiggled the notebook encouragingly. “Go on. Out loud. You got it.”

You sighed, shoulders slumping. “Fine.”

You sounded it out carefully. Translating the alphabet to English then speaking it aloud. It took effort, but you managed to string the sentence together from the strange alphabet.

And then you blinked.

“…Did you seriously write ‘Your boyfriend is incredibly handsome and you should kiss him immediately’ in my dead language?”

Mark grinned over the top of the notebook, smug and pleased with himself. “Took me like fifteen minutes to figure out how to spell that in your alphabet.”

You threw a pillow at him.

He caught it one-handed, still smug. “Didn’t say no, though.”

“I said this was a study session.”

“Hey, emotional support is part of the learning process,” he said, scooting closer on the couch. “What if I’m the reward system? You get through a whole page of translations, you get a kiss.”

“Mark,” you groaned, trying and failing to push his face away. He was entirely too close and entirely too pleased with himself.

“I’m just trying to make this educational,” he whispered.

“You’re impossible.”

“And you’re stalling.”

You huffed, but your lips twitched into a reluctant smile. Because, of course, he was right. He usually was when it came to reading you.

You settled back onto the couch with your notes, and he shifted to sit beside you instead of hovering. One leg tucked under him, the other stretched out, knee brushing against yours.

“Alright,” you muttered, flipping to the next practice page. “But no more complicated sentences, please?”

“No promises.”

You side-eyed him, and he held up a hand in mock surrender. “Fine, fine. Only mildly interesting ones.”

“Mark.”

“Educationally suggestive.”

“You’re gonna get smacked.”

“Worth it.”

You ended up getting through two more pages of translation before your head started to ache. The characters swam slightly on the page and your brain refused to connect any more dots, especially as you hit another cluster of runes that seemed like they should mean ‘apple’ but instead translated to ‘water’.

“Okay,” you exhaled, rubbing your eyes, “that’s enough. I can feel my frontal lobe melting.”

Mark closed the notebook for you and tugged it out of your hands, placing it gently on the coffee table. “Then I’m invoking boyfriend privileges.”

You raised a brow. “Which are?”

“This.” He pulled you gently into his side, arm snug around your shoulders as you curled into him without complaint.

The apartment was quiet for a long moment. The hum of the AC. The low rumble of city life outside. The sound of your breathing slowly matching his.

“…Thank you,” you said softly, eyes still closed.

Mark tilted his head slightly. “For what?”

“For making the impossible feel possible.”

He smiled. Kissed the top of your head.

“I told you,” he murmured. “I’m very helpful.”

𓈒⠀𓂃⠀⠀˖⠀𓇬⠀˖⠀⠀𓂃⠀𓈒

You took a deep breath in.

Then out.

The breath fogged in front of your face, curling in the cold air like smoke. You didn't bother to shiver. You weren’t too used to this place yet, and honestly, you weren’t even sure if you could feel the cold.

The Fortress was still and quiet, eerily so, despite the crystals humming faintly around you. A chorus of resonance that never quite settled into silence.

You stood alone in the center of the chamber, surrounded by glowing pillars of alien architecture. The crystals from Krypto’s pod, your own, and the translation crystal were all in their places. The light was dim but shifting, casting long reflections on the crystal floor like ripples on water.

It had been a week.

A week of going to work. Of patrols. Of dinners with Jimmy, of coffee and lunches with Mark, a weekend of flying Krypto over farmland in the early hours before the rest of world stirred. You’d clung to that like a security blanket.

But now? Now you were ready to face it.

To face him.

You crossed the threshold into the central chamber and activated the recording again.

The crystal glowed, brighter this time, as if it recognized you more completely. It flickered to life with a low hum and a beam of light, then he appeared.

The man who looked a little too much like you.

Your biological father.

He began speaking in Kryptonian, and the translation crystal hanging at your neck pulsed, syncing with the language. Words scrolled at the edge of your vision, projected through a soft blue light that hovered just above your gaze.

“To my daughter, Kala-El—”

Your breath caught again, but you didn’t interrupt the message. You don’t think you could speak to it, if you tried. Not with the thick lump in your throat.

“If you are seeing this, then I am gone. Krypton is gone. Our home, our people… everything we knew.”

The message continued. His voice was even, measured. A scientist through and through. He explained what had happened: the environmental collapse, the many warnings unheeded by Krypton’s leadership, the urgency of saving what could be saved.

You listened. You watched. You read.

“We had no choice but to send you away. There was no time. The calculations showed a slim but possible chance of survival in an inhabitable galaxy many systems away. We built the vessel for you. We hoped it would be enough.”

He paused, his projection, at least. The image flickered like it was buffering pain, or maybe something heavier that couldn’t be fully translated.

“Your mother and I... we stayed behind. Someone had to make sure the launch succeeded. Someone had to give you a future.”

Your fingers curled tightly into your sleeves.

“Kala, if you are anything like your mother… you will be strong. Not just in body, but in heart. She is the bravest person I ever knew.”

There was a long pause. The hologram looked away, briefly, toward some unseen horizon. A flicker of emotion passed across his face, not rehearsed, not programmed. It was the first moment he didn’t seem like a memory.

He seemed like your father.

“You may feel alone, but you are not. Not only physically, as we’ve been sure to send escape ships ahead of yours in preparation and for your protection. Krypto has always been protective of you. But, Kala, you are our legacy. Our hope. You carry the strength of our world in your bones, and the kindness of our house in your heart.”

You wiped your cheek with the back of your hand. You hadn’t realized the tears had come.

The hologram raised its hand, and with it, a floating crystal detached from the surrounding wall. It hovered toward you slowly, its facets glinting like a star in motion. You reached out, fingers brushing over it, and suddenly images flooded your vision.

Not words. Not captions.

Memories.

A woman smiling, dark-haired and fierce-eyed, your mother. The view from Krypton’s towers, golden cities sprawling into pale violet skies. The feel of hands holding you, small and safe. A lullaby in a language you slowly began to understand but felt strongly in your bones.

The crystal pulsed once and dimmed, returning to its dormant state. The image of your father began to fade too, his final words, in the language you suddenly understood, echoing in the stillness.

“You are more than Kryptonian. You are yours. Whatever path you choose, I hope it brings you peace, my daughter.”

Then silence.

You let it settle. Let the quiet become part of you. It wasn’t a clean resolution. It wasn’t closure in the way people always made it sound. But it was the truth.

It was history.

You sat down slowly, cross-legged on the floor, the crystal still cradled in your hands.

Kala-El.

The name sat heavy and strange on your tongue, like it didn’t quite belong to you yet.

But no matter how you felt about it, it was yours.

T A G L I S T:

@mightymeick , @dandelion-delusion

[miharuki]

A Problem Called Judd Birch

Judd Birch x "Fem" Glaser!Reader

★ Synopsis: You try to forget what happened at camp, but Judd doesn't, and that feeling intensifies.

★ Tags: yandere, obssesive? possesive?, reader is a virgin, soft smut, judd has a big dick

Well, you were the oldest, the firstborn, and you saw the beginning of your parents' marriage falling apart. They tried at first, but the more you grew up, the more you saw the messed-up things happening in that house—until finally, you hit puberty.

Your hormonal monster finally showed up, and with it, the start of your little rebellious streak. Your parents were hardly ever home, and you stopped being their precious little flower. Watching them argue, your mom trying to pressure you, you finally took control—with your monster egging you on more and more. You developed your own style, your own tastes, your own personality, without your mom controlling you like before.

But there were things you couldn’t change. Like the fact that you were forced to go to summer camp. Your mom thought maybe, like other summers, you’d have fun—but that didn’t happen. Your childhood friend was moving away, and you’d be at that camp alone. Well, not completely alone. You were shocked when you saw none other than Judd Birch—or Judd Bitch, as you liked to call him. The guy who was just out of his mind—ran away from home, skipped school, even blew up the chemistry lab once. And you had no idea why he’d show up—he never went to camp. Well, whatever. He was just like those Bilzerian brothers, Kurt and Val—always acting like little shits.

But there was something you never mentioned: that boy was actually your first kiss. You didn’t even like thinking about that time. You never liked him—never liked any boys back then, really. They were all jerks, perverts, idiots, even though they were just kids like you.

Still, that camp was… turbulent. You barely talked to anyone—your friend wasn’t even there. But it was there that you and Judd had your first real interactions. Was he a jerk? Yeah. But what could you do? It started small—when you were swimming, he pulled you underwater. You were about to yell at him, but then he showed you what he was planning: a prank on those Bilzerian jerks. And of course you joined in. You remember standing far away as they screamed and everyone laughed at them. It was fun. And it was the first time you’d ever laughed with Judd Birch—someone everyone would’ve sworn you’d never get along with.

And how did that summer end? You and Judd, way past curfew, setting up one last prank for the next morning. Laughing at the thought of everyone waking up to the chaos. You never really understood what happened next—just that, in an instant, you were kissing that boy under the dark sky. It was your first kiss. And what Judd wouldn’t admit was that it was his, too. But when it was over, you both decided never to bring it up again.

And for years, you didn’t. You barely even spoke after that—just little interactions here and there.

You grew up. Got prettier, taller, more beautiful. And the reason Judd had a crush? He never said—maybe that secret dies with him. But he always liked you. Strange, coming from Judd Birch—the guy with a battalion of raccoons, the guy who slashes tires, the guy who made the news, the rebel, the lord of chaos, the troublemaker. Yet the same guy who still holds onto feelings, who still has that bracelet you lost at the middle-school dance, who kept a photo from that summer camp.

But there’s one thing only he and his Hormone Monster know: that stupid childhood crush didn’t fade—it grew with him. Got stronger. Maybe he’ll never admit it. That even when he skips class, he’s got cameras in your classroom just to watch you study. That maybe he bugged your phone. But no one noticed. No one saw what Judd Birch hid—not even his parents. He never dared get close to you. How could he? It’d been years. You both kept that unspoken rule: Never mention what happened at camp.

But then—plot twist—you had a little sister. Jessie Glaser. Who, of course, was friends with his little brother. And suddenly, there you were, years later, showing up on his doorstep just to pick her up.

Maybe he mentally thanked his sister, Leah, for befriending you. You were at his house for a group project with her—not him. He’s not crazy, just messed up. But his biggest problem? His little brother, Nick, started catching feelings for you. And, of course, you barely noticed. You were sweet to Nick and Jessie—especially Jessie. You were her idol. Your style, your attitude, how you stood up to your parents, how you never backed down in that house. Hell, you’d dressed yourself since puberty—your mom lost that battle fast.

