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cheftsunoda · 1 day ago

Text

novacane — ln4

lando norris x !model reader

smau + blurbs

in which lando and yn, worn thin by fame, pressure, and the weight of always being watched, find comfort in all the wrong places — drowning their loneliness in drugs, sex, and each other's broken promises.

fc : cindy kimberly

(a/n) : no one answered if they wanted this or not so now im forcing it on everyone. sorry if you hate it:( this is based off the song “novacane” by frank ocean so if you don’t know it— definitely recommend listening it it to understand.

❗obviously warnings of drug use, relationship toxicity, angst, minor smut and eating disorder ❗

and i gave you angels a happy ending - ywwww

—

yn_ln

liked by lando, alexandrasaintmleux, carlossainz55 & 5,515,007 others.

yn_ln : don’t let the high go to waste

—

view 225,090 other comments.

username000 : oh great she’s with lando AGAIN.

↳ username00 : what’s the problem with her?? i thought they were together

↳ username000 : no they aren’t confirmed together. THANK GOD. she is just a horrible influence for him to be around.

↳ username1 : you do realize lando is a fully grown adult and the people he chooses to be around and what he does is completely on him, right?

↳ username000 : well yeah but i do not think being around her helps his mindset any. he’s changed.

↳ username1 : maybe has had changed from the pressure and stress. maybe he is just tired. leave them both alone.

alexandrasaintmleux : so pretty angel. hope to see your face again soon!

liked by yourusername

↳ yourusername : mwah mwah

carlossainz55 : ….no comment 😳

liked by yourusername and lando

bellahadid : mother 🧎‍♀️

liked by yourusername

↳ yourusername : my poooooookie

danielricciardo : he better have that hickey covered on media day🤣

liked by yourusername and lando

↳ username7 : nooooo so it is lando again.

charles_leclerc : mon dieu.

liked by yourusername and lando

alex_albon : i am respectfully not looking. (i looked)

liked by yourusername and lando

↳ lilymhe : its okay. i did too.

username11 : lando is ruining his reputation for this woman. honestly, i kind of understand.

lando : always high on you.

liked by yourusername

—

flashback

You still remember the way the air felt that night — thick with smoke, perfume, and the kind of heat that clung to your skin long after you’d left the club. It had been Fashion Week in Milan, and you were already four shows deep into a sleepless spiral of afterparties, interviews, and eyes that didn’t see you so much as consume you. You were tired. Exhausted in the kind of way no sleep could fix. And then there he was. Lando Norris — crooked smile, familiar face, eyes like they knew you. Not knew your name. Knew you. And you hated how much that made you pause. You met him at some rooftop club that blurred together with all the rest — flashing lights, empty champagne flutes, and hands that touched too long without meaning anything. He wasn’t supposed to be there, not really. Off-season or something like that. But maybe he needed the distraction just as badly as you did.

He bought you a drink. You made a sarcastic comment about hating tequila and drank it anyway. You talked. You laughed. And then somewhere between his fourth glass and your second lie about being fine, things stopped being surface level. You caught him staring at you like he was trying to read between the cracks. So you let him see them. Or maybe you didn’t have the strength to hide them anymore.

“I don’t think I’m built for all this,” you admitted in a half whisper, legs crossed tightly in the corner of a velvet booth, mascara smudged like war paint.

He didn’t say anything. Just took a slow sip of his drink and replied, “Yeah. Me neither.”

It wasn’t flirtation after that. It was something heavier. Messier. The kind of pull that only two broken people feel when they recognize themselves in someone else’s ruin. Back at your hotel room, things unfolded like instinct. You were both too numb and too desperate to question it. The clothes came off easy. The masks came off harder.

His lips trailed your collarbone. Your hands tangled in his curls. The pressure in your stomach growing with every thrust and then after— the air changed. You were sitting on the bed, his hoodie slipping off your shoulder, and you reached for the little orange bottle you never traveled without. He watched you pop the pill with a swig of warm, flat water from the bedside table.

You caught his stare and raised an eyebrow. “Want one?”

He hesitated. Just long enough for you to know he was still trying to be the good guy, even now. Then he took it from your hand and held your gaze like a dare. You watched him swallow it dry. He turned and leaned back into you— closing the gap between the two of you again. You sat until he began to feel that warm and fuzzy feeling you had grown accustomed to but was still brand new for him.

“What even was that?” he asked, voice low and frayed at the edges. You smiled, tired and crooked. The kind of smile that says this is survival, not seduction.

“Don’t let the high go to waste,” you murmured, echoing the line like a mantra you wished wasn’t true.

He didn’t ask again. You laid back. He followed. That night wasn’t about falling in love. It wasn’t even about comfort. It was about not feeling like shit for five fucking minutes. It was about losing yourselves in each other’s broken parts and calling it relief. It was about two people too hollow to hold anything real — and still clinging to each other like it might fix something anyway. You didn’t know it then, but that would be the first of many nights like that. And the last time anything between you felt accidental.

—

present day…

f1gossipgirls

2,517,001 likes.

f1gossipgirls : F1’s wild child & fashion’s favorite disaster leaving Miami’s dirtiest rooftop club at 4:27AM. Looks like Lando Norris and YN, international model, are taking their rumored situationship coast to coast. The pair were seen stumbling out of RITUAL, the kind of place where the floors are sticky and the bathrooms are sacred. Sources claim Lando looked “glassy-eyed but smiling,” while YN was seen reapplying her lipstick in the back of a black SUV. Oh, and did we mention her heels were in his hand? Eyewitnesses say the duo “couldn’t keep their hands off each other,” and at least one club staffer swears they both entered the same VIP room together. But who needs sleep when your only job is being young, rich, and reckless? We’re not saying they’re the new Bonnie and Clyde, but we are saying someone’s PR team is sweating.

—

view 175,002 other comments.

username00 : the fact that he is doing this when he will be racing in 36 hours is…interesting to say the least.

username0 : someone check on zak brown. mans is probably pacing.

username1 : why are we romanticizing this behavior? they both clearly have a lot of problems that need fixed.

username5 : he is supposed to be a professional athlete. not snorting something suspicious in a club at 3 am. LANDO WAKE TF UP.

username7 : never ever expected this phase in lando’s career but here we are.

username10 : y’all will continue to blame her like he isn’t grown and can’t make his own decisions. like bruh

—

You and Lando always fell into some sort of cycle. Not love. Not quite addiction either — though it came close. Something in between. Something quieter but heavier. A pattern with soft edges and sharp consequences. It started the way it always did — too loud, too fast, too much.

Miami’s air was humid with desperation that weekend — people screaming your name, cameras flashing like seizures, bodies grinding in tempo with the bass. He met your eyes from across the club and that was all it took. You didn’t even smile. Just nodded once, like yeah. it’s time again.You’d both lost something before you even walked in. The music was pounding, the drinks were bottomless, the lines were generous — and by the time he had his hand on the small of your back, you couldn’t tell if your heart was racing from the substance or from him. He leaned down to murmur something into your ear — something stupid and sweet, something that made you laugh even though nothing about the night was funny. And then you pulled out the little bag. Same one you always had. He watched. He never stopped you, not really.

“You sure?” he asked like a formality.

You nodded like muscle memory. He followed. In the bathroom of some overpriced rooftop bar, you did it off the back of your hand while he stood behind you like a shadow, warm and steady and crumbling all at once. His knuckles brushed yours when he took his turn, eyes blown wide and tired even in the mirror’s hazy glow. And somehow, not long after, you ended up tangled together in your hotel bed — hot skin, whispered curses, need disguised as recklessness. It wasn’t sweet. It never was. It was desperate. The kind of touch that only feels good because it silences the scream in your head for a moment. The kind that makes you feel something when you’re numb everywhere else.

But later — after — when your heartbeat finally slowed and your thoughts started catching up, you climbed off the bed and walked to the bathroom without saying a word. You didn’t bother turning on the light. Just stepped under the cold stream of the shower and let yourself cry. Quiet at first. Then harder. Your mascara ran down the drain like ink in water. Your shoulders shook like you were trying to hold your bones together. You didn’t expect him to follow. But he did. Lando opened the door without knocking. Stepped into the shower fully clothed. Didn’t say anything — didn’t need to. He just wrapped his arms around you from behind and held you while the water soaked through his shirt and you sobbed into his chest like a child.

He didn’t tell you to stop. He didn’t ask what was wrong. He knew. He was wrong too. You stood like that for a long time. Just water. Skin. Silence. And the ache of being seen by someone who’s just as hollow.

The morning after always hurt worse. The sunlight hit too hard. The hangover hit harder. And then the notifications. Tabloids. Photos. Headlines about the two of you looking “high and handsy” at 4:27 AM. His team texted. Yours called. And all you could do was sit at the edge of the bed in one of his T-shirts and stare at the phone while Lando paced and swore under his breath. It always happened like this. The comedown. The regret. The beginning of the withdrawal. He left around 10AM, hoodie pulled low, sunglasses on, mumbling something about sorting it with his PR team. You didn’t ask him to stay. You never did.

Because you knew how it went. He’d vanish. Ignore your texts. You’d see him on someone else’s story a few days later. Like none of it mattered. But he always came back. Usually around 2AM. Usually with a knock and no words. Usually when your mascara was already running and your hands were already shaking. It wasn’t love. It was a cycle. And God help you, but part of you needed it.

—

But he tries to stop. For real, this time. After the Miami fallout, after his PR team threatens to pull endorsement deals and Zak himself tells him to “get your shit together or get out” — Lando goes quiet. You don’t hear from him for days. No 2AM texts. No half assed apologies. No hotel room knocks. Not even a story view. Silence.

You assume he’s doing what they all do eventually — detaching. Saving himself. Finding some version of clean that doesn’t include you. You’re used to it. You pretend not to check your phone anyway.

Meanwhile, he’s trying. He really is. He wakes up early. Doesn’t drink. Doesn’t go out. He trains. Eats clean. Answers his calls. He ignores the aching pull in his chest when he sees your name light up his phone — unread messages stacked like shame. But it doesn’t help. None of it helps. Because when the world is quiet — when the race ends and the cameras go dark — he’s left alone with himself. And he can’t stand himself.

He thinks about the way your laugh sounds muffled against his chest. The way your eyeliner always smudges when you cry in the shower. The way you looked at him that night, like you were waiting for him to tell you it was okay to fall apart. And he wants it back. Not because it’s good. Not because it’s healthy. Because it’s something.

The truth is — the high didn’t just numb the pain. It muted the voice in his head that told him he wasn’t enough. That he was wasting his life. That none of it — the podiums, the parties, the press tours — felt real anymore. Being numb was awful. But being awake? That’s unbearable.

He sits in his hotel room one night, a few cities away, staring at the white walls, the untouched food, the silence thick enough to suffocate. He’s alone. And it hits him like it always does — slow at first, then all at once. The ache. The craving. The need to not feel anything. He grabs the bottle. He doesn’t even think. Washes one pill down with cold champagne. Calls your number. You answer on the first ring, like you knew this moment would come. Like you were waiting for it. No words. Just breathing.

And when he shows up at your door an hour later, eyes heavy, hands shaking, hoodie clinging to his skin like regret — you don’t ask what changed his mind. Because nothing did. The truth is, he never wanted to stop. He just wanted to believe he could. Because numbness is easier. And you… you numb the pain. I guess you’re novacane.

—

f1gossipgirls

2,709,112 likes.

f1gossipgirls : Well— it seems Lando Norris and YN LN are back at it again after weeks of distance. The two were seen coming and going from each other’s apartments more than 3 times this week.

—

It started slowly. Like most things do. First, it was just a headline. Some blurry pap photo of you walking out of a café in Milan, cropped in all the wrong ways. The caption read—

“Is YN Letting Herself Go?”

And that was all it took. It wasn’t true. You were exhausted, not careless. Bloated from the long flight, hungover from bad decisions and worse wine, caught mid-step with your shirt rumpled and sunglasses sliding down your nose. You hadn’t even known the cameras were there. But they were always there.

Then came the panel show segment. Some middle-aged man with a smug smile and zero credentials saying, “She’s still stunning, obviously, but you can tell the partying’s catching up to her.”

And it spiraled. Your agent texted you later that night — “No more pasta. Milan is watching.”

That’s when you stopped eating. At first it was a conscious decision. Strategic. If they wanted skinny, you’d give them starved. If they wanted hollow cheekbones and razorblade hip bones, you’d serve it on a silver fucking platter. You skipped meals and smiled through shoots. Faked fullness and learned which lies photographers never questioned. But it wasn’t long before you stopped choosing. The hunger became control. And then the control became a high. One you didn’t need to snort or swallow. And Lando noticed. He always did.

It hit him too, differently. Sharper. Publicly.

He couldn’t win a race without the press tearing him apart. Couldn’t crash out without being called immature. Couldn’t smile in an interview without being accused of not taking the sport seriously — and couldn’t look serious without them calling him cold.

“You’re not focused,” they’d said. “You’re wasting your seat.”

Every race weekend became a war. With his car. With the media. With himself.

And in between the races? Endless hotel rooms. Fake friends. Paparazzi flashes that made him feel like prey. Fans who loved the version of him that didn’t exist anymore. Who worshipped the myth and ignored the man.

He started sleeping in his hoodie with the hood pulled tight, even indoors. Started rubbing the back of his neck until it was red and raw. Couldn’t eat before practice. Couldn’t sleep after qualifying. Couldn’t breathe when it all got too loud.

You found each other in that silence.

It was after some gala you were both dragged to. You were wearing a backless dress that made your vision go blurry when you stood too long. He was in a tux he hadn’t wanted to wear, tie loosened, jaw clenched. You ended up in your hotel room again. Of course you did. But this time, there was no rush. No drugs. No sex. Just… collapse. You sat on the edge of the bed, toes pressing into the carpet, trying not to cry. Your stomach was eating itself, but you couldn’t remember the last time food didn’t feel like failure. He stood by the window, staring out like he was somewhere else entirely. Finally, you spoke.

“They said I looked fat in that dress,” you whispered.

He turned, slowly. Eyes dim. Like he’d been waiting for your voice to break.

“They say I don’t deserve my seat,” he answered.

You looked up at him, tears lining your lashes, voice small.

“I feel like I’m disappearing.”

And he just nodded.

“Same.”

That’s when he walked over. Sat behind you. Wrapped his arms around your waist — too gently. Like he was afraid you’d break. You leaned back into him, your spine pressing against his chest, and for a moment, you both just breathed. No masks. No captions. No noise.

You felt his lips ghost over your shoulder as he whispered, “They only want us when we’re shining. Not when we’re bleeding.”

And you replied, voice hollow but sure—

“Then let them choke.”

You stayed like that for hours. No high. No distractions. Just the quiet devastation of two people being honest. You held his hand like a lifeline. He kissed your temple like a prayer. That night, you didn’t sleep with each other. You just slept. And for the first time in weeks, that was enough.

—

f1gossipgirls

2,101,001 likes.

f1gossipgirls : YN LN in the paddock this weekend — and all eyes were on her. Rumors continue to swirl about her relationship with McLaren driver Lando Norris, and her surprise appearance in the garage only added fuel to the fire. According to insiders, YN was nothing short of lovely — chatting with fans, posing for photos, and offering a few smiles that made it hard not to root for her. As for Lando? Let’s just say the chemistry between the two didn’t go unnoticed.

—

The nights are quieter now. Not silent — you both still wake up sweating, heart racing, hands reaching for something that isn’t there anymore — but quieter. Softer. You’re trying. So is he.

After the last fallout, the withdrawal that left you shaking and sobbing in different cities, you made a pact — no pills, no blow, no hotel room disasters. Just water. Sleep. Presence. Even if presence meant staring blankly at a wall together in shared misery, at least you were there. You still have the urge sometimes. The craving. The itch in your skin when everything gets too loud, too fast. But you text him instead of reaching for a bottle. And he answers. Always.

He’s been better. Not perfect. Not by a long shot. But better. He’s eating again. Sleeping more. Actually showing up to meetings. The anger in his voice has dulled — not gone, just folded into something quieter, sadder, but realer.

When he texts you that week —

Come to the race. I need you here.

You almost cry. Because he never used to ask.

You fly in Friday, lowkey and quiet. No paparazzi. No chaos. He picks you up in a hoodie and worn out trainers, the circles under his eyes more honest than any headline.

He doesn’t say much in the car. Just rests his hand on your thigh at a red light and squeezes, like he’s checking to see if you’re real.

You’re staying with him that weekend. The bed is cold. No sex. Just tangled limbs and half whispered memories of nights you barely remember. You fall asleep to the sound of his breathing and wonder when that started being enough.

Race day comes fast. The paddock is buzzing — too bright, too loud. But he wants you there, so you come. You slip on the pass he gave you, the oversized McLaren jacket, your sunglasses. You keep your head down.

He finds you before the driver’s parade. You’re by the back of the garage, sipping water, watching the chaos unfold.

“You good?” he asks, voice low and warm.

You nod. “Are you?”

He shrugs. “Getting there.”

And then, “I’m glad you came.”

And then, “I don’t know if I would’ve made it through this week if you didn’t.”

You don’t say anything. Just slide your fingers between his and squeeze. A photographer snaps a shot you’ll both pretend not to notice.

During the race, you watch from the garage. Nails biting into your palm, eyes on every sector, every lap. You cheer when he overtakes. Your heart climbs into your throat when he locks up slightly at Turn 10. The crew gives you a nod when he comes in for a clean stop. You feel everything. And for once, you let yourself. When he crosses the line — P4 — it’s not a podium, but it’s a finish. A damn good one. You exhale like you’ve been holding your breath for years.

He finds you after media. Helmet hair, race suit half unzipped, skin flushed from adrenaline and exhaustion. And when he sees you — really sees you — his face cracks open in a way the cameras never catch. No jokes. No press smiles. Just rawness. He pulls you into a hug so tight your ribs ache.

And into your hair, he whispers,

“We did it.”

You nod against his chest, eyes stinging.

“Yeah. We did.”

—

It had been weeks since the race. Weeks since you and Lando swore you’d keep going — clean, sober, together. Weeks of morning check-ins and long, quiet nights. Weeks of avoiding temptation like it lived under your skin.

And it was working. Sort of.

You were tired, but functional. Lando was focused, if a little hollow. You were making it through each day with aching effort and brittle hope. You had even started eating small things again — a banana here, some soup there. Just enough to keep the dizziness at bay. Just enough to convince your manager you were “getting better.”

But the truth was… you weren’t.

The modeling world doesn’t care about “recovery.” It cares about bones and collarbones. It cares about angles and sample sizes. And you were trying — but your body was done trying for you. You were mid-way through a shoot in Paris when everything went sideways.

You didn’t feel the moment coming. One minute you were standing in front of the lights, makeup perfect, spine held straight by willpower and spite. The next, your vision was tunneling and the floor was rushing toward you. You hit the concrete hard.

Cameras flashed. Stylists screamed. Someone dropped their iced coffee and gasped like that was the real tragedy. The medics came. The studio was cleared. Your phone was unlocked by someone who barely knew your last name. They called Lando.

He got the call just after FP2. His race suit was still clinging to him, hair damp, body sore — but none of that registered when he saw your name flash across his screen. It wasn’t your voice. It was someone from the agency.

Words like “collapsed,” “dehydrated,” “not responsive.”

He didn’t hear the rest. He stumbled back into the McLaren motorhome like he’d been hit in the chest. Pushed past press officers. Ignored his engineer. Locked himself in the bathroom and stared at his reflection like it might offer a reason not to fall apart.

You passed out. You weren't eating. He should’ve seen it coming. He wanted to get on the next plane to Paris. But the race was in less than 48 hours. And they wouldn’t let him leave. So instead, he relapsed.

It was slow, stupid. A numbing kind of panic that led to desperate movement. He found the old bottle buried deep in his travel bag. He stared at it for almost an hour. He texted you. No answer. Called again. Straight to voicemail. And the fear twisted into something uglier than grief — helplessness. He cracked the seal. Took two.

When your eyes fluttered open hours later in a sterile white hospital room, the first thing you saw was the IV. The second was your manager pacing outside the door. The third was Lando’s name — 10 missed calls. You could barely lift your head, but you reached for your phone anyway.

And when you saw his last message, your heart cracked open.

If you die, I’ll go with you. I can’t do this without you.

And beneath it, another message, sent hours later-

“I’m sorry. I slipped. I just… I didn’t know if you’d wake up.”

You cried. Because it should’ve been you holding him through the relapse. Because he had been trying so hard. Because this wasn’t recovery, it was survival. And even survival was slipping.

Somewhere, hundreds of miles away, Lando sat on the edge of a pristine hotel bed with his head in his hands, high out of his mind and sobbing. He didn’t want the high. He just wanted the noise to stop. He just wanted you to be okay. He didn’t feel better. Not even numb. Just empty. And it was then — in the silence between his shallow breaths — that he realized…the cycle wasn’t broken. It had just gotten quieter.

—

You wake up to the sound of the door creaking open. It’s been two days since the collapse. Two days of IV drips, quiet nurses, and a blurred timeline of stern lectures and shallow breathing. You’re better, technically. Awake. Alive. But not okay.

The room is pale and too still. It smells like antiseptic and synthetic lavender. The flowers on the windowsill weren’t yours — someone dropped them off this morning, anonymous and beautiful. And then he walks in. Lando.

He’s wearing the hoodie you stole from his Monaco apartment last winter — oversized and threadbare — and he looks like shit. Eyes puffy. Lips dry. He doesn’t have the energy to pretend this isn’t the worst version of both of you. You sit up slowly, instinctively tucking your knees under the blanket like shame can be hidden that easily.

“Hi,” you manage.

He closes the door behind him but doesn’t move closer. Just stares at you like he’s trying to memorize your face in case it disappears again.

“You didn’t answer my calls.”

You swallow. “I couldn’t. I… didn’t want to say anything until I knew I was okay.”

“You weren’t okay,” he snaps. “You aren’t okay. You passed out, YN.”

The silence is brutal.

“You said you were eating again,” he adds, voice cracking halfway through. “You lied to me.”

You look away, throat tight. “You relapsed too.”

He flinches. “Because I thought you were going to die.”

“You think I didn’t want to die?” you shoot back before you can stop yourself. “You think I fucking wanted to be here?”

His jaw clenches. He walks across the room, grabs the back of the chair beside your bed, but doesn’t sit.

“You’re not allowed to say that to me,” he mutters. “Not when you knew how close I was to breaking. Not when you promised—”

“I was breaking!” you yell. “Every time I looked in the mirror, all I saw was failure. Headlines telling me I was too fat, too messy, too washed-up at twenty-four. I couldn’t eat without hearing their voices in my head, Lando. I couldn’t fucking breathe.”

Tears slip down your cheeks. You don’t wipe them. He’s quiet for a beat. And then, in the smallest voice you’ve ever heard from him-

“And I couldn’t do any of it without you.”

You blink. “What?”

He steps closer. Slowly. Like he’s afraid of what’s about to come out of his own mouth.

“I used to think you were just the person I used to forget the worst parts of myself. The drugs. The sex. The late nights.” He breathes in. “But it’s not that anymore.”

You stare at him, heart in your throat.

“You’re not something I use to numb the pain,” he whispers. “You are the pain. And the comfort. And the chaos. And the only thing that’s made me feel fucking alive in months.”

His voice breaks. “I think I love you.”

The air is still. He finally sinks into the chair beside your bed, shoulders caving in like the confession took everything out of him. You don’t speak. Because you don’t know how to respond. Because some part of you always feared this moment — feared that the mess you made together might actually be real. That love might exist inside the cycle. That someone could look at you, hollowed and hurting, and still call it love. Lando doesn’t push you. He just stares at the floor, picking at the string of his sleeve.

“Say something,” he whispers finally.

But you can’t.

So you just reach out — trembling fingers brushing over his knuckles — and hold his hand like it’s the only thing keeping you tethered to the world. You don’t say I love you back. But you stay. And right now, that’s the loudest truth you have.

—

You don’t have your phone anymore.

Not really. It was taken at intake, handed over with your makeup bag and the clutch of anxiety meds you’d been hoarding in your luggage “just in case.” You gave it up with shaking hands and a hollow chest. Somewhere in the distance, your name still echoed across headlines. But in here, it didn’t matter.

This place is all beige walls and early mornings. You sleep in a twin bed with sheets that smell like lemon detergent, and you sit in group therapy circles with girls who look just like you — too perfect, too thin, too tired.

You talk. Not all the time. But enough. You talk about the emptiness. The perfectionism. The terrifying high of disappearing and the unbearable crash of still being here. You don’t say Lando’s name — not at first. But he haunts the edges of everything. His hoodie is still the only thing you wear to sleep.

Some nights, you cry. Some mornings, you scream. Some days, you just breathe. It’s more progress than you’ve made in years.

Lando’s world doesn’t stop — Formula 1 doesn’t pause for pain. So he keeps racing. But something’s changed in him too. He doesn’t go out after practice anymore. Doesn’t disappear between sessions. There are no new girls, no blurry club photos, no gossip-worthy moments. He’s… quiet. Focused. Haunted. His team notices. So does his therapist.

Yes, therapist. Zak insisted. After Miami. After the relapse. After the look in Lando’s eyes started resembling burnout instead of bravado. And, reluctantly, he agreed.

At first, he sat through the sessions in silence, arms crossed, jaw clenched. But then the woman — her name was Dana — asked him a question that made something snap.

“What would it mean to love someone who might not survive loving you back?”

He cried. For the first time in years. And then he started talking. About the pressure. The fame. The way winning felt empty now and losing felt like the end of the world. About the way you looked in the hospital bed, wrists thinner than the IV line, eyes so tired but still there — still trying.

He talks about the pills. The sex. The high that used to feel like relief and now feels like shame. And, quietly, he talks about love. Not like it’s a promise — more like a wound he can’t stop touching.

They send letters now. Not texts. Not emails. Actual pen and paper letters that get reviewed by staff and delivered like old secrets. He writes to you after every race. Sometimes just a few lines—

P6. You would’ve said the helmet looked cool today. I’m still sober. Still tired. But I’m trying. Miss you. — L

You sends him drawings, mostly. Little sketches of the view outside your window. Notes in the margins—

Today I ate an entire sandwich. It scared me. But I did it. You’d be proud.

I miss hearing your heartbeat when I couldn’t find mine. I’m not ready for “I love you,” but I’m not afraid of it anymore either.

Please keep trying. I’ll meet you there. Eventually.

We are healing. Separately. But not apart. Not really. You count the days until you can leave — not because you want to run, but because you want to live again. To feel again. To see him again, clear eyed and real and maybe finally whole. He keeps showing up to the track. To therapy. To life. And every time he gets back in the car, he whispers before lights out, like a ritual—

For her. For me. For us.

It’s not perfect. But for once — for the first time — it’s not a cycle. It’s a beginning.

—

The world looks different on the outside. Not brighter, not softer. Just… clearer. Like someone cleaned the glass between you and everything else.

You’re not fixed — everyone in treatment made sure you understood that. There’s no magic milestone, no final day that turns pain into peace. But you’ve reached a point where you’re not surviving despite the feelings anymore — you’re surviving with them. And that’s something.

You walk out of the center with a suitcase, a discharge folder, and a goodbye hug from the nurse who used to sit with you when you couldn’t sleep. You haven’t worn makeup in over a month. Your hair is tied back in a bun. You look… human. For the first time in ages. You don’t tell Lando you’re coming.

You’ve rewritten your “I love you” a hundred times in your head — not like a grand confession, but like a careful gift, one you’re not entirely sure he’s ready to open. Or if you are. But you book the flight anyway. One way. To Monaco.

He doesn’t expect the knock. It’s late — nearly midnight — and he’s in one of his hoodies, sitting on the couch, eyes half-shut from a week of racing and back to back therapy sessions. There’s a half written letter to you on the coffee table. He hasn’t mailed it yet. When he opens the door and sees you — real, standing there, smaller than he remembers but glowing in a way he’s never seen before — his breath just stops.

“Hi,” you whisper.

He blinks once, twice, like he’s afraid you’ll vanish.

And then he exhales. “You’re here.”

You nod. Your eyes are already glassy. “I’m okay.”

He pulls you in before he can say anything else — arms wrapping around you like instinct, like muscle memory, like home. You melt into him. You smell like clean cotton and plane air and a life that doesn’t hurt quite as much anymore.

“I missed you,” he mumbles into your hair.

“I missed you too,” you whisper. “So much.”

You sit on the couch in silence for a while. Not awkward — just sacred. You hold his hand and trace small shapes into the back of it like your fingers forgot how to stop missing him. Then you finally speak.

“I love you.”

His head snaps toward you, like he didn’t expect it.

You say it again. Slower. Truer.

“I love you, Lando.”

He doesn’t speak. His throat bobs. His grip on your hand tightens, just slightly.

“But I’m scared,” you admit. “I’m scared that if we go back to the way things were, we’ll lose ourselves again. That we’ll drag each other down. That we’ll confuse love for dependency.”

He nods slowly. His voice is low, rough- “I’m scared too.” You meet his eyes — those tired, beautiful eyes that saw you at your lowest and didn’t look away.

“But I don’t want to live in fear anymore,” you say. “And I don’t want to live without you.”

He lets out a shaky breath, like he’s been holding it for weeks.

“We don’t have to go back,” he whispers. “We build something new. Slower. Smarter. Softer. No highs, no crashes. Just… us.”

You nod. A tear slips down your cheek, and this time, you let it fall. He wipes it away with his thumb, gently.

“I don’t want you to be my escape,” he says. “I want you to be my reason.”

You close your eyes and lean into his palm.

“I want that too.”

That night, you don’t fall into old habits. You don’t numb anything. You sleep curled up next to him, fully clothed, his hand resting over your heart like he’s guarding it. And for the first time in what feels like years, your dreams are quiet.

—

months later...

It’s strange, the way peace can feel unfamiliar at first. Like wearing a dress that used to hang off your frame — now it fits. And that alone feels like rebellion. You wake up most mornings beside him, and the air is quiet. Not heavy. Not desperate. Just calm.

His hand usually finds yours under the sheets before either of you even open your eyes. It’s instinct now. Like breathing. Like choosing to stay. Lando makes coffee the way you like it. You fold his laundry while watching race replays on his laptop.

It’s normal. Uneventful. Safe. But more than anything else — it’s real.

He’s doing well. Not just on track, but off it too. Still going to therapy. Still checking in. Still sober. Some nights are harder than others — you both know that. But there are fewer secrets now. Less shame.

You write again. Sketch. Eat. Exist. You laugh more. You cry less. You look in the mirror and see a person you’re learning to love — not a ghost. Sometimes people ask if the two of you are “still together.”

As if the world only expects passion if it’s breaking things. As if surviving each other doesn’t count. You don’t give them answers. You don’t owe them that. But if they looked close enough, they’d know. The way he looks at you across the paddock — that smile, soft and full of memory. The way your hand always ends up in his before lights out. The way you whisper “I’m okay” and mean it now.

You think about the song sometimes— Novacane. Even listen to it from time to time. The pattern of destruction you used to so closely live to Hell, you used to live inside it. The numbness. The quiet kind of destruction.

You used to need the high to forget how bad everything felt. You used to use sex to convince yourself you are worthy of life— of love. To forget all the little things that built up inside of you over the course of one day. You used to use drugs— pills, cocaine— anything to calm your nerves and rid your mind of all the bad press, the horrible comments, the overall stress of being a person in fame. You and him used to use each other to make some fucked up form of ‘happiness’.

You don’t anymore. Lando said it best a few weeks ago, while you both sat on the balcony of the Monaco apartment, wrapped in one blanket, your legs tangled together as the sun sank into the sea—

“You were never the high. You were what reminded me I deserved to come down.”

You smiled at him, rested your head on his shoulder, and let that be enough. Because you’re not perfect. He isn’t either. But together? You’re present. You’re healing. You’re free. And that’s better than any high you ever chased.

436 notes · View notes

yungistiny · 3 days ago

Text

masterpiece

[ S. Mingi + J. Yunho ]

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summary: in which your boyfriend wants to make video to get him through your and his best friend ends up watching it

warning: dom mingi, dom yunho, switch reader, possessive all three, voyeurism, creampie, sex tape, unprotected sex, overstimulation, edging, oral, choking, squirting, face riding, deep throating, cum play, this shit just filthy yall!!!

genre: smut

pairing: yungi x afab reader

word count: 13.4k

note: this was requested to do a one shot based on Masterpiece by @lonely--september

masterlist:

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The apartment was quieter than usual, lit only by the low amber glow of the bedside lamp. Mingi had his head on your stomach, his arm lazily draped across your waist, eyes closed but clearly not asleep. He always got like this before leaving, clingy, quiet, thoughtful in a way he’d never admit to the others.

You ran your fingers through his hair, tugging softly at the roots, and he let out a little groan, turning his face to press a kiss just beneath your ribs. “Baby,” he murmured, lips brushing your skin, “I wanna ask you something… and you can say no.”

Your fingers paused in his hair. “Okay…” He looked up at you, a little sheepish and a whole lot horny. “I wanna make a video. Of us. Just for me. For tour.”

Your eyebrows lifted, but you weren’t surprised. You had caught him jerking off to a photo of you just last week and whining your name under his breath. “Like… a full video?” you teased. “Production quality? Soundtrack and credits?”

Mingi grinned, all teeth and dimples, before biting his bottom lip. “I want something to fuck my fist to when I miss you,” he added, not bothering to play innocent. “Wanna see the way you look when I’m inside you. The way you moan my name. I want to remember everything.”

Your stomach fluttered. Your thighs pressed together instinctively. “Okay,” you breathed, a little stunned by your own immediate reaction. “Let’s do it.” He sat up slowly, eyes darkening, his hands already reaching for the nightstand drawer where he kept his GoPro and tripod, because of course he was that prepared. “I’ll set it up,” he murmured, climbing off the bed, “but I want you in something sexy. Something mine.”

You rolled out of bed on shaky legs, heart pounding, heat pooling low. As you walked toward your dresser, Mingi’s voice followed, “Oh, and babe?” You turned, halfway into his old oversized tee. “Don’t wear panties.”

The soft whirr of the camera adjusting its focus filled the room. Mingi crouched beside the bed, bare chested in sweats that hung low on his hips, forehead furrowed in concentration as he adjusted the tripod angle. The little preview screen glowed beside him, reflecting the warm lighting he’d dimmed just right.

He was focused. Lined it up perfectly so the bed would be center frame, your pillows fluffed, the sheets slightly rumpled, just enough to hint at what was coming.

But then he looked up. And saw you. Standing with bare legs, messy hair, and that black Alexander McQueen shirt, his favorite one. The one with the subtle embroidered skull on the back, soft as sin and just short enough to be dangerous. He stopped breathing. “Fuck,” he said it like a prayer, dragging his eyes down your legs, then back up to where the shirt hung loose over your chest. “You’re tryna kill me.”

You tilted your head, lips twitching. “You said something of yours.”

“Didn’t mean my favorite,” he mumbled, standing up slowly like he wasn’t sure if he wanted to worship you or bend you over immediately. You walked in slow, deliberate, every step a tease. He watched the sway of the shirt, how it lifted just a little with each movement. No bra. No panties. Just you, in his shirt, and that look in your eyes. “Camera ready?” you asked, stopping at the edge of the bed.

He licked his lips. Nodded, a little too fast. “Yeah. Yeah, it’s rolling.” You raised an eyebrow. “Already?”

“I wanna get everything,” he said, stepping closer, hands hovering at your hips. “From the second you walk in. From the second I lose my fucking mind.” He leaned in, nosing at your neck, breathing you in.

The camera kept recording, its little red light blinking quietly. It caught the way Mingi’s hands finally touched you, sliding over the hem of the shirt to cup your bare ass. It caught the way he groaned when he realized exactly how naked you were underneath.

“Turn around for me,” he whispered, voice husky and low in your ear. You did. And the camera caught that too, the slow spin, the little smirk over your shoulder, the glimpse of underboob where the shirt gaped when you moved.

Mingi stepped back to admire you through the viewfinder. “Jesus, baby. You look like sin in 4K.” You turned your head, lips curling. “Then come get your masterpiece.”

He didn’t even hit pause. Didn’t touch you right away. He just sat on the edge of the bed, long legs spread, letting his eyes drag up your body like a slow caress. You stood between his knees, breathing shallow, the hem of his shirt barely skimming your upper thighs. His eyes lingered on the bare skin underneath. The twitch of your muscles when he didn’t make a move. The way your nipples visibly hardened through the soft black fabric.

He reached out finally, one hand gripping the back of your thigh, fingers spreading across the curve of your ass as he pulled you closer. “This shirt…” he murmured, nosing against your stomach, lips brushing the fabric like a benediction, “You don’t know what it does to me.” He looked up, eyes dark and heavy lidded. “Or maybe you do.”

You smirked, but it melted the second his mouth opened against your hip, kissing a line to the crease of your thigh. He kissed you like he had time. Like this wasn’t the night before he had to leave. Like he didn’t plan to burn every second of this into his memory.

The camera caught his hands sliding up your thighs, parting them slightly, thumbs stroking the soft skin where your legs met. His fingers dipped under the hem of the shirt but didn’t go higher. Not yet. Instead, he leaned back just a little and murmured, “Sit on me.”

You climbed into his lap without hesitation, straddling his thick thighs. The moment your bare heat made contact with the soft cotton of his sweats, you shivered. He felt it and grinned, lazy and cocky, grinding up just a little so you rubbed right along his length, half hard but growing with every second.

“Camera’s got the best seat in the house,” he said, glancing over your shoulder at the preview screen. One hand slid down your back, cupping your ass, while the other came up to rest on your waist. “Let’s give it something worth remembering.” His mouth found your throat next, open mouthed kisses against your skin as you started rocking slow, subtle, grinding down on him. The drag of cotton against your clit was just enough to tease. Just enough to make you gasp when he shifted his hips up to meet yours.

The shirt slid up higher with every motion, your ass on full display in the camera now, back arched, breath catching. “Feel good, baby?” he rasped, lips grazing your ear. “Mhm,” you nodded, already dazed, “but I need more.”

He chuckled low, one of those deep, breathy sounds that sent heat straight through you. “I know you do.” Still, he didn’t rush. His hand moved from your waist to your throat, not tight, just holding. His fingers traced your pulse, thumb dragging up under your jaw to tilt your face toward him. “I want the camera to see your face when you fall apart.”

He kissed you then, slow and deep, his tongue teasing yours. He tasted like mint and something darker, like want. And when you moaned into his mouth, he gripped your hips tighter, thrusting up once, hard enough to make you jolt.

“Mingi..”

“Shh,” he murmured, pulling away just enough to speak against your lips. “You’ll get it. But not yet.” His hand slipped between your bodies, under the hem of the shirt at last. His fingertips slid through your folds, already wet, already aching. He groaned when he felt it. “Fuck. That wet already? You really wore this for me just to get ruined in it, huh?”

You whimpered, nodding, rocking into his hand shamelessly. His finger circled your clit slowly as you reached into his sweats to stroke him. “Good girl.” The shirt was bunched up now, riding high on your waist, baring your body to the camera. And still, he didn’t take it off. Didn’t let you lose that last piece of him.

Because that was the point, wasn’t it? To keep it intimate. To make it his. To take a piece of you with him, in his shirt, on his video, falling apart on his dick.

Mingi leaned back against the headboard, arms spread, sweatpants already pushed down just enough to free his dick, hard now, thick and flushed, curved slightly toward his stomach. You didn’t even realize when he’d taken them off, but the sight of him like that, shirtless, legs spread wide, panting just from a few strokes of your hand, was enough to have you ready to beg.

You slid down his body slowly, knees sinking into the mattress between his thighs. The camera caught your every move, the glint in your eye, the way you bit your lip as your fingers wrapped around him. He was hot in your palm, twitching slightly, precum already gathering at the tip.

“You always get this hard for me?” You murmured, stroking him slowly, twisting at the head just enough to make him grunt. Mingi tilted his head back, biting his lip, letting out a long groan as your thumb brushed over his tip again. “Always.” His voice was low, breathless.

You leaned in, tongue flicking over the head, tasting the salt of him. He twitched again in your grip, his hips jerking upward instinctively. “Shit… fuck, baby…”

You smiled against him, kissing down the shaft before licking your way back up. You teased the underside with your tongue, then sank down slowly, inch by inch, while your hand kept working what you couldn’t take yet. Mingi’s hand slid into your hair, not to control, just to feel you. To ground himself. “God, you’re so good at that,” he muttered, watching the way your lips wrapped around him. “Just like that, baby… fuck, that tongue…. you’re perfect.”

The sound of him filled the room. Heavy breaths, soft curses, the wet glide of your mouth and hand. You bobbed your head, sucking a little harder as you stroked the base, your other hand resting on his thigh for balance. Every time you pulled off, you spit into your palm and stroked him again, lips shining, then dove back in deeper. “Shit, look at you,” Mingi panted, eyes locked on you and the red light blinking just behind. “My girl… making me come undone with her fucking mouth.”

Your hand pumped faster, your lips slick, throat working as you pushed yourself further, eyes locked on his. “Camera’s getting the best view,” he choked out. “Fuck…. my pretty baby with my dick down her throat.” You moaned around him and that, that sound, was what did it.

His thighs tensed. His grip in your hair tightened. “I’m gonna come…. fuck, baby, I’m gonna…”

You didn’t stop. You held him there. Let him spill hot and fast down your throat, moaning low and wrecked as you swallowed all of it. Your fingers never stopped moving, milking him through every last drop. You licked your lips as you pulled off, eyes half lidded, hair wild, cheeks flushed. He was still panting when you looked up at him, tongue flicking out to gather the last taste from your lip.

Then, with a wicked little smirk, you turned to the camera. Opened your mouth just a bit. And stuck out your tongue, clean. “Fuuuuuck,” Mingi groaned, full body shuddering. “You’re gonna kill me.” He was still panting when you crawled back into his lap, smug and satisfied.

But not for long. Because the second your hands slid up his chest, still sticky with sweat, he grabbed your hips and flipped you under him in one smooth move, the camera capturing your surprised little gasp as your back hit the sheets. “Thought you were done?” you teased, still breathless, a little cocky.

Mingi leaned down, lips brushing your ear. “Never done with you.” Then he sat back, grabbed the backs of your thighs, and pulled you toward the edge of the bed with purpose, placing you exactly where he wanted you. Where the camera could see everything.

He tugged the hem of his shirt up over your waist again, baring your glistening folds, your thighs already sticky and trembling. “Take it off?” you asked, fingers grazing the buttons of the shirt.

He shook his head, lips curved in a devilish smile. “No. Keep it on.” Then he lowered himself between your legs, big hands pushing your thighs apart, kissing up the inside like he had all the time in the world. You were already wet, already aching, but he still took his time. Licking the inside of your thighs. Nipping just close enough to your pussy to make you squirm. Then, finally, his tongue flattened against your slit.

You choked on a gasp, hands flying into his hair as he licked a slow, deep stripe from your entrance to your clit. “Shit, Mingi…”

“Sit on my face,” he growled, voice wrecked and low. “Now.”You didn’t hesitate. You climbed over him, thighs trembling as you settled on his mouth, his hands gripping your ass and holding you exactly where he wanted you, firm and needy. The moment you lowered your hips, his mouth opened, tongue sliding between your folds with filthy enthusiasm.

It was instant. His tongue was hot and relentless, circling your clit with pressure that made your legs shake. He moaned into you, the sound vibrating through your whole body, and when your hips jerked forward, trying to grind, he just growled and held you tighter. “That’s it, baby,” he murmured against your pussy, mouth slick. “Ride it. Use me.”

You did. You rocked your hips, chasing the pressure, thighs tensing as he devoured you. His tongue fucked into you deep, then moved up to flick your clit again, switching between sucking and licking until your moans filled the room, raw and wrecked. Your hands tangled in his hair, using him for leverage. The shirt stuck to your back, sweat gathering between your shoulder blades, your hips moving faster, needier. “Mingi…. fuck, I’m gonna… I can’t…”

He slapped your ass hard, a sting that sent you forward, only for him to drag you back onto his tongue again. “Come for me,” he rasped, mouth wet, nose buried against your clit. “Give it to me. Wanna taste it. Wanna feel it all over my fucking face.”

The pressure broke.

You screamed, thighs locking up as your orgasm ripped through you, sudden and blinding. Your hips jerked once, twice and then it hit. You squirted all over his face, his chin, your thighs soaking with it, your body shaking like you’d lost control of every muscle. Mingi groaned like he was the one coming, holding you down, licking you through it, drinking you in like it was the only thing that could keep him alive. The camera caught everything. The way your body trembled. The shirt bunched around your waist. Mingi’s face soaked, glistening, absolutely destroyed beneath you.

You finally collapsed forward, panting, thighs still twitching and Mingi pulled back just a little, just enough to look up at you from beneath wet lashes, mouth and chin covered in your release and he grinned. “Baby,” he said, voice husky, wrecked, “we’re only halfway through the video.”

Your thighs were still trembling. You’d barely rolled off of Mingi’s face, panting like you’d run a marathon, when he sat up, eyes glazed, face drenched, dick rock hard again. His tongue flicked out across his bottom lip like he could still taste you.

“That was the hottest thing I’ve ever seen,” he rasped, voice hoarse from groaning against your pussy. “And now I need to fuck you.” He flipped you again, manhandling you like you. The camera adjusted focus as he dragged you into his lap, this time with purpose. His arms wrapped around your waist, the sticky black shirt still bunched around your ribs, your chest rising and falling fast.

“You riding me now, baby,” he growled against your neck. “Wanna see how good you take me in this fucking shirt.” You guided him in slowly, both of you groaning when the head of his dick slid through your folds and pushed inside. He filled you so deep, and the stretch made you whimper, made your hips stutter before settling.

Mingi leaned back slightly, one arm behind him for support, the other gripping your hip as you began to ride, slow at first, adjusting to the feel, to how big he was, to the way your overstimulated pussy still fluttered around him. “Fuck, that’s it,” he moaned, watching you bounce on him. “You look so good like this. Camera’s loving it. I’m loving it. This is going on repeat all tour.”

Your hands gripped his shoulders, your thighs already aching from how hard he made you come before, but he wouldn’t let you slow down. Not yet. His hand slid between your bodies, thumb rubbing your clit just right. “Don’t stop now, baby,” he groaned. “You’re taking me so good… fuck, you were made for me.”

You cried out, hips stuttering again, your orgasm threatening to snap again way too soon. You were a mess, slick, panting, sweat clinging to the collar of his shirt. And Mingi was watching everything. He cupped your face. Kissed you hard. His other hand slapped your ass, just once, before he suddenly stilled. “Turn around for me,” he said, voice wrecked.

You blinked, dazed. “W…. what?” He pulled out slowly, then flipped you onto your stomach, lifting your hips before you could even register what was happening. “I wanna fuck you like you’re mine.” Because you were. You barely had time to gasp before he pulled your hips back, pressed the tip of his dick to your entrance again, and slammed into you deep.

You cried out, hands gripping the sheets, back arching. But what made you scream? Was when Mingi grabbed the back of the shirt, his shirt, and used it to yank you back into his thrusts. Every slam of his hips made your ass bounce, the sound obscene, skin slapping against skin as he used the shirt like a handle, dragging you into him over and over.

“Look at this,” he growled, eyes flicking to the camera. “My girl… in my shirt… taking me like a fucking champ.” The fabric tugged tighter against your chest with every thrust. You were moaning helplessly, drooling into the pillow, thighs trembling again. “Say it,” he grunted, still pounding into you, still gripping that shirt like reins. “Tell the camera who owns this pussy.”

“You, Mingi…. fuck, you!”

“That’s right,” he snarled, leaning forward to press his chest to your back. “All mine.” You shattered again, the orgasm ripping through you before you could even brace for it. You clenched hard around him, screaming into the mattress, thighs giving out. But Mingi wasn’t done. He sat back on his knees, dragging you up by the shirt, your ass against his thighs, his hand now wrapping around your throat from behind as he kept thrusting, slower now, deeper.

You were a mess beneath him, skin flushed, body trembling, pussy dripping around his dick. And still, still, Mingi hadn’t come. He was holding on by a thread, breath ragged, jaw clenched as he slowed his thrusts down to a grind, hips rolling deep while your body spasmed from the orgasm he just wrung out of you.

“Still with me, baby?” he murmured against your spine, voice thick, taunting. You whimpered a half sob, half laugh. “I… I think so…”

Mingi chuckled, low, cocky, possessive, and sat back on his heels, hands gripping your hips as he slowly pulled out of you. Your slick clung to him in glistening strings. The camera caught all of it. The ruin. The twitch of your thighs. The way your body begged for more even when you couldn’t form the words. “Take this off,” he rasped, tugging at the hem of the shirt still bunched around your ribs.

You tried to lift your arms, weak and shaking so he helped. Dragged it over your head slow as molasses, like it was the last barrier between you and complete surrender. He tossed it aside, eyes drinking you in like he hadn’t just had your pussy in his mouth and his dick inside you.

“Look at you,” he whispered, rubbing a hand down your back, cupping your ass with reverence. “My fucking masterpiece.” He flipped you over gently causing you to gasp as your back hit the sheets, still warm and damp with sweat. Mingi settled between your legs again, one hand stroking your thigh, the other gripping the base of his dick, hard, glistening, aching.

And then he started the pattern. First, he pressed his tip to your clit, just the head, slow, teasing little circles, using your own slick to glide over that sensitive bundle of nerves. You arched, hips twitching, breath caught. “Mingi…” He grinned. “Shh, baby. Just feel.” Then he slid inside, hard, deep, and you cried out, toes curling.

Just when the rhythm started to build, when your legs began to wrap around him, he pulled out. And dove down. His mouth found your pussy instantly, licking up everything he just gave you. His tongue flattened against your clit, sucking it in just once before he growled into you like a man possessed.

Your moan ripped through the room like a sin. Then he was back up, spit and slick smeared across his lips, gripping your thighs and sliding back inside in one swift thrust. Your body bucked. He did it again. Deep thrusts. Pull out. Eat you like a meal. Again. And again.

Your thighs were trembling uncontrollably. Your voice was gone from screaming his name. Your pussy was soaked, overstimulated, clenching for him. The camera caught every second, the obscene slick sounds, the way your body arched when he’d fuck into you, then the contrast of him between your legs, mouth worshipping your cunt like he was starved.

“You like this, baby?” he rasped, voice hoarse as he came up for air, face soaked. “Like me fucking you and tasting you?”

“Y… yes… Mingi, please…”

“You taste so fucking good,” he growled, sliding back inside so deep you cried out. “Can’t decide if I wanna come in your pussy or eat it off your thighs.” You were wrecked. Sweat and tears. Hands clawing at the sheets. But Mingi wasn’t done. He leaned in close, body pressed to yours, still rocking into you slow and hard.

“Camera’s still watching,” he whispered against your lips. “Show it what it looks like when you fall apart for me again.”

You didn’t even realize you were begging. Somewhere between the relentless thrusts and the way Mingi’s tongue lapped at your clit like salvation, your voice had given out, reduced to whimpers, gasps, desperate sobs of his name.

He came up from between your thighs, jaw dripping, chest heaving, pupils blown wide. “Come here,” he rasped, voice cracked and full of need. He grabbed you, one hand under your back, the other gripping the back of your thigh, and pulled you upright, holding you against him. His dick nudged your entrance again, and you barely had time to brace before he slid inside.

You choked on your own moan, your arms wrapping around his neck instinctively as he stood there, stood there, and started fucking up into you. Hard. Hot. Desperate. “Fuck, baby…. this pussy,” he groaned, pressing his forehead to yours. “So fucking tight, still. You gonna come again? Huh? Gonna give it to me while I fuck you like this?”

You could barely nod. He grabbed your ass, bouncing you on his dick like a ragdoll, hips slamming up as your back arched, mouth falling open in a silent scream. You came again, clenching hard, crying out as your whole body seized around him.

“That’s it,” he panted, still thrusting through it, even as you writhed in his arms. “That’s my girl. Fuck, you feel so good when you come… squeezing me like you never wanna let go… shit!” Then slowly, gently, he laid you down.

You hit the sheets, boneless. Ruined. But Mingi still wasn’t done. He grabbed your legs, both, and lifted them over his shoulders, folding you in half beneath him. “Ready?” he whispered, kissing the inside of your knee. You nodded, dazed and he slammed back into you. You screamed, overstimulated, ruined, but wanting more.

Your hands flew to the sheets, to the pillow, to your own hair as he fucked you, relentless, animalistic, but still so fucking good. His grip on your thighs tightened. The slap of skin on skin echoed through the room. The camera caught it all, his muscles flexing, your tits bouncing, your face wrecked as you cried out his name over and over again.

“I’m gonna come,” he growled, the edge cracking in his voice. “Gonna fill this pussy up. Gonna fuck you so full it leaks out on camera.”

“Do it… please, Mingi… do it”

“Fuck, fuck… baby…I’m coming…” And he did with a growl that turned into a low moan, hips stuttering, he buried himself as deep as he could go and came hard, twitching inside you, ropes of hot release spilling into your already aching core. You were shaking and so was he as he collapsed over you, still inside, your legs sliding off his shoulders to wrap around his waist, arms locking him in as both of you gasped for air.

The room was silent now, except for the heavy sound of breathing, the soft hum of the camera still rolling, and Mingi’s voice, barely a whisper against your throat. “Best fucking masterpiece I’ve ever made.”

You were sprawled beneath him, sweat drenched, blissed out, legs still twitching from the sheer wreckage of your last orgasm. His cum was already starting to slip out of you in slow, creamy drips. And Mingi, chest still heaving, hadn’t even left you yet.

He stayed there for a moment, forehead resting against yours, breathing you in. One hand cradled your face, the other stroked your thigh lazily. Your whole body pulsed with aftershocks, and he kissed you once, soft and lingering, before slowly pulling out. You whimpered at the loss. And that’s when you saw it. That look in his eyes. Hungry. Intent. Possessive.

Without a word, Mingi reached to the nightstand and grabbed the camera. Still recording. Still hot with everything you’d just given him. He brought it close, tilting the lens between your legs, your ruined, soaked, still spread body on full display. His cum, warm and thick, was leaking from your swollen pussy in long, slow drips, sliding down your ass and inner thighs.

“Fuck,” he whispered behind the lens, voice ragged. “Look at that. So full of me…” The angle caught it perfectly. Intimate. Raw. Claimed. Then you gasped. Because Mingi set the camera down just beside you, aimed directly at the mess between your thighs, and dipped two fingers into the mix of slick and cum seeping out of you.

You twitched at the contact as he pushed it back in. Slowly. Gently. Intentionally. “You’re mine,” he murmured, watching the way you clenched around his fingers. “Gotta keep it inside. Keep me with you even when I’m gone.”

You moaned, arching, your body exhausted but still so sensitive. He pulled his fingers out once more, slick and glistening, then reached for your face, cupping your cheek with his clean hand. And kissed you. Not rushed. Not filthy. Tender. The kind of kiss that said, this isn’t just about the video. This is you. Me. Always.

He pulled back just an inch, eyes locked on yours. “I’m never deleting this.”

═════════ ═════════ ═════════

The Atlanta hotel room was standard, clean, modern, and just cramped enough to make sharing it annoying. Yunho dropped his bag onto the bed closest to the window with a grunt. “Why do we always end up rooming together on the loud stops?” he muttered, pulling his hoodie off. Mingi yawned as he kicked off his sneakers. “Because I snore and you’re the only one who won’t suffocate me with a pillow.”

“Yet.”

Mingi chuckled, already walking toward the bathroom. “Gonna shower. You can use my charger if you want, outlet’s by the desk.” Yunho nodded and waited until he heard the water start running before digging through his backpack, fishing out his laptop and groaning. Dead. Of course.

He turned to Mingi’s laptop, still open and glowing faintly on the desk. Charger already plugged in. Lucky bastard probably forgot to close out some anime or half finished beat. The screen blinked to life. No desktop. No YouTube tab. No lyrics doc. Just full screen video. Paused.

Mingi’s voice filled the speakers immediately, breathy, low, almost wrecked. “Tell the camera who owns this pussy.”

Yunho froze. Eyes wide. Mouse unmoving after accidentally fast forwarding some on the video. He saw you first, laid out across rumpled sheets, drenched in sweat, legs spread wide, your lips parted in a moan. Then Mingi. On his knees behind the camera, voice shaking as he zoomed in on your pussy, where his cum was dripping out of you in real time.

Yunho’s jaw dropped, his stomach doing a slow, guilty somersault. He knew who you were. Knew you were Mingi’s girl. His best friend’s girlfriend. But nothing, nothing, could’ve prepared him for that image. For the sound of your moan when Mingi pushed his fingers back inside you and you gasped like it hit your soul.

Yunho’s mouth went dry. He didn’t even mean to press play again. It just… happened. The motion restarted. Your hips shifted on screen. Mingi’s voice got closer to the mic. “Gonna miss this pussy on tour… good thing I’ve got you saved, huh?” The sheets rustled. You whispered something Yunho couldn’t quite catch, and then you moaned again. A choked, desperate sound.

Yunho shifted in his seat, blinking fast, not breathing. The shower was still running.

Steam fogged the mirror just behind him. But the room was sweltering now. He reached for the keyboard, either to pause it or rewind it, even he didn’t know when the bathroom door clicked open. And Mingi stepped out, towel low on his hips, steam billowing behind him. He froze. So did Yunho. Their eyes met. Mingi’s narrowed. Yunho blinked. “I was just…”

“You’re watching my girl?” Mingi’s voice was low. Dangerous. Almost unreadable. Yunho swallowed. “No… I mean, yes… I mean… I didn’t know…. you left it open!” Mingi stepped closer, water still dripping from his hair, arms crossed over his chest, muscles flexing. “And you didn’t pause it?”

“I… couldn’t,” Yunho said, voice hoarse. “She looked…. you both… it was like… fuck.” Mingi tilted his head. “You liked it?” Yunho didn’t answer right away. He looked back at the screen. Then nodded. Once. “Yeah,” he admitted, voice quieter now. “I did.”

Mingi’s eyes darkened. He took another step forward. “Want me to send it to you?”Yunho’s brows shot up. “Wait, what?”

“Don’t act shy now,” Mingi said, smirking, voice low and gravelly. “You liked watching her, didn’t you?” Yunho’s throat worked just barely. “She looked unreal.”

“She is,” Mingi said, stepping closer, leaning one hand on the desk beside the laptop. “But you only saw the ending. You didn’t even get to the part where she rode my face. Or when I fucked her so deep she couldn’t talk for a full minute.”Yunho’s breathing got shakier. And Mingi, smiling now, playful but still dangerous, let out a soft laugh. “Guess we’re watching it together now.”

═════════ ═════════ ═════════

There were worse things he could’ve done. Stealing someone’s charger? Normal. Watching a sex tape he accidentally opened? Gray area. Coming to it five times in three cities? Yeah. That was a problem. And now they were back in Seoul.

Back in the humid summer air. Back to their regular beds, their regular routines and you.

Back to you. Yunho dropped his bag on the hardwood floor of his apartment he shared with Yeosang and let out a slow exhale, bracing his hands on the counter like it could ground him. But it didn’t help.

Because all he could see, all he could fucking see, was the way your body looked in that video. Mingi’s shirt. His cum. Your thighs trembling. That fucked out smile at the end. He’d told Mingi he watched it by accident. That was true. Once. But the second time? The fifth? That was all on him.

He’d copied the file. Password protected it. Learned the lighting cues. Knew the minute mark where you choked out Mingi’s name and said her pussy was his. And worse? He started wondering what it would sound like if you said his name instead.

He ran a hand through his hair and grabbed a bottle of water from the fridge as the shower in the bathroom started, Yeosang running in the second they got there, Yunho trying to shake the image of your mouth wrapping around Mingi’s dick, how eager you looked. Like you loved it. Like you wanted to be filmed doing it.

And Yunho had jerked off more than once to the thought of what you’d look like on his dick instead of. He wasn’t proud of it. But he was obsessed. You hadn’t even changed the way you treated him. Still friendly. Still teasing. Still giving him those lazy smiles that sent his thoughts spiraling. You’d hugged him when they got back. Told him you missed his stupid dance challenges in the green room. Looked up at him with that same warm gaze like you didn’t know.

Like you didn’t know what he’d seen. What he’d done with it. What he wanted. And that’s what scared him most. Because Yunho wasn’t just jerking off to a fantasy anymore. He wanted the real thing. Your breath in his ear. Your nails in his back. Your voice breaking on his name as he split you open.

He wanted to see how different you’d sound moaning for him instead of Mingi. If you’d ride him the same. If you’d let him taste you until you cried. If you’d wear his shirt and beg to keep it on. And worst of all? He knew Mingi wouldn’t stop him. Because Mingi had seen the way Yunho looked at you when he thought no one was watching.

Had smirked when Yunho stammered through a goodbye the last night of tour, cheeks flushed, eyes lingering too long on your picture in Mingi’s lock screen. “Wanna touch her?” he’d said in that low, casual voice. “Then stop pretending you don’t.”

And now, back home, Yunho was wondering if you wanted him to.

═════════ ═════════ ═════════

The bass vibrated through the floor. Yunho moved on autopilot, counting beats, syncing steps, keeping pace even when his brain was somewhere else entirely. His shirt stuck to his chest, his hair dark with sweat, and he still couldn’t focus. Not fully. Not since Mingi leaned over mid routine to whisper, “She’s bringing lunch, by the way.”

Yunho had nodded. Pretended it didn’t affect him. Pretended he hadn’t been thinking about you all morning. But his stomach had tightened. His body knew before his brain could catch up. He was going to see you. And that meant one very real, very important problem. Yunho couldn’t unsee it.

Couldn’t unhear your moans. Couldn’t forget the way Mingi held your hips as you begged for more. Couldn’t stop remembering the exact moment you came while still wearing that black shirt, legs shaking, cunt dripping. And now you were just… casually showing up. With food. Like you hadn’t wrecked his whole damn sense of control.

“Five minute break,” their choreographer called. Yunho wiped his face with a towel and turned to grab his water bottle and then he heard the door. His whole body tensed. The guys were already calling your name in chorus, excited and loud. Mingi broke from the group first, practically jogging toward the entrance with that dumb happy grin he only ever gave you.

You stepped in, white tank top, denim shorts. Tote bag slung over your shoulder. Food bags in hand. Laughter in your voice as Mingi kissed your cheek and tried to take all the weight from you.

Yunho froze. Just stood there. Staring. This was only the second time he’d seen you since getting back. The first was brief and he avoided eye contact. You looked exactly the same. But he wasn’t. Because now he’d seen you. Now he’d heard you. Now every movement of your body sent heat curling low in his gut.

You glanced up and locked eyes with him. A moment. A flash. Your smile didn’t falter, but your gaze did linger. You gave him that soft, familiar smirk. “Yunho, you seem to be surviving practice.” His throat bobbed. “Y… yeah. Barely.”

You stepped further into the room, and everything about your presence, your scent, your voice, the way the neckline of your tank dipped just made it worse. He turned away fast, pretending to grab his phone, willing his heart rate to slow down. You didn’t know. You couldn’t know. And yet, he felt seen. Naked. Exposed.

Mingi plopped down next to him on the floor, handing him a sandwich. “Told you she’d show. She spoils us.” Yunho kept his eyes on the wrapper. “Yeah. She’s great.” Mingi leaned in closer, voice low. Too low. “You watched it again, didn’t you?”

Yunho flinched. Mingi smirked. “I could tell. You looked like you were about to bust the second she walked in.” Yunho clenched his jaw. “Shut up.”

“I’m not judging,” Mingi murmured, unbothered. “Just saying… You might wanna be careful. You keep looking at her like that, she’s gonna notice.”

Yunho didn’t respond. He couldn’t. Because just a few feet away, you were laughing with San, unwrapping drinks, your skin glowing from the heat outside, your thighs crossed as you leaned back and looked completely at ease. And Yunho was hard. In the middle of a dance studio.

In front of his friends. Because you’d walked in holding iced coffee.

He barely managed a sip of water, pulse still thumping in his ears when he glanced over and caught your gaze again, this time, tilted slightly, almost curious. And in that moment? Yunho knew. He was fucked.

═════════ ═════════ ═════════

Yunho hadn’t meant to come by alone.

But Mingi had texted him in all caps, STUCK IN STUDIO. BRINGING CHAOS. NEED U TO GRAB LAPTOP.

And being the helpful, totally normal friend that he was, Yunho grabbed his keys, his hoodie, and did not rehearse anything in the mirror before heading over. He didn’t expect you to be there. Which is exactly why his breath caught when you opened the door.

You were in a matching set, just a thin gray crop tank and soft cotton shorts that clung to your thighs in a way that felt deliberate. Your hair was messy, lips glossy, skin bare and glowing like you hadn’t even tried. “Yunho,” you said, voice light and sweet. “Mingi said you were coming.” He almost choked. Almost turned around.

But you stepped aside, holding the door open, and he had no choice but to walk into the place he’d been dreaming about for weeks. The couch. The hallway. The bedroom door slightly ajar. All of it. Burned into his brain from the video he swore he wouldn’t watch again but absolutely had. Many times. That morning in fact.

You gestured to the kitchen counter. “Laptop’s right there. Want something to drink?”

“Uh… no. I’m good. I’ll just… grab it and go.”

But you didn’t let it be that simple, did you? You leaned back against the counter, sipping from a glass of water, watching him with lazy curiosity as he reached for the laptop. “Hot out today, huh?” you asked, running your fingers along the condensation on your glass.

Yunho didn’t answer immediately. His hands were already shaking. You had to know. And you did. Because Mingi told you. Told you Yunho had seen the video. That he’d watched it. That he’d jerked off to it. Not that Yunho was fully aware of that fact just yet. And now you were watching him unravel under nothing but your smile and the ghost of memory. “You okay?”

Yunho blinked. “Yeah… yeah, I’m fine.”

You pushed off the counter, slow and casual, walking over to him until you were standing too close. You smelled like vanilla and body heat and temptation. “You look flushed.” He didn’t respond. Just swallowed hard, eyes dropping, not even meaning to, and landing directly on the slope of your chest, the hem of your crop top lifting slightly as you tilted toward him.

He grabbed the laptop. Tried to hold it to his chest like a shield. “Thanks… I’ll uh…. return this tomorrow.” You stepped closer. “You sure you don’t want a drink?” you asked again, voice soft now. Syrupy. “I could give you… something cold. Or warm, if you prefer that…”

He dropped the laptop. Caught it midair with a flailing, gasped curse and clutched it tighter. Your eyes sparkled. “I…. I gotta go,” he stammered, already backing toward the door. “I’ve got practice, and…. uh…. stuff.”

You just smiled. “Of course,” you said sweetly. “Say hi to Mingi for me.” And just as he turned the knob, hand trembling, hoodie sticking to the back of his neck from the sweat gathering? You added, casual as anything, “Oh, and Yunho?”

He turned, barely keeping his eyes on your face. Your smirk was lethal. “Next time you watch our video…” You licked the condensation off your glass rim, slow, deliberate. “Try not to bite your lip so hard. You might draw blood.”

He slammed the door shut behind him.

He was going to kill Mingi!

═════════ ═════════ ═════════

The studio door slammed open so hard it bounced off the stopper. Mingi didn’t even flinch. He was leaning back in the chair, socked feet propped on the edge of the desk, slowly chewing a piece of gum as Yunho stormed in, practically seething.

The laptop slammed onto the desk with enough force to make the water bottle next to it jump. “You told her.” Mingi blinked. “Told who what?”

“Don’t play stupid,” Yunho snapped, voice low, shaky with everything he was trying not to say. “You told her I watched the video. That I…. fucking came to it, didn’t you?” Mingi stared at him for a long second, then smirked wide. “And did she tease you?” he asked, voice calm, like this was the weather report. “Did she make you squirm a little, maybe show some skin, look at you like she didn’t know, but she did?”

Yunho looked like he might combust. “That’s not the point!”

“It’s exactly the point.” Mingi dropped his feet and stood, circling the desk slowly, looking at his best friend like he was studying a particularly interesting animal on the verge of snapping.

“You know what the best part is?” Mingi said, voice going low, amused. “She didn’t even have to try that hard, did she? Just smiled. Stood too close. Said your name like she was thinking about it. And now you’re in here, losing your goddamn mind.”

Yunho opened his mouth, then closed it again. His jaw clenched. His hands fisted at his sides. “You think I didn’t notice?” Mingi went on, stepping closer. “You think I haven’t seen the way you look at her when she’s laughing? When she leans over in those little tops and you pretend to look away too fast?”

Yunho’s throat worked. “Mingi, I would never…”

“I know,” Mingi interrupted. “That’s the thing. You’d never make a move. You’d never say a word. But you want her.” Silence. Yunho’s fingers twitched. Mingi leaned in. “Do you want to fuck her?”

Yunho’s breath hitched, barely audible as Mingi stepped even closer. “Because you can. But I want to hear you say it.” Yunho looked up, eyes burning, guilt and lust and need all cracking through the calm he’d tried to hold on to.

“You think I don’t hate myself for it?” he said finally, voice quiet, tight. “You think I haven’t tried to stop? I’m your best friend, Mingi.”

“And she’s my girlfriend,” Mingi’s tone was unreadable. “But I’m also not blind. And I’m definitely not threatened.” That stunned Yunho into silence as Mingi leaned against the edge of the desk, arms crossed now, gaze steady. “She noticed it too, by the way,” he added. “Before I ever said anything. Said you look at her like you’re trying not to fall apart.”

Yunho ran a hand through his hair, pacing now. “This is fucked up.”

“Is it?” Mingi asked, smirking again. “Or is it just honest?” A pause of silence and Mingi pushed off the desk and walked up to him, slow, deliberate, until they were chest to chest. “You want to fuck her?” he repeated, voice low and dead serious now. “Then ask yourself the better question…”

Yunho’s breath caught as Mingi’s eyes sharpened. “Do you want to fuck her more than you want to pretend you don’t?”

═════════ ═════════ ═════════

The apartment was quiet when Mingi slipped in, keys jingling low, door clicking shut behind him. It was past midnight. Exhaustion hung from his shoulders like a heavy coat, but beneath it, under the sweat damp shirt and low buzz of leftover adrenaline, was something darker. Something sharper. Desire.

He toed off his sneakers, the soft scuff of rubber against wood the only sound in the apartment until he saw you. You were standing in the living room , barefoot, wrapped in nothing but a fluffy white towel. Hair damp, lips still tinted from the heat of your shower, steam trailing from the bathroom behind you like a fog of temptation.

And you smiled. Lazy. Soft. Unknowing. “Hey,” you murmured, voice like velvet. “You’re late.” Mingi didn’t answer right away. He walked toward you slowly, shedding his hoodie, eyes drinking in every inch of your towel covered frame. His tongue flicked across his bottom lip as he reached you. “I saw Yunho today,” he said, voice low. You blinked up at him. “Yeah?”

“He stormed into the studio. Shoved the laptop at me. Asked if I told you he watched the video.” You raised an eyebrow, towel clutched just a little tighter at your chest. “And did you?” Mingi smirked. “Of course I did.” You tried to look innocent. You failed. He reached out, brushed a drop of water from your collarbone, let his fingers linger there.

“He’s losing his mind over you,” Mingi murmured, stepping closer. “You know that, right?” You bit your lip, just barely. “He didn’t say anything.”

“He didn’t have to,” Mingi whispered, voice dropping even lower. “He looked at me like he was ashamed… for wanting what’s mine.” Your breath caught. “But he’s not the only one who’s been hiding shit,” Mingi went on, hand slipping to the knot at your towel. “I know you’ve thought about him.”

Your eyes widened as he tugged the knot loose, slow and purposeful. “I see the way you look at him when you think I’m not watching. The way you smile a little different. Hold hugs a second too long.” The towel dropped. Soft. Soundless. Leaving you standing there bare before him, flushed and quiet, heart hammering in your chest.

Mingi’s eyes were molten. “And you know what?” he breathed, stepping so close you could feel the heat of his body. “I don’t blame you.” His hand slid down your side, over your hip, anchoring you in place. “Yunho’s a good man. And he wants you bad. But what he doesn’t know…” He leaned in, lips grazing your jaw. “is how wet you’re already getting just thinking about it.”

You whimpered and then a knock sounded at the front door followed by three more. Both of you froze. You turned your head toward the front door. Mingi didn’t even flinch.

“That’ll be him.”

You rushed to the bedroom, sitting on the edge of the bed, towel forgotten on the floor, knees drawn up, chest bare, arms wrapped tight around yourself, but not because you were cold. No. It was because Mingi had just said something you’d only ever whispered in your own head. Saying how he knew you thought of his best friend. And he wasn’t wrong.You had. Too many times. Too late at night. Too long after a hug from Yunho lasted just a second too long. Or when he laughed at something you said like it was the funniest thing in the world. When his hands lingered on your back. When he watched you dance in the kitchen and didn’t say a word.

You felt it. That shift. But you’d ignored it. Buried it. Because you loved Mingi. And Mingi was… everything. But now he was the one who’d said it first. And not in jealousy. Not in anger. But like he understood. Like he might even want it too.

From the other side of the bedroom wall, you heard the soft pad of his bare feet on the hardwood as he walked down the hall. The faint creak of the front door opening. “Hey,” Mingi’s voice. Low. Even. Not surprised. Yunho didn’t respond right away. You held your breath. Mingi let the silence sit. Heavy. Tense. Then he stepped aside. “You gonna stand there all night or are you coming in?”

Another beat of silence followed. Then footsteps. Heavy. Controlled. Intentional. You curled your fingers into the comforter beneath you as you heard the door shut, the lock click. Mingi’s voice, again, closer now. “She probably ran to the bedroom.” Still quiet. No laughter. No sarcasm. Just weight.

You could almost feel Yunho hesitating on the other side of the wall, just feet from the doorway. Like he was trying to catch his breath. Trying to hold onto the last shred of control he had left. You turned, slowly, breath stuck somewhere between your lungs and your throat.

The bedroom door creaked open and Yunho stood in the doorway, backlit by the soft hallway light. Black hoodie. Joggers. Jaw tight. His eyes swept over you in an instant, bare, flushed, wrecked from the conversation before and everything about him shifted. His breath caught. Your name barely made it past his lips. “Fuck.”

You didn’t cover yourself. Didn’t speak. Didn’t move. And Yunho? He just stood there. Eyes full of something wild. Something raw. Something that said, I can’t pretend anymore.

Yunho had imagined this moment a hundred times. No, fantasized. Late at night, in silence, in showers, in the back corner of the dance studio while his mind wandered and guilt crawled down his spine. He’d imagined your face twisted in pleasure, your lips wrapped around his dick, your body writhing beneath his touch, but none of it came close to this. Nothing came close to the real thing.

Because now? You were right there. Sitting on the edge of the bed, backlit by the bedside lamp, skin flushed and damp from a recent shower. Naked. Unbothered. Looking at him like you knew every single dirty thought he’d ever had. And you weren’t afraid of it. You welcomed it.

He hadn’t realized he was holding his breath until Mingi walked in behind him, moving like he had all the time in the world. Yunho tensed instinctively, but Mingi only smirked as he walked past, slow and deliberate, fingers brushing Yunho’s arm as he stepped further into the room.

“I was right,” Mingi said, voice low, calm. “You want each other.”

Yunho swallowed hard, but didn’t deny it. He couldn’t. Mingi turned to face them both now, standing at the foot of the bed, eyes locked on Yunho first, then you. And his voice softened just slightly. “And that’s okay.” His eyes glittered with something possessive. But not jealous. Not threatened. Just… aware. Deeply, intimately aware.

“You’re my best friend,” he said to Yunho. Then to you, softer, “You’re my girlfriend.” And then, back to both of you. “In a way… you’re both mine.”

Yunho’s breath hitched. Your thighs pressed together. Something electric hung in the air, thick and humming. “But tonight?” Mingi continued, walking to the nightstand. He pulled open the drawer. Grabbed the GoPro. The same GoPro. The one that changed everything. “I don’t want to be in it.” He turned it over in his hands, checked the battery, powered it on. The red light blinked once, bright and ready. “I want to watch.”

Yunho’s eyes widened. His stomach dropped, then flipped. His dick twitched in his pants. Not just watch. Film. Mingi looked at him, completely serious now, voice lower. “I want to see what you do to her when you finally stop pretending.”

He turned the camera on and set it on the dresser across from the bed, tilting the angle, just like before. The red light blinked again. Recording. Then he backed away, sat in the chair in the corner of the room, legs spread, one arm slung across the back, the other resting lazily on his thigh.

“You want her, Yunho?” he asked, eyes dark. “Then show me.”

Yunho couldn’t move at first. Not when the camera started recording. Not when Mingi sat down, legs wide, the perfect calm storm in the corner. And definitely not when you stood up, completely bare, back straight, eyes locked on him. Your steps were slow. Deliberate. And you didn’t look away.

You didn’t cover yourself. Didn’t ask for reassurance. You just approached, like you were meant to. Like this was always going to happen. And Yunho….. he stopped breathing. Every nerve in his body lit up the moment you reached him. Your hands slid up his chest, fingertips dragging over the fabric of his hoodie, soft and slow, like you were mapping him out for the first time. Or like you’d been imagining it just as long as he had.

“Still with me?” you whispered, voice warm, barely heard over the pounding in his ears. Yunho nodded, but it felt like a lie. Because he wasn’t with you, he was losing his damn mind because of you. Already unraveling and you hadn’t even kissed him yet.

Your hands moved to his waist. Tugged gently at his hoodie. “Off.” He obeyed. Pulled it over his head, hands trembling slightly, the air feeling too cold against his overheated skin. You tossed it aside and pressed your palms flat to his stomach, dragging them up slowly, across the planes of his chest, over his shoulders, around the back of his neck.

And then You kissed him. Soft at first. Gentle. And that’s what broke him. Because he’d imagined this so many times. Had dreamt of what your mouth would feel like, of how you’d taste, how you’d sigh into him and the real thing was infinitely worse. Because now he knew. Knew your lips were warm and sweet. Knew you kissed like you were hungry but patient. Knew your body was pressed against his and Mingi was watching just a few feet away, and you still didn’t stop.

Your fingers found his jaw, your mouth parted slightly, and Yunho let out a quiet, desperate sound. You pulled back just enough to whisper, “Come with me.” Then you took his hand, guiding him toward the bed. Not yanking, not rushing. Leading and Yunho followed. Couldn’t do anything else.

He felt like a man being walked off the edge of a cliff and all he could think was finally. You sat on the edge of the mattress first, legs spreading slightly as you pulled him between them. One hand resting lightly on his chest. The other already tugging at the waistband of his pants.

Yunho was shaking. And behind him, the camera was rolling, Mingi voice was cool and low from the corner. “That’s it. Let me see what you’ve been holding back.”Yunho’s eyes dropped to yours. And you looked up like you were about to ruin him.

You tugged him closer between your legs, fingers playing at the waistband of his joggers, and Yunho could barely stand it. Your touch was gentle, but his skin ached. He was so hard it hurt. Throbbing under the cotton, already leaking, already desperate.

You hooked your thumbs under the waistband and slowly pulled them down. His dick sprang free, heavy, flushed, thick and your breath hitched. Yunho watched your eyes go wide for just a second, the way your lips parted. “Shit,” you whispered. “You’re…” You didn’t finish the sentence. Didn’t need to. Yunho heard it loud and clear.

Bigger than Mingi.

And something about that short little silence, about the way your eyes stayed glued to his dick. like you were already imagining it between your lips, between your legs, stretching you open, broke him. The shame was gone. The guilt burned away. All that was left was need.

When you leaned forward, tongue flicking out to taste the tip, slow, teasing, letting his precum sit on your tongue like candy, Yunho’s fingers shot to the back of your head. He groaned, low, dark. “No teasing.” You looked up at him, startled. Then wrecked. Because he was already pushing forward, slow but firm, guiding his dick between your lips with a grip in your hair that had you melting.

“Open,” he growled, voice rasped and barely human. “Wider. You can take it.” Your lips stretched. Jaw aching. But you took it. You fucking took it. Yunho’s head dropped back as he slid into your mouth, the warmth of you swallowing him making his whole body seize. Your tongue flattened, your throat tightened, and when you moaned around him? He snapped.

“Fuck, just like that…” he hissed, then looked down at you, eyes wild, mouth parted. “You want to choke on it? Huh? You want me to ruin your throat while he watches?” You whimpered. His hips rolled forward. Once. Twice. Then he started fucking your face. Not slow. Not shy. Messy. Hungry. Filthy.

His hand was tangled tight in your hair, the other on your jaw, guiding you, holding you open as he thrust deeper, harder into your throat. Spit pooled on your chin. Drooled down your chest. His balls slapped against your fingers when you reached to cup them, and Yunho lost any last shred of hesitation.

“You look so fucking pretty like this,” he groaned, breath ragged. “On your knees, on camera, drooling for my dick like you’ve been waiting for it your whole life.” Your eyes watered. Your thighs pressed together. You moaned around him again and Yunho almost came right there, but forced himself to stop. He pulled out with a wet pop, a thick string of spit and precum still connecting your mouth to his tip.

And when you gasped for air, mascara smudged, chest heaving? Yunho leaned down and grabbed your face with both hands. “You’re mine tonight. And I’m not stopping until you forget how anyone else ever fucked you.”

From the corner of the room, the soft whir of the camera kept rolling. And Mingi’s voice, low, rough, sounding wrecked, cut in, “Fuck. This is gonna be even better than our video.”

You were trembling when he laid you back. Yunho’s hands were gentle, controlled, but his mind was anything but. His dick was still soaked from your throat, heavy and aching, but all he could focus on now was the way your thighs spread for him without hesitation. Like you already belonged there.

And fuck, maybe you did.

Your chest was rising fast, skin flushed, lips red and wet. You looked up at him like you didn’t know where Yunho had gone, but you liked who was here now. He dropped to his knees at the edge of the bed, hooked his arms under your thighs and dragged you to the edge until your hips were barely balanced on the mattress.

Yunho exhaled once. Then dove in.

It wasn’t just the shock of Yunho eating you out, it was how he did it. There was no warm up. No testing the waters. Just tongue and lips and purpose. He licked through your folds like a man trying to commit your taste to memory. Groaned into your pussy like it was the first real breath he’d taken all night. When he sucked your clit into his mouth with a slow, obscene pop, your whole body arched.

And when you reached for his hair, Yunho didn’t flinch. He growled. “Keep your hands there,” he said, voice muffled between your thighs, “and keep your legs open for me.”

And fuck, your hips obeyed.

You tasted sweet. Sweeter than he thought. Wetter than he expected. Needy. Your thighs trembled against his shoulders as he flattened his tongue over your clit again, slow and steady, dragging the tip in tight circles. You let out a gasp, head thrown back, hair spilling over the sheets.

Good. But not enough. He pulled back just slightly, one hand slipping between your thighs, two fingers sliding through your slick folds before pressing in and your body jerked. “Still tight,” he whispered, eyes locked on the way you pulsed around him. “You’re gonna come just from this, aren’t you?”

You whimpered, hips grinding into his hand. He curled his fingers, once, twice, and your moan cracked open in the middle. Yunho sucked your clit again, timed it with every stroke of his fingers, until you were begging, nearly chanting, barely coherent. “Yunho…. please… I’m gonna…. fuck…. please!”

He pulled back, fingers still inside you. You let out a broken cry. “No,” he said firmly, licking up your slit one more time without giving you the pressure you needed. “You’re gonna wait.”

You couldn’t believe it. Yunho, sweet, funny Yunho, had you spread open, two fingers fucking into you slow and deep while he denied your orgasm like he’d done it a hundred times before. And it wasn’t just good. It was perfect. You were dripping. Twitching. The denial only making it worse.

And when you cried out again, he added a third finger. Your hands flew to the sheets, gasping like he’d punched the air from your lungs. “Look at you,” he murmured, his voice a mix of awe and filth. “Mingi’s been holding out on me.” You were ruined. And he loved it.

He fucked you slowly with three fingers now, watching the way your body tensed and fluttered around them. Your moans were broken, high and helpless. “I could make you come right now,” he whispered, dragging his lips along your inner thigh, “but I don’t want you coming on my fingers.”

He kissed your clit once, barely, and pulled his hand back completely and your whole body shook in protest. “Yunho…”

“You’re gonna come,” he said, standing now, looking down at you, dick hard and gleaming between you, “when I fuck you.” And from the chair in the corner, Mingi’s voice, low, breathless, completely wrecked already. “She’s ready.”

Yunho stood at the edge of the bed, bare now, every inch of him carved and hungry, dick standing thick and flushed between his abs and the shadow of his thighs. He was beautiful in the worst way, like a ruin you wanted to crawl into. All that soft, dimpled warmth he usually carried was gone. What remained was a man stripped down to nothing but want.

And all of it? For you. He moved in without a word, climbing onto the mattress and settling between your legs, pressing hot, open mouthed kisses to your knee, your inner thigh, then your stomach. You gasped, arching into him as his hands slid up your sides, large and grounding, holding you like something he’d been aching to have in his grasp for years.

When he reached your chest, he didn’t hesitate. He licked, sucked, bit, gently, until you were breathless again, your fingers threading through his hair. But he wasn’t done. Without warning, Yunho grabbed you by the hips and flipped you with effortless strength, your body landing against the pillows, and him right behind you, back now propped against the headboard, dick glistening between them.

He pulled you into his lap, back to chest, his thick thighs caging you in, his hands everywhere. One slid up to your throat. The other spread your legs wide, leaving you completely open, completely vulnerable, and seated perfectly against the length of his dick.

Yunho’s mouth was right by your ear now, voice low and electric. “Right here,” he whispered, dragging the head of his dick between your folds, smearing your slick up and down. “This is where I want you.” And then his eyes flicked up, across the room. To Mingi. Still in the chair. Still watching.

Yunho smirked. “Pick up the camera.” Mingi didn’t move for a moment, stunned, maybe, or just aroused past speech. But then his hand twitched. He stood slowly, chest rising and falling, and walked across the room, the red light blinking steadily as he lifted the camera into both hands.

Yunho adjusted his grip on your thighs, spreading them just a little further as his dick slid through the dripping mess between your legs. “Make sure you get everything,” he said, staring straight into the lens. “She’s not yours tonight.” His voice dipped, full of power and possession and something dangerously intimate. “She’s mine.”

Yunho’s arms locked around you, one gripping your thigh, the other spread across your waist, hand splayed wide beneath your ribs. You were flushed, panting, legs spread across his lap, slick soaking his dick as he ran it through your folds again… and again… and again. Not entering. Not yet. Just teasing. Tormenting.

The head of his cock tapped your clit, made your hips twitch, made your hands grip his thighs beneath you and still, he didn’t give it to you.

From the other side of the room, Mingi shifted the camera, silent, focused, adjusting the angle to frame you both perfectly. The lens caught everything, the twitch of legs, the tension in Yunho’s arms, the heavy weight of his dick dragging between your folds, leaving trails of slick behind.

“You hear that?” Yunho murmured in your ear, voice low and feral. The slick, wet sound of your pussy against his dick was obscene. You whimpered, barely able to nod. Yunho’s hand left your waist and slid down, between your thighs, two fingers rubbing tight circles over your swollen clit while his dick kept sliding just below.

You gasped, loud. And Yunho smirked. “Look at her,” he said to the camera, pressing harder, watching your body twitch. “Already coming apart. And I haven’t even fucked her yet.” Mingi groaned behind the lens as you tried to grind down, tried to take him, your hips rolling forward, chasing his dick, but Yunho grabbed your waist again and held you still. “No.”

You whimpered, growing impatient. “Yunho…”

“You come when I say,” he breathed into your ear. “Not a second before.” He tapped your clit once more, twice, fingers fast and light, sending you straight into a high pitched gasp. Your back arched. Your body trembled. He shifted his hips. Lined up. And pushed in.

Slow. So fucking slow.

“Holy fuck,” he growled as he sank into you, inch by inch, your walls stretching around him like he was made for you. Your hands flew to his thighs. Your eyes fluttered shut. Your mouth dropped open around a soundless moan. “Eyes open, baby,” Yunho whispered against your neck. “Look at the camera. Let him see how you look when someone else stretches you.”

Mingi cursed behind the camera, low, breathless as you did as you were told. Head turned just enough, eyes fluttering open, barely holding on as Yunho filled you to the hilt and held you there, deep, unmoving. “Ride me,” he ordered, one hand sliding up to grip your throat, not tight, just firm enough to control. “Nice and slow. Let him see every inch.”

You began to move. Rocking forward. Lifting your hips. Letting his dick drag out of you slowly, then sinking back down again. Your ass met his thighs with a wet slap, and Yunho groaned, hands gripping tight as he guided your pace. “That’s it,” he hissed. “Take it. Take every fucking inch, just like that.”

The camera zoomed closer, capturing the slick shine coating his dick and the white ring of milky cream as you rode him, capturing the tremble in your thighs, the glazed look in your eyes.

Yunho tilted his head, watching you. Watching Mingi watch you. “She’s never coming back from this.”

You were trembling, but you weren’t stopping. Your palms were planted on Yunho’s thighs, fingers digging into the hard muscle, using his body as your anchor. And Yunho, god, Yunho was gone. Jaw clenched, eyes locked on the place where your bodies met, his hands gripping your hips like he didn’t know whether to let you keep going or flip you and lose control entirely.

You were moving like you wanted to own him. Not just up and down, but left, right, forward, back. Grinding slow, rolling your hips, then sinking all the way down and rocking against his base like you needed every inch deep. Wet sounds filled the room. Your thighs were coated. His dick glistened. Every movement you made was a symphony of slick and want.

And behind the camera? Mingi’s voice broke through, low, rough, wrecked. “That’s right, baby,” he breathed, completely focused on the frame. “Take it. Let him feel all of you.” You whimpered, your head tipping back slightly, mouth open, hips stuttering from the stimulation. You heard him. You were performing for him now. But your body? Your body was riding for yourself.

“Fuck,” Yunho groaned, his voice strained. “You feel so….tight… you’re gonna make me come if you keep moving like that.” But you didn’t stop. You sped up.Yunho’s thighs tensed beneath you as you rode him harder now, fucking yourself onto his dick, ass slapping down with every thrust, hands slipping slightly on his sweat slicked skin.

“Look at that,” Mingi murmured behind the lens. “Look at the way she grinds on you like she’s been dreaming about it.” Yunho had dreamed about it. Every fucking night since he saw the video. And now you were here, real, soaked, spread wide in his lap, working him like he belonged to you.

“Keep going, baby,” Mingi coached, voice hoarse. “He’s close. I can see it in his face.”Yunho groaned again, his hands grabbing your hips tighter. But then you looked at him, eyes wild, face flushed, hair clinging to your neck. “Tell me,” you whispered breathlessly. “Tell me whose it is”

Yunho’s head dropped to her shoulder, his voice torn from somewhere primal. “It’s yours. Fuck…. it’s always been yours!” You were close. Your body betrayed you, hips rolling, breath ragged, thighs clenching around Yunho’s waist as you bounced back on his dick, chasing another orgasm like you were made for it.

But Yunho? Yunho had other plans. He grunted, low, sharp and lifted you off him, your slick dripping down the length of his dick as he laid your back on the sheets, flipping you like a man with a mission. You gasped as your spine hit the mattress, your legs instinctively spreading for him, needy, trembling. “Yunho…”

“Shhh,” he rasped, leaning over you, guiding one of your legs around his waist, the other hoisted high over his shoulder. “Let me.” His dick still flushed, leaking, aching, pressed right against your clit. Not inside. Not yet. He began to rub. Slow. Hard. Deliberate. The thick head of his dick slid through your folds, dragging over your clit again and again, sending sparks up your spine with each pass. Your hands flew to the sheets, to his arms, to anywhere you could grab, because your body was coming undone.

“That’s it,” Yunho murmured, staring down at your wrecked expression. “That’s what I want. Come for me like this.” And you did. You cried out, your whole body jolting as your clit throbbed against his dick, heat washing through you like lightning. But Yunho didn’t stop. While you were still shaking, still gasping from the release, his hand slid between you, two fingers plunging deep into you.

“Yunho!”

He fucked into you hard, fast, curling deep, pumping you open as you writhed beneath him. Your orgasm was still happening and already he was dragging you toward another. “Look at her,” he growled toward Mingi, who was silent behind the camera now, breath unsteady. “Look at how she falls apart for me.”

He added a third finger. Curled them up into that spot that made you scream. Your back arched clean off the bed as you squirted. It hit his hand. His arm. His chest. Soaking the sheets beneath you in wave after wave as Yunho kept thrusting through it, riding out your high like a storm he didn’t want to end.

“Fuck yes,” he groaned, utterly wrecked. “Give it to me, fucking soak me, baby.” He dropped his mouth to your pussy. No hesitation. Just tongue and lips and filthy desperation as he licked you clean, licked you through the mess, through your twitching thighs, through the overstimulation that made you scream and sob and grab at his hair like you couldn’t survive one more second.

But he didn’t stop. He ate you like it was his job. Like he hadn’t been fed in weeks. And when your legs finally gave out, trembling and slick, your body wrung out beneath him, Yunho sat up, glowing, glistening, panting. “You’re still not done.”

Yunho pulled himself from her soaked pussy slowly, just for a second, only to guide himself right back in. This time, he didn’t rush. He sank in deep. Your legs immediately wrapped around his waist, trembling as they locked behind his back, pulling him in like you never wanted him to leave. And Yunho, sweaty, panting, raw with need, bent forward and caught your wrists in his hands.

You reached up for him. And he gave them. Your fingers interlocked. Bodies locked. Breath tangled. He started moving again, deep, slow thrusts, dragging his dick against every inch inside you that made you shake.

Behind you, the camera kept rolling. And Mingi? He was right there. Framing the moment. Breathing heavily. His hands steady even as his restraint frayed. Yunho didn’t take his eyes off you. “Get that shot,” he said to Mingi, voice guttural. “She’s creaming all over me.”

And, oh, you were. Every thrust left a mess between you, slick dripping from you to the sheets, his dick glistening with it every time he pulled back only to press back in, harder, deeper. Yunho’s hand left yours and slid up your body and wrapped it around your throat. Firm. Possessive. Not enough to hurt, just enough to remind you who had you now.

“Don’t come yet,” he growled, his hips starting to piston harder now. “Not until I do. You hold it, baby. You hold it for me.” Your whimper cracked in your throat. Your legs tightened. Your hands dug into his. He fucked into you faster, still deep, still relentless, chest pressing into yours, the sound of skin on skin echoing through the room now. The bed shifted beneath you, the air thick with sweat and want and claiming.

“Yunho…. please…. please….” You sobbed.

“Not yet.” His thrusts stuttered. Once. Twice.

Then he buried himself deep with a groan that vibrated down your spine. “Now,” he breathed. “Come with me.”

And you shattered. Your pussy clamped down around him, pulling him in deeper as your orgasm tore through you. And Yunho, eyes shut, jaw clenched, came with you, groaning low as he emptied inside, filling you full with every last desperate pulse.

They clung to each other, bodies slick and trembling, both wrecked, both gasping.

Yunho didn’t pull out right away. He pressed his forehead to yours, hand still around your throat, still holding you in place like he couldn’t let go yet.

Until, slowly, he eased out. A flood of his cum followed. Dripping from between your thighs, down to the sheets, thick and messy. And Mingi?

Still holding the camera, breath shaky, eyes locked on the mess he’d just watched happen.

He stepped forward. With one hand still filming, he reached out with the other. Two fingers. He slid them between your folds, gathering up the creamy mixture of both your orgasm and Yunho’s seed, swiping through the mess until you twitched from overstimulation.

Then, without a word, he pushed it back into you. Deep. Just like he had done to you in the original video. You gasped. And then, he brought his fingers to your mouth. Still glistening. Still warm. “Open,” he said softly. You did. Lips parting, tongue out, your eyes fluttering shut as you took his fingers in slowly, licked them clean.

Mingi groaned. Yunho watched, barely breathing. And the camera blinked red. Still rolling. Still catching every second of the filthiest masterpiece they’d ever made.

═════════ ═════════ ═════════

The lights were low in the studio. Mingi sat front and center, laptop open, cables everywhere, bouncing his leg like a kid on too much caffeine and not enough sleep. Hongjoong leaned forward, one arm on the table, nodding to the beat as the track started.

The others lounged in various states of distraction. San on the floor. Wooyoung texting. Jongho half asleep with his hood up. Yeosang squinting at lyrics like they might personally insult him. Seonghwa scrolling on his phone.

And Yunho? Yunho sat there trying not to combust. Because the track Mingi queued up was titled, Masterpiece_Demo_v3.wav.

And Yunho already knew what it was about. He’d helped write it. Not with a pen. With his body. With your moans.

He swallowed hard, jaw tight, heart thudding in his chest. The beat dropped. Heavy bass. Sultry synth. R&B. That slow, low hum that sounded exactly like the pace Yunho had set while fucking you against the living room mirror.

And then came the chorus: “Paint it, paint it, left, right, up and down

Come write your name for me (Name for me)

Make it a masterpiece, yeah (Woah)”

Yunho’s face went hot. Hongjoong bobbed his head. “This is fire.”

“Oh, we know,” Mingi said, grinning. Yunho side eyed him. Mingi caught it. And winked as the outro started.

“Left to right, move it up and down (Oh)

We can take all night, move it 'round and 'round

From left to right, move it up and down (Oh)

We can take all night, move it 'round and 'round, woah”

San blinked. “Damn. This is kinda… sensual?” Wooyoung made a face. “Kind of? This is sex with a beat drop.”

“I like it,” Yeosang murmured. “It’s mature. Dark. Emotional. But also very…” He paused and Seonghwa finished for him. “Detailed.”

Yunho was trying not to move. Trying not to remember the way you had looked the night before, when Mingi had whispered, “Cream on him, baby.” And Yunho had groaned, into your throat.

They hadn’t stopped since that first night. It wasn’t a one time thing. Somehow, in the weeks that followed, Yunho had gone from guest star to permanent cast member, sleeping in your bed, taking turns eating you out while Mingi held your hands, fucking you with the camera on and off, loving you both with terrifying intensity.

And now the entire group was about to sing a song about your sex life. Their sex life. Yunho couldn’t breathe as Mingi leaned over and whispered. “Think they’ll guess it’s your moan I sampled in the second chorus?”

Yunho shot him a look so sharp, it could’ve sliced tape. Mingi just grinned wider. “Relax,” he added, tapping his foot to the beat. “You’re our best kept secret.” And the hook hit. Low. Dirty. Full of rhythm and hunger and exactly the pace Mingi had filmed that night, your body bouncing in Yunho’s.

The studio speakers thumped. Hongjoong turned to Mingi, nodding slow. “This the title track?” Mingi smiled, all teeth.

“It better be.”

═════════ ═════════ ═════════

permanent tag list: @straycat420 @autieofthevalley @dejatiny @hannahlilibet411 @xh01bri @jintastic-yuyu @maddycline @ultrapinkvoidbouquet @wooyoungsbrat @lucid-galaxys-world @ecriggs1990 @straytiny127 @sannies-tiddies @hannahstacos @jiminthestreets-bonesinthesheets @love--in-stayville @hartsablaze @remi-young

#I got carried away with this one 😭#mingi #song mingi #mingi smut #mingi x you #mingi x reader #yunho #jeong yunho #yunho smut #yunho x you #yunho x reader #ateez #ateez fic #ateez fanfic

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peasack · 2 days ago

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I have a patent-teacher conference and guys its not okay I'm cooked.

Lowkey a bit of Valentina slander at the end but that's okay cause who likes her anyway.

Thunderbolts x Gn!Teen!Reader

✦ Parent-Teacher conference headcanons ✦

∗ ࣪ ˖༺ ♡ ༻˖ ࣪ ∗∗ ࣪ ˖༺ ♡ ༻˖ ࣪ ∗∗ ࣪ ˖༺ ♡ ༻˖ ࣪ ∗

✦ Alexei Shostakov ✦

Immediate big bear grin. “Of course! I would love to! Finally, official father duties! I am ready.”

He’s way too excited. You almost regret asking him because he immediately starts planning what to wear like it’s the Olympics.

He introduces himself as your “papa” and tells wildly exaggerated stories about your achievements that didn’t happen.

“Ah yes, Y/N once lifted a car. Very strong. Takes after me.”

The teacher is just blinking rapidly “I-what?”

He lowkey embarrasses you, but he’s also so proud.

Brags about you non-stop and leaves with his arm around you, even if you’re fake-mad at him the whole way home.

✦ Yelena Belova ✦

Acts super casual about it. “Yes, I can go. Why not? Someone must supervise the situation.” But she’s secretly honored you asked her.

She shows up in the coolest outfit and definitely intimidates your teacher a little.

If the teacher complains about you, she’s like: “No. You are wrong. Y/N is perfect.” (Dead serious.)

If they praise you, she’s smug for the rest of the week.

“You know, you could have asked anyone. But you picked me. Admit it Mouse. I am the best.”

✦ Bucky Barnes ✦

Very quiet, kinda awkward. “Me? Uh… yeah. Sure, kid. If you want me to.”

He sits stiffly, probably wears his nicest jacket. Doesn’t say much unless he needs to defend you.

If the teacher says you’re struggling, he’s all protective like, “What’s the school doing to help them? They’re not doing this alone.”

Absolutely takes your side.

If the teacher complains about you hanging out alone, Bucky’s just like, “Yeah? Maybe the other kids should be less annoying.”

Buys you snacks on the way home.

Barely talks about the meeting, just quietly says he’s proud of you.

✦ John Walker ✦

Blown away. “Wait, you want me to go? Like… with you? Of course! Yeah, I can do that. I’m good at that. Totally. Parental figure. Yeah.”

(He’s so flustered it’s adorable.)

Takes it VERY seriously. Nods way too much. The teacher lowkey loves him because he’s polite and enthusiastic.

If they criticize you, John gets defensive FAST.

“Have you considered that maybe your teaching style isn’t working for them? Just a thought.”

Treats you to dinner after like it’s a whole formal event.

“You did good, kid. Real good. Thanks for letting me be there.”

✦ Bob Reynolds ✦

Looks like you just asked him to hold the sun. He’s so touched. “Me? You really want me to go? Yeah. Yeah, I’d be honored.”

Soft-spoken the whole time. Very respectful but sharp when it comes to defending you.

He listens carefully, makes eye contact, thanks the teacher even if they’re being harsh.

If the teacher praises you, he beams.

Quiet little proud smiles. Might ruffle your hair without thinking.

Gets awkward when you thank him.

“Oh—uh, you don’t have to thank me. I’m just glad you wanted me there.”

He'll be smiling after that all day.

✦ Ava Starr ✦

“Why me?” but not in a bad way—just genuinely surprised you’d choose her.

When you tell her you trust her, she agrees instantly. “I’ll be there. You got me.”

Has the most terrifying resting face. The teacher is so scared to say anything negative because Ava looks like she’ll end them.

If the teacher says you’re doing well, Ava’s eyes soften.

She just mutters, “Told you they were good.”

Doesn’t make a big deal out of it. On the way home she just quietly says, “Thanks for picking me.” But you can tell it meant a lot.

✦ Valentina Allegra de Fontaine ✦

"why would I wanna go to that"

Simply doesn't attend.

∗ ࣪ ˖༺ ♡ ༻˖ ࣪ ∗∗ ࣪ ˖༺ ♡ ༻˖ ࣪ ∗∗ ࣪ ˖༺ ♡ ༻˖ ࣪ ∗

Hope you guys liked this one!! My requests are always open<33

Is it obvious that I hate Valentina

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wonderjanga · 2 days ago

Note

billy and mary as twin robins?

Billy: *checking out his costume* “Uh… I don’t like this Mr Batman Sir.”

Billy is wearing a costume similar to Dick and Jason’s except with shorts instead of tighty-whiteys. Mary is wearing a costume similar to Stephanie’s.

Mary: “Yeah, by the way, is this costume used?”

Spoiler: “Yes, and you look adorable!” *taking like five hundred pictures*

Robin!Damian: “Father, why exactly do we need the extra, unneeded help?”

Batman: “Don’t worry about it, Robin.” *pushes him towards Billy and Mary* “Now say cheese.”

After Bruce took a singular photo, he set them and Damian loose.

Batman: “Robins, since there are now three of you, you may go as a group.”

Robin!Damian: “I don’t have to accompany you, father?”

Batman: “No. Now go on. Stop crime. Watch your sibli— I mean, watch your partners, Robin.”

Mary and Billy: “Yes!”

Robin!Damian: “He was talking to me…” *starts walking off*

Mary and Billy: *follow after him*

Billy: *whispering to Mary* “What was that stutter from Mr Batman Sir?”

Mary: *shrugs*

Later, all three of them stood on a rooftop. Mary and Billy didn’t really know their way around Gotham nor know much about its rogues so they just let Robin take the reins of their little trio.

Robin!Damian: “Alright you both, this is a standard mugging. You both take down one man while I take the other.”

Mary and Billy: “Okay!”

Later…

Robin!Damian: *already took his guy down*

Mary and Billy: *stomping their guy out*

Robin!Damian: “Hey.”

Mary and Billy: *still stomping their guy out*

Robin!Damian: “Hey!”

Mary and Billy: *continue stomping*

Robin!Damian: “HEY!”

Mary and Billy: *both stop*

Robin!Damian: “Tie him up and move on.”

Mary and Billy: “Yes Robin!” *salute*

They mostly handled petty crimes due to Damian thinking Billy and Mary were untrained. Which, they were, in the normal forms. Damian doesn’t know that either of them are Marvels. They ended the night with a scraped knee on Billy’s side (he fumbled some parkour) and a little scratch on one of Mary’s arms. (Some guy pulled a knife and nicked her, it wasn’t a deep one.) Back at the cave, they had some cookies from Alfred and parted ways.

#billy batson #shazam #dc captain marvel #captain marvel dc #fawcett city #fawcett #fawcett comics #mary batson #mary bromfield

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iluvsanrio444 · 2 days ago

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╭┈ • ┈ ୨୧ ┈ • ┈╮

chapter one plot ⋆˚࿔ : Ever since interactions between Huntrix and The Saja Boys, Romance had been eyeing you down. The exchanged glances and personal space not being a thing each time till the point you find yourself in a fling with Romance. That’s how you thought to view it as, no more than a fling, right? Humans and demons aren’t capable to love each other. Even hunters wouldn’t be capable. What makes you expect this would actually turn out right?

word count -> 2,624

#Fluff #mild-angst #comedic #romcom #movies-plot #context based

ʚɞ A/N: Depending on the performance for this chapter, i’ll turn this into a series with many more chapters to come by! Any suggestions after this feel free to send me anything or maybe feedback :3 ENJOYY!!

╰┈•┈୨୧┈•┈╯

There were a millions of reasons why this shouldn’t be happening. Not like this.

It started with innocent long glances between the two when both HuntriX and The Saja Boys would conflict with each other. Nothing out of the norm, right? However, whenever interactions like these happen, you can't help but always feel a pair of eyes on you, you only. The way he lingered a little longer before following the others to exit. Softening gazes when you did make eye contact, one where.. he— he meant no harm? Nonsense, he's a demon. All demons are nefarious.

Even knowing this, being the odd one out it felt weird at first, but soon after it tingled within your heart, the strings being tugged on like wireless cables. This was only the result of Celine's parenting, continuously doting on Rumi even after knowing both you and she possess your father's demon traits. The only difference was she had it all: the talent, the aspiration, the ability, and the power. Everything. You? …Yeah maybe some aspiration and some strength but never the talent. At least not up to Rumi's level.

As days passed by, there were challenges between the sisters, but this played out well since it did make them grow fonder and understanding of each other, trying to accept their roles. It wasn't so bad; you didn't have to hide the staggering markings with Rumi and Rumi too. It only hit you meticulously at times, looking at the group performing from the wings, fans cheering them on..being loved, acknowledged for who you are, and recognised for you.

You were supposed to be up there if only your mother had just… put a little oomph into you, you know? Instead, you were just their helper, a personal manager next to Bobby. Although you did have trouble accepting this, the only way was to force yourself. It was, in fact, inevitable at the end of the day.

Who the hell would be contempt with this? You must be Buddha to be!

Every time it was like someone immensely poking drumsticks at your abdomen each time fans recognised the trio whilst you had to stand at the sides. Invisible. To you it felt like you were their clerk at times, nothing less different than from a Joseon princess's eunuch; you might as well scream jeonhaaa. Ugh. Anyone who knew your situation would take pity on you or, matter of fact, just clown you for it. Yeah, you were the clown near the trio, - it felt like putting rouge on a corpse.

Being Rumi’s sister, you were already built to despise the Saja boys ever since they debuted with their song “Soda Pop”. Even Zoey, who always was headed to whichever guy she comically popped popcorn out of her eyes and even bopped her shoulders to their song, had some hatred for them. Yet here you are, hands limp on the metal railing, tinging your forearms with its mint. Again he had come by one of the members in the same very group you were told to despise. Romance. The palpable, effortlessly charming, labelled ‘playboy’ in the group, the annoying sugar-gazing... loveable… enduring — okay, what the flip. As your eyes followed the pink-haired man swiftly but silently jumping over the railing, a sigh left, knowing where your thoughts were headed about this overly love-addict bastard.

“You’re here..- again?” Your eyes still focus on Romance, clearly not fazed by this in the moment. You didn't have any energy to be bothered. It was already midnight, and Huntrix was making their comeback song “TakeDown” for the idol awards. A long day being a dog, to be honest. At least Romance came by then and there; honestly, his timing is really meaningful to you, obviously. He's a weird demon or whatnot; what feelings does he have?

Romance gave that same earnest gaze along with that bitchboy smirk, “Don’t act like you enjoy it—“

“I don’t.”

“You do.”

“I don’t Romance.”

“Oh yeah?” He took his place beside you, having his elbow rest on the railing whilst the other hand cupped his cheek, hunching his back a bit to your height, looking down. “Then why did you even notice me in the first place?”

A scoff leaves your mouth, “Who the hell wouldn’t notice a tall ass pink heart shaped hair climbing onto my damn balcony?” Romance couldn't help but let out a laugh seeing how pent up you had gotten. He was the ‘playboy’ in the Saja Boys, but that didn't stop him from being a damn heartthrob who noticed even the littlest things. That charm of his grabbed you, and he knew it.

“What's so funny?” You gave him a sideways glance, “You, getting so worked up.” Your entire head was facing him with your face getting more of a scowl in annoyance, “How does Jinu even handle you..”

In response, Romance dramatically tugged on his shirt, his hand on his heart and a grunt in pain, “Mentioning another man when I'm here… ack—!” Followed by that adoring smile his fans go ballistic for, “Y/N!”

Rolling your eyes, a staggering smile threatening to appear on your lips. You nudged him a bit by your elbow near his ribs, “Shut it, you sound like a damn rat dog.”

“RAT DOG?!”

Romance made even more grunting in comical pain, intentionally making it louder for the trio to hear him. In a haste you snapped your head to your room door and back to him. What if they heard? “Aii! Okay okay..” She placed her hand now on his forearm. “A— uh.. Pomeranian dog okay? Happy?” He bent down a bit more to meet her eyes. “Happy.” The sudden closure brought both of you to an airtight silence, feeling the rise in warming tension between the two, face to face. It stayed like that for a while, with not many words or bickering said but a lot more meaningful intent. This thing you and him had going on… this fling – who knows what can happen to them? A mouthy ‘why’ tried to escape your mouth but was immediately greeted by Romance having another hearing of Gwi-Ma's malicious announces.

Already weakening his knees, he was forced to buckle down onto the floor whilst his hands hastily made their way to his ears. Trying to block out any sound or just Gwi-Ma's voice in general. Moments like these made you question if all demons were truly wicked. You didn't have the slightest clue what to do, but you went through it, kneeling down to his height. Taking in what was going on, you knew it was Gwi-Ma's daily threats he told you about, seeing how he blocked his ears, his eyes trembling, sweat running down and, most importantly, his demon marks showing through. You never had any of these Gwi-Ma stuff for whatever reason, but the least you could really do is comfort the poor gu— demon.

Your hand made its way to his back; at first he flinched away slightly but soon realised that your hand made gentle pats. Soothing your hand up and down his back with small pats filled with genuine worry, soft enough to not throw him off yet enough to signal him you’re here. “Aii rat dog, I'm here, okay?” With a small smile, you jokingly cooed to him, just trying to get his mind out of the gutters in Gwi-Ma's constant threats. What if some demons aren't that bad? Your doubt with Celine's life teachings against demons only grew the more you saw Romance in pain.

He flashed a quick smile hearing what you called him again, giving a weakened expression, one that was vulnerable. Nevertheless, only you saw the one he felt most comfortable with. “Seriously? Is 'rat dog' going to be my new nickname or what?” The snigger left before you could even reply, giving out a smile that was once hidden with others. Even your own sister. “It suits you.” However, despite the sniggers that escaped, you felt his eyes only on you. He didn't laugh with you; he followed you with that adoring gaze yet again, only smiling in response, admiring your raw self.

“Whatt?” You asked as you calmed down from the high in the joke, your smile still in contact. A small “hm” noise when she tilted her head left and right, patting her hand on his back more. “Romance?”

“Cute.”

“Eh?”

“Sometimes you can be adorable, Y/N, even when I get under your ski—.”

Knock. Knock. Knock.

A snap back to reality caused you to shoot up from the floor; the beaten red look on your cheeks went against you. Hitting him multiple times on the shoulder, causing him to go, “Ah! What the hell?!” You quickly dragged Romance up on his feet and pushed him into your room. “Yah! Y/N? She's going to see me, dumbass; I'm too big-!” He retaliated against you trying to keep himself outside of the closet. You gritted your teeth, “Shut up and get in the damn closet!” In one big push you managed to shove him into your closet. Whilst being practically plunged into the closet, he put his hand on top of his heart-shaped hair and yelled in a long whisper, “No, my hairr..!”

Thud.

Knock, knock, knocₖₖₖₖₖ

“I’m coming!” You yelled out at the continuous knocking, Who the hell was it? Looking around your room for any hints that Romance, who is literally here, left to indicate his presence. Why? Well, I don't know. Maybe because Huntrix HATED him and his group's guts? You didn't see any signals that would suggest Romance being here, so in a swift gallop skip, you opened the door to see the three: Rumi, Mira, and Zoey.

“What took you so longg?” Zoey asked in her high-pitched tone, draping her arm around your shoulder whilst Mira walked inside, no questions asked, “Took you long enough; the hell were you doing?”

“Oh, me? “Uh...” you quickly retorted in a giggle whilst scratching the side of your neck, letting out a believable yawn, “I was trying to sleep.” Zoey, Mira and you were already up to the shenanigans before Rumi walked in. “We need to talk.” Everyone's head snapped to Rumi with a curious yet nervous look. “Together. All of us.” This made your personal nerves even more tense knowing that Romance was in your closet doing God knows what.. probably worrying for his hair like usual. However, it wasn't just that; it was the look on Rumi's face. A look that she was familiar with whenever something happened with guilt.

Rumi sat everyone down in the living room, —Zoey on the singular rounded chair, Mira cross-legged beside me, and Rumi leg crossed in the centre. An uneasy feeling was known for a bit which didn't stop you from glancing at your bedroom door, worried for that pinky who was in your closet still. Hopefully. Ugh..you prayed to whatever god up there that he wasn’t snooping about and just stayed in your room like a good dog. Ironic.

Rumi took a deep breath and looked at everyone, “I know we don’t keep secrets between each other.” She startled you, thinking it was about time that Zoey and Mira knew about the half-demon breed you and Rumi are. But as soon as you heard the name, ‘Jinu’ you leaned back on the couch and exhaled, knowing where this one was going. It was obvious – maybe not to Zoey or Mira, but to you it was your sisters at the end of the day. Nothing can go unnoticed between the two… That being said, did Rumi know about your fling with Romance? You shook your head slightly, knowing you had to focus on what Rumi had to say.

Zoey and Mira were almost at the edge of their seats as soon as Rumi brought up Jinu. Zoey, of course, was giggling her ass off, whilst Mira had a weirded-out expression. “So.. I and Jinu have been talking…” Zoey was the one to scream first, “Talking as in how?!” Rumi couldn't keep her eyes on us. Keeping her hand grasped onto her forearm in embarrassment, she finally awkwardly responded, “I think we all know.. how..”

“Rumi, you were the one who told us not to get close with them.”

“I know..”

“Rumi, what's going to happen?”

“I don’t know.. but we’re trying to figure it out.”

“What about Gwi-Ma?” Your arms were crossed and dead set on Rumi. The only reason why you were serious in this question was because of.. Romance. What if there was a world where manipulated demons could live by with humans? Hunters? Why the hell did you care either way, let alone for Romance, its a damn fling. The three ladies had turned their eyes onto you, whilst Rumis widened slightly, “That.. we don’t know… It's only based on a theory.”

“Which is?”

“If we seal the honmoon before Gwi-Ma can even get fed more soul, the weaker he gets, right?” We all nod.

“No souls being fed is equal to no Gwi-Ma; he wouldn't be powerful enough.” Rumi kept doting on either of us as she explained the theory, “Don’t forget that the honmoon will seal the demons out for good, the demons alongside Gwi-Ma himself.”

“If, in some miracle, Jinu and probably the other Saja Boys don’t get into that sealing process, then maybe… just maybe they can get a second chance, a second life here… away from Gwi-Ma's torturous attacks.”

It was silent. Piercingly silent. You, Zoey and Mira were processing what the hell Rumi's theory was going on about. To be honest, in her case, it was making sense, and it did line up perfectly, but... where's the evidence? What happens if-

“What happens if it doesn’t work, Rumi?” Ah, Mira already caught you to the chase. “It will work, Mira. If we could tell Celine this and what she's told me beforehand, it will wor—“

“She told you stuff…?” Mira focused on that part. Shit. You already knew what Rumi was going on about, but these two don't know. You looked at Rumi in urgency as her own eyes flickered to yours in a second. “Celines told us about the honmoon no?” You chimed in, trying to save Rumi out of the corner, “She’s made it clear if the honmoon is sealed, the demons within that seal are gone for good. We never knew Gwi-Ma would even think to make a demon boy band and allow them to roam freely in the human world.” After my saving, Rumi could finally breathe, seeing Zoey and Mira buy into it. I gave a quick smile and half-hidden thumbs up to Rumi, in which she smiled back gratefully. It did make sense what I said. Its just.. the risk behind it.

“Would the Saja Boys even agree with this?” Zoey asked, already Googling, on the fact that she could keep that purple-haired, face-covered strange guy, Mystery. It made you laugh seeing Zoey always admiring mystery even though she denies all claims so freely. A tug on the dumbbells latched on your heart each time she did, though. Supposing that could be Romance and you… even if it was a fling or just interest.

“We can convince them!” Rumi declared loudly when Mira just smirked like she was the devil herself, cracking her knuckles, “If they do anything funny, I swear I’ll kill them all.”

Amidst everything going down and between the exchanged laughs and perseverance in comedic speeches about the Saja Boys, you noticed something off. At the edge of your vision, you spotted your bedroom door opened ajar. It dawned on you the possibility that Romance had heard everything; how much did he hear?

#kpop demon hunters #kpdh #saja boys #huntrix #romance saja x reader #rumi kpdh #mira kpdh #zoey kpdh #mystery saja #saja boys x reader #jinu saja boys #mild angst #romcom #fluff

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spaceycat · 3 days ago

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𐙚˚ ༘ɴᴏᴡ ᴘʟᴀʏɪɴɢ ... ╰┈➤ 𝚋𝚘𝚋 𝚏𝚕𝚘𝚢𝚍 𝚗𝚜𝚏𝚠 𝚊𝚕𝚙𝚑𝚊𝚋𝚎𝚝 ✮⋆ ˚.ᐟ

♫ ᴘʟᴀʏɪɴɢ: national anthem by lana del ray (3:50) // 𝄞⨾ ࣪𓍢ִ໋ " red, white, blues in the sky, summer's in the air and baby, heaven's in your eyes. " 𖤐.ᐟ

A = Aftercare (what they’re like after sex) stares at you with his big blue eyes, he's just analysing you the entire afterwards - pushing his foggy glasses up his face. half the time you're the one taking care of him because you ruin him so easily.

B = Body part (their favorite body part of theirs and also their partner’s) his hands/fingers, cause he knows you stare when he's dragging a finger down a plane model book, adjusting his glasses with his ring and middle finger that makes you want them buried inside you. if he wears a watch to a fancy event you're on him. and those goddamn gloves he wears when he flies wearing his aviator gear makes you literally want to chew on him. you, in general - any part of you he loves and worships like your a goddess on earth. he isn't a picky man and he just loves to stare and touch anything you'll let him see or feel.

C = Cum (anything to do with cum, basically) when cum comes into the picture i think bob goes a little bit feral, the kind of man to beg to cum inside of you while literally losing his mind - and yes, he likes to see it drip out of you because he's like "whoa, i did that"

D = Dirty secret (pretty self explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs) he loves wearing his glasses during sex, specifically when going down on you so they fog up a little from his panting and the sheer heat - he likes to put them onto your own face and watch them slip down your nose and he laughs a bit as he adjusts them on your face.

E = Experience (how experienced are they? do they know what they’re doing?) pretty inexperienced, flying took priority over dating - like yeah he's had one or two girlfriends but nothing sexual came out of it and the relationships ended pretty soon. so you have to teach him a few things but he's a very fast learner.

F = Favorite position (this goes without saying) he just likes the simple and intimate ones, he isn't one for elaborate positions that half of the time are uncomfortable so missionary and a good side fuck are his go to.

G = Goofy (are they more serious in the moment? are they humorous? etc.) bob doesn't really care, i think he just likes the experience - even if it's filled with giggles or just pure seriousness, he'll mutter some dumb one liner under his breath and you just pause and start giggling.

H = Hair (how well groomed are they? does the carpet match the drapes? etc.) i fully believe that bob is well groomed, like all the time. that's it, that's H.

I = Intimacy (how are they during the moment? the romantic aspect) its very intimate, even if he is rough/demanding with you it's still reserved and private - bob is protective over you, if hangman flirts with you he's like... oh. he values the romantic aspect of sex and wants to make you as comfortable as he possibly can even if he's just taking shit for himself after a rough day.

J = Jack off (masturbation headcanon) he'd jack off in secret because he'd feel bad knowing that you're not giving him pleasure even if you said it was okay. and if he is caught he is just a babbling stammering mess like "oh-- shit.. no- i'm.. i'm so sorry, i just couldn't- i needed to." while still actively jerking off cuz its YOU.

K = Kink (one or more of their kinks) EYECONTACTTTTT!!! i feel like bob has major staring problem so he always makes sure that your eyes are locked onto his during sex, or when he's between your thighs and his glasses are nice and foggy - it also just feeds his ego because he can see you crumbling beneath him.

L = Location (favorite places to do the do) he's a traditionalist so his bedroom is the favourite, but if he comes back from a mission he'll settle for anything - bedroom, couch, kitchen counter, shower. i'm not gonna say anything about him doing it in a plane cuz thats just like what, but in the barracks too if he's on site or in a closet honestly.

M = Motivation (what turns them on, gets them going) maybe like you wearing his aviator gear/reading his books/wearing his callsign helmet could get him going, but cmon the man yearns - just maintaining eye contact with you for too long makes him hot and bothered.

N = No (something they wouldn’t do, turn offs) i feel like he hates degrading, like he wants to know he's doing good and is liked a kicked puppy if you're degrading him cuz he's NEEDS to know that he makes you feel good. (@zottts helped me OFCC!!!)

O = Oral (preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.) GIVING 100%, like i said in experience he's so willing to learn but if he gets home from a mission and just needs you he'll go down on you, sloppy - glasses half off and he'll fucking love it.

P = Pace (are they fast and rough? slow and sensual? etc.) very slow and sensual, but i feel like he fucks like a cat in heat when he's gone on a mission for too long and just needs you religiously. but he thinks that being slow is just 10x better and more intimate.

Q = Quickie (their opinions on quickies, how often, etc.) HE'S A BUSY GUY!! he'll settle for quickies but not often, he doesnt like how fast paced they are and all he can imagine afterwards is his lips on yours but he does that anyways so.

R = Risk (are they game to experiment? do they take risks? etc.) he doesn't like to be too high risk, he doesn't want people like hangman finding out about what he does because he'll be teased endlessly but then again he kinda wants hangman to know that the scratches on his back were caused by you and that bob fucks, but thats usually the spur of the moment when he's buried deep inside you.

S = Stamina (how many rounds can they go for? how long do they last?) he's an aviator, he knows how to balance his stamina and to control himself so he lasts a WHILE. he mainly wants you to cum atleast twice before he even bares the thought, but he can go hours between your thighs as THEY SO OFTEN DO.

T = Toys (do they own toys? do they use them? on a partner or themselves?) bob is rlly goddamn tame, so i feel like he wouldn't really use toys during sex with you he like sex to be traditional.

U = Unfair (how much they like to tease) AGAIN WITH THE ONE LINERS, when bob is feeling more dominant/confident - he'll tease you just a bit (but not degrading) but when you reciprocate he just loses all his composure and stammers over his words acting like he isnt just balls deep in your right now.

V = Volume (how loud they are, what sounds they make, etc.) bob is pretty quiet in bed, small whimpers and moans majority of the time - but when you go down on him or he goes down on you, you literally have to tell him to shut up.

W = Wild card (a random headcanon for the character) will give you small love letters on sticky notes across the office or when you wake up in the morning and he's already gone to work.

BUT SMUT WISE!! has a major staring problem (like i said in K) and will eyefuck you from across the room, and then will literally appear out of thin air when you're alone and take you away to his barracks.

X = X-ray (let’s see what’s going on under those clothes) i BELIEVE WITH MY WHOLE HEART that bob is actually pretty big except like.. he doesnt think he is because he isnt that experienced but when you're like "holy shit' when you first see him he thinks you're just trying to flatter him.

Y = Yearning (how high is their sex drive?) this man. YEARNSSS. definition of yearner, he stares and he ensures that he gets to know you before he even dares of making a move. i fully believe it would take a year for him to ask you out and it would be the most random thing in the world. bob can fuck, i believe that. he can last a couple rounds but like what ive said with other lewis pullman characters INFINITE BETWEEN YOUR THIGHS!!!

Z = Zzz (how quickly they fall asleep afterwards) he'd stay awake for a bit, making sure you're asleep before he even dares to shut his eyes - just analysing your face, making sure you're not too cold or not too hot and how he can slot his body next to yours without waking you up.

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artificial-people-ai · 3 days ago

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My two cents on this?

I concur, their stories are pretty similar in many aspects, including SecUnit considering "self checkout" as much as Gurathin said he also did before meeting Mensah (that woman is more effective than the su1vide help line). So the story is quite dark in both cases. Now, having said that, we need to acknowledge that Gura only sees SecUnit like a part of a very painful past that, up to a certain extent, comes back to haunt him.

All mayor interactions so far up to at least Episode 6 when you get to see SecUnit being protective or even heroic (unwillingly, that is) are mostly with Mensah. Now, I don't think either of them see each other in romantic light (Mensah treating SecUnit like one of her kids when it's damaged, and SecUnit being literally asexual and getting along with Mensah because she believes in it as more than a thing, and it seems no one else has up to that point in SecUnit life).

But I do think, from Gurathin point of view, yeah... might look like something else.

Gura is so protective and obsessed towards Mensah (for good reason) that he can't get a being as physically powerful as SecUnit needs (basically) a lot more help than anyone else right there and then. Gura had time to heal, discover he wasn't a monster, SecUnit hasn't. It's still even scared of itself thinking about that 7-second massacre memory from the last refurbishing. Going to lengths like shooting itself so it wouldn't attack anyone else. When it was actively trying to take care of itself and survive alone only days before, but the moment Mensah came back for it and drilled through the "top of the line" unit, SecUnit showed that it preferred to end itself rather than to actually honor its name ("MurderBot").

While Gura is stuck in the habitat, SecUnit is being saved by Mensah, or, saving her itself. So that right there looks like "something it's not", at least in Gura's eyes. He can't be there or be the """hero""" he thinks SecUnit is for Mensah. Gura still sees himself as small, frail, his augmentations while unique, can't compete with SecUnit. Gurathin feels that while SecUnit is there, he's not worth it, at least not enough. And that, right there, becomes resentment and competition.

And how can we forget that SecUnit did interrupted Gurathin when he was going to confess something to Mensah (before they get into the hopper on their way to the beacon); SecUnit was just trying to get going (to avoid Leebeebee's "aggressive flirting"), for it was more like "okay, chop chop humans, let's just get out of here. Beacon. Now.", and while it doesn't have a romantic interest in Mensah, from Gurathin point of view, SecUnit was interrupting the most important conversation Gura wanted to have with her.

And then being actually the one who saved Mensah coming back with her when Gura was contemplating that Mensah (and SecUnit) were dead when the beacon exploded. There's a solid friendship brewing between Mensah and SecUnit, but from Gurathins point of view, it's a threat or competition. It doesn't help either that Gura did pissed off SecUnit to the point it was the only one threatened with a laser to his face and a chocking hand. I mean, it's clear for us why SecUnit did it (tired of dealing with stu.pid humans that see it like it was nothing, or worse, fearing it), but every detail from Gurathin's point of view reinforces his beliefs about the SecUnit needing "to go" for a whole lot of different reasons rather than to see it like someone going through what he himself went through before.

Gurathin's "Do you have feelings for it?" really adds another layer to his dislike of SecUnit.

Though the whole group is still grappling with whether to trust it or not, Gurathin remains the most stubbornly vocal about that distrust and on one level we already understood why. He's a former member of the Corporation Rim, someone who both grew up on the same feeds as the SecUnit engineers—'They go rogue and kill everyone all the time!'—and, as we learn this episode, has been horrendously abused by the Company itself, so why would he trust anything it gave them? One might even go so far as to say Gurathin still doesn't see SecUnit as a person, only a very dangerous piece of equipment.

Except... you don't see equipment as a romantic rival.

We know Gurathin has a rather intense crush on Mensah and who can blame him? She not only forgave him when few others would have, but she turned his whole world on its head, providing him with a new purpose and autonomy and love when he was very close to giving up. That's the level of devotion that inspires sneaking into her bedroom to smell her pillow, or staring star-struck across the dinner table, unable to think of a single critique. Gurathin loves Mensah and Mensah obviously loves him... but not in the same way.

Now toss SecUnit into the mix. Here's Company property that scares the shit out of you and as if that weren't enough, the woman you love is being so nice to it. Not just that, she's seemingly prioritizing it over you.

"It feel like it's going through something" vs. I'm going through something.

Running to talk to SecUnit vs. I was the one who was just threatened.

"I feel we can trust it" vs. I thought you trusted me?

"You need a MedBay" vs. But you won't get me to one because SecUnit advises otherwise, right? (Notably, Gurathin doesn't seem to be conscious when Mensah makes the decision to leave anyway, with or without SecUnit).

There are a lot of other moments like this and from our perspective we can see that Mensah is treating SecUnit similarly to how she no doubt treated Gurathin six years ago. The parallels between them abound, including being slaves to the Company who only start to demonstrate true autonomy after meeting Mensah. Gurathin still has a lot of healing to do, but after so many years he's in a better place than the slave that has just admitted to some level of personhood (not to mention the practical issues of them needing SecUnit to defend them), so of course Mensah is going to prioritize it to a certain extent. She's trying to help it the way she once helped Gurathin, but Gurathin is still so damaged and so JEALOUS that he can't conceptualize, "Oh. She's giving SecUnit what I was once lucky enough to receive."

He can't see that, so what comes out instead is, 'You have feelings for it don't you?' Because what other explanation does he have? If SecUnit already 'stole' her attention and her high opinion, why not her romantic love too! I don't think Gurathin would have ever asked that without the fever lowering his inhibitions, but I don't think the fever caused that worry either.

Gurathin makes me insane because I just want to scream, "SecUnit is you! It's you! It's not your rival, it's a mirror of who you were six years ago! You're not in competition with it, you're the best person to help it because you know something of what it's gone through!! You get to pass the torch, Gura, and help Mensah help someone else!!!!"

#gurathin #murderbot #dr mensah #s01e07

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chrlisangels · 14 hours ago

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✧ ྅ ˚ . ᯇ * playing mario kart with the team

“im gonna kick your guys asses.” you giggle as you pick your character, princess peach of course. “yeah right, you lost practically every round we played last night.” yelena replies with a snort which leads to a pillow throw at her head by you.

“lena’s right you won’t be winning, cause i mean obviously i will be the winner.” alexei boasts, the rest of the team replies with a groan, “whatever who cares who win, just pick your characters already. god damn.” joan grunts out.

bob practically fought alexei so he can be mario cause he had to be him!! i mean your princess peach so it only makes sense, yelean picked to be toad, alexei picked luigi since he sadly couldn’t be mario, bucky picked bowser, ava picked isabella, and john picked baby dasiy cause he didn’t care who he was just that he got to play soon. (she’s his favorite but don’t tell anyone else that)

“can we please hurry uppp.” john practically whines out “ya know i didn’t peg you to be a whiner walker.” a giggle leaves you as you talk but its short lived as he throws a pillow at you almost knocking you off the couch with a yelp.

“you all bicker like little kids.” buck mutters under his breath “okay lets just play before we all start fighting..please!” “i agree with bucky! i want to beat all of you already.” alexei adds.

“BOB!!! what the fuck! im your girlfriend your supposed to let me beat you not make me slip on a fucking banana peel.” you groan as bob just laughs and murmurs out a sorry “if i lose to alexei im blaming you.” you pout.

“you will lose to me, its inevitable.” alexei laughs out, “daddy your not beating anyone, i mean bob, me, and buck are all ahead of you.” “oh shush lena, thats just part of the process of winning.” alexei says as a grin graces his lips.

“ouu ava id look out i mean your behind everyone else.” john smirks as he gives ava a look, “you talk to me again walker and ill phase into your room and gauge out your eyes.” ava replies coldly which has john shutting up almost immediately. (out of fear)

thats hows the game goes on for a little longer just all of you bickering back in fourth about who’s gonna win and who’s gonna lose.

“OH FUCK OH FUCK NO NO NO NO NO NO!!!!!” you practically shout as you see bobs character cross the finish line while everyone else lets out a groan “WHAT THE FUCK?!? this is rigged i was supposed to win!” you fake whine as your face falls into bobs lap, “sorry honey.” bob laughs as he moves a piece of hair out of your face. “im very proud of you baby but i was supposed to win just so i could beat alexei.” you murmur into his thigh.

“i mean at least he didn’t win, at least it was your amazing boyfriend.” he teases which has you giggling “your right at least it was you, i can be fine with that.”

“i need a round two cause this wasn’t fair!” alexei says as he gestures his arms around, “nope not happening, its gonna end up with someones ass actually getting kicked and i cannot deal with that right now especially on a day off.” bucky says sternly which has you and bob giggling.

“maybe we can play another round later when everyones cooled off and ava doesn’t look like she about murder walker.” yelena jokes, “i always look like i wanna murder him cause hes a nuance.” ava replys with a roll of her eyes, “your a nuance!” john bickers, “see this is what i mean when i say you guys fight like little kids.” buck mutters as he leans his head against the coach.

#— lei lei’s works ⋆𐙚₊˚⊹🦢♡#bob reynolds x you #bob reynolds fic #bob reynolds x reader #thunderbolts #thunderbolts x reader #thunderbolts fic #thunderbolts x you #john walker #yelena belova #ava starr #marvel x reader #marvel fic #marvel

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ishestillapunk · 2 days ago

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Everybody Wants A Piece Of Pedro Pascal

tags: grief, death.

a/n: it was so hard to write all this and not kick my sheets because of the whole photoshoot. he's beautiful.

I don't usually do this, well, I never done this, but today and after waking up to such a brilliant, raw and profound interview I see myself in the need of disecting piece by piece of this interview and the parts that touched a deep fiber in me.

You, of course, don't have to read this. I mean, not if you don't want to. I would say this is more mine than other thing, like, a precious stone I want to keep memory of how I felt when this article came out.

Don't you ever get that feeling that something is yours? like, not in a delulu and possesive way, but in a sort of thank you-way.

This interview—article, post. Damn, I don't know how to call it, forgive my scarce vocabulary in English—appeared like water in the desert for me. I had a long night of insomnia, very long, used to deal with it, and also with it came the lovely question that every 20 yo makes themselves at one point.

What the fuck am I doing with my damn life.

My phone buzzes when I finally decide to let go of it so I grab it again, and there it is. Our beloved pascalispunk. Oh, he looks hella good. I say looking at the pictures. Oh, it's Vanity Fair. I say and then, I think: Of course there is an interview. So I look up for it.

I read and then the first thing that moves my chest is:

Over lunch in London, Pascal is a grand raconteur who tells stories with his hands and uses funny voices and loves to swear and drink cocktails and murder a cheese plate. He doesn’t take himself too seriously. At the same time, he’ll press right up against the sad and raw and confusing parts of being alive. His insides are on his outsides. He cries easily. He laughs loudly.

Maybe it's the writing, maybe it's me that lately I've been overly sensitive. It must've been the wind. I joke in my head when I feel like I want to cry. Something I love deeply about this man that is Pedro, is that he never stops being human. You get me, right? Like, with some celebrities I get the kinda... fake feeling. Don't wanna sound rude towards others at all, but, he just gives me that genuine and true feeling. That's what I mean by human.

Personally, I never been a fan of an actor before. A celebrity, in general. It just used to ick me, like, why would I do that? I had nothing against it, it just wasn't part of my persona. But then, I remember the first time coming across a video of him. I guess, yeah. Maybe we all want a piece of Pedro.

Pascal tells me about his “give up” years, when he was a struggling actor in New York decimated by the sudden death of his beloved mother, Verónica.

I felt connected truly with Pedro when I learnt about his life. The struggle and loss. That feeling that nothing is going anywhere, you know? Like. Damn, what is it all this for? I kinda feel like humans (or some of us, dk, mind you) have to search comparisions to other people to feel okay on where they are at the moment and its something that lately has been happening to me. My search is literally:

'Directors that got succesful at an old age'

'How to publish my first book while being fucking poor'

'How do I live'

Is this non-stopping loop where everything mixes with everything and I feel too exhausted to leave my bed. Ends won't meet. Food lacks in the fridge. Mama is sad. But he has been in the same spot, and he's here to tell it.

Life hurts a bit less.

“In my 30s I was supposed to have a career,” he says. “Past 29 without a career meant that it was over, definitely.” Feeling hopeless, Pascal started researching other professions. But whenever he came close to bailing on his dream, friends and family would step in. “When Pedro would say, ‘I’m going to nursing school’ or ‘I’m going to be a theater teacher,’ it was just like ‘No, no, no, no! You’re too good!’” says his older sister, Javiera Balmaceda, now a producer at Amazon Studios. “He’s wanted to be an actor since he was four years old. The one thing we’d never allow Pedro to do was give up.”

And here it is. The first tears I shed.

I dropped out of college after a month in a course of studies that I thought it was perfect for me. Turns out, I felt like I was dying because there was no art in it and I was fucking dying. It was driving me apart of my soul, I would cry on my way to class, I would have no very very happy thoughts about life. Then, a crisis. Me hugging my mom's knees and telling her "Mama, I need art" and she sees me, the girl who only went to arts school for her whole teen years and grew up attached to her desk computer, pirated movies in the night and writing down stories that keep her awake.

And she told me. "It's okay. We'll figure it out"

I was embarrased to tell my friends what I did after that crisis. God, you went through a freaking exam, burnt your lashes studying, passed it and now you're saying you want to do cinema?

Well. Nobody said that.

What I mostly received was.

"That's awesome. You were about to waste your potential"

And something that sticks with me that a friend said.

"The world deserves to see something created by you".

If you're reading this, I want you and oblige you to take it as a signal.

A New Yorker cartoon featured a therapist reassuring his client, “It’s not strange at all—lately, a lot of people are reporting that their faith in humanity is riding entirely on whether or not Pedro Pascal is as nice as he seems.” “Well, then,” Ramsey tells me, “I’m relieved for humanity.”

Bella. I love you, Bella.

On days when she (Veronica) didn’t have a babysitter, she’d drop him off at the movie theater. He remembers being seven and in heaven, able to squeeze in two and a half showings of Poltergeist before his mom returned for him. At home he’d reenact scenes of being sucked into the closet or slide across the kitchen floor. Balmaceda tells me, “When our parents got cable, the HBO song would come on and Pedro would run around the house yelling, ‘A movie is coming! A movie is coming!’” [...]He sat at a distance from his family as usual, preferring to be close to the screen. But then he started crying so loudly when Whoopi Goldberg’s Celie was being separated from her sister that his mother had to collect him and help him catch his breath outside.

When he talks about his childhood memories, I become honey. It gives me the assertive feeling that he is the kind of person that talks and talks and talks, and tells and tells stories and never run off them, and never gets boring, and they are always sweet (or bittersweet but sweet in the end)

He makes me think about my childhood with another lens to look through. Less remorse. More a kind of let-go-of-it.

Drugs were everywhere. Pascal remembers being 16 and taking acid and calling his mother to check in and let her know he was going to spend the night out. “And she sighs and goes, ‘Oh.’ And that was not normal. And I was like ‘Wh-why?’ and she said, ‘Oh, no, I was just hoping that we would all go to a movie.’ I was just so drawn to that kind of maternal attention, so I said, ‘I’m coming!’” He rushed home and sat mute and paralyzed, tripping in the back seat as they drove to see John Sayles’s City of Hope.

yes, more tears over here.

“I was having a really hard time when I was 18, 19, 20,” Pascal tells me. “I was struggling really badly with insomnia. I was reading James Baldwin and watching movies like Once Were Warriors and Muriel’s Wedding. I just was like an open wound to the reality of life.” He pauses to smack the table with his hand, groaning and laughing at himself. “It sounds so fucking pretentious, but I felt at this crossroads of coming into an understanding of what an unjust world we live in. This world, and its lack of equanimity, is just too painful to bear. How do you live in it?”

This is the moment where I had to stop reading. I was literally a cascade at this point. I felt like that song Killing me softly with his song by The Fugees and the part that goes:

I felt he found my letters

Then read each one out loud

I prayed that he would finish

But he just kept right on

I felt like he just grabbed all my diaries, my letters, my notes on my laptop. Everything. And just read them out loud.

And I felt less lonely for a moment, less detached from reality. More grounded to this moment that is, maybe, a wake up call.

That there is still time.

His grief had no place in Los Angeles, with its isolating highways and traffic and sprawl. So he went home to New York City, where he’d made some headway as an actor after college, only to find that his early luck had run out. He lived in a seventh-floor apartment of an East Village walk-up. Every night he’d have a cigarette on his fire escape and watch the moon rise between the Twin Towers.

Suicide grief is something I've never had the opportunity—well, more like favour of spilling my guts out for once—to talk with anyone. I went through it alone, mostly. I always think that there is no place as lonely as oneselves head (is oneselve's a word? am I dealing already with the precious side effects of twenty years of insomnia?). Reading Pedro talking about grief is ligthening.

I use to make myself a question, every now and then:

'When does it stop?'

Maybe never. And it's okay.

"Listen, I want to protect the people I love. But it goes beyond that. Bullies make me fucking sick.”

Just wanted to highlight this. Everyone should have this kind of values.

In the car, Pascal gasps and points out the window. “Look at that cemetery, isn’t it gorgeous?” he says. He doesn’t want to be buried—just throw him in the ocean. “Fish food, fish food, fish food,” he says. “And yet, I find sometimes cemeteries are so beautiful.” So, yes, now we’re back to talking about death.

In the car to Downey’s house, Pascal points at the word “FAITH,” which someone has spray-painted on a wall. He scrunches up his face in mock disgust. He’s agnostic, practically an atheist—and yet. “I still feel like I’m being mothered sometimes. I feel her witness all around me. I don’t feel like any of this right now would be happening if it weren’t for her.” There was something magical about María Verónica Pascal Ureta. Her firstborn son misses everything about her. Her beauty. Her smell. How funny she was, and how funny she found farts. “She couldn’t get past a fart of any kind without it absolutely destabilizing her into hysterics,” says Pascal. “She thought they were the most brilliant, hilarious, wonderful thing in the world.” She was also “very deep-feeling, very complex, very, very out of reach in a way,” he adds.

I tell you that I did nothing more than laugh and cry with all this part. Is that kind of make peace with death vibe that he sometimes gives me and I just take as a life advice.

I can't get mad at something that is long gone.

That I don't know the answers to.

That is as invisible as the air, and painful as a healed fracture.

And that I have to live, for those who aren't here anymore.

So... I will finish with this:

Of all the performances in Pascal’s now formidable career, Balmaceda singles out the monologue she saw him deliver as a sophomore in high school. It was a piece Pascal had written about a bike path near their house in Corona del Mar, a neighborhood he couldn’t wait to escape. Onstage, he described how, at first, he’d cross this narrow path that went over a bridge on foot, then progressed to riding over it gingerly on his bike, then with just one hand on his handlebars, and then, finally, being able to cross over with his hands in the air.

I can't wait to escape this place. A home that keeps me warm but silences me. Hugs that don't feel comfortable or familiar anymore. A room that is too little for the dreams that move this soul. A roof that isn't strong enough to hold me from touching what it's-maybe-waiting for me.

Somewhere.

Kudos to Karen Valby for such a great article.

if someone read this whole thing, uhm, thank you!

keep loving Peps. 💜

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daddymaster21 · 2 days ago

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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

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birdie-in-arcadia · 1 day ago

Text

Always

This was an anon request, and I honestly had a lot of fun writing this despite the subject matter. Thank you for such a great ask anon, and I hope I did it justice! Enjoy <3

CW: angst, verbal fight between Vessel and fem!reader, reconciliation, fluff, and suggestive content at the end

Word Count: 5.3k

It started in the little ways. The late replies, the sidelong glances that never quite land. The way he pulls his hands or lips away just a second too early, almost like warmth and love has become something he doesn’t yearn for the way he did before.

You’ve been trying not to notice, to shrug it off. You tell yourself he’s tired, and that tour wears on everyone, which is inevitably true. That if you give him space, he’ll come back to you in his own time. But it’s been weeks, and that quiet ache in your chest is getting harder to ignore. Every time you reach for him, literally or metaphorically, it feels like his edges are sharper than they used to be. Not angry or anything, just… untouchable and distant.

And even now, back at the hotel, he barely looks up when you speak. You’re perched on the end of the bed, arms wrapped around your knees, watching him dig through his overnight bag. Your hair falls over your arms, tickling you occasionally as if to say, “lighten up”. But you can’t, no matter how hard you try.

“Did you want to get breakfast downstairs in a bit?” you ask, gently. Not needy or clingy, just hoping he’ll want to be with you.

He hums noncommittally. “Maybe. I’m not sure I’m up for it.” His tone is flat, yet loaded. You simply nod and take a deep breath before replying quietly, “Okay. I can bring something back up if you’d rather stay in.”

“Maybe.” Another one-word response. You want to rake your nails through your hair and rip it out at the roots in frustration. You don’t understand what you’ve done to deserve such... silence. It’s all maybes with him lately. No certainty, no weight or sincerity. Like every answer is a placeholder for the thing he wants to say, but won’t.

You try not to show your disappointment or frustration. Instead, you stand and stretch, offering a faint smile. “I’m gonna go see if the band lounge has that ginger tea again. Might help my throat.”

“Yeah,” he says absently, his gaze now cast on his phone. “Good idea.”

No offer to come with you. No kiss goodbye. Just the rustle of his joggers as he reclines in the corner chair and the low hum of traffic outside the window.

You step into the hallway and let the door click quietly shut behind you, swallowing the lump rising in your throat. Your gaze is fixed on the floor beneath you as you wrack your brain, attempting to think of anything and everything you’ve ever done wrong or said sideways that could’ve hurt his feelings or pushed him away. You mentally ask yourself, “Am I too much? Do I need or ask for too much from him? Is he tired of me, or has he found someone better?” Nothing makes sense. You’ve loved him as much as he’ll let you, you give him space when he requests it, and you give him your undivided attention all the same.

It was such a perfect relationship up until about four weeks ago. You try as hard as you can to think of something that could’ve been pivotal enough to warrant such distance. Was there an argument or a disagreement of any kind? Any harsh words or slammed doors? Absolutely nothing comes to mind, and it’s driving you mad. What did I do?

You blink hard and shake your head, turning your focus to the elevator you’re approaching. You click the down arrow button and stare at its flickering orange glow, letting your mind run wild with what ifs and circumstances and possible answers to an impossible equation.

The lift doors opening brings you back to reality and your eyes dart up as you see yours and Vessel’s dear friend II standing near the front of the lift, bracing himself on the handrail along the side. He smiles at you as you step in the rig, standing opposite him. You lean against the wall as you hear II’s Welsh lilt ask you which floor you’re going to. “Lobby, please.” you answer simply, your tone too deflated to hide. His face drops from friendly to concerned as his brows furrow slightly.

He turns and jabs the button with a calloused thumb, and the doors close, trapping you in this space with him, and you just know he’s gonna ask what’s wrong. It’s in his caring nature. Like clockwork, you hear that same voice ask, “You alright, babe?” He’s called you that platonic nickname since he first got to know you nearly six months ago, and you’re used to it by now. It holds the same endearment as “buddy” or “pal” or even “dude”.

You sigh as you turn your gaze from the dingy steel walls of the moving rig to meet II’s, and you can see the concern on his features. You quickly decide how much you wanna tell him, and you reply, “Yeah, just... I dunno, Ves seems so distant lately and I don’t understand why. I’ve been thinking all day for the last few days about what I could’ve done to upset him or push him away, and I got nothing.” You shrug as you finish, and II’s face goes from an expression of concern to one of sympathy as he nods his head along to your words.

“Sorry, love. Ves just gets like this sometimes when he’s got something on his mind. He was like this right before him and his last girl broke it off, for example.” II says before he realizes his implications. As your eyes go wide and your brows arch on your forehead, you feel your stomach drop through the floor of the lift. His own eyes widen, and he immediately backpedals. “Uh, no wait, I uh- shit- I didn’t mean- that's not what I-” he splutters, his hands flailing in front of him as if he’s physically grasping for the words. You chuckle lightly at the sight.

He sighs and runs a frustrated hand over his face before dropping it limply to his side. “I didn’t mean that’s what’s gonna happen with you two. It was just an example, and a horrid one at that. Sorry about that.” he says, his tone heavy with embarrassment. His cheeks are red as his gaze fixes on his Nikes. You chuckle again as you reply, “It’s alright man, my heart only stopped for a couple seconds.” He lets out a nervous yet relieved laugh as he runs a hand over his hair, and the rig comes to a stop.

He steps out first, and you follow behind as you ask, “You thirsty too?” He turns back to glance at you over his shoulder, and he slows down to walk beside you. “Nah, just wanted to grab more of those Lifesavers gummies. Fuckers are addicting.” You hum in agreeance as he asks, “What’re you gettin’?” You point to the coffee and hot water bar a few feet away and reply, “Hopefully one of those ginger teas if they still have any.” He hums again as he makes his selection and pays the clerk behind the counter.

“I was actually headed up to talk with him about tomorrow’s gig after I grabbed these. D’ya want me to talk to him about what you told me?” II asks as you both walk back toward the lift. You ponder for a moment, hands comforted by the warmth of the paper cup in your grasp. After a few steps, you reply, “No, that’s okay. I’ll talk with him about it tomorrow on the flight back. I appreciate it, though.” II simply smiles at you and nods once before you both step back into the lift.

You make small talk about venues and light rigging and sound systems as the lift takes you back to your floor. Eventually, it comes to a stop and you both bid your farewells as you step off, leaving II, as his room is another floor up.

Your mood slowly falls back down into “what did I do to upset him” the closer you get to your room. As you approach the door and unlock it, a pit forms in your stomach as you open the door and step in, finding Vessel gone.

You pull out your phone instantly, nearly dropping your fresh tea, and you check your messages. Did you miss the chime of a text message? Apparently you did, because you have one new message from Vessel.

It reads, “Grabbing drinks with III. Don’t wait up.”

What the fuck? Your face screws up as you reread the message three times over, incredibly confused as to why he’d want to grab drinks considering he’s recovering from addiction. Worry and guilt sweep through you as you wonder if he’s drinking again because of you. Tears prick the corners of your eyes, but you blink them away in frustration.

Wait. Didn’t II say he was going to talk with Vessel about concert shit? Did II lie to you or is he just misinformed? You sit your cup on the counter nearest you, and you frantically pull up Find My iPhone. You zoom in on his location, and it indicates that he’s still in the hotel, and so is III.

A bone-chilling realization washes over you, and your stomach churns something nasty as your mind flies through all the possibilities. III’s still in the hotel, and so is Vessel. Are they together? Is Vessel in another member’s room? Or is he in someone else’s room entirely?

A myriad of emotions flood through you as your veins fill with fire and ice and your heartrate catapults. There’s no way, right? Vessel has been cheated on in the past, so he’d never... right? You aren’t certain of that, and it makes you vehemently nauseous. However, you are certain of one thing: you have to find him now.

You storm out of the room, emotions in a whirlwind as you stare down Find My iPhone, stomping in the direction of his location. Your brain is a tsunami of thoughts and possibilities. What if he’s just in one of the guys’ rooms? What if they’re just relaxing and maybe gaming, and you storm in there like a bat outta hell for no reason and embarrass yourself?

You shake your head, and one thought lingers: regardless of who’s room he's in, you’ve been lied to. Your chin trembles, but you deny your eyes any release of salt; not until you know for sure. His location leads against a wall in between two rooms. Huh? You refresh the app, and it still shows the same place. Maybe it’s up or down a floor?

You turn confusedly and head for the lift you were just in with II. You press the up-arrow button since II said he was going to talk with Vessel, and you're kind of banking on him being up there with II. You tap your foot lightning fast as the rig moves slowly upward, the gravitational pull downward not helping your nausea in the slightest.

Once the door opens a few moments later, you step out and follow his location directly to II’s room. Okay, this checks out, but why did he say he was getting drinks with III? You form a fist, knuckles forward as you raise your arm, but just before you knock, you hear your name.

Their voices are low but still audible in the quiet of the room. You freeze, not intending to eavesdrop, just… uncertain. The way he’s speaking is different; tense.

“I don’t know how to explain it,” Vessel mutters. “It’s like… the closer she gets, the more I feel like I’m going to fuck it up.” II doesn’t respond right away.

“She’s everything. Sweet, steady, and forgiving. And I can’t even hold a conversation without it feeling like a lie.” Vessel continues. You blink as the words land, your heart dropping into your stomach.

“Every time she looks at me like I’m the moon and stars in her skies, I just feel like a fucking fraud. Like she’s in love with someone who doesn’t exist anymore. I feel like I’m living in someone else’s skin when I’m with her sometimes,” he continues. “Like I have to pretend to be this perfect version of myself or I’ll lose her.” He lets out a shaky breath. “But the worst part? I think she’d be better off if I did.”

You don't hear the rest. Your ears are ringing and roaring with your blood. But you don’t need to hear it, nor do you want to. His voice cuts through you like a razor, sharp and brutal. The weight of it lodges in your lungs, and suddenly you can’t breathe. You stumble back a step, hand pressed to your chest, mouth slightly agape. Your heart pounds in your ears as you catch yourself on the wall across from II’s door.

I feel like I'm living in someone else's skin when I'm with her sometimes. She’d be better off if I did. He can't be fucking serious.

You turn, quick and quiet, and walk straight back to your shared room. Your hands are trembling when you unlock the door.

The air in the room still smells faintly like his cologne; amber, smoke, something earthy. You shut the door behind you and lean against it for a moment, the silence loud and suffocating. Your brain immediately goes to war with your heart.

He doesn’t love you. He’s been pulling away because he’s already gone; emotionally checked out, just waiting for the right moment to say the words out loud. You’d been holding on to hope that it was in your head. That maybe he was just stressed. Maybe he was trying. But you heard it. Not from a text, not from a rumor. From his own mouth.

No, you know he loves you. From the way he clings to you at night like you're his lifeline. The way he always checks in on you no matter the scenario. He brings you along on every tour, to every show just so you feel included. All the times he's held you while you cried and put you back together with just his voice and vocabulary.

She'd be better off if I did. His words ring through your head again, shattering any semblance of logic or hope that he still wanted you around.

You cross the room in a haze and start pulling your things together. Toothbrush, charger, whatever clothing you could find strewn over the floor haphazardly. That hoodie you always wear to bed that still smells like him catches your eye, and you feel your throat nearly close up as a sob threatens to tear from it.

You step over to the end of the bed where the hoodie lays, and you pick it up and take a deep inhale of its scent. Agony surges through your chest like a knife to the heart and your knees nearly buckle as your combined smells lilt through your sinuses.

You clutch the hoodie with white knuckles, your face contorting into a mixed expression of anger and grief, and a sob pummels its way up your throat and past your lips. You throw the hoodie onto the floor and turn from it, picking up what's left of your belongings on the floor and surrounding tabletops.

You divert your eyes from the article one last time and deny yourself the relief of fully crying. Not yet. You stomp into the bathroom and grab your toiletries from the shower wall, knocking down one of his bottles in your wake. You groan as it tumbles down, echoing through the bathroom. You leave it where it lies as you rush back to your bag and stuff it all in with shaking hands.

In a last ditch effort to feel in control of something, anything, you make the bed. As you finish, you hear the familiar crinkling of a small aluminum packet underfoot. You wince at the sound, at the memory, and you bend to pick it up and discard it in a nearby waste bin.

You bend and hover over the desk and tear a page from the hotel’s notepad. You pick up a nearby pen, then pause, staring at the blank paper. A single tear falls onto the sheet, wrinkling it. And then you write:

"If you wanted me to leave, you didn’t have to disclose it secretly to II. I wish you’d just said it to my face."

You fold it once and place it on the bed. You give the room one last look, and then you’re gone.

_______________

“…I think she’d be better off if I did.” Vessel’s voice trails into silence. II says nothing at first, he just lets the words of his struggling best friend settle. Vessel had been waiting outside II's door as II returned from grabbing his snack in the lobby with you. He'd let Vessel in without a word once he saw the helpless look in his eyes.

Vessel leans against the wall, head tipping back, eyes shut. The room smells like lemon floor polish, burnt coffee, and old carpet; cheap and forgettable. A fitting backdrop, he thinks bitterly, for the way he’s been acting lately.

“I mean, fuck,” he mutters, scrubbing a hand down his face. “She gives me everything. Patience, kindness… all this love I don’t know how to process. And what do I do? I shut down. I shut her out. I can feel her slipping away from me and I just keep letting it happen.”

II sighs, arms crossed. “So talk to her, man. Don’t let your head run the whole show. If you’re scared, tell her. If you love her, and I know you do, show her.”

“I do,” Vessel breathes. “God, I do. I’ve never-” His voice catches in his throat. He clears it, blinking hard. “I’ve never felt like this about anyone. Not since... you know. It’s terrifying, being vulnerable again. But I don’t want to lose her. I’d rather die trying to let her in than watch her walk away thinking I didn’t care.”

II rests a hand on his shoulder, solid and grounding. “Then go. Tell her that, all of it. Before your silence speaks louder than your words ever could.” Vessel nods, heart thudding against his ribs, determination coursing through his veins. “Yeah, you’re right. Thank you, man. I’m going now.”

He turns, heart already racing, and opens the room door. The hallway stretches ahead of him, silent, like it knows what's coming. His feet move rapidly toward the elevator, and he jams the button. He all but jumps inside when the doors open, and he mashes the floor number until the rig is moving again. He’s grinning as he descends at a slow pace, ecstatic that he’s about to go fix everything with his girl, and maybe even make love to you if you’d let him.

The door clicks open with a familiar sound, the keycard light flashing green. He steps inside, voice low but warm.

“Baby!” His cheerful greeting rings through the small room.

He’s met with silence. He frowns as he notices that the bathroom door is open, and the lights are off.

“Baby?” he tries again, this time laced with a hint of confusion. Still nothing. The room is quiet, way too quiet. His eyes scan the space. The bed is made, the chair in the corner is empty, and the closet door is slightly ajar.

And then it hits him. Your things are gone. The tote bag that always slouches beside the dresser? Gone. Your travel case of skincare and scrunchies that typically adorn the counter? Missing. The sweater you wore this morning, cream colored, soft, probably still faintly scented like you? No longer tossed over the arm of the chair where you always leave it.

His blood runs cold. “No…” he breathes, stepping forward. He checks the bathroom, heart lurching. Nothing. Your soaps are gone, even your microfiber hair towel.

His hands start trembling as he crosses back to the bed, eyes darting over the blankets, the table, the floor, anything. “Maybe she just ran out for food”, he thinks. “Maybe she-”

Then he sees it. Folded once, an unpinned grenade on the center of the bed, his given name, not the moniker, not a pet name, in your handwriting unmistakably on the hotel paper. He picks it up slowly like the bomb that it is. His eyes trace the words.

If you wanted me to leave, you didn’t have to disclose it secretly to II. I just wish you’d said it to my face.

The paper trembles in his hand. He rereads it.

Once. Twice. A third time.

“No, no, no- fuck, no-” His voice breaks.

His knees give, and he sinks onto the edge of the bed, the note still clutched between trembling fingers. The breath leaves his lungs like he’s been punched. His chest burns. His vision blurs.

You must’ve come looking for him and overheard. Dammit, his plan of diverting your attention by telling you that he was going out with III did the exact opposite. Go figure. Regardless, you heard him. But you didn’t stay long enough to hear what came after. Didn’t hear him say he loves you. Didn’t hear him say he wants to fight for you. You think he wanted you to go.

He drops his head into his hands, shoulders shaking as a raw sound escapes his throat; half anguish, half pleading. The pain slams into him like a wave, unforgiving and cold, clawing its way through every part of him. He presses the note to his chest like it might somehow undo the damage, but it doesn’t. It just hurts.

“Fuck,” he gasps again, standing suddenly, stumbling, frenzied, and searching for anything that could give him an answer. He grabs his phone from his front left pocket, and he opens your thread. His thumbs hover, trembling, then he types:

“Please come back. I didn’t mean it like that. Please.”

“I love you. I’m sorry. I didn’t know you heard. Please just tell me you’re okay.”

No “... is typing...”, no response. He hits the call button.

Straight to voicemail.

He calls again.

Two rings, then voicemail.

“Pick up, baby, please,” he whispers to the static. “Please, just... fuck, just talk to me. Let me explain. I swear to God I didn’t mean it like that…”

He’s pacing now, chest heaving, phone in a death grip. And then, a miracle. He swipes down with shaking fingers and opens the location-sharing app. Your dot is still live, still glowing. Looks to be approximately three blocks down. A little boutique hotel near the edge of the shopping district. You must’ve forgotten to turn it off amid all the emotions and taxi-hailing. Otherwise, you definitely would’ve turned off your location. You don’t want to be found.

Without a second thought, he bolts for the door.

Rain pours against the sidewalk as Vessel sprints down the street, dodging passersby, lungs burning, the cold biting into his damp skin. He doesn’t feel any of it, not really. The only thing he feels is you. The absence of you, the shape you leave behind, like a phantom in his chest.

The GPS dot blinks steady on his screen, his lifeline. He turns a corner and sees it, small and quaint, tucked between a florist and an antique shop. The boutique hotel you chose in the heat of heartbreak.

He’s there in seconds, breath ragged, soaked to the bone. The front desk blurs past as he races up the stairs, skipping steps, heart pounding so hard it makes him nauseous. He follows your beacon of hope to the very door you’re hidden behind.

He knocks once, three light sounds against the wooden door. He’s met with nothing. He knocks again, another three times, but a tad bit louder this time, in case you’re sleeping.

“Please,” he whispers, pressing his forehead to the wood, rain dripping from his hair and trailing down the door, his fingers clenched into fists. “Please let me in.”

Still nothing. He swallows down a sob and knocks one last time, louder this time. “I know you don’t want to see me. I know I hurt you. But baby I swear, I didn’t mean it like that. You left before you could even hear the rest.” Silence on the other side. He breathes hard, trembling hands travelling upward to brace himself as he leans on the door, and he fights the urge to break it down to get to you. Your silence completely unnerves him.

“I was talking to II because I didn’t know how to talk to you,” he confesses, voice cracking. “I’m scared all the time. That you’ll realize I’m not what you need. That you’ll wake up one day and see what a fucking mess I am and walk away and-”

The lock clicks, and his head shoots up to look for your face, regaining his balance and lowering his hands to his sides. The door opens just enough to reveal you; eyes red and glassy, hair tied back in a loose bun, gray hoodie zipped to your throat. You don’t say anything at first, you just look at him like he’s something wild and foreign.

You cross your arms tightly over your chest as you prop the door open and turn, walking away from him, the sights of the city momentarily capturing your attention as you approach the window in your room. You hear the door click shut, and you feel his presence in the room as you turn to face him. He’s standing about a foot from the door, his hands at his sides, his face drawn down, his big, beautiful puppy eyes focused solely on you.

“You lied to me,” you say finally, breaking the silence, your voice quiet but sharp. “You told me you were going to get drinks with III when you were just upstairs talking shit about me to II.”

“I wasn’t-” he steps forward, then stops, hands raised like you might bolt. He exhales and checks his tone before continuing. “I wasn’t talking shit. I was spiraling, alright? I was telling him that I’m scared of how good you are to me... how I keep messing it up.” He finishes, and he takes a small step toward you as if you’re a feral cat he’s found outside. "And I said I was going out with III because I didn't want you worrying and wondering where I was. I couldn't just tell you I was going to talk to II because I didn't wanna risk, well... this happening..." He trails off and you mull over his explanation. You know mentally that he was right. You would've definitely insisted on going with him. You decide leave that part of the argument to be discussed later.

“You said I’d be better off without you,” you snap. “How the hell was I supposed to take that?” You punctuate your question by unfolding your arms and gesturing toward him, your brows furrowing in frustration.

He flinches, the realization of how bad that would’ve sounded from your perspective washing over him. “I know how it sounded,” he says honestly, voice breaking again. “But that wasn’t the end of the sentence. I was saying I didn’t want to lose you. That I was going to talk to you. That I love you. I’ve just been- fuck, I’ve been so in my head lately, and I didn’t want to put that weight on you.”

You shake your head, eyes shining. “You think lying was protecting me?” you ask exasperatedly, your arms out to your sides, forefingers pointing inward toward yourself. “But I didn’t lie about that,” he says, his tone serious. You point as accusatory finger at him as you spit, “It was lying by omission, Vessel.” His face drops.

“I didn’t mean to lie,” he breathes. “I just… I thought if I told you I was falling apart, you’d start seeing me the way I see myself. And then you would leave.” You step back, arms crossed tightly, and your frustration is evident on your face. “And the distance? The coldness? Was that supposed to be protection too? Because it felt like punishment.”

His face twists in anguish as the truth in your words pelts him like bullets. “I know,” he says. “I know I’ve been distant. I’ve been awful. And I hate how I’ve made you feel. I hate that I made you doubt yourself when the only failure in this relationship has been me.” He looks at you through defeated eyes, tears beginning to brim again.

Your voice wavers now, anger giving way to hurt. “You made me feel like I wasn’t enough, or maybe I was too much. Like I was annoying you just by existing. You’ve been pushing me away for weeks, Vessel.” You feel your tough exterior cracking as the look in his eyes peels you apart layer by layer.

He steps forward again, slower this time. “I didn’t know how to let you in without showing you all the worst parts of me.” You look at him, eyes searching, still guarded. “Ves, you already have. Remember when your family cut you off because they don’t agree with your new lifestyle? Or when we first got together and you were so anxiety ridden you practically bolted for the bedroom anytime you heard your doorbell ring? I was there through all of that, and I never batted an eye. It’s my job as your partner to see you through every chapter of life, no matter how scary or unbecoming. You know this, love. You just have to let me in.” You finish, your arms falling to your sides as a tear marks its own trail down your face, dripping from your jaw.

His expression crumples. “And you’re still here, still talking to me, even with me coming to find you like some sort of headcase,” he says quietly. You blink fast, biting the inside of your cheek. “How the hell did you find me, by the way?" You ask him, suddenly reminded of the blaring question.

He lets out a short, breathless sound. Almost a laugh, almost a sob. “You didn't turn off your location, lovey." he replies, a slight hint of amusement in his eyes. You chuckle and run a hand over your face as you're taken aback by your own lack of attention to such a major detail. "Christ... Well, I'm glad I didn't," you reply, looking up at him through long lashes. A long silence passes between the two of you as you both take in what the other has said. Then, with trembling hands, you capitulate and motion him forward, and you move toward the bed. “C’mere.”

He wipes his face with the back of his hand as he approaches you slowly. He perches at the edge of the bed like you might dissolve if he touches you too soon. Vessel looks over you after a few seconds, taking in your disheveled appearance. His chest aches with the knowledge that it’s his fault you fled in such a hurry, and that you’re so forlorn. You meet his gaze and allow your eyes to take in the sopping wet cat of a man next to you. Rainwater drips from his hair onto his lap below, but he doesn't seem to notice, and he looks like a man who’s been through war just to get to you.

“I love you,” he says again, steadier now. “I love you more than I’ve ever loved anyone. And I’m sorry for every time I made you question that.” You look at him, eyes glossy, heart swelling in your chest. “I love you too, Ves. That’s why it hurt so much.”

He moves to kneel in front of you, hands reaching for yours. You let him take them slowly, like it's a test she’s not sure he’ll pass. “I’ll do better,” he whispers. “Not just today. Every day. I’ll keep choosing you.” You swallow hard, the lump in your throat rising again. “Don’t shut me out again, please,” you whisper to him, eyes blurring with tears. “I won’t,” he says, forehead pressing to your hands. “I swear it.”

Your breath shudders as you exhale through the sadness leaving your body. You pull him up and into your arms, holding him tightly, like you’re afraid if you lets go, he’ll vanish again. You stay like that for a long time, just holding each other, letting the fear bleed out. Eventually, you whisper, “Let’s go home.” Those three simple words wash over him like a cool wave of relief, and he didn't realize how badly he craved to hear you say them until you did.

The walk back is quiet, but your fingers are laced the entire way. Once inside the room, Vessel closes the door behind you with a soft click. The lights are low, the hum of the city a dull throb beyond the shaded windows. You turn to face him, and he just stands there for a moment, eyes soft yet unsure as they flicker over your form.

You step toward him, hands reaching for the hem of his soaked hoodie. “Let me,” you say. He easily acquiesces and lifts his arms, letting you peel it away slowly, reverently. His shirt comes next, and it hits the carpeted floor with a dull, wet slap. Your hands glide over the bare skin of his chest; cold from the rain but warming beneath your touch. He watches you like you’re shaping the skies before his eyes; like you’re the only thing anchoring him to earth.

He undresses you slowly, hands lingering, fingers and lips exploring, and you move together like water, slow and unhurried. There’s no urgency now, just the deep ache of reunion. He lays you down with such care, like you’re thin glass.

When he enters you, it’s with soft gasps and a whispered, “I missed you.” Your bodies meet in a rhythm that speaks more than words ever could. Not rough, not desperate. Just homecoming. Every thrust, every touch, every sigh is an apology, a promise, a thread sewing you gently yet thoroughly back together.

He presses his forehead to yours as you move in tandem, voice trembling. “You terrify me,” he whispers, “Because I want you, all of you, forever. I want to bare my entire soul to you, my beautiful girl.” You whine as you pull his face to yours and you kiss him slowly, deeply, and so lovingly. “I’m not going anywhere,” you whisper as he moves above you. You wrap your arms around his neck and shoulders as you approach your peak.

When you both reach your climax, it’s a beautiful release of emotions and endorphins. Your shared moans and heavy breaths curl through the room around you. You’re breathless, your eyes are locked with his, and your fingers stay intertwined.

You lay like that long after cleaning up, curled into each other beneath the sheets, skin to skin, heart to heart. You sport only Vessel's hoodie, the same one which broke your heart earlier, and a pair of knickers, and Vessel lays comfortably in only his underwear. His nose is buried in your hair, arms locked around you like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he loosens his grip.

His voice is low, barely a breath against your ear. “You smell like me, love.” You laugh softly, eyes fluttering closed. “That’s because I'm wearing your hoodie, you goof.”

“Oh,” he murmurs delightfully. “Then I guess I like me better on you.” You groan playfully and swat at his chest. “That was horrendous. I rescind all affection.”

He grabs your hand and kisses each knuckle with dramatic flair. “Forgive me, my darling muse. I’ll compose better lines on the morrow.” You hum, feigning pretentiousness. “I’ll be expecting a full sonnet.”

“Only if I get paid in kisses,” he jokes, smiling against your cheek. You open one eye. “You drive a hard bargain, Mister Vessel Marie.”

He smiles wider and chuckles before taking on a more serious tone. “I missed you. Even when you were still next to me I missed you so fucking much.” Your heart tightens, full and aching. “Don’t do that again, please. Don’t pull away like that. I am always here for you, sweetness,” you assure him, rubbing over the tops of his knuckles with your thumb.

“I won’t,” he promises. “You’re stuck with me now. I’m basically your emotional barnacle,” he finishes, and you can hear the cheeky grin shaping his words.

You snort. “Sexy.” He pulls his hand from yours and he licks the tips of his pointer and pinkie finger before smoothing over his eyebrows with them. "I try," he says, waggling his brows down at you. "You are such a dork," you say to him as you giggle. You turn in his arms just enough to kiss the tip of his nose. “I love you,” you tell him, and you've never been so serious about anything else in your life.

“I love you more,” he whispers. “Even when I’m an idiot. Especially then.” He kisses your cheek as he pulls the duvet higher around you both, your legs tangled, his thumb brushing soft circles into your hip. The steady rhythm of his breathing lulls you closer to sleep. How would you ever be able to live without this?

And when you’re nearly unconscious, he whispers to you, “Gonna stay with me, sweet girl?” You squeeze his hand as you whisper your reply, and it’s the last thing said for the night.

“Always.”

@deathcapbunny @yourgirlisa @houseofsleeptoken @wormm-mom @lynzeequitlollygagging @blackcherrywhiskey @thedemonofsodom @mysticmorning1 @xnikix02 Here you go! If you'd like to be added here, let me know :) I really hope you enjoyed this, anon <3<3

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