#some of those characters are barely in it though | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

2neaky · 3 days ago

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. ۪ ֗ “ 𝑁𝑜—𝐺𝑒𝑡 𝑇ℎ𝑎𝑡 𝑂𝑛𝑒 ”⋆˚🫧

PART 1 • [this fic has been split into two parts]

21k! CONTENT WARNING (MDNI) • phone s*x (mutual m*sturbation), edg*ng, unprotected s*x, p -> v s*x, b*ckshots, squ*rting, choking, c*rvix kissing, rough consensual s*x, dominating male character, possessive behavior/talk, dummification, foot f*tish, minor size k*nk, tummy bulge, heavy use of dirty talk, use of profanity, nicknames (Mami, Mama, Papa, Pa), use of the n-word (all characters & Author are Black) • INSPIRED BY THIS POST • CHARACTER VISUALZ

PART 2 HERE ->

TENSION TIES HER BROWS INTO A KNOT, disturbing the usually smooth and clear surface of her skin.

The pounding at the base of her skull is like a jackhammer to concrete. Nothing even close to a minor headache from hunger or dehydration—though the two factors are likely at play here.

Another migraine, she knows.

The ailment has unfortunately been reoccurring for the last two months. No amount of pain reliever, water, or “relaxation” seems to be a solution.

A solution—the solution—would be to come up on the perfect new home for herself.

Her pupils tremble as they struggle to uphold their deadpan stare on the MacBook’s bright screen. The mild sting in her eyes doesn’t distract her anymore.

Within the last three hours since sitting up in bed, they’ve seen more numbers than her lagging brain can keep up with. Numbers that just keep climbing as the conditions and amenities of newer listings lessen.

These sellers must be out of their fucking minds.

$3,000 a month for a one-bedroom unit, with no washer and dryer?

Almost $600 in amenities—per month?

$2,500 for just a studio?

Every new and disappointing option makes that worrying voice at the back of her head louder. Because—really—she’s only got about a month and a half left of this lease, and she’s definitely not staying here.

She can’t afford to. Not even with her new job.

What started as a fun and optimistic search, has turned into one full of anxiety. As time withers away, her standards for a new apartment have been whittled down to the bare minimum.

Is it fair to say that she’s become desperate?

Whether or not she’ll even be able to find a new place before her lease is up, is unknown at this point.

Funding a new place is her only option at this point. The thought of moving back in with her father is unfathomable. She just can’t.

Minutes of her teeth worrying at her bottom lip; they finally rip through the soft, pink skin. She doesn’t even flinch. Instead, she swipes her tongue over the leaking nick as she proceeds to the eleventh page of results.

These newer listings lie near the outskirts of the city, closer to the suburbs. A problem when the public transportation of her state doesn’t reach those areas, her job is in the heart of the city and—oh! She doesn’t have a car.

“Fuck.”

A defeated whine squirms from her mouth as her head falls in her hands. The heavy comforter over her legs is hot and suffocating. But, at the very least, it feels good to close her eyes for once.

Tiny beads of tears line her closed lids, pearling up along her thinning lash extensions—which are way past their time for a fill-in. And fuck, she can’t even afford to do that.

Her chest deflates as a long and slow exhale is dragged from her chest. Following suit, is a wet sniffle.

When she finally picks her bonneted head out of her hands, her blurred vision waltzes around her bedroom.

The light is off, the sunlight does all of the work; pouring in through the tall windows and spilling itself against the cool, plaster-colored wood flooring. It reaches farther in some areas than others.

For instance, it washes over her in a shower of light, yet hesitates to touch the corners of her room where clothes, shoes, and other miscellaneous bullshit are strewn about. She shuts her eyes with the reminder of her need to clean this pigsty.

Every morning for the last few weeks—when she doesn’t have work—has been like this: wake up, check listings for hours, rot in bed for another two while wallowing, then finally picking herself up out of bed to take care of her body’s needs.

It seems to be an endless cycle that she can’t rescue herself from. And she desperately wants to escape.

The sharp ping of her phone interrupts her regularly scheduled sulking. She’s surprised it hasn’t died yet. Her arm drags to reach out for the small device buried within her rumpled, old sheets. It takes some feeling around to find it.

When she brings it to her face, the dim screen alights to show off the brand new notification: a message.

Sito💢 — Mall?

His timing never really errs on the correct side of things. Another sigh, this one gentle, blows past her cracked lips.

You — Too broke and stressed.

A tiny balloon of shame bursts within her as she had pressed ‘send’ on the confession.

He won’t clown her for it, Sito’s never been one to shit on another person’s financial situation. His family’s been down at a point.

The difference between hers and his, though, is that they were able to pick themselves up out of that. Something she still faults her father for being unable to do.

Even if it were a circumstance of luck, why couldn’t they be as lucky?

Another ping steals her attention away.

Sito💢 — Don’t even tb it

Sito💢 — Yk igu

She stares at his messages, for how long, she’s not sure. Regardless, her delayed response must’ve been long enough to trigger something in him. More messaged come.

Sito💢 — Could tb it over food, I’m buying

Sito💢 — Lmk

The word “food” reminds her body that the last time it’s consumed anything was honestly too long ago to remember—and that she desperately needs to go grocery shopping.

Her stomach feebly growls.

Sito💢 — Could tb it over food, I’m buying ?

↳ 👍

•

Even with the promise of food, getting ready proved to be an arduous task. She isn’t in the highest of spirits to really dress as nicely as she usually would.

Fishing through the laundry spilling from her closet, she finds her blue Gallery Department hoodie buried under a pile of clothes.

It’s actually Sito’s. Just one of the many pieces she’d stolen from his closet during a visit over to his place.

The hoodie pools around her upper half. She’s got to tuck it under her bra so that it sits right on her. The only pair of denim shorts she can find are her choice of bottoms for the day.

Her fresh white ankle socks just barely peek out over the low tops of her Converses—a years-old birthday gift.

She ambles out of her room with her phone in one hand and her purse dangling from the other. It isn’t until she reaches the kitchen that she takes a knee to lace up her sneakers.

Just as she finishes the bow of her laces on the second foot, her phone buzzes from beside her foot on the floor. Sito’s contact name flashes across the screen with a FaceTime call. She answers, and her face shrinks as his takes up the entire screen.

His caramel skin glistens. Fresh braids line his twisting head, dark eyes straying from the camera as his focus is clearly on the road ahead of him.

“Yo.”

“Hey,” she mumbles.

He glances at her, doing a quick once-over of the screen.

“You good?”

“Not really.”

His lips press together in thought as he looks at the road ahead of him. “You gon’ be good, I’m pulling up right now. Come downstairs.”

“Alright.”

“Aight.”

The call ends just as quickly as it started. She shoves her phone into her hoodie pocket and slings her purse over her right shoulder. Quick to grab the keys to her apartment, she heads out of the door and locks it behind herself.

The elevator ride down to the lobby is really a blur. Though, her mind seems to return once she catches sight of the sleek, black Audi Q5. The smile that appears on her face is weak, but at least it’s there.

She’s quick to get to the passenger-side door, pulling it open. “Hey,” she says softly, as she hops into the seat.

The scent of his car warms her chest. So characteristically him. Yet, she can pick up on the separate scent of the cologne he’s wearing, Tom Ford’s Bitter Peach.

He makes the first move, reaching over the middle console to wrap an arm around her shoulders. “Wassup.”

She leans into him, her cheek squished against the ball of his shoulder. The hug barely lasts a second. And even with his sweater on, she still feels the chill of when he pulls away.

“You smell good,” he says over the sound of her shuffling in her seat, getting situated.

“Forreal?” The crisp click of her seatbelt cuts through the air.

Looking away, he puts the car in drive, carefully pulling out of the temporary parking spot. “Yeah.”