Then Leah threw a party. Judd acted like he didn’t care who came, but half of him prayed you’d show. And—look at that—you did. Pissed at your parents, dragging Jessie along. He spent the party inside the walls, drowning in Jack Daniels. Then he found you outside. Angry. Frustrated. And he took his shot—no Nick, no Jessie, no Leah. Finally, after years, he could talk to you. Sure, he was still a jerk, but you noticed how he’d changed. Taller. More rebellious. Sharper.

And well… the alcohol hit hard. You inched closer. Your Hormone Monsters went wild.*

"Let's take this somewhere else." Judd grabbed your hand, dragging you off—your mind foggy with arousal—until suddenly, you were on his bed. And though Judd would never admit it, the Angel of Vice was there, watching it all unfold.

Meanwhile, your Hormone Monsters fucked each other on the floor—growling, clawing—while the Lovebug and the Angel exchanged a knowing glance before slipping out, leaving the two of you (four, if you counted the monsters) alone.

You swore that all Birchs had penis problems, thinking that even Judd would have a small dick, but you were wrong, oh yes you were, wrong, Judd Birch was your first kiss, just like it was your first time, and Judd, oh Judd, he loved to claim it like that, knowing that he had the power to take that innocence from you, it excited him, he could squeeze you, damn your pussy was tight for him, he, he was so big, he opened you up in an incredible way for your first time and god, how he missed that mouth of yours, you didn't even see the party stopping, and god lucky the party was loud, enough to cover your loud moans, lucky Judd always had a recorder and a camera, he'll need that video for later for private purposes, don't ask.

When it was over, you didn’t quite know what to do. And Judd—God, Judd—wanted to keep you there, but he was just as lost. "Wanna go slash some tires with me?" You lifted your head from his chest. You needed to do something, so you just... agreed.

As you got dressed, you didn’t even notice a missing piece of clothing—maybe the alcohol was hitting harder than you thought. You didn’t care. And Judd? He thanked his lucky stars as he tucked your panties under his pillow before locking his room and following you outside.

Tire-slashing was weirdly relaxing. Maybe the night hadn’t been a total disaster. When it was finally time to leave, you grabbed your sister. "Jessie! What the hell happened to you?!" "Just take me home!" You sighed, handing her a rag to wipe her mouth before saying your goodbyes. Then you paused at the door, turning back to Judd. A small, tired smile—just for him—before leading Jessie away, her hand in yours.

Maybe something had changed.

He didn’t notice the Lovebug glowing behind him. You didn’t notice Judd wasn’t done—not even close.

Because he liked you. And this love?

Yeah. It was always gonna be a little problematic

[heliosunny]

could we get more merman aventurine x reader, s’il vous plait?:3

Blood//Water

Merman!Aventurine x Reader

In a city like this, death had a price, and you were the one setting it. Your office sat high above the neon gutters, where glass skyscrapers scraped the polluted sky and criminals wore tailored suits. And among the many monsters that roamed this place, yours stayed in a bathtub.

Aventurine wasn’t human, at least not entirely. When the lights dimmed and the job was done, he shed the form he wore like a second skin. Tail shimmering in dim light, teeth too sharp for a man. Trained by your hand. Loyal only to you. The name Aventurine echoed in whispers between gangs and high-society vultures.

You didn’t need many. Just one like him.

The man who came in that day wore desperation like cologne. He sat across from your desk with shaky fingers and a silver case, thick with currency and cowardice.

"She’s a liability.” he said. “I want her gone. My stepdaughter, Aria."

You didn’t like it. The way he avoided eye contact. Something reeked, and it wasn’t just his fear.

Aventurine leaned against the wall like he wasn’t listening. But you saw it—the slight twitch of his tail where it was hidden beneath the illusion of legs, the gleam in his eyes.

“Sounds like fun.” he said lazily, flipping a knife in his hand. “Boss, may I?”

“You sure?”

“Let’s say my instincts are tingling. I’d like to see what sort of fish swims in this pond.”

You allowed it, but only on one condition: you’d go together.

You both went in dressed to kill—metaphorically, this time.

The party was held in one of those high-rise halls lined with art that looked expensive and meant nothing. The kind of place where old money and new sins mingled behind gold-rimmed glasses. Everyone had secrets; you were here to pickpocket them with charm and sharp ears.

You played your part. Aventurine played his even better. He brushed shoulders with senators and smugglers, fed one man just enough falsehood to loosen the truth from another. It didn’t hurt that he looked like he’d stepped out of some forbidden fairytale—otherworldly but too pretty to question.

By the end of the night, you had what you needed: Aria was upstairs. And alone.

So you waited.

When the music dulled and the guests began to peel away in champagne-stained clusters, you both moved like shadows through the service corridors and up the emergency stairs. The halls above were silent. You reached her room. Locked, but Aventurine made short work of that. The tension in your chest was drowned under the hush of practiced movements.

You slipped inside.

There she was.

Asleep, by the look of it.

Aventurine took position at the foot of the bed, raising the silenced pistol, breath steady.

You stepped forward, hand raised slightly. “Wait—”

The blanket peeled back. And there it was.

Aria.

Already dead.

A neat hole between her eyes, blood dried dark against the pillow.

Aventurine froze, lips parting in a hiss. “No one was supposed to beat me to it.”

A high-pitched, snarling wail that painted the halls red with flashing lights. Someone triggered the alarm.

“Trap.” you said instantly.

He didn’t need to be told twice.

Glass shattered behind you, heavy boots stormed the corridor. You both bolted through the adjoining room, down the service stairs, twisting through blind spots.

When you were finally safe, pressed into the silence of the getaway car, Aventurine chuckled low in his throat.

“Well, Boss…” he turned to you, “someone’s playing our game. And they just made their first move.”

You returned to your building just before dawn. You didn’t expect quiet—not in your line of work—but you didn’t expect this either.

The street outside was crawling with cops.

A corpse was being wheeled out, zipped up in plastic. The man who’d offered you the job. The coward in the suit.

Dead.

No one kills a client unless they know what they’re doing.

You and Aventurine stayed low in the car, watching the scene unfold through tinted windows.

“Well,” he murmured, “Looks like someone’s cleaning house.”

You said nothing. But your thoughts were already racing. The party. The faces. And one stood out. A rival who’d been trying to edge into your territory for months now. Someone who never liked that your business thrived in shadows his spotlight couldn’t reach.

You needed confirmation.

A hotel to stay. You needed that. And of course, a shower.

Aventurine’s voice through the door, something teasing and smug: “Don’t take too long. I’m feeling lucky tonight.”

You hit the casino just after sundown.

It wasn’t the kind of place you liked, but it was the kind where secrets changed hands beneath poker tables.

Aventurine fit in far too well. He was playing a high-stakes game when you stepped away to sweep the perimeter, check for familiar faces, or worse—set eyes watching from the dark.

When you returned, something was off.

Aventurine was losing.

Which never happened.

His opponent, a smug man in a sharp suit, was clearly cheating. You didn’t even have to look closely to know.

You moved to Aventurine's side, standing close enough for your presence to shield him from the worst of it.

His shoulders relaxed instantly.

“Your scent calms me.” he murmured without looking at you, voice so low it was nearly drowned by the roulette wheel’s spin. “Warm. Like the deep, right before a kill.”

You didn’t answer.

He leaned closer, smiling wide for show. “Got the info. We’re being hunted.”

You gave a faint nod. “Let’s finish this.”

Men in black swarmed through the crowd, armed. You recognized the movement instantly.

Aventurine cursed under his breath.

You both bolted.

Glass shattered behind you, panic rippled through the casino floor. Screams. Lights. Alarms. You ducked into a corridor, and just as you reached the back exit. “They’re splitting us.” Aventurine hissed. “Go!”

You hesitated, but he shoved you. “Move. I’ll catch up.”

You lost sight of him near the hotel fountains.

Aventurine wasn’t so lucky.

One man pinned him near the edge of a long decorative pool. Aventurine got cut, forced backward.

Still, the man made a fatal mistake.

He tried to drown him.

Aventurine opened his eyes under the water.

And he smiled.

The illusion peeled away in pieces, his tail unfurling from nowhere. Fins shimmered in the poollight.

The man had no time to regret.

When Aventurine rose from the water moments later, the man was gone.

---

The room was dim, lit only by the laptop’s blue glow. Rain tapped the glass. You were hunched forward in the desk chair, fingers flying over stolen files, backdoor ports, and surveillance logs scraped from the laptop you’d lifted mid-escape.

Someone wanted you both dead.

You barely heard the door open. But you felt him.

Aventurine padded in barefoot, still dripping wet, water trailing from the hem of a hotel robe that was definitely too small for him. His hair clung to his neck, strands curling at the ends, cheeks flushed with the faintest post-fight glow.

You didn’t turn around.

“I take it the guy’s not going to surface again.”

“Nope,” he said lightly. “Just feeding the koi now.”

He crossed the room without a word of warning and sank into your lap with a deep, satisfied sigh, arms winding lazily around your shoulders, head resting right where your neck met your collarbone.

“Don’t have anything better to wear?”

His voice rumbled against your skin. “At least I have something to put on. Thought about walking in wrapped in the hotel towel, but I figured you'd get distracted.”

You scoffed, rolling your eyes, but didn’t push him off. You just kept typing.

He settled more comfortably, eyes fluttering half-shut, his damp weight warm despite everything.

“I got into their comms.” you said, scrolling through an encrypted map. “Their hideout’s in the old shipping district. Either they're cocky, or they're baiting.”

Aventurine let out a low, sleepy hmm in response. You felt his breath ghost against your neck.

“Don’t fall asleep on me.”

Too late. His arms only tightened, head tipping with full trust, eyes fully closed now.

Another soft hmm.

“Just... let me be like this for a bit.” he murmured. “Feels like you’re the only place that’s not trying to kill me today.”

You didn’t say anything.

But you didn’t move either.

You woke up alone.

The warmth where he’d curled against you was gone, replaced by cold sheets and an eerie silence. Only the soft hum of the hotel AC remained, and the faint echo of your thoughts.

You stretched instinctively toward the space he’d occupied—empty.

Not a note.

Just the TV flickering faintly in the background.

You turned the volume up.

A breaking news alert: “Flash Flood Devastates Dock District—Authorities Suspect Sabotage” Camera footage showed the very warehouse you’d planned to hit today, submerged and broken, the concrete crumbled from beneath. Waves had torn through the building like it was nothing.

You leaned back in your chair, sighing. “Of course.”

That was his signature. If someone else had gotten to the prize first, he drowned the whole table.

Still, staying here wasn’t safe. Nothing ever was for long.

You packed up the laptop, burner phone, the essentials. You moved.

---

You’d never believed in myths. Never cared for bedtime stories about creatures below the waves.

But then you found him.

And he found you.

You thought back to that one fight, the only real one you'd ever had. You accused him of being reckless. He accused you of treating him like a weapon, not a partner. That night, he disappeared into the ocean for a week. You didn’t sleep.

But he came back.

You didn’t ask why. Something changed after that.

Still... There was always that gnawing question: Would he leave again? And one day, would he stay gone?

Your burner phone buzzed.

You didn’t recognize the number, but the voice was unmistakable.

“Aww, you missed me?” Aventurine’s tone was light, teasing. “I’ve got the hook, Boss. Meet me at the first man’s house. The one who hired us.”

You frowned. “You’re there now?”

“Oh yeah. And you won’t believe what the tide dragged in.”

The line went dead.

The house was quiet when you arrived. The once-pristine estate was now marked by shattered windows and muddy boot prints. You slipped inside.

And there, in the center of the ruined living room, she was waiting.

A young woman, bound to a chair. Wrists tight behind her back.

Aventurine stood beside her, one arm lazily draped over the back of the chair, a playful smirk curling his lips. Dried water still clung to his jacket.

“Told you I had the deal.” he said, “Meet Aria.”

You blinked. “Aria’s dead.”

He shrugged. “So we were told. But either someone’s a really good liar... or this,” he gestured down at her with mock formality, “is our real target.”

“Behold” Aventurine said, half-mocking, half-serious.

You turned.

And what you saw made your stomach knot.

Rows of glass chambers. Hidden behind sliding panels and secret walls, now revealed like some grotesque gallery. Inside—bodies. Preserved mermaids, naga, winged things you couldn't name. Beautiful, impossible creatures, all dead.

“Holy—” you muttered.

Aventurine’s jaw clenched, eyes filled with something rare: disgust.

Aria lifted her head from the chair, a grin splitting her face.

“Impressive, isn’t it?” she said. “Took years. But he—” her eyes gleamed as they settled on Aventurine, “he’s my crown jewel.”

It all clicked.

The obsessive stepdaughter. The fake kill contract.

Her father? She sacrificed him without a blink just to frame the stage.

A maniac. A woman who hunted the impossible and called it art.

You looked at Aventurine.

His calm had shattered, replaced by a cold rage you rarely saw. His form shimmered faintly, like the illusion of humanity barely held together.

You tilted your head at her.

“She’s all yours.”

Aventurine stepped forward.

But the crack of a gunshot snapped the moment in half.

You gasped as fire lanced through your leg, collapsing to the ground with a curse. Blood soaked the floor.

“Sniper..” you hissed, gritting your teeth.

Aventurine didn’t even look at the sniper.

Water surged up like it had always been there, as if the air itself was laced with ocean. A vortex erupted from nowhere, smashing through the high window above. A scream followed. The sniper was gone.

But that moment of distraction was enough.

Aria slipped free with a razor hidden in her boot. She stood, eyes sparkling with feverish triumph.

“How touching.” she cooed. “You’re not leaving him.”

Aventurine dropped beside you, hands pressing to your wound. His tail flared beneath him, the illusion broken. His panic was wordless but sharp in his touch.

Aria watched like a child at a puppet show.

“I think,” she said slowly, “I’ll drown you in front of him. Watch the light leave your eyes. See what happens to a sea creature when you kill the tide it follows.”

The room shifted. Metal doors locked with mechanical clicks.

Men emerged from the shadows—five, six, maybe more. All armed. All waiting for her signal.

You struggled to sit up, pain lancing through your side.

“Any bright ideas?” you muttered.

Aventurine’s grip didn’t leave you. “She dies. And so does this house.”

You looked at him.

His body shimmered faintly, the air around him humming with moisture. He wasn’t just angry, he was about to call the sea.

Your mind raced, calculating angles, pressure points, structural weaknesses.

This was no longer an escape.

It was survival.

And if you didn’t find a way out together, one of you was going to end up in a glass box.

You didn’t have the strength to fight. Not like this.

So you made the only choice that ever made sense.

You reached out, your fingers brushing Aventurine’s wrist.

"Do it."

He looked at you once. Then he stood up.

His human form dissolved like mist.

The floor shuddered.

Aria’s confident grin faltered.

Water surged from the cracks, rising in walls, spirals, currents that obeyed only him. The collection shattered. The preserved creatures within sank like fallen stars, finally free in death.

You watched it happen from where you lay—half-conscious, half-drenched in red. The water rose around you fast.

Memories clawed up your throat like bile. That lake. Drowning had always stalked you like a second shadow.

Not again.

Still, you trusted him. So you held your breath. Until you couldn’t.

Darkness swallowed you whole. And when you came back—

—his mouth was on yours.

You choked violently.

Water erupted from your lungs, splashing against your chin and his chest. Something else came with it. Blood.

You heaved, trembling, coughing until your vision tunneled again.

His hands were cupping your face.

“Stay with me, Boss.”

When you woke again, it was silent.

Just the low hum of your office lights.

You were lying on the long couch in your private room, wrapped in towels and blankets that smelled like the sea. Your clothes were gone—replaced with something clean and dry.

The dull ache in your chest reminded you that breathing had become a battle.

The first thing you saw was the silhouette of him.

Aventurine, sitting on the floor beside you, head resting against the couch.

He noticed you stirring and leaned up slightly.

“You sure know how to ruin a good escape plan.”

You gave him a weak glare.

“You flooded the place.”

“Aria’s collection’s at the bottom of her own mausoleum now.” he said casually.

You looked at him for a moment.

“…How long was I out?”

“Long enough I almost kissed you again just to be sure.”

Your expression soured. “You did kiss me.”

“CPR~” he said.

“Don’t ever do that again.” you whispered.

“Only if you promise not to die.”

---

You decided to move.

You couldn’t ignore the blood in the walls. The bullet scars.

So, a new office.

Aventurine moved too. Not because he had to, because he wanted to. He was like that. Said the sea never stayed still, so why should he?

That night, you brought food home.

You’d moved half the files, a few weapons, and a coffee machine. The rest could wait. But your stomach couldn’t.

You set the bag down by the bathroom door and knocked once before pushing it open with your foot.

He was already in the tub.

Water steamed gently around him, his tail flicking lazily, shoulders relaxed, hair floating like silk. There was a soft glow to him under the bathroom lights.

“Dinner,” you announced, tossing a container toward the edge of the tub. “Try not to soak it.”

“Always a romantic,” he murmured, catching it mid-air and peeling it open. “Is this shrimp?”

“Thought you’d like the irony.”

You sat on the floor across from him, leaning your back against the wall, opening your own box. The bathroom smelled like salt, jasmine soap, and spicy takeout.

For a moment, neither of you spoke.

“When’s a merman supposed to die?” you asked quietly.

He blinked at you. “That’s morbid, even for you.”

You shrugged. “Curious. You ever going to outlive me?”

Aventurine didn’t answer immediately. He leaned his chin on the edge of the tub.

“Depends,” he said at last. “On what I choose. On who I follow.”

You paused. “So... you are following me?”

He grinned. “What gave it away? The murder? The tub in your apartment? The fact that I almost drowned half a city just to make sure you lived?”

“Do mermen retire?”

He scoffed. “Retire? What do you think I am, a bank manager?”

You sipped your drink. “Thought you might want little fish one day.”

He raised a brow. “Baby mermen?”

“Don’t tell me no one’s tried to breed you in a lab.”

“Gross,” he muttered, then chuckled. “But yes. They tried. Didn't end well for them.”

Your head tilted. “So... no kids?”

He glanced at you.

“Not unless I find someone worth anchoring for.”

You looked away first.

Eventually, you got up.

“I’m going to sleep. Don’t flood the floor.”

“No promises.”

He watched you leave.

But as you turned off the light, his voice followed.

“…I don’t know when I’ll die. But if I do, I hope it’s with you. Not before. Not after.”

You paused in the hallway.

Didn’t turn around.

But the silence that followed was more comforting than any goodbye.

[clairewritesfanfics]

! I read your alphabet fluff and it was amazing ! I’m wondering if maybe you could do one for no glasses Mark or viltrumite if you have time I don't know why but I feel like these two want kids.

Author’s note: The alphabet here is an amalgamation of fluff templates from the following writers: @themarauderstheoutsidersandpeggy, @snk-warrior, @queervibesmydude and @imagineimagineimagine, and my own personal additions.

Adoration: What does he can’t help but gush about you? 

Everything.

Baby: Does he want a family? 

He doesn’t want a family, he wants something that can bind you to his side. Whether you adopt, have a surrogate or get impregnated, that thing will etch his memory deeper into your heart. He doesn’t want to share your affections though. In his eyes, the only thing better than a kid is a dead kid. 

Comfort: How does he help you when you’re down or stressed?

Cuddles and kisses! He is the most handsy variant. He will shower your face with kisses, nudge you with his head, bury his face in your neck and stick his arms to you.

Dates: What are his ideal dates?

He likes being outside and active: picnics in the park where he can make out with you on a blanket, beach days where he can see you in a swimsuit and make out with you in the water, hiking in nature where he pretends to chase you and then make out with you against a tree, etc.

Everything: You are his __________.

You are his sun, his gravity. 

Fight: How often do you argue? How does he handle the fight itself and its aftermath?

Fights with him feel more like foreplay than arguments. Any real disagreements are too rare to even remember.

Gifts: Does he spoil you?

Hell yeah. Whatever money he has, he uses on you and any spare change is for making himself more attractive to you.

Honesty: Does he keep a lot of secrets from you? Are they white lies or hide world-shattering truths?

He can’t lie to you, but that doesn't mean he can’t omit parts of the truth.

Injury: What’s his reaction when he finds you physically hurt?

That perpetual smile vanishes, replaced with a haunting stare. He forgets about checking up on you and loses himself in his revenge. 

Jealousy: Is he a green-eyed monster?

Yup. Actually, physically, loudly groans and whines when you pay attention to someone else for too long. He starts grabbing you all over until you yell at him to stop. Doesn’t matter if you’re mad as long as you’re focused on him.

Kiss: Describe the way he kisses you.

He kisses you eagerly, giving everything and touching you everywhere, as though hoping he’d become a part of you.

Longing: Who fell first? How did you two get together?

He did. He seems derpy, but Mark’s manipulative; he knows that rushing into things will only scare away a romantic partner. So he teases you and hits on you, but backs off when he thinks you’re beginning to feel uncomfortable. He’s also willing to get rid of any competition (in secret, naturally).

Marriage: Does he want to be your husband?

Yes, yes, yes! He has the perfect ring, too. It’s exactly your style. 

Nightmare: What is his greatest fear?

Your indifference. He prefers your affection, but he will take even your hatred as long as your eyes are on him.

Orange: What color reminds him of you?

Gold. Like the radiant sun that he evolves around. 

PDA: Yes or no? If yes, to what degree?

Do you think dogs care about who is looking when they start jumping on their owners? He’ll stop if you tell him but if you’re fine with having an audience then so is he.

Quaint: What is his favourite non-modern thing?

Love letters. We’re talking scented paper in fancy envelopes. You’re flattered and supportive, however…Mark’s good in many things, but writing poems is not one of them. He’s sincere though so you can’t ever laugh at or criticize his work.

Rhythm: What’s his favorite song or genre of music?

He likes what you like. No, really. His interests before are meaningless to him now. He has restructured his life to fit perfectly with yours, and that includes music taste. 

Spa: What helps him relax?

Something as small as your shoulders touching while you two lie on bed doing your own things (well, you’re doing something; he’s admiring the view) calms him down.

Tea: What do you two often converse about? 

He will like what you like, watch what you watch and read what you read, everything to be your soulmate and be able to understand everything you say. However, he gets lost in your voice. Sometimes–most of the time–he doesn’t even talk. He would rather listen to you. You could be talking about a murder that happened next door and he, in a daze, will smile and say, “That’s nice.”

Understanding: How well does he know you?

He knows your habits and routine, though he’s still prone to being insensitive to any changes to such behaviors.

Value: How important is the relationship to him?

You are literally the only reason he hasn’t become a full-blown supervillain.

Wild Card: Random fluff headcanon

He sticks post-it notes everywhere in the house. Jokes (what’s a pirate’s favorite amino acid? Aaaaaaarrrrginine), reminders (drink your water >:( on the pitcher), corny pick-up lines (Did it hurt when you fell from Heaven?) or something sweet and simple like I love you, because he feels like he can never say it enough.

XOXO: How affectionate is he?

He is a dog in a Viltrumite body. Hands down, the most physically and verbally affectionate Mark. He likes leaning against you, holding your hands, kissing you and hugging you.

Yearning: How does he cope when you two are apart?

The longest minute is the last sixty seconds when he’s waiting for you. There is no coping.

Zebra: If he wanted a pet, what would he get?

Does he want pets? NO. It’s bad enough that he has to share you with other people. There is no way in Hell he’s splitting your affection with an even lower life form. You want a dog? He’ll bark and kneel and fetch, whatever you want. Here’s his neck, he even bought a fancy pink collar. Please put it on him. 

Disclaimer: The images above are not mine but are screenshots from the Invincible TV series.

ദ്ദി(｡•̀ ,<)~✩‧₊

MAIN MASTERLIST

Any questions for the author? Ask here.

[undyingdecay]

hihi first, your writing is EXQUISITE.... is helped me improve my own by a mile.

second, i would love to request a service top bucky or bob... and maybe with heavy amounts of making out.. I've read probably everything you've got so far but if i did miss something like this I'm SO sorry. take care of your wrists okay bye <3

FIRST thank you, im sososo happy im able to help you with your writing second — service top!bucky? absolutely.

because bucky isn’t the rough-handed, snarl-in-your-ear monster people like to paint him as. not really. not where it counts. it’s a lie he lets them believe because it’s easier than explaining the way his hands shake when he wants too much, the way need settles into his bones like rot, slow and clinging. what nobody tells you is that bucky’s the type to serve so wholly, so unthinkingly, it borders on worship.

he’s a mess for it. desperate in that quiet, seething way. not a whimpering thing, no — but the kind of man who’d let you ruin him and thank you for the opportunity. and it always starts so soft. so unbearably soft.

it’s in the way he looks at you, first. like you hung the stars crooked on purpose and he’d still build a temple under them. thumb ghosting over your lower lip, eyes heavy-lidded, mouth already parted like he’s been starving for the taste of you all night. there’s something fractured about it — that bone-deep ache you only get from decades of denying yourself. from wanting and wanting and never asking.

and you make him ask.

because he deserves to beg for it a little. deserves to have his lip split between his teeth when you push him back onto the sheets, one hand pressed flat to his chest, cold vibranium fingers twitching helplessly at his sides. he’s so good like this — spread out, ruined already, cock leaking against his stomach without you even touching it properly yet.

'please,' he murmurs, voice rough, thinned with strain. 'fuck, doll, lemme — let me take care of you, c’mon, i can be good, i promise.'

and you let him. of course you do. because bucky barnes was made to serve. made to wrap those big, battle-worn hands around your hips and drag you down onto his tongue, made to shudder under the weight of your thighs trembling around his head. he’s so good at it too, like it’s the first real thing he’s done in years. eats like a man exorcising ghosts, like your pleasure might be the only thing to stitch him back together.

he’d make a mess of you. slow, devastating passes of his tongue, lips slick and flushed, groaning into you like every soft, wrecked sound you make feeds some half-feral thing inside him. you’d tug his hair, grip so tight it borders on cruel, and he’d moan for it — rut against the bed like a man possessed, like every scrape of your nails in his scalp writes new commandments into his skin.

and when you finally let him up for air, when you hover over him, thighs sticky, breath ragged, he looks so fucking wrecked. pupils blown wide, mouth swollen, chin gleaming. he’s trembling — not with fear, not quite with desperation, but with the unbearable pressure of every need he’s ever buried.

he tells you he needs it, tells you he can’t take it anymore, and you make him wait anyway. because you like the sound of his voice when it breaks, the way his hands flex helplessly, begging in every language his body can manage. he calls to you 'baby, sweetheart, tell me im making you feel good.'

and when you finally slide down onto him — slow, unrelenting, until he’s seated so deep he can’t tell where you stop — bucky whimpers. chokes on a curse, hands fisting in the sheets, throat tipped back, sweat glinting along his collarbone. he doesn’t dare move without your say so, every muscle strung tight, every inch of him screaming for it.

because bucky’s not a monster. he’s a servant. a willing, ruined, aching thing — and he was always going to give you everything.

[saphronethaleph]

Love Language

“So, uh… Dad?” Hiccup said, nervously, but that was mostly just normal for him. “I’ve got a… question.”

“What sort of question, Hiccup?” Stoic replied, not unkindly – for him, anyway.

That was sort of how their family relationship went a lot of the time, as it happened. The two of them being at pains to be normal with one another.

“So… how exactly do we know that dragons are, uh… monsters, evil, want to hurt us, want to destroy us?” Hiccup asked, rattling off the normal dragon description from the Book of Dragons. “Extremely dangerous, and so on?”

Stoic blinked, then looked at Hiccup with the sort of look that – normally – would be reserved for a relative who’d said something extremely thick.

He wasn’t used to turning it on Hiccup.

“They keep… attacking us,” he said. “Raiding us. Carrying off our sheep.”

“Yeah, about that,” Hiccup replied. “Because, I’ve been a Viking teenager for a while now and the general impression I get is that that’s how Vikings show that they want to become friends.”

Stoic snorted.

“Not getting on well with your friends?” he asked.

“That plural is assuming a lot, Dad,” Hiccup replied. “That… word is also making some assumptions, actually! Though you did keep telling me that all the punches and stuff were just a way of making friends – but, I wasn’t actually talking about my friends, I didn’t mean them, I was meaning to talk about the dragons.”

“And?” Stoic said.

“The point I’m making, Dad, is that… so, uh, I tried putting myself in the place of the dragons,” Hiccup said, shaking his leg and leaning awkwardly on the door frame. “And I wondered what Vikings would think if we went somewhere and the people there were firing catapults at us and shooting flaming rocks at us, and that sort of thing, and… I’ve met Vikings, dad. I’m pretty sure you’ve met Vikings!”

Stoic paused, to actually consider that.

It was one of the increasingly large number of things about this conversation which was not Normal, but he was willing to give it a go.

“...hm,” he said. “That sounds like a pretty good night out, actually.”

“That’s what I’m getting at!” Hiccup agreed, now leaning over more. “Hold on.”

“What is it?”

“Not you, I mean-” Hiccup said, then gestured at someone Stoic couldn’t see.

Or possibly just nearly fell over, the lad was gangly.

“Anyway – uhm – I think the dragons just want to be friends,” Hiccup went on, speaking very quickly. “And that they’re enough like Vikings that all we’re doing is just making them more interested.”

“Nonsense,” Stoic replied.

“Really?” Hiccup asked. “Because – uh – are you at least going to think about it before you decide that I have to be wrong?”

“I don’t need to think about it to know it’s nonsense,” Stoic said, firmly.

“Yeah, that sounds pretty Viking too,” Hiccup muttered. “Stubborn and unwilling to admit that you might be wrong about something… so, uh… what about an experiment?”

“Is this some of that scientific method stuff Gobber had you learning?” Stoic checked.

It sounded a bit suspect, to him.

“Yeah, actually,” Hiccup agreed. “But if something happens you can’t say it’s impossible, right?”

Stoic carefully considered the question.

If something happens, you can’t say it’s impossible.

“All right, so let’s accept that for the sake of argument,” he allowed. “What kind of thing?”

“So I gave a Terrible Terror a fish,” Hiccup said. “Once. And now I literally cannot get it to stop rubbing against my ankles, making a kind of purring noise, and curling up next to my bed when I go to sleep.”

Stoic blinked, looking Hiccup up and down.

“...there doesn’t seem to be a Terrible Terror rubbing against your ankles,” he said.

“Yeah, because I can’t stop it, but Toothless can,” Hiccup explained. “Because, uh, there’s this Night Fury…”

“A Night Fury?” Stoic repeated, then went back over the conversation and reprocessed this new information through it.

“...are you telling me you befriended a Night Fury?” he asked. “How?”

“I shot it down,” Hiccup replied. “And, uh… since then I’ve kind of been testing the hypothesis, that’s more of the whole science thing, and it took like eight seconds to convince the Monstrous Nightmare in the training pens that I was a cool guy to be around. I just kind of smiled and that was it?”

He shrugged, then finally lost the battle against keeping the Night Fury out of the doorframe, and the Unholy Offspring of Lightning and Death Itself slowly pushed the leaning Hiccup across the doorframe.

Then spotted Stoic, groonked something, and sat on his haunches like a giant, attentive dog mixed with a curious cat possessed of a penchant for pushing things off tables.

Stoic spent several seconds contemplating what to do, then – experimentally – threw his hammer at the beast.

It ducked, letting Hiccup topple over with a thump, then loped off after the hammer. A few seconds later, a Terror sat on the prone Hiccup’s side and curled up before visibly and very quickly going to sleep.

“You, uh… see what I mean?” Hiccup asked.

The Night Fury came back, tail swishing from side to side, and deposited the thrown hammer eagerly in front of the door before making a pleased sort of gronk-chirp.

Stoic gave up.

This was now Normal.

Making that new categorization was going to save a lot of time.

“My working theory is that, to dragons, we’re friend shaped,” Hiccup said, still trapped under the snoozing Terror.

[daddymaster21]

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

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

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

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

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

5. Ohhhhhh okay, death makes more sense

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

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

8. I FUCKING KNEW IT AHHHHHH

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

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

11. AHHHH THE SMILEY FACE DETAIL

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

13. LMAOOO “PILLOW TALK”

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

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

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

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

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

19. why are you British lmfaoooooo

20. This isn’t going to end well.

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

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

23. John Winchester is IN DANGER.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

33. LMFAOOO THE CREATURES ARE FIGHTING

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

42. AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH HE ADMITTED IT

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

Chapter 24 - Just Hold On

Series Masterlist - Main Masterlist

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

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

Word Count: 19.1k

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

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

Chapter 23 - Chapter 25

Read on A03!

It’s smiling at you. 

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

You are everything. 

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

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

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

Dean.

He’s not here. 

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

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

You’re not sure. 

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

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

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

It hurts so fucking much. All of it. 

You just want to fucking go home. 

And the strong thing cleaves apart. 

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

And you can see it. 

Tall. Thin. 

Old. 

It looks old.  

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

It just is.

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

It doesn’t really have a gaze. 

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

You can’t look away.

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

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

No. 

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

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

The power. 

And everything shatters apart. 

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

Dean. 

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

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

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

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

Only another nightmare. 

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

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

It’s not like you can blame him.

You don’t really want you either. 

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

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

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

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

You’re not going to wake him up. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He’s always so careful. 

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

Staring down at you, and doing nothing but watching.

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

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

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

The Sky will keep watching. Waiting. 

And you’ll just keep growing sick.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Death. 

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

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

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

So fucking careful.

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

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

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

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

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

But you can lie to yourself a little.

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

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

You’re only the beast to serve him. 

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

He’s still watching you. 

He asked you if you’re with him.

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

“All the way down.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I know, ba- sweetheart. It’s okay-“

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

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

Baby. You know I love you, baby.

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

“You wanna dance?”

You blink at him. “What?”

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

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

You need it to be real.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Nah.”

“So you just… Found it?”

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

“You- Why?”

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

“I think that’s more worrying-“

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

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

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

“I don’t think it will-“

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

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

Dean’s here. 

He’s got you. 

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

“You have a phone, De.”

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

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

“Yeah, yeah, I’m an idiot-“

“I didn’t say that.”

“You were thinking it-“

“No. I wasn’t.”

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

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

The dancing. 

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

You’re a little dizzy.

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

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

Back to Dean.

Always back to Dean.

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

“Pretty sure you know yourself, sweetheart-“

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

He frowns. “That’s-“

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

“You would have figured that out yourself-“

“It had never even occurred to me.”

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

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

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

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

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

It means I love you, now. 

He just doesn’t get to know that. 

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

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

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

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

“You even know when my birthday is-“

“January 24th.” You mumble. “Soon."

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

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

“You don’t have to get me anything-“

“Yes I do.”

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

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

He’s still frowning. “But-“

“Shut up.”

A smile tugs at his lips. “So bossy.”

“Dean-“

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

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

But you’re not allowed to say it.

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

You still don’t want this to end. 

“You getting tired, sweetheart?”

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

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

“‘M gonna stab you.”

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

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

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

“I’m sorry.”

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

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

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

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

It’s sweet.

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

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

“De-“

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

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

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

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

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

It’s just Dean. 

It’s always just Dean. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“An attempt at it, yes. Did it land?”

“Sure.”

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

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

“You are. It is just… Distressing.”

“Distressing? I’m distressing?”

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

You’d blinked at him. “So I’m a dog?”

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

“Oh.” You’d swallowed. “Sorry.”

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

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

Cas had paused, and you’d sighed. 

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

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

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

“Is that your question-“

“No. Do you?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Anna?”

You’d nodded, and Cas had sighed. 

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

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

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

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

“Not well. There is… A lot of Earth.”

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

Cas had frowned. “Those are antonyms-“

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

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

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

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

You’d blinked at him. “What?“

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

“I-“

“May I ask you a question?”

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

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

“Humans?”

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

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

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

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

“The one you keep in your jacket.”

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

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

But Cas had nodded slowly. 

“I… believe I like that too.”

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

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

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

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

You will.

You always do.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You look drunk, kiddo.”

“I don’t drink-“

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

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

But it’s Dean. 

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

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

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

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

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

“Jesus Christ, it’s not- We don’t-“

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

“Bobby-“

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bobby grunts your name, and you shake your head. 

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

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

You nod, and Bobby clears his throat. 

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

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

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

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

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

“Crazy shit?”

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

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

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

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

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

“I-“

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

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

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

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

“You hear me? ‘Bout Dean?”

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

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

“Uh- How’s the hunt going for Death-“

“Same as it was last night.” 

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

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

You sigh, but listen. 

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

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

Weird things.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dean’s shirt. 

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

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

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

“Bended and-“

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

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

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

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

“Why the hell are you up right now.”

“You’re up-“

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

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

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

“No.”

“Okay. You haven’t been-“

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

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

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

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

“Wow. Woe really is you.”

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

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

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

“Dean, you hate mint-“

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

“Spearmint?”

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

You smile into the air.  “I’d like.”

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

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

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

“Bobby.”

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

“Can you read that?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Kiddo, I ain’t doin’ any of that.”

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

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

“But-“

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

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

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

“What if I want to put you first-“

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

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

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

“But-“

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

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

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

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

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

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

But it still hurts. 

And you can’t just sit in it. 

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

It isn’t.

Not really.

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

You can’t do it alone. 

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

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

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

You try not to think about it. 

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

“Are you waiting for someone, darling?”

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

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

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

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

Crossroads demon. 

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

Easy body to hide.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fuck. 

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

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

His hand.

You’re not going to shake it.

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

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

“No.”

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

“Yes, I can. No.”

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

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

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

“I don’t care-“

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

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

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

One favor. 

Death, for one favor. 

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

But Death.

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

Dean told you not to do anything stupid. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What’s a step forward-“

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

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

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

And Dean told you not to do anything stupid. 

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

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

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

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

Fuck.

——————   

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

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

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

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

“Yes, sir.” 

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

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

Get cloth. 

That couldn’t be too hard.

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

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

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

Usually. 

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

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

Dean didn’t remember what fine felt like. 

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

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

But this wasn’t that. 

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

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

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

It was big.

Beautiful.

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

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

That looked painful. Really freaking painful. 

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

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

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

Maybe one day he’d earn it.

Right now, he had to get cloth. 

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

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

“What are you doing?”

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m working a case. With Dad.”

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

“He needed cloth from a church.”

“Why couldn’t he get it himself?”

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

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

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

“I- How old are you?”

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

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

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

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

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

“You are.”

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

And he wasn’t. 

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

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

She frowned. “Nobody.”

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

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

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

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

“Seven. Still with my family.”

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

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

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

“I- I don’t know.”

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

She gave him a flat look. “Dean.”

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

“You would hate church-“

“But I like you.”

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

“So I’d sit next to you.”

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

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

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

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

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

Dean certainly would. 

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

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

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

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

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

Everything Dean had to give was Her’s.

All the way down.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Be- In LA?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“She called you?”

“Yep.” 

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

“Holy shit, dude. You were asleep-“

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

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

“I’m not asking-“

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

“Sammy, she shouldn’t be hunting-“

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

Dean scowled, and Sam let out a long sigh. 

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

Dean did. 

Son of a bitch, he really did. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Something was wrong. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Lie. That was a fucking lie. 

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

“What is the lead?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“That’s… so gross.”

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

Dean frowned. “How the hell is that-“

“They were also engaging in sexual acts.”

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

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

“Oh.” Sam’s eyed widened. “Oh. Shit.”

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

He was pretty sure She didn’t know. 

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

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

And if She wanted him, if She was flushed and nervous because of that, then-

Now wasn’t the time to worry about that. People were dying. Fucking each other to death. He needed to focus.

The more he focused, the faster they’d get through the case, the faster they got Her home, the sooner he could think about falling to his knee in front of Her and asking do you want me to touch you, baby girl? Are you thinking about touching me? Cause not a goddamn second passes where I don’t think I’d be a happy man suffocating between your legs-

“Do we have any theories?” Sam asked, moving to stand over the table and Dean clenched his fists. Focus. He needed to goddamn focus. “I know you guys have only been here a day, but-“

“We have ideas.” Cas cut Sam off with slow, careful words, looking to Her. 

Still staring at the floor as Cas said Her name.

“The Enochian. Tell them about that.”

She frowned. “You tell them about it.”

“But you’re the one who found it, and translated it.”

“But you keep saying I translated it wrong.”

“You still got it, though.” Cas frowned, and Sam shot Dean another worried look. “Do you wish me to explain it?”

She swallowed, but shook Her head. “I- Yes. Please.”

“Fine.” Cas looked back to Sam and Dean. “It’s a cupid.”

She rolled Her eyes. “It’s not a cupid.”

“You said I could explain it. I’m explaining it.”

“But you have to say my side too-“

“Your side is incorrect, why would I give them incorrect information-“

“Cas.” Dean grunted, looking between them with a frown as he muttered Her name, and She blinked up at him with shining eyes. “What the fuck is happening here.”

She sighed. “We have a bet.”

Sam blinked. “A… bet?”

“I found Enochian markings on the victims.” Cas said, pushing another paper—this one covered with Her handwriting in the margins—forward. “It is a Cupid’s mark. One may have gone rogue.”

She shook Her head. “But it says meat.”

“It says mate. Meat is a mistranslation.”

“But the word mate in English is derived from meat. And the people were hungry.”

“Hold up.” Dean shook his head, leaning over to frown at the paper. “Mate? Like- Soulmate?”

Cas sighed. “No, Dean. Soulmates aren’t real. Unions are pre-ordained by Heaven for higher purposes, or chosen at the free will of humans. Mate means…”

Cas trailed off, giving Her a helpless look that she only shrugged at, and Dean cleared his throat.

“Sex. It means sex, right.” He frowned between them. “You two are allowed to say sex-“

“We know that.” She snapped, and Dean’s lips twitched as She snatched the paper back with a glare. She was so fucking pretty. “We’re just tired. We’ve been working this all day.”

Sam frowned. “So you can’t say sex?”

“Sam.”

“Oh- Uh, sorry.” Sam scratched the back of his neck, reclining slightly from Her glare. Dean couldn’t blame him. She looked scary. “So- Do we think it’s a Cupid?”

She said no at the exact time Cas said yes, and Dean sighed, running a hand over his face.

“Well, it’s gotta be something-“

“That’s the bet.” She said, crossing Her arms over Her chest. “If it’s a cupid, he wins. If anything other than that, I win.”

“Win?” Sammy frowned between them. “Win what?”

“She will buy me more ice cream.” Cas muttered. “And I will find her a cat.”

“Cas.” Sam said slowly. “You’re an angel. I don’t think you need someone to buy you ice cream.”

“And,” Dean grunted Her name, holding Her gaze. “You can’t get a cat.”

“Why not?”

“I’m allergic.”

“It… will not be your cat, Dean.” Cas frowned at him. “I am getting it for her.”

“Yeah, Dean.” She stuck Her tongue out at him. “He’s getting it for me.”

“But only if you win, right?” Sam frowned between them. “I mean, that’s how bets work-“

“I know how bets work.” Cas said Her name with a shurg. “She explained them to me.”

“And we’ve already shaken on this one.” She sat up a little taller, raising Her chin. “So that’s that.”

Sam had definitely been right. Whatever this was—Her and Cas both staring them down with smug expressions and a bunch of Enochian notes covering the table—was maybe going to give Dean a heart attack.

“Oh- Okay.” Sam sighed, shooting Dean a defeated look. “Did you guys make a plan?”

“We have had a plan for hours, Sam.” Cas’ tone was flat, and Sam blinked. “We were waiting for you to arrive, so it could be executed.”

“Exe-“ Dean shook his head. “Cas, I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about, but it’s damn near two in the morning-“

“We’re gonna go to bed, De.” She gave him a softer smile, and his heart might have just done a freaking flip. “But in the morning, I’m going to take Sam, and you’re going to go Cas, and I’m going to win.”

Cas frowned. “Unless it is a cupid-“

“It’s not a cupid.”

“The point of the bet is that it may be a cupid-“

“No, the point of the bet is that I want a cat-“

“Guys.” Sam raised his hand, raising his voice over theirs. “Splitting up isn’t a plan. I mean- It’s kind of a plan, but not really-“

“Don’t worry, buddy.” She gave Sam a wide grin. “You’re with me. And I’ve got a real plan.”

“Oh- Okay.” Sam put his hand back down. “And Cas and Dean-“

“I have a plan as well.” Cas gave Dean a small nod, and he felt a little frozen. “Dean, there is a diner down the road with burgers you will like. We’ll meet there.”

“We’ll- Where the hell are you going now?”

Cas frowned, rising slowly. “I do not sleep, and there are,” he glanced down to Her. “Other things. For me to attend to.”

Dean scowled. “Like what.”

“Things.” Cas’ voice remained flat. “I will see you in the morning, Dean.”

Sam’s eyes widened. “Wait-“

There was a rustle, and then Cas was gone.

And She was still staring down at Her hands, the skin of Her nails picked raw. 

Something was wrong.

“Shit.” Sam muttered Her name, shaking his head. “Do I need anything for tomorrow?”

She shook Her head. “No. Just get some sleep.”

Sam nodded slowly, turning around with a clap of Dean’s shoulder. “I’m gonna go get our bags,” he muttered under his breath. “I’ll take whatever bed you guys aren’t in.”

Dean grunted an agreement, and didn’t look away from Her as Sam moved away.

The door closed, and he crossed the room to kneel before Her, his hands resting carefully on Her thighs. She could shove him away if She needed to. And it would sting over his heart and skin if She did, but he’d let Her. 

She just met his gaze under Her lashes, a small furrow in Her brow.

She looked so fucking tired. 

Dean muttered Her name, slowly reaching up to hold Her face in his hands. “You’re not supposed to be hunting.”

“I- You’re not my boss, Winchester-“

“But I’m your-“ Friend. Best friend. Pathetic guard dog. Shadow. “I know you, Princess. Better than anyone. And you need rest-“

“I- I know, okay. But I need to see this through.”

He frowned. “Why.”

“Because.”

Dean grunted Her name, and She shook Her head. 

“I- I just do, okay. Please.” 

She was saying please. And fluttering Her lashes slightly. And Dean was orbiting around Her, and falling up into Her, but goddamnit, this felt like a shit idea. She was lying about something, and he didn’t know how to push Her on it. He’d never been good at applying the right amount of pressure with Her. And Dean might be damn good at taking care of Her—brushing a little of Her hair back and running his thumb down Her nose—but he’d also been good at hurting Her. 

He hadn’t hurt Her in a while. He never wanted to hurt Her again.

But he couldn’t make it better if he didn’t know what was wrong. He couldn’t protect Her if he was off with Cas for the whole hunt. 

“Princess-“

“I- I want to go see it soon.” She whispered, and Dean frowned.

“See-“

“The waterfall. Where Bobby-“ She swallowed, and it clicked in Dean’s head. 

“Jo.”

“I- I can’t go alone, De. I- I’ve been trying. And I can’t. And I promise I’m not running, and I know this is a bad idea, but it’s my lead and I have to do it-“

Her words turned into soft, weak tears, and Dean swore under his breath. He wasn’t making Her cry. But he wasn’t fucking helping either.

“I- I’m so tired,” She was falling over him, and Dean adjusted in a second. Pushing up to his knees and tucking Her into his chest. “I wanna go home-“

“Then go home,” he muttered Her name. “We can take care of this ourselves, cupid or not-“

She shook Her head against him. “No, I- It has to be me. I- I’m just tired.”

This was more than tired. She was leaning back with sniffles and pouting lips, and Dean knew this was more than tired.

But son of a bitch, he didn’t know how to push Her on it. And at least She’d have Sammy. He wouldn’t let anything happen to Her, if not for Dean, for Her. The kid adored Her. And She was strong. She’d gotten through months alone, right after Jo’s death, without a single scratch.

That Dean could see. 

But he couldn’t push Her on that either. Or on whatever the hell She and Cas were up to. And it definitely wasn’t the time to talk about how—when he kissed Her brow and helped Her to her feet, guiding Her into bed and pulling off his shoes before falling at Her side—he couldn’t stop wanting to fucking kiss Her.

He needed to just be there for Her. Lay at Her side and take Her hand, carefully testing if She’d kick him out of bed like a dog if he tugged Her a little closer. 

She didn’t.

And that should be enough. It had to be enough. 

But it never was. 

She shifted, in the night. Dean drifted in and out of sleep, and every time his eyes would open and he’d regain fully awareness, She’d have moved. Her body now facing his. Her chest pressed to Dean’s side. Her leg hooked over his waist, and their hands still tangled together.

Her face, burrowed in Dean’s shoulder, Her breath warm on his skin. 

It was torture. It was the best goddamn torture in the world, because Dean got to hold Her—kind of—but it wasn’t enough, and now he couldn’t fucking sleep. 

The rest of the night passed with lights on the ceiling, their hands pressed to Dean’s chest the smell of fruit and sugar getting him high on an amazing, horrible drug. 

He shouldn’t think about it right now. It was wrong. Sick. She was his best friend, and She was in fucking pain, and She’d been crying in his arms only a few hours before. 

But She was also humming softly whenever She took a breath, and nuzzling against Dean’s throat, and Her knee was real damn close to brushing against his cock. And in another world, maybe he’d be allowed to flip Her over until she was staring at him all pretty, splayed out below Dean and whispering his name in that siren-like way only She had ever said it. Then he’d kiss the sound off Her lips, and she’d hum softly and tug at his hair, and he’d give Her more. Give Her everything. All She’d need to do was relax into it, and Dean would make Her see all those stars that only seemed to shine for Her. Make Her feel that perfect, slightly pained paradise he lived in, whenever She so much as fucking smile at him. 

He’d made Her scream his name until Her voice was hoarse, then wrap Her safely in his arms, getting Her whatever she needed before She had to ask. He’d fuck Her until She couldn’t walk, then carry Her wherever She needed to go. He’d praise Her and kiss Her until she was a flushed, fucked out mess, and kiss Her again just so She knew. 

That as long as Dean had a say in it, She’d only feel good things. Be good places. Be happy.

He just needed to be the luckiest, most undeserving son of a bitch in the world, and be the one She wanted to be happy with. The asshole from the mud that hadn’t dragged himself up, but had hardened into clay. And She could mold him into whatever She wanted him to be. 

Dean just really fucking hoped it was something where he got to kiss Her, and She stayed wrapped around him for maybe the rest of time. 

He got up the moment light cracked through the blinders. He’d be fucked if She woke up first, and felt the raging boner pressed into Her thigh.

The cold shower sort of helped. The gritting his teeth, squeezing his eyes shut, and jacking off to the fantasy of Her in bed with him—curled at Dean’s side, smiling at him with fluttering lashes and maybe grinding onto his thigh while Her hands wrapped around his cock—helped a lot. And Dean dressed in the bathroom, grabbing coffee from the desk and setting in on the nightstand, with a little scribbled note that he was out with Cas, and to call if they got any leads. 

She and Sammy needed the sleep more than Dean did, anyway. They both looked peaceful, and they’d both been beating themselves up every damn moment they’d been awake, and Dean had been trying to help them but maybe he was only making it worse-

Problems for later. Right now, Dean needed to get a start on the case. The sooner they wrapped it up, the sooner Dean could get Her home. Take Her to go see Jo. Maybe stop and get Her food—not that day, that day would be a lot more holding Her while she cried—and then find the words to ask am I allowed to kiss you still, Princess. And if I am, could we do more than kissing. Could you maybe see yourself holding my hand, wearing even less clothing when you slept, and letting me build you a house that might not be the fanciest thing in the world, but would be fucking ours. And you’d be mine, and I’d just keep being yours. 

Always been yours, Princess. He stared down at Her like a fucking creep, tracing his hands over Her cheekbones. Never gonna be anything else. All the way down, right?

She didn’t answer. 

So Dean headed out the door, and called Cas at the diner. 

“How certain are you it’s a cupid?” Dean asked, right through a mouthful of burger—Cas was right, this place was awesome, they served burgers at six in the morning—and Cas sighed. 

“I am positive.” Cas muttered Her name. “She is caught up on the semantics of the translation. I will admit that I’ve never seen a rogue cupid do something like this, but this year has been… full of firsts.”

Dean grunted. “Yeah, it has. Never seen an angel place a bet before. Or take orders from a human.”

Cas frowned. “I have taken orders from you, Dean.”

“Those were suggestions-“

Cas said Her name carefully. “I am speaking of her. You did not suggest that I ensure she slept.”

Dean scowled. “Well, did you?”

“Of course I did.” Cas frowned. “You asked me to.”

Dean blinked. “Oh, uh- Thanks then. You’re not really gonna get her a cat, right?”

“I will have to. If I lose the bet.”

“What, did you two make a blood oath-“

“I don’t have blood.” Cas paused, his gaze flicking down to Dean’s burger. “You are eating slower than usual.”

“It’s early. And you better lose that freakin’ bet-“

“I am confident in my theory, Dean. You can come with us when we get ice cream.” Cas was still staring at the burger, and Dean cleared his throat. 

“How’d that other thing go?”

Cas’ gaze flicked back to Dean’s with a frown. “What?”

“Your other thing that you left us for. Last night.” Dean narrowed his eyes, and said Her name. “Was it something for her?”

Cas sighed. “If you are looking for me to tell you of our private conversations, Dean, it won’t work.”

“Why the hell not-“

���Because I won’t betray her confidence. Just as I wouldn’t betray yours about the bottle of her perfume that you keep in the bottom of your bag-“

Dean sat up. “How the hell do you know about that.”

“You asked me to grab you a gun, a few weeks ago. And I have eyes.”

“Well- I-“ Dean shook his head, leaning forward. “This is different, Cas. She might get herself hurt-“

“I will not let that happen.” Cas was looking at the fucking burger again. “Dean, I know how you are about your food, but-“

“Take it, man.” Dean sighed, pushing the plate forward. “I’ll get another one for the road or something.”

Cas nodded, grabbing the burger a lot faster than Dean expected, and he frowned. 

“I thought you didn’t need to eat-“

“I don’t. I’m trying new things.”

That didn’t make a whole lot of sense.

Wasn’t enough time to push it.

“Well, if it’s a cupid, how are we gonna find it-“

“You won’t have to find it.” Cas shrugged, frowning around the diner. “This city is a high priority location for cherubim-“

“Cherubim-“

“Cupids. They are low level angels. Not a threat, though.” Cas nodded slowly, and it mostly seemed to be to himself. “I will find it and deal with it easily.”

Dean frowned. “Then what the hell am I here for-“

“The bet.”

“Ah. Right. The bet.” He let out a slow breath, turning over his fork on the table. “If cupids are angels, do you think this is a rebellion situation? Lucifer flips one of them, diapered douchebag goes around ganking anyone he can?”

“Cupids don’t wear diapers.” Cas took another bite of the burger. “They’re naked.”

“Course they are.” Dean muttered. “Awesome.” 

Cas nodded, speaking through a mouthful. “And I am not sure of this one’s motivations. There is no reason for Lucifer to want a cherubim. Human love would not be… of his interest.”

“So you’ve got nothing.” Dean said flatly. “No motive, no theory, no explanation for why this might be happening.”

Cas shook his head, his mouth still stuffed with his burger, and Dean sighed. 

“Dude, we’re going to fucking lose this bet.”

And Cas kept saying they wouldn’t. Dean got his second burger—Cas ordered his own as well, and they were good burgers, but not that good—before they left, and whenever Dean muttered that it would probably be better for them to be helping Her and Sammy, Cas shook his head and said it’s a Cupid. Only they make those marks.

But it wasn’t a fucking cupid. 

Cas summoned the damn thing, and it crushed their freaking bones with hug, then started sobbing about how it would never do that. 

“Are cupids good actors?” Dean muttered in Cas’ ear, and Cas sighed. 

“No. They’re not.”

“So you lost-“

“Apparently, yes. Congratulations on your cat, Dean.”

Dean scowled—there needed to be a way to talk Her out of that—as Cas moved forward to comfort the sobbing cupid.

There was something off about this whole thing. There was a case here—people didn’t just eat each other—but if it wasn’t the cupid, Dean didn’t have a goddamn clue what it was. And She still hadn’t said how she actually found the lead, or given any alternate theories, and this cupid was sobbing, but both the vics had been marked with that meat or mate thing-

“Wow.” The cupid gasped, still hugging a very rigid Cas and staring at Dean, and he blink. “I’ve never seen anything like you.”

“Anything like-“ Dean pointed to himself. “Like me?”

The cupid nodded, and before Dean could open his mouth, the guy was naked and right in front of him. Poking him. His chest and face and arms and-

“Cas.” He grunted, his tensed with the effort not to throw a punch. “What the fuck is this.”

“I am not sure. Brother,” Cas caught the cupid’s hand, and it gave him an almost innocent expression. “I cannot recommend poking Dean Winchester-“

“I know, I’m sorry, it’s-“ The cupid took its other hand, and fucking poked him again. “Can you not see it? The bond in him?”

“The bond?!” Dean looked back to Cas. “What bond? I- Is there something in me-“

“There is nothing in you.” Cas sighed, and the cupid shook his head. 

“But- Look at that! He’d so shiny, and I- I’ve never seen such intricate work, and it’s not even angel made-“

“It?” No punching. He wasn’t allowed to punch. “What is it? I- Cas-“

“You have a connection.” The cupid whispers, his eyes wide on Dean’s. “It is the purest love I have ever seen. It’s-“ The cupid grabbed Dean’s face between his hands. “It is beautiful, Dean Winchester. Your love.”

Dean was frozen. 

His- He- That wasn’t- 

Cas muttered Her name, slowly pulling the cupid away. “He’s seeing her. Cupids are more attuned to souls than the average angel. They can see the webs you weave for each other-“ 

“Webs?” Dean blinked, and his voice was hoarse. “Cas, I- What-“

“Human souls are the most complex in creation.” The cupid offered eagerly. “They are all made of other people’s souls, too! You have your soul, then little bits of all the souls that have affected you the most! And as a cupid, my job is to take my arrow and weave certain souls together, but you- Your love-“ The cupid tested out Her name slowly, and Dean was going break his own hand. “You love her so much-“

“Cas.” Dean felt like something was pressing on his chest. “We’re done, right.”

Cas nodded, and that was all Dean had needed to say. There was a whoosh and then both the angel were gone. 

And it wasn’t pure. 

Dean wasn’t pure. He was made of mud and guts, and the was a shadow, not some shining prince in a fairytale. He killed things for a living, he lied and cheated and stole, he was barely better than the fucking monsters he chopped the heads off of and burned like it was a sick fucking sport. At least they hadn’t gotten a choice. They’d just had shit luck, a bad draw of species, born evil and wrong without a say in the matter. Dean had made that demon deal. He’d picked up that blade in Hell. He’d failed to keep Sammy off the demon blood, and he’d just let those Hell’s assassins keep a gun to his head while Anna killed Jo. 

And he’d held Her, after. And waited for Her. 

But that was because it was a law of fucking nature. She needed to be good. If She wasn’t good, nothing was good. She was warmer than the mud Dean came from, and stronger than the oceans he’d drown in, if She asked him to. More vital than the air he was taking in shallow gasps. Brighter than holy fire. 

And Dean still thought about fucking Her. About getting on his knees until Her legs were shaking, or stuffing Her mouth with his cock until She was moaning around him. That wasn’t pure. 

She was ethereal, and brilliant, and made of damn stardust or something, but Dean had always known he’d only turn that into something bloodied. 

He hadn’t. 

He tended to Her. Been careful. Waited. 

But- The cupid- It-

Dean’s phone rang, buzzing in his pocket and ripping through the air, and-

It was Her.

He picked up in half a heartbeat.

“Hey, Princess, what’s-“

“It’s not a cupid.” Her words were frantic, and Dean could hear how She was running out of breath, and Dean’s grip tightened on his phone. “Dean, it’s not a cupid, you have to tell Cas and come back right now, I- I need you-“

Fuck. “I’ll grab him, sweetheart, but- I need you to slow down and tell me exactly what’s happening-“

“Sam.” She whispered, and Dean’s blood went cold. “Fuck, Dean, he’s- We were looking at the morgue and I turned around for a second, but he was gone. And he’d been acting weird, and I’d seen that there was demon, but-“

Dean muttered Her name, and there was a muffled bang from the other side of the line. “What-“

“He took a hit of demon blood.” Her voice was so fucking soft. “I- I knocked him out. And dragged him back to the motel. He’s tied up. But I- I don’t know what to do-“

She didn’t have to know what to do. 

That’s what Dean was for. 

“I’ll be there in ten.” He muttered, already walking out to the Impala. “Keep him tied up, and don’t answer the door for anyone but me. We’ll deal with it.”

“Oh- Okay.” Dean heard Her shaking breath. “I- I’m sorry-“

“Don’t.” He grunted. The engine wouldn’t start fast enough. “You did good, Princess.”

“I hit him with a hospital poop pan.”

“And he’ll thank you when he’s up.”

She sighed, mumbled an agreement, and Dean forced himself to let Her hang up. It might be better to keep Her on the line. Just in case She thought of doing something reckless-

“Dean.” Cas appeared in the passenger’s seat, and the engine started. 

“Thank Christ,” Dean muttered. “Cas, we gotta go-“

Dean said Her name, and Cas cut him off with a shake of his head. “I don’t think it’s wise for you to be near her, Dean. Not right now.”

“Cas-“

“I have a working theory.” Cas said, his words slow. “And it may be dangerous-“

“I don’t care.”

“Dean-“

“No, Cas. I don’t give shit what’s doing this. We’ll work on the case after. My girl calls me, I go.” Dean pulled onto the street with a scowl. Speed limits were suggestions anyway. “That’s it.”

Cas made the smart choice. He shut the hell up, and let Dean drive. 

She was sitting on the edge of the bed, crossed legged and curled into herself, eyes a little red as She stared at Sammy across the room. There was blood dried on Her lower lip, and it was swollen from chewing. Blood on Her nails as well. 

Sam was tied to the chair, his face still a little stained with demon blood, and bowing his head. 

That was good. If Sam wasn’t fighting it, all they’d have to do is wait for the detox. 

So Dean walked right over to Her. 

There was nowhere else to go. 

His arms wrapped around Her shoulders, Her face buried in his stomach as she held him back, and they stayed like that until Cas cleared his throat and muttered Her name. 

“You have connected it?”

“Yeah.” She sighed, and Dean stepped off to the side so She didn’t have to lean around him. “Meat. Mate. It’s hunger.” Dean frowned. “Hunger?”

“Famine.”

Cas nodded in agreement, and shot Dean an odd look. “I asked the cupid if it’s seen other cases like that. It said it had heard rumors, of pairings gone wrong. And lust is the most… potent of the sins-“

“So he’s been tailing after cupids.” She muttered, pushing to Her feet. “Sirens too. Found a few cases scattered across the country, but they somehow got missed. They start in Maryland.”

“Ilchester?” Dean muttered, and She nodded. “Shit, that’s where Lucifer-“

“I know. It’s Famine.” She let out a slow breath. “Cas and I will deal with it.”

She started to walk to the door, and Dean barely registered the words fast enough to grab Her around the waist with a scowl.

“You and Cas are not dealing with it-“

“It would be the most effective.” Cas offered, very unhelpfully. “I may be affected by the desires of my vessel, but I can overcome that.“

“And they can’t do shit to us.” She said, holding Dean’s glare. “Famine eats souls. Cas has grace, and if he does try to touch me, I’ll blow him up.”

Dean scowled. “I’m not exactly falling apart either, sweetheart-“

“Dean.” She squeezed his hand three times, Her gaze so fucking soft. “Please.”

God fucking damnit. “Fine. But if you’re not back by sunrise, I’m launching a search that’ll make a manhunt look like a lost sock-“

“I know.” She wrapped Her arms back around Dean’s neck, Her face falling into his chest. “Thank you.”

Dean only grunted. “Call me if you-“

“I will.” She was going to choke him, with the way She was clinging to him. He didn’t really care. “I fucking hate California.”

Dean let out a dry chuckle. “So we’re not goin’ to the beach.”

“Maybe we can try an east coast beach.” She mumbled. “I’ve always wanted to go to cape cod.”

Dean had been to cape cod. Lot of box houses and gray sand and dune. No place for a walking, breathing star. 

But wherever She wanted to go, Dean would follow. Just like the goddamn shadow he was. 

And he wasn’t going to just be reduced to dog, pacing around the motel and looking at the door, waiting for Her to return.

That ended up being most of the afternoon, though. The TV played in the background, Dean and Sam ate in silence after the kid had mostly detoxed, and every time Dean glanced at his phone, there wasn’t a new call or message.

“Why aren’t you affected?” Sammy broke the silence around dusk, his voice a little gravely. “I mean, you’re like, the hungriest guy I know, Dean.”

“And I eat when I’m hungry.” He shrugged. “It’s not that complicated, Sammy.”

“Yeah, but, if lust is something that Famine can feed-“ Sam cut himself off with a shake of his head. “I mean, you haven’t gotten laid in a while-“

“I take care of myself.” Dean muttered, and didn’t fucking know why he wasn’t affected. He just wasn’t. And he wasn’t a soul scientist or something-

The cupid. It could see him. It had said his- That it was pure-

“Maybe it’s- I mean, you do eat, and I’ve, uh-“ Sam cleared his throat, and Dean really needed him to just drop it. “Heard you-“

“Sam-“

“You’re loud, dude. It’s sort of a miracle that-“ Sam said Her name, then froze. “Holy shit. You should be like, all over her.”

“Sam.” Dean’s voice was almost a bark. He couldn’t find it in himself to be sorry about it. “I’m not affected. That’s it.“

“No, it’s not. You- Dean, even if we ignore feelings, you at least want her physically-“

“I-“

“And denying that isn’t going to do you any favors right now, so-“

“I’m not denying it.” Dean pushed the words through his teeth, holding Sam’s gaze with a scowl, and Sam blinked. 

“You’re… not?”

“No. I’m not.” Dean was going to snap a few teeth. “You win, Sammy. I want her. I think about her all the time. I dream about her. She’s my whole, stupid world, and I can’t live without her, and I-“ He choked on the last words. Pure. “I know that I want her. But it’s complicated. And yeah, I’ve been thinking about fucking her, but I’m not feeling whatever the hell hit you and Cas, so I’m fine.”

The room was silent for long. Too long. Dean shouldn’t have fucking said that. He’d let a lot of Sam’s teasing about it slide, over the years, but this- She was holy. Sacred. And Dean couldn’t let the fact that he had feelings taint that, or let Sam ruin the very thin line he’s been walking for damn near nine years-

“Dean.” Sam’s voice was barely a rasp. “Oh my god, dude. It’s-“

“Don’t-“

“I knew.” Sam said quickly, and Dean frowned. “I mean, I’ve known. Everyone’s known. But I- I didn’t know.”

Dean stared at him. “Man, if you keep talking in riddles-“

“How long have you felt, uh- That? About her?”

“Yeah, no, I’m not showing you my fucking diary-“

“Dean.“ Sam sighed “I’m trying to help. Just tell me.”

It took a second to say it. This conversation fucking sucked. “Long as I can remember.”.

“As long as- You mean-“

“Yeah.”

“Oh. I- Do I need to say it?”

Dean let out a long breath, and shook his head. He understood. And Sam, to his credit, finally shut up. The detox wrapped up with Sam knocked out—his hands still tied together, and one leg to the bedpost for safety—and Dean just… 

Waited. 

For Her to come home. 

He sat on the couch and stared at the door, and he was fucking pathetic. Dad would have shot him, if he could see Dean now. Would’ve yelled at him about lettin’ the lyin’ little girl boss him around.

All Dean would’ve had to say in his defense was that he liked Her bossing him around. She looked hot while She did it, and She knew what she was talking about all the damn time. And She wasn’t a liar. Not about the stuff Dad thought. She was just bright and consuming and amazing, and Dean knew when She was lying anyway, so it didn’t really matter. 

Dad would’ve then snapped that Dean wasn’t being a man, havin’ Her do all the work. Sittin’ around on his ass like a bitch.

And Dean wasn’t sure what Dad had thought being a man was.

But to him, it felt a lot like when the door opened, She walked through without a single drop of blood on Her body but a heavy look of Her face, and Dean was the first place She went. 

Before the bed. Before Her shoes were off, before Cas was even in the door. 

She went to Dean. Folded into him, with Her arms back around his neck and their bodies slotted perfectly together, letting Cas take the lead as She just stayed in Dean’s arms. 

“Famine’s ring.” Cas muttered, holding it up for a second before dropping it on the table, and Dean nodded. 

“Did, uh-“ He glanced down to Her, and Cas understood.

“It was a clean cut. I stayed outside, she got him with her blade. Is Sam-“

“He’s feeling better.” Dean muttered. “How about you, man. Still craving burgers?”

“No. It passed.” Cas paused. “Dean, I believe we should discuss how you-“

“No. We shouldn’t.”

“Dean-“

“I know.” Dean muttered, his gaze flicking down to Her. 

She was passed out. Warm against him. So fucking beautiful, even with Her hair knotted from the hunt and a little drool already falling from Her lips. 

And Dean knew.

He knew when Cas nodded, and muttered that he had those other things to take care of, but to call if they needed him. He knew when he carried Her to bed, and She let out a soft, sweet sigh. He knew when She curled closer to his body, and Her hand moved into his like a magnet.

He’d felt it forever.

But he only knew now. 

Pure. 

It wasn’t pure. It was just big. Consuming. Easy to get lost in without ever needing a way out. Safe to be trapped in because he’d never want to be anywhere else. It was every single star, and all the planets Sammy used to love telling him about. The deepest parts of every ocean where light didn’t touch, so She’d told him that the fish made their own. The first time Dean had stepped into a church, and he’d felt so small, but wanted to be more. The loudest parts of all the songs he had memorized and all the words She knew that still would never be enough to properly say it. The whole universe, and then whatever was going to devour it in the end. 

Her. 

It was all Her. All the way down.

And it didn’t matter if She tried to rip herself apart again, or if She left a million more times. I didn’t matter if She came back and fell into his arms, or tried to take a bite out of him. If She screamed and cursed his name, or let him hold Her until the pit in his body was only light.

It didn’t matter that the world was ending. Or that She was being hunted by angels, or had raised Death, or had Lucifer making Her friendship bracelets. It didn’t matter that Dean might have to play puppet for an archangel, if he didn’t get killed in the process.

It didn’t matter that it was complicated, because it wasn’t. Everything else sure as shit was, but this wasn’t. 

Dean loved Her. 

And that was all the way down, too. 

End Note: John Winchester turning in his grave right now. Good. I hope he explodes when they fuck.

I'm back!!! Thank you guys so much for waiting the two weeks! I posted a few bonus chapters in the pslams while I was on vacation, so check those out if you want to.

Thank you so so so much for reading!! If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3

Buy me a coffee!☕️

Taglist (If you want to be added, please fill out the form!)

@brtodd @artemys-ackles @sthefferrete @lyarr24 @deansbbyx @bakugotypecrashout @kittycain @foolinthera1n @globetrotter28 @lordofthunderthr

@youdontknowe @nyrtopia @zuberweirrd @iloveeveryoneyoureamazing @panicking-outside-the-disco

@ambiguous-avery @elle14-blog1 @impala67rollingthroughtown @dumb--blonde @heyimolive

@itsdearapril @speedypersonawhispers @apobangpo-0613 @alwaystiredandconfused @kamisobsessed

@arcticwisteria @youroldfashioned @generalmoonpolice @foxyjwls007 @jackles010378 @godhelpthisbtch @ilovedeanwinchester4 @wecangetlostinthepurplerain @sleepykittycx

@immastealurkneecaps @star-yawnznn @maddie0101 @chi-raz @lori19

@wynnthewynnderful @redwinexsupernova @tiana-kh @woaheasytig3r @canibeyourghoulfriend @lovelywebber @salemslostwitch @winchester-whiskey @and-i-wish @ghosth0ney @funkenniffler