“Funny thing is, I didn’t even spray nothing on me. I was in a rush, I forgot.” She gathers the hoodie in a pinch, lifting the thick fabric to her freckled, button nose for a quick sniff. “Mmh,” she hums, dropping it. “You’re probably smelling my old perfume on it, I didn’t wash this since the last time I wore it.”

As he’s driving, he seems to do a double-take at her.

“Hol’up—that’s my Gallery hoodie you got on?”

A small, quiet giggle floats from around the nail of her thumb as it’s pushed between the top and bottom rows of her teeth. “I was wondering when you’d notice it was gone.”

“Man, I just got that shit ‘bout … four months ago.” He glances at her one more time, closely eyeing how it shrouds her much smaller frame. “Just spraying your shit all on my clothes like it’s yours.”

“‘Cause it is.” Although quiet, there’s a sass in her tone that relieves him.

There’s a ghost of a smirk on his pink lips, so faint she doesn’t even see it. “Always playing around in my clothes … barely even notice when something’s missing.”

He isn’t lying. Next to the mall, his closet is her favorite place to shop at.

“I’ma start reporting my shit as stolen.”

“Shut the fuck up,” she mumbles, picking at her outgrown acrylics as she tries to fight back an even bigger smile. “Your mother would not appreciate you lying on my name like that.”

Outside of the car windows, the buildings zoom by. His fast driving hasn’t scared her for a long time. So long as she’s got a functioning seat belt on, she’s secure.

The lemon yellow diamonds on his bracelet glisten when the sunlight hits them; he lifts his hand to play with the curly tuft of hair at his chin.

“Yeah … you do got my folks thinking you all sweet ‘n’ shit.”

Her eye-roll is polite, despite the rude nature of such an action. “And am.”

“Mmh … nah.” He slows the car as he takes a soft turn. “They just don’t know that you really a brat.”

Her head jerks back, face twisting up with taken offense. “A brat?”

His words posit a bit of energy within her that he enjoyed. Fuck all of that fake, ‘soft-spoken,’ and mopey bullshit.

“No, the fuck I’m not.” She glares his way.

He grins. “Really? Cause you don’t listen. It’s always an argument, even if you know I’m right.”

“‘Cause you’re not.”

He swipes his tongue along the wall of his cheek. “You think you know everything, huh? You smart, ‘Mani, but you ain’t the only one.”

A scoff. “Really? ‘Cause it feels like it every time we speak.”

He huffs out a breath of laughter, not at all taking her words to heart. “I think you just like hearing yourself talk.”

“I do. Especially when I’m right.” She smiles to herself, triumphantly.

And all he does is shake his head, amused at the whole ordeal.

Just a quick temperature check, is all that was. He needed to know if her issues were beyond his fixing.

Blindly, he plucks his phone up from its spot in his lap, barely glancing at the screen to unlock it. He tosses the device to her.

“Uh!”

“You been slacking at your job, DJ.”

She kisses her teeth, picking up the phone anyway.

“And don’t play none’a that Slizzy shit. That’s all you been playing lately.”

“Fuck you, it’s good.”

‘It’s really not,’ is what he wants to say. Yet, he holds his fire when he hears the beginning of one of his favorite G Herbo songs over the car’s speakers.

He begins to bop his head along to the fast-paced beat.

“Yeah, look at you. Like a moth to a flame,” she says with a smirk.

But he doesn’t listen, only happy that he got his way.

As she scrolls through his playlist, looking for a song to queue up that’s more of her taste, a notification pops down on his screen:

Jada — Sitooo

Her eyes narrow. She doesn’t even chance taking a glimpse at him.

Pursing her lips, Cimani swipes away the message before putting his phone on ‘Do Not Disturb.’ And, no doubt, Sito’s got his Focus Status shared.

With a one-sided smile, she clicks on a song she actually likes, queue-be-damned.

He kisses his teeth as what is definitely a Slizzy-type beat, begins to play—MHPG Sound’s MHA.

“‘Mani.”

He glances over at her, a large smile splitting her face in half. She only giggles.

“You getting fired soon.”

She laughs harder.

However, eventually, all of that ruckus dies down. Too soon for her liking, actually.

The silence that fills the space leaves her too much room to think about her problems again—this Jada-character not being one of them. She’s a problem for a different day.

Even if Sito isn’t constantly looking her way, he still sees the way her face slowly falls in his peripheral.

That somber look returns, dragging her pretty face down while her thoughts appear like a dark cloud over her head.

Thunder’s rumbling, preparing for lightning to strike.

Money.

Her lease.

The apartment—

“You know what your problem is?”

The impending storm quiets, just long enough for her to hear him. It takes seconds longer than normal for her to digest his words.

With what seems to be a surprise attack on her character, she waits for him to continue so that she may decide whether or not to be rightfully offended.

“You be thinking too hard. All these choices and big ass decisions you try to make.”

The birth of this new conversation steals the spotlight from her other issues, shoving those thoughts to a corner in her mind.

“So, what? I should just stop thinking for myself?”

“Didn’t say all that.”

“So what are you saying, then?”

He inhales. “What I’m saying is that, you don’t need to be doing all that thinking and worrying.”

She can only laugh, more out of shock at his audacity. “Excuse me?”

“You tired of it.” He glances at her. “I could tell … should let me be the one doing all that.”

She tries to ignore the way her stomach drops at those words.

“You?” she asks, as if the mere suggestion was an insult. “Oh, please! The nigga constantly losing his wallet?”

He shrugs. “You know I’m right, ‘Mani. You don’t gotta fry me. I’m being serious.”

She kisses her teeth, turning her head to look out of the window, already over this conversation. “Sito, you’re a man. And the last time I put my life into a man’s hands, I almost ended up homeless.”

“Quit comparing me to other niggas.”

As she opens her mouth to say something, he’s already speaking again.

“Told you ‘bout that. I’m your friend, I’d never do you like that.”

It’s funny. The mention of their relationship sparks a flame of irritation in her.

Is Jada a friend?

“I just need you to relax around me. That’s all … Relax, and let me take care of shit. Promise you, you’ll like it.”

Releasing a tired sigh, Cimani decides to keep her thoughts to herself. She turns her body back towards the window, allowing the music to fill the space that their conversation once took up.

•

It’s something about going to the mall—call it the spirit of consumerism taking ahold of her.

Stepping into the cool, wide open space with sunlight pouring in from the glass ceiling, her mood shifts. She can’t lie.

The mall has always been a place of good vibes and fun experiences. Especially when it comes to Sito being there.

They’ve been going together for years, at this point. And one thing that always surprises her is how much his love for shopping matches hers.

Quickly, she learned that he’s a great shopping partner. A great plus, too is that he’s got a commendable taste in fashion. But, he doesn’t need to hear that from her.

Their first time going together, she assumed that he’d be a complainer, whining because she took too long in stores trying on every item that caught her eye. Just like everyone else she’d go with.

However, he managed to be the one to outlast her. By the eighth store, she was tired and cranky. Her feet were killing her, and although he held most of the bags, what little she had were growing heavier by the second. And he had the audacity to ask about going to another store.

“Where you tryna go first?” he asks, looking down at her.

“I don’t know.” She doesn’t spare him a glance, still holding onto that conversation from the car. “I’m not gonna buy anything.”

Sito gives her a pointed look. “Lil’ girl’, please pick a store.”

Ignoring his obvious effort at trying to get under her skin, she peers around the busy space. People of all kinds fill the mall. Some walk together while others walk alone. There’s families, friends, and couples alike.

Entering through the first floor’s main entrance, they’ve come up on the more mainstream stores. Ones that cater more to the general public.

The more expensive stores and boutiques—your name brands—are situated on the higher level, towards the back of the mall. That’s more of Sito’s spot.

However, though, one of the first floor stores catch her eyes: Windsor. Sito follows her gaze.

“Aight, c’mon then,” he says, gently taking her wrist to pull her along.

Her protest is only a silent roll of the eyes.

Upon entering the store, his hand drops hers. “Go crazy.”

With a raised brow and a twisted lip, she glares up at him. “Sito, I don’t have money to waste—”

“So don’t.”

She scowls at him.

Letting go of a stressed sigh, he’s more than ready to give up on this conversation. Because he thought it went unsaid that, “If you want something, I’ma get it.”

For a moment, she only stares. The irritation on her face fades, but it doesn’t disappear.

“Is this an apology?”

He shrugs. “If that’s how you wanna take it.”

Her bright eyes narrow before rolling yet again. She pulls away from him, heading to the first rack that earns her attention. As she walks away, he looks on with satisfaction.

•

There’s racks on either side of them, clothes strewn all over the place. Hangers are twisted and shoved into spots they don’t belong.

All courtesy of Cimani.

He can admit, his friend is a messy shopper. And while he can’t help but to notice it, she doesn’t seem to even be aware of her issue. Her focus is elsewhere.

“What do you think about this?”

To her chest, she holds up the tiniest tennis skirt Sito has ever seen in his life.

And yet, his eyebrows don’t even raise a fraction.

He’s familiar with Cimani’s taste in fashion. Skin-tight and revealing. He knows who his friend is; “the shorter, the better,” she once said.

This late in the game, he doesn’t even blink twice when her pants ride a bit too low on her hips or her shirts are too sheer for her brown nipples.

She’s pretty to look at, why would he complain?

“S’cool,” he says, eyeing it.

The skirt is a soft cream, so pale that it almost appears to be white.

She raises a brow. “That’s all?”

“It’s your style. You already know you gonna look good in it.”

“Hm.” She turns her back to him, tossing the skirt over her arm as she shuffles through the rack. All the while, she’s pressing her glossed lips together, willing them to stay in a straight line.

The pile of clothes hanging over her left arm piques his curiosity. He leans into one of the racks. “You tryna make an outfit or something?”

“I guess,” she sighs out. “I’m not finding anything cute enough, though.”

If she can find this beautiful skirt, why can’t she walk out of here with a whole new outfit?

And that’s how she spends the next twenty minutes in this store, turning it on its head to find a good enough top to go with it. Though, she doesn’t neglect to swipe up anything else that catches her eyes.

“What the fuck?” She groans. Frustration creases up her face, as she defeatedly joins the line.

“It’s other stores, Mami,” Sito gently reminds from behind her.

She only rolls her eyes. “I wanted something from here, though.”

Throwing a heavy arm around her shoulders, he pulls her body to his chest. The weight of his pull causes her to scuff her CDG Converses against the toes of his Balenciaga ASICS, but he ignores it.

“You gonna find something.”

Her heart flutters from the affection. She keeps the feeling bottled up.

Silence settles between them for some time as they slowly move up in the line. Sure, the clothes have begun to grow heavy in her arms, but she doesn’t mind it too bad.

However, the arm around her shoulders is definitely a stronger weight. And even as he scrolls through his phone, hitting up any app that catches his interest, Sito doesn’t pull his arm away.

How many times has she been in his phone? He’s not too worried.

With no choice left but to watch, her eyes scour his screen with a detached interest.

Until she looks in the upper right hand corner of the screen to see the ‘Do Not Disturb’s crescent symbol.

Her lips purse.

“So … who’s Jada?”

His thumb twitches over the screen. Against her back, his chest slowly inflates with a deep but slow breath.

“Not anyone you know.”

“That’s why I’m asking.”

It’s quiet for a few seconds as she waits for a response.

He kisses his teeth. “She not nobody for you to be worried about.”

Wrong answer.

“Hope you didn’t leave her on ‘delivered.’”

There’s a subtle twist of her lips now.

“I didn’t.”

Before he can provide a better answer, she pulls away to stand on her own.

He sighs to himself. It’s so soft, it can almost be mistaken as a simple exhale.

Without a doubt, there’s more questions she wants to ask, more things she wants to say. But … she keeps quiet.

They remain parted until they finally reach the register.

“Hello, would you like to pay with cash or card?” the cashier asks while tapping away at the register. She’s a younger worker, clearly in her teens.

Cimani’s lips part to give an answer.

“Card.”

Her mouth shuts, head jerking back as she gives Sito a glare. The cashier simply nods as she begins to scan each item.

“What’s the next store?”

She doesn’t spare him a glance as she shrugs plainly. Her frank demeanor makes him press his lips together in annoyance. He stares her down.

“‘Mani.”

“What?”

“Look at me.”

Her upper lip curls in distaste. She doesn’t obey.

“Bro, cmon.”

This time she listens, but the frown on her face deepens. That doesn’t matter too much to him.

“Dap me up.”

With a small grin, he holds out a ringed hand. The diamonds in the jewelry glisten under the store’s warm lighting.

Cimani only gives him a stiff once-over.

“Dap me up,” he presses. The jewelry on his wrist softly clink against each other as he shakes his hand for emphasis.

“Your total is two fifty-six, eighteen,” the cashier cuts in. “You can tap whenever you’re ready.”

Sito wants to groan. Dropping his hand, he retrieves his phone from his pocket to proceed with ApplePay. Shortly after, his phone dings with the successfully completed purchase.

“You over here catching an attitude, but she ain’t the one I’m getting shit for right now.” Reaching over the counter, he grabs the large shopping bags from the cashier’s hand.

“Have a good day,” Cimani tells her with a short smile, before walking ahead of him.

He follows.

“So you do this for all your friends, then?” she asks as they leave the store.

His face twists up. “One—she’s not my friend. And two, Hell nah.”

Just as fast, he drops the disgusted look. He switches the shopping bags to the other hand, throwing his free arm back around her smaller shoulders.

“You know I only do this type’a shit for you, Mami.”

Rolling her eyes at the nickname, she begrudgingly succumbs to his affection. Her body goes lax as she eventually leans mores into his touch.

Without a mention, Sito pulls them in a specific route, effectively leading the way to another store.

“Where we going?” she asks after a while.

“This one store I seen.”

When that’s all he says, her face contorts in confusion. “That’s it? What’s the name of the store?”

“Man, I’on know. But, we ‘bout to see, chill.”

She scoffs. “So damn annoying.”

It takes less than five more minutes for them to reach the new location. And “new” it is.

“I never seen this place before,” she says as they cross the threshold.

The store takes on more of a boutique style. There’s decorations of frills, lace, and baby pink all around them. These type of clothes seem to be more of a coquette style.

“Yeah,” he says, leading her towards the back of the store. “Seen it the other day when I came to pick up something.”

A soft gasp leaves her as she places a delicate hand over her chest in offense. “You came to the mall without me? What the fuck, Sito?”

He kisses his teeth, reaching overhead to riffle through a wall-mounted rack. “Relax, just had to get my mom’s pick-up order. I was in and out.”

“So you only went to one store?”

He lifts a cropped cardigan out from behind a couple of its other duplicates. He hands it over. “Yes.”

Without a question, Cimani takes the item. She doesn’t even check the size, confident that he knows hers.

“You promise?” She gazes up at him with big eyes.

As he stares down at her dramatic pout, he’s reminded of how cherubic her face is.

Faint freckles dot the apples of her cheeks and spill over the bridge of her nose. He only really sees them when he gets this close. On the apple of her left cheek, there’s a tiny beauty mark that stands out. And her lashes—which, speaking of—

“You need a fill-in.”

Her face falls. “Fuck you.”

With a smirk, he huffs out a breath of laughter. “You made an appointment for that yet?”

Finally, she takes a good look at the cardigan he’d given her. She frowns at it. “No.”

“Don’t do that, it’s cute,” he says, referencing the cardigan. “Y’know that’s your style.”

She looks at him challengingly. “Is it?”

“It’s gonna look good on you.” He eyes the piece closely, imagining it with the skirt she just purchased. “But, tell me when you book the appointment.”

“Yeah, you would like to know. ‘Cause you just love running errands with me.” She smirks, throwing the cardigan over her arm.

“I just know you gonna ask for a ride.” He takes her bag from the previous store as she walks over to some dresses. And, of course, he follows. “No car,” he mocks.

She picks up a backless, maxi dress. “Keep being sassy and you won’t have anyone to be taking.”

“Yeah, okay.” He eyes the dress. “Don’t get that.”

Kissing her teeth, her face screws up. “Who the fuck are you to tell me what to wear?”

“A nigga that cares, that shit ugly,” he scoffs. “I’on know why you even picked that up. Y’know I’m your stylist.” His statement finishes with a soft smirk, only earning an aggressive eyeroll.

“And what if I like to dress myself, hm? What if I really liked this dress?”

He sucks his teeth, jerking his head back. “C’mon, y’know that’s not gonna fit you right. Look at the cut,” Sito gestures to the baggy fabric. “You too pretty for that.”

Rolling her eyes, Cimani puts the dress back.

“That’s not even your style. Just picking shit up to do it—“

“Anyway,” she laughs. The bubbly sound tapers off with a sigh. “I can’t really afford a fill-in right now. You know that.”

“That’s why I said to let me know when you book it, duh. Ain’t no other reason I’ma say that.”

“And when the fuck did you become a trick?”

The simple question earns a chuckle out of him as he follows her on the way over to a short rack of cropped tops.

“You think you funny,” he smiles.

“You’re laughing, aren’t you?” She pushes a hanger or two to the side, trying to find her size.

“Shut the fuck up.”

Cimani only rolls her eyes.

“Quit questioning me. I’m just tryna make sure you look good.”

•

And he wasn’t lying about that.

After leaving the second store, with Sito having bought her even more clothes, he decides to take her to his list of favorite stores: Alo, Nordstrom, Lulu Lemon, Bloomingdales, and even a couple of sneaker resale stores.

Granted, he hadn’t bought something from every store they visited, but he undoubtedly dropped about two bands on her. A little less on himself, just a small cop of some shoes he’s been eyeing for some time.

He was ready to spend more, really cash out and make his best friend feel better, but the food court called for them. And when it’s time for them to eat, that typically marks the end of their shopping trip.

The line for their choice of lunch wasn’t horrendously long—a relief when they’ve got at least five large shopping bags between them.

When they take their seats, Sito is sure to keep them at his feet, underneath the table. There is the soft crinkle of paper bags and wrappers as they chew on their selection of fries and chicken sandwiches.

As usual, Sito finishes his meal prematurely. He only rolls his bag over, mentally swearing to go back to this leftover fries later—which he never does. To clear his throat, he takes a sip of his lemonade as he eyes Cimani.

“So,” he begins, setting down his half-finished cup. “You wanna talk about it forreal or…?”

She glances up, a blank expression covering her face. “What do you mean?”

“Shit, you tell me. Something’s clearly bothering you.”

It was only a matter of time.

“And don’t try to say it’s nothing.” He points a playfully warning finger in her face.

For a second or two, she only stares at him. But, that’s all it takes for her to crack a smile. With a lazy hand, she pushes his out of her face and looks down at her food.

She doesn’t know what to say first. Her smile falters as she builds her response in her head.

“Life’s just … beating my ass.”

A soft sigh slips through parted lips. After eating and the natural wear of the day, there’s hardly any trace of her lipgloss left.

She shakes her head. “It’s about my apartment.”

His brows pull together. “What you mean?”

“Like … ugh.” Her head falls into her hands, her elbows pressed into the surface of the table. “Why is apartment searching so hard.”

The wrinkle in his brows deepens. Since when had she been planning to move?

Cimani picks her head up out of her hands. “My lease is ending in less than two months and I can’t afford to renew it. They’re asking for too much.”

“How much?”

She sighs, picking at her fries. “An extra three-hundred.” Her dark eyes flick upwards to peer into his. “I’m already struggling with my rent as is, Sito. I can’t afford this. I’m already burning through my savings trying to keep up ‘cause it took me so long to get this new job.”

Quiet, he rubs a hand down the lower half of his face, sitting up straighter in his chair.

“Everything I find is too expensive, and for what these aprtments are offering, it’s not worth it,” she continues. “Everything in this city is just so fucking expensive.”

The fatigue in her voice is almost tangible.

“And what’s actually in my price range is outside the city, and those units aren’t even an option for me. They’re too far from my job to have to take public transportation every day. I don’t even have a car.”

The more she talks, the more he finds her shrinking in on herself. Her shoulders become more hunched, her voice grows shaky, and her frown deepens.

She picks at the fraying of her shorts. “I can’t risk being late to this job, Sito. I just started it, I’m still on probation.”

Her cracking voice causes a heavy feeling in his chest. His mouth twitches, threatening to fall into a frown of its own.

How can he make this better?

It only takes about ten seconds for him to formulate an idea.

“What if I let you borrow my car?”

His words seem to pluck her head up, her eyes wide and brows pulled together.

“What?”

She shakes her head. “Sito, I can’t—“

“Nah, hol’on—obviously, it’s not gonna be the one I drive. Just take the Benz.”

“Sito—”

“I’m serious.”

‘Just take the Benz.’ Did he even realize how that sounded? Sometimes, Cimani feels like it slips his mind how different things are for them.

“And if I scratch it doing some dumb shit or I get in an accident, then what?”

“Then I get it fixed, ‘Mani.” The wrinkle in Sito’s brows grows deeper. “What you tripping for? You need the car, right?”

“I can’t take your car, Sito.” Reaching out, she plucks a single fry from its container and pops it into her mouth, just to keep her body moving.

Truth be told, the nature of this conversation has ruined her appetite. She chews for longer than normal.

His sigh, one of stress this time around, is quite loud. For a minute, he doesn’t say anything. But when he finally does…

“So what you gonna do about the apartment, Mami?” His voice is tendered as he tries to meet her where she’s at.

Mid-swallow, she almost chokes on her food.

The nickname; she’s used to hearing it from him—an inside joke between them that should’ve long since died when he said it by mistake to her, during a heated conversation.

Too unserious for their own good, the two friends couldn’t help but dissolve into laughter, effectively ending the argument.

Ever since, Sito found himself using it whenever he felt like being funny.

Actually, that was the case.

She’s not really sure when the change happened, but most times now, she finds him using the nickname with a sincerity that’s almost … sickening.

It actually tends to catch her off guard more often than not these days.

At the very least, she can acknowledge how she really likes when he says it. Even if, at times, she can’t handle it. Especially those times when he purposely softens his voice just to call her that.

Recentering her breathing, she looks past him.

“I dunno,” she mumbles. “Um … guess I’ll just have to keep … looking.”

It’s quiet between them for a moment. The absence of a response has her believe that he chose to accept the situation for what it is, just like she had. That he chose to drop the subject and that they can get back to their day of fun.

“If you want—and not on no weird shit, aight? I just want you to consider it … you could choose to renew the lease, and I’ll give you the difference.”

“Sito,” she exhales. “I cannot make you pay my rent—“

“It’s a good thing you not making me, then. And I’m not paying your rent, ‘Mani. I’m just giving you the rest of it. That’s all. We don’t gotta talk about it ever. I’ll just set up a payment schedule every month—”

“No, Sito, no. You’re my friend, and I love you—I love that you’re trying to help me. I appreciate you, I really do—even for today. Thank you, but I can’t make you do that. I can’t use you.”

“You not using me ‘Mani, damn.” The signs of irritation bleed onto his face, even if he hadn’t intended for it to show. “Where the fuck you getting that shit from? I just wanna make sure you good.”

“And thank you for that, Sito. Seriously, but I’m never letting a nigga get the chance to say that he’s the one paying my rent or holding my living situation over my head. No one’s ever gonna control me like that. Ever. I need to be able to do this on my own. Just respect my wishes, please? Please.“

His exhale tells her all too well that he isn’t the happiest about this.

“Aight … aight then.“

“Thank you… If you wanna help, just … help me find a new place.”

He licks his lips as he shifts in his seat. He nods. “Okay, I’ma help you.”

“Thank you.” She gives a somber smile.

It’s so weak that it trembles under the weight of trying to conceal just how hopeless she is.

Yet, the longer he looks at her, the more that smile cracks. And the cracks just keep getting bigger and bigger until the mask shatters.

A small whine leaves her as she hides her face in her hands. There’s a hiccup he doesn’t hear, but a wet sniffle comes right after. That, he definitely hears.

“‘Mani—“

“I just feel so fucking … broke and ugly.”

Her shoulders tremble as she begins to wipe at her wet face.

“Like … I’m a fucking bum!”

“Aye.” Sito reaches out for her across the table, gently pulling her hand away from her face. “You not a bum, Mami.”

“I feel like one.”

“But you not. C’mon, quit all that crying.”

She doesn’t look him in the eyes as he thumbs away her falling tears.

“I can’t even get—get my hair done … o-or do my nails,” her voice wavers.

She can’t deny that she’s painfully aware of her overgrown nails. At this point, her shorties were now considered medium length.

“My lashes are way past a fill-in, a-and now I-I look like a fucking—cartoon character with j-just three lashes on each eye—“

“Aye, c’mon now. Stop.” He rubs her collected tears between his thumb and forefinger before wiping more of them away. “You know you better than that. You just in a rough spot right now.”

Her face creases up again as another cry leaves her, more tears bubbling up at her waterline.

He pulls his hand away to grab her a clean napkin. “Here—look.”

She sniffles again. “Th-thank you,” she hiccups, taking the napkin.

“You good,” he says softly, watching her clean herself up.

Silence settles over the two of them as Cimani slowly regains her composure while Sito patiently waits for her.

“You not ugly, Cimani. You just not done up, and that’s cool. You’on need all that shit. I know how you step. Don’t gotta prove shit to no one.”

A numb sensation settles over her while she listens to his encouraging words. And she appreciates them more than she can even say.

“Just focus on getting that new place first. We gonna find something.”

The only response she can give is a nod.

Her inhale is shaky. She wipes at her face again. With a tired sigh, she places the balled up napkin down on the table.

“I don’t even wanna go home tonight,” she croaks.

“You don’t got to.”

Finally, she peers at him with glassy eyes. The frown on her lips has yet to go away.

“You wanna leave?”

She nods.

“Aight.”

•

There is no jingling of keys or the click of a lock when he opens his apartment. Instead, there’s a soft whirr when he simply taps his phone against the electronic lock.

He pushes the door open softly and shifts to the side to let her through. Cimani keeps quiet as she slips past him, entering what Sito’s dubbed as her “second home,” for the first time in a few weeks.

When he enters right after her, he flicks on the lights to his kitchen and living room, illuminating the large, open area.

After leaving her shoes at his door, she heads straight to the couch. As much as she loves his place in all of its sleek, contemporary nature, she’s too exhausted and sad to enjoy the decor tonight.

“I’ma go put the bags in the room,” he mumbles.

She nods as he’s already on the way to his bedroom. Settling back against the large, burnt orange cushions, her eyes fall closed as she exhales.

In this time by herself, her brain replays the issues that plague her life with a kind of hurried exhaustion.

She doesn’t even hear when Sito comes back out. However, when the knock of a closed cabinet door sounds, she finds him in the kitchen. With a new change of clothes, might she add.

Behind the bar-like counter, he holds the long neck of a wine bottle. Just a few inches away, there are two wine glasses, ready to be filled.

“You look like you need to drink your problems away.”

Her face softly creases with a weak smile. She doesn’t even have it in her to give a tiny laugh.

The bottle isn’t unopened. Usually, he only brings this one out when she’s over. It’s the only brand he owns that she’ll drink.

Without much thought, unscrews the top off of the bottle and pours the first glass. The drink’s deep red color flows into the crystal clear cup, which he eyes with caution.

“On the table right there, it’s my laptop. You could get it.”

Her brows pull together as she looks at him.

He glances at her, feeling those dark brown—almost black—eyes on him. “We gonna find some listings.”

He had looked back at the cup too quick to notice the way her face softened and opened up. But, maybe it’s a good thing he hadn’t seen it—she gets the feeling that he’s seen her get teary-eyed enough for the day.

By the time she retrieved his laptop, a new MacBook—at least much newer than hers—he’s already heading over to the living room with their glasses of wine.

“Password’s the same as my phone.”

She types away, unlocking the device with ease.

“Thank you,” she glimpses at him as he rests her cup on the coffee table, in a spot closest to her.

He takes his own seat in the crook of the couch’s L-shape, just a cushion or two down from where she sits at.

Cupping the bottom of his glass, Sito holds it close to his mouth as he begins use of his phone. He’s the picture of relaxation, it’s almost funny.

He’s got his glasses on—which he only wears when he really feels like being focused. Straight-leg sweats cover his tatted legs. He’s got the ankle of one resting over the knee of the other, his lifted leg forming a right angle. His raised foot wags, both feet clad in his Balenci house slides.

Truthfully, he looks like somebody’s mother. Especially with his small bonnet covering his cornrows.

“What’s your budget?”

She blinks out of her reverie. “Um … two-thousand?”

He takes a sip of his wine, attention still buried in his phone as he types away.

She decides that before he catches her staring, to focus her attention on the laptop and start searching for apartments.

•

Sade plays softly through his surround sound—he’d decided that they needed the accompaniment of music shortly into their search.

Her cup sat untouched for the better half of an hour before she started to sip on it. She’s not sure what to say about this search.

She’s grateful that Sito’s helping, beyond grateful, but a lot of what they find are listings she’s seen before. Cimani’s come to learn the available apartments of their city like the back of her hand.

And the results they’re getting, for her budget, aren’t really even good enough options. Unsafe neighborhoods, not enough space, bad reviews on landlords, units so in-need of a renovation that it was a safety hazard at this point—it’s a struggle.

Near the bottom of Sito’s cup sits the dregs of his drink. He abandoned it on the coffee table just before he reached the bottom of the cup, claiming to “lock in” on this search.

However, at this point he thinks he actually might need another glass to help him continue this search.

With a soft grunt, he slowly unfolds to reach forward for the wine bottle on the table.

“This shit killing me,” he rasps, pouring into her cup before he does his.

“Imagine I’ve been doing this for months now.”

He kisses his teeth, recapping the bottle. “Might as well live with me at this point.” The laugh that proceeds afterwards, is messy and loose.

That’s the wine talking.

“At this point,” she agrees with a giggle. “Clear out a couple drawers for me.”

Definitely the wine talking.

Cradling his cup, he falls back into the embrace of the couch. All the while, he keeps his eyes on her as a lazy smile lifts his lips.

“You know you gon’ wear all my shit anyway.”

Looking over the edge of his laptop, she finally makes eye contact with him. His gaze is stiff, unmoving, as he holds her stare over the edge of the cup while taking another sip.

His lips smack as he swallows the tart drink. “Could move in tonight if you wanted.”

She only smiles, finally gaining the strength to look back at the laptop’s screen.

“You’on think we could live together?” he pushes.

A shortened piece of laughter leaves her as the state of his lovely space, as opposed to hers, comes to mind.

“No.”

His face scrunches up. “Why?”

“I’m too messy for you, Sito.”

“Oh, so—so you aware.”

“Shut up,” she giggles again.

His smile is smooth as he pulls the sound out of her.

“But…” He sits up on the couch, even leaning forward some. “You know I’ll hire a cleaner behind you.”

The soft slur of his words makes her scoff. She almost can’t even hear it.

He kisses his teeth. “Stop playing with me, you know I’ll do it.”

“Oh, I know.”

“Aight, then. So what’s the issue?”

Pursing her lips, Cimani chances giving him another look. “I thought you hate when I take your clothes.”

The second before he answers, he stares into her eyes as he wets his lips. His own eyes are low. “You know I don’t give a fuck about that shit … be forreal.” A smile inches at her lips.

He only breaks eye contact to push a finger up under the band of his bonnet. His eyes slightly roll off as he scratches an itch.

“You know a nigga like that shit, quit acting dumb.”

She’d heard his mumbled words loud and clear. She swallows, her throat dry. It almost tempts her to take some more wine. But she knows it’ll have her saying stupid shit,

“Do you let Jada wear your stuff?”

Like that.

The smirk she wears is hollow, but only she knows that. But, she can’t deny the pang in her chest that appears when he looks offended at her words.

“Yo—don’t—“ He shakes his head, as if trying to erase his mind like an Etch-A-Sketch. “Why you even bring that up?”

She shrugs weakly, looking back at the computer. “Thought that’s what y’all were on,” she says plainly. Though, on the inside she feels like she stepped on a landmine. “Since, y’know, you said she wasn’t a friend.”

“‘Cause she’s not. How those things even connect? And—yo, stop playing on me, you know I don’t bring nobody back to my place. You crazy?” His face seems to screw up the more he thinks about what she said. “All this shit I got up in here—You the only one I let in here. You know that. Quit acting like—“

He cuts himself off with the kiss of his teeth, growing more frustrated. He scrubs a hand down the front of his head, a habit he’s never shaken, even after growing out his waves.

“Yo, quit moving like you’on know who you are and what shit is, ‘Mani. You be pissing me off with that shit, forreal.”

She stays quiet, at war with herself on whether or not it’s good that she wants to smile. On the other hand, Sito reaches forward to gulp down more of his wine.

The conversation leaves off there, both electing to continue their search in silence. And it stays that way for a long while.

This time around, as they put their all into this, both sparingly touch their cups. It was growing harder to focus with all of the drinking.

But, the silence can’t last forever. A yawn wrestles its way out of Cimani. Shortly after, the same happens for Sito.

Then, there’s another pause for silence.

“Look at what I just sent you.”

Wordlessly, she picks up her phone just as it receives a text. Without hesitance, she opens the link he’d sent her.

For $1,850 a month, it’s a newly renovated one bedroom, one bathroom unit almost twenty minutes from her current apartment. Much closer to her new job. Amenities include a rooftop lounge, a gym, and in-unit laundry. And what’s more, is that it’s conveniently located near public transportation.

“Oh my God,” she says, sitting up straighter, her eyes opening a bit wider. She slides the laptop onto the couch, beside her. “This is perfect. How did you find this?”

This is the first time she’s looked at him in almost an hour. And it brings her some relief to see the tiny grin on his lips.

Their last conversation was forgotten, it seems.

“Told you we was gonna find something.”

Looking back down at her phone, she continues to scroll through the listing, loving it more by the second.

By the looks of it, she’d have to do some minimal downsizing, but this unit would be the perfect size for her. She’s been meaning to get rid of some hoarded junk for a while now.

As she scrolls to the bottom of the page, ready to apply, reality steps in to remind her that nothing ever just works out perfectly for her.

Her smile drops upon seeing the greyed out text: In Contract.

“What? What happened?”

She peers up to see him watching her, before she looks back down at the screen.

“It’s already in contract, Sito.” She throws her head back against the couch, groaning out. “What the fuck!”

“Don’t trip, relax. See if they left a email and shoot ‘em one about the listing.”

She picks her head back up, worry all over her face. “Don’t you know what that means? They’re already in the process of renting out the space to someone.”

For the umpteenth time today, he sucks his teeth. “‘Mani, you don’t know what stage of the process they in. They could still be looking for applicants.”

“I don’t think they’re looking for anyone else, they blocked off the option to even apply.”

“Which is why you should email ‘em. They gonna see that you serious about the shit. And if they do go forward with this person, they might got another unit they could offer you just like this one. It looks like this place is new.”

He’s got a point.

“Fine,” she sighs out, resigning to his idea.

Sure enough, she finds an email address for the apartment’s leasing office.

“It’s gonna work, I promise you. That’s how I got my place,” he says as she types out her message.

“Okay, listen to this.”

As she recites her message, he listens intently, seeking out any errors for her to fix. When she finishes, she watches him with bated breath as he thinks it over.

“Mmh … it’s good. Send it.”

“Okay,” she breathes out.

Within that second, she presses the send button on the email and watches it get whisked off to the recipient.

“I hope they get back to me soon,” she pouts, lying back against the couch as she looks over at him.

“Forreal.”

They’re both tired, it’s too obvious in the way their eyes droop and their bodies sag against the couch—likely leaving large indents of where they’d been.

“Ugh, I’m over this,” she says. Feeling a bit better about this whole ordeal, she shuts his laptop and places it back on the coffee table.

As she stands to stretch, Sito remains seated, tapping away at his phone.

“Not even gon’ lie … I’m fake tired, but … not tryna go to bed right now.”

He looks up at her through his glasses, eyeing the way the muscles in her legs flex as she stands on her toes. All these years later, and the history of running competitive track back in high school was still there.

He looks up at her face, seeing that she’s already been staring at him. He’s been caught.

Oops?

“What do you wanna do?” she asks as her arms drop to her sides.

“Not gon’ lie,” he drags out the word, contemplating on saying his idea out loud. “You tryna go live with me?”

Her brows raise. “Live, Sito?”

“It’s lowkey fun, sometimes.” He shrugs.

“Sometimes.” She scoffs. “People are mean online. And you have mad followers, I’m not tryna have all those people talk about me.”

“Please,” he waves off. “You gon’ be fine. I’m not letting them niggas talk about you.”

She looks at him, pressing her lips into a thin line as she weighs her options. “I be reading your comments sometimes, I don’t want none of your thirsty-ass fans saying nothing just ‘cause they see you with a girl.”

“Fans is crazy,” his voice muffled as he rubs a hand down his face. “Not worried about that.”

“Easy for you to say.”

He sits up in an instant, feeling a burst of energy. Standing, he grabs their near-empty cups in one hand and the wine bottle in the other.

“You wanna do it or not? Don’t be boring.”

He leaves the area to enter the kitchen. Setting the bottle down on the counter, he heads over to the sink.

“Are you peer-pressuring me?” Cimani follows after him.

He scoffs. “Yes,” he says, dumping out each glass before opening the pipe to wash it all down.

“That’s terrible.”

“Didn’t hear a ‘no,’ though.”

“That’s how peer-pressure works, dummy.”

The corner of his mouth up-turns. “Then I won.”

She rolls her eyes, crossing her arms.

As he sets up to go live on his phone, clearing anything from his space that can be too revealing, Cimani raids his pantry for her favorite snack—Rice Krispie Treats.

The half-empty wine bottle is used as a phone-stand, as he’s too lazy to retrieve his actual one from his office. He sits before the device, at his counter-top, among one of the many bar stools usually tucked beneath it.

“I’m ’bout to start the live. If you don’t wanna be on, let me know and I won’t put you in it.” He opens up the app TikTok. “Just let me know when you wanna pass through so I could move the camera.”

She shakes her head as she swallows a bit of her snack. “I’ll be in it.”

He peers up at her with a raised eyebrow. “You sure?”

“Mhm.”

“Aight.”

Finally, he starts the live as she watches from behind the counter.

In the first couple of minutes, about three-hundred viewers roll in. He watches the screen, leaned forward on his elbows.

“What’s up, yall. What’s up … goodnight,” he greets.

The comments roll in, greeting him back. Some playfully berate him for the time he’s choosing to go live, claiming they have to miss this one because they have work in the morning, but they just wanted to stop in and say ‘hi.’

The views reach to a steady count of over five-hundred people.

“Came on here ‘cause I was bored, ain’t gon’ lie to y’all,” he says, readjusting his bonnet.

Cimani takes the last bite of her snack, crumbling up the wrapper into a little ball in her hand.

The soft crinkling earns his attention, as it had been the only sound while he read more comments. He peers at her over the wine bottle, the two watching each other for a very still, handful of seconds.

He’s the first one to break, quietly chuckling with a fist over his mouth as she smiles, throwing her garbage into the trash can.

His focus returns to the phone.

“‘He got a bonnet on … lawd, who gon’ be the boys?’” He kisses his teeth.

Cimani laughs, careful to keep the sound hushed.

“Man, we not doing that bullshit tonight.” He sits up straighter. “I got hair, and I need a line-up, chill.” He swipes his hand over his head. “Can’t even find none of my durags.”

The sound of Sito explaining himself becomes background noise as she opens his fridge for a bottle of water. The door closes on its own with a soft shut.

As she cracks the bottle open, she notices Sito watching her.

“They asking who in the back.”

She freezes, the cool bottle to her lips.

“They could hear you moving,” he laughs.

She swallows. “Oh, sorry.”

He shakes his head. “You good. Come in the camera,” he beckons her over.

She takes her time to close the bottle before setting in down. As he watches her, pushing back his stool some to allow space, he’s got a smile on his face.

He ignores the small burst in comments, questioning who he’s calling for off-screen.

When she finally joins his side, he pulls her to stand in front of him, before the camera. Holding her by her shoulders, he keeps her steady.

“Introduce yourself.”

“Um—“ she laughs shyly. “Hi,” she waves.

The comments pour in, complimenting her and asking for her name. If there were an insult or two, none of them catch it.

“She being shy, y’all—“

“Shut up—“

“This is ‘Mani.”

“Oh my God,” she gasps, lifting a hand to her head. “Why didn’t you tell me about my hair,” she whines, trying to smooth down the flyaways of her silky bob.

He pulls back, eyes scouring her head for any imperfections he might’ve overlooked.

“Ain’t nothing wrong with it.”

Reaching up, he smooths out the back of her head to make sure that all of her hairs fall straight.

“So why’re you fixing it?” she pouts.

“Chill … just tryna make you straight in the back.”

When it’s finally good enough for him, he returns his attention to the Live’s comments.

“Yeah, she pretty, right?”

“They’re actually nice,” she says quietly, her fingers pressed into her lips.

He hums. “Told you, you was gonna be good.”

Beneath the surface of the bar table, he toys with the fraying of her shorts against her outer thigh. The ticklish touches pull goosebumps up from her skin.

“Um, how was you guys’ day?” She giggles nervously.

Her laugh gets a soft smile out of him. Still eyeing her body, he slips the tip of his finger beneath the leg of her shorts.

“You don’t wanna come up outta these?”

The question catches her off guard, admittedly. She looks down at him, already seeing him stare up at her.

“I … don’t have any clothes over.”

Her voice is quiet, hoping the viewers don’t hear her. She isn’t the most sure of Sito’s reputation online, and she certainly wouldn’t want to ruin it.

“Just take one’a my sweats.”

His voice is noticeably louder, even clearer, than hers.

So, he just doesn’t give a fuck? Got it.

She just nods, recentering her focus back on the live.

“So … we did some shopping today,” he says from behind her. “I ain’t get nothing crazy, just a pair of shoes.” His hands rest on the countertop on either side of her, keeping her in place. “Tell ‘em what you got.”

“I don’t even remember everything I got.”

“Oh, wait, you should show ‘em.” He peers from her to the screen. “Y’all tryna see a haul?”

There are too many ’yes’s to count. And it makes her heart race.

“Sh-should I try them on?”

He shrugs, sitting back in his chair to give her space to leave. “It’s up to you.”

“Alright, um … I’m gonna get the bags.”

As she leaves, Sito monitors the comments, making sure his moderators were doing their job.

User23567907796 So r yall friends orrrr ..

User99645663265 Did I miss a chapter?????

User44666321677 Umm hard launch?🤔

User33561123230 She bad asf tho icl

With every question he answers, there’s a dejected tone in his voice.

“Did you miss a chapter?” He shakes his head. “Nah. You ain’t miss nothing … we friends.” With a finger, he pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “‘She bad’ … Yeah, she get fly.”

Any comment regarding his looks or trying to spit game at him is left unacknowledged.

Minutes later, Cimani returns with her bags of purchased items. To which, Sito offers up his seat. She takes it, sitting before the camera.

“Um, I got more clothes than anything,” she starts. “I got one pair of shoes but that’s it. I—“

“Show ‘em,” he says from behind, peering down at her.

She glances back at him. “Huh?”

“Show ‘em the shoes first.”

“Oh, yeah.” Bending down, she rifles through one of the bags to retrieve the box. Balancing it on her lap, she’s careful when taking out the brand new, shiny right foot to her pink Bapestas.

“We got them from a reseller shop,” she says as she shows it off to the camera.

Silently, he reaches out from behind her to assist her in correctly positioning the shoe for the viewers to see.

“Gotta make sure it’s in focus,” he says softly.

“Oh.”

Neither of them read the comments, gushing over how this is clearly her first time interacting with a large audience.

“You guys see it?” she asks.

“They see it, Mami.”

Her cheeks ache from how long she’s been able to hold a smile. But she can’t stop. Even when she tries to lose it, it’s like the muscles in her face are permanently fixed in this expression.

“Okay,” she says softly, putting the shoe away. “Um … I’m gonna do the clothes now,” she says, looking between the bags to decide which to start on first.

As she scans through each bag, she worries her bottom lip. Would they even find this interesting?

“Start with that one.”

She looks up in time to see him nodding at a large, pale pink bag. Wordlessly, she reaches in, retrieving the first item: a soft white, milk maid style dress.

“Sito actually picked this one out, for me,” she tells the viewers as she holds it up for them. “I accepted, ‘cause it’s close to my style, honestly.”

As she continues showing off her brand new items to the audience, moving through each store, Sito notes her increasing comfort.

Eventually, he even leaves the camera to let her do her own thing. It’s endearing, watching her speak to the viewers. Showing off everything he bought her. Seeing the way her eyes light up with each item, as if she hadn’t been holding them just a few hours before.

As he holds a water bottle, having gotten it from the fridge, he decides that looking at this scene before him—that he likes this. He really likes this.

He’d made the perfect decisions for her, picking out clothes that not only would she like, but would fit her well. That would compliment her.

“I’m not really sure how much all of this was, I can’t lie,” Cimani laughs, answering a frequently asked question among the Live comments.

Rounding the counter, Sito is back in front of the camera with her.

“No, y’all—Sito bought me all these.”

The admitted truth was uttered with an air of shyness. Maybe she was worried about the reaction she’d garner—rightfully so.

And yet, Sito couldn’t find it within himself to care. In fact, he actually felt a seed of pride blossom within him.

Watching the comments roll in, his nose twitches as he reads over one in particular. Her catches it just as Cimani gets up out of the chair.

User2293902682 Better watch out for these females theyll use u

His face twists into a scowl. “Nigga shut the fuck up.” He reclaims his seat before the camera. “I hate a bitchass nigga that just talks.” He kisses his teeth. “Somebody ban that nigga.”

“You’re about to get banned, if you keep cursing like that,” she jokes. “What’d they even say?”

“Don’t worry about it.” Looking over his shoulder at her, he notes the large Alo bag in her hand, looking as though she’s about to leave. “Where you going?”

“I wanted to try on the set you got me. Remember? I didn’t get to try it on in-store.”

He hums, turning back around to look at the live.

Running into his room, she hurries to pull out the grey, cotton ribbed Alo set. She’d always been between sizes. She can only hope that they bought the right size.

Slipping into the set, it feels wonderful against her skin. Her hands spread over her body, feeling over the smooth fabric. The crisp tags dangle from the bra top and leggings.

She pads over to the large mirror staged in the corner of Sito’s room. The set hugs her small frame, even bringing out the faint curve of her hips and the cuff of her small butt.

Staring at her reflection, she can do nothing but smile.

When she can finally pull herself away from the mirror and out of the room, she re-emerges with a pep in her step.

“Look!”

Sito turns around to see her in her new set.

“I’m surprised the extra-small fits! I thought I would’ve needed smaller.”

As she gets closer to him, he moves the phone just a few inches over to let the Live see.

“Y’all, look! Isn’t it cute?”

Sat back in his seat, an arm perched on the armrest of the stool, Sito’s cheek is pressed against his knuckles. As Cimani spins and poses for the viewers, he watches on as well.

Behind the lenses of his undoubtedly expensive frames, his dark eyes run up and down her body. He notes the figure-hugging material, how it makes her butt look just a little perkier.

“Yeah … it’s cute, Mami.”

The words had flowed smoothly from his lips without much of a thought.

“Yeah,” she agrees softly, looking at him with a gentle smile as she toys with the waistband of the leggings.

The longer he stares, he notices the slight twist in the seam along her butt.

“Come,” he motions over. “Lemme fix it.”

She looks over at him, doe eyes wide with confusion. “What’s wrong?”

She doesn’t wait for an answer as she enters his space, sliding in between his spread legs.

“The pants is twisted.”

His touch is soft and careful. He barely tugs at the waist band to fix it, while also pulling them up an inch higher. His hands smooth down the sides of her hips, coming to rest at their widest part.

“It’s good now?” she asks, peering down at him.

Licking his lips, he peers up at her. “Yeah.”

Seconds seem to fly by as they stare into each other’s eyes. Cimani is the first to look away, distracting herself with the Live comments.

She gasps, covering her mouth with a hand. “Oh my gosh. They’re going so fast.”

Turning his head, he finally looks back at the Live. He tries to read what he can catch. And from what he can see, damn near all of the comments are about his touchiness regarding his best friend.

Yet, he still doesn’t pull his hands away.

In fact, his arms encircle her small waist, keeping her in place as he leans against her.

“I can’t even read them.” She laughs as she passes a hand over his head, feeling the curves of his cornrows beneath the bonnet’s satin.

User282884928 Yall sure yall just friends??

User9298392792I wish my boy bsf treated me to a shopping spree 🙄

User0829927881Are we interrupting🤨

User104882929Jus looked at my bestie and sighed.

She seems to catch the final comment, laughing at the joke.

“Oh,” she gasps, jumping out of his hold. “The outfit I made—with the skirt? I need to see it.”

Before he can respond, she’s running back to the room with more bags.

As she’s gone, in the mean time, Sito is putting his focus back in the live. There’s mini updates he provides to his audience, informing them on progressions of small tidbits about his life he entails in his TikTok videos.

As he’s talking to them with mild interest, Cimani finally resurfaces.

“I hate to admit it, but you were right about the cardigan.”

He turns his head to see her standing in the hallway that leads to his room. She’s halfway revealed, the lower half of her body hidden in the shadows.

He spins his chair to see her. “Lemme see?”

She steps a few inches forward. The cardigan is stylishly baggy on her, the top button left undone to show subtle cleavage. Its vibrant color pairs wonderfully with the skirt she’d found.

And speaking of said skirt; as she does a little twist, his first impression of the item is confirmed before his very eyes. If she were to bend down even an inch, her ass would be out.

Granted, she doesn’t have all that much to show off, but the skirt sits pertly on her brown cheeks, teasing at a show.

“Oh, you can’t show ‘em that,” he says, chasing his phone for it to lay flat on the counter.

His audience gets a front-row seat to his tall ceilings.

“Come.”

She ambles over to him without hesitation.

“It’s cute right?” she asks, filing back in between his legs.

“You know it is.” Thoughtlessly, he reaches out and cards his fingers between hers, gripping her hand tight. “Didn’t need me to pick it out for you.”

She laughs, the apples of her cheeks lifted to the heavens above. He’s staring at her lips, unabashedly so. There’s a haze to his eyes, he isn’t the most present right now.

How much restraint is he practicing to keep himself from spinning her around and pulling her smaller body on his lap?

Better yet, how much restraint is he practicing that he’s only now picturing just how easy it would be to have her bouncing on his dick?

It would be nothing, she’s so light. He’d be the only controlling her, doing all the work while she just takes it—all of him. Probably crying about how she can’t take it, but about how good it feels. Her cute ass cheeks dropping over his lap. How deep her arch—

“You look pretty, Mami.”

Her brown face is flushed. He can see it.

“Thanks.” She really can’t stop smiling.

“Don’t gotta thank me.” He lets go of her hand to snake his around her waist, cradling the small of her back.

Her expression barely drops for a second as she remembers the Live. “Did you end it?”

She twists to look at his phone, slightly bending to read the screen.

It’s inevitable, he catches a glimpse of her panties beneath the skirt—a pale, lilac thong that disappears between her cheeks. Yet, he sees the patch of it that covers her.

He swears, it was only a second … but that was the longest second of his life. Time must’ve slowed, because he can recall the barest details of her body. Down to the outline of her lips through the thin cotton. So small and cute in size, like a little pocket.

A burst of heat runs throughout his body.

“Hey, guys,” he hears her say.

But the Live be damned. Scrubbing a hand down his face, he releases a tired sigh. “Aight, I’m done,” he croaks.

She slips the phone in his hand. He’s the only one filling the screen now, the comments begging for more of Cimani—and asking about that “moment” they just had.

“I’m done talking to y’all niggas.”

With two quick taps of a thumb, he cuts the live off.

“Awe,” Cimani pouts. “That was fun.”

Lifting his arms above his head, he stretches, the bones in his shoulders popping and cracking as he does so. “Mmph—was getting … tired of that shit.”

“Okay, well, bed-time I guess,” she smiles.

“Yeah,” he says, looking elsewhere.

“Help me bring the rest of the bags back in the room?”

Silently, he pulls himself to stand. Together, they bring the bags into his room, positing them in the corner near the mirror.

Getting ready for bed was a smooth process. He’d given her a pair of clothes to sleep in for the night—a large black tee, a random pair of shorts, and an unused pair of boxers he’d recently bought (even though she had to roll them up at the waist to be able to wear them). They showered and brushed their teeth in separate bathrooms, meeting back up in his bed for the night.

“Why this look like my bonnet?” Cimani asks, analyzing the small, satin black bonnet he had passed her.

“It is,” he chuckles, slowly climbing into bed next to her. “You left it over there from last time.”

“Oh.”

With ease, Sito pulls the comforter up high, shielding them from the cool temperature of his room. They don’t go to bed right away, that’s never a reality for either of them.

In fact, they sit up against the soft, fluffy pillows, scrolling through any social media app that catches their attention at the time. They aren’t particularly quiet, either. Cimani plays TikToks quite loudly on her phone, while Sito does his nightly scroll through Twitter.

This grown-up form of adjacent play continues for almost half-an-hour before Sito closes his phone. Setting the device down against his chest, he turns to look at her as she laughs at yet another video.

“Yo, you booked that appointment yet?”

“Huh?” Her focus bounces back and forth between him and the phone. “What, for my lashes?”

“Yeah.” His voice is heavy with fatigue.

“No, Sito,” she stresses, as if this current conversation is an inconvenience to her nightly entertainment.

“Why?”

She sucks her teeth, rolling her eyes as she finally puts the phone down. “Do you wanna do it now?”

Lazily, he shrugs. “Better now than later.”

“Fine,” she sighs, feigning annoyance.

“Yeah, okay,” he side-eyes her. “Matter fact—book the nail appointment first.”

Switching to her Instagram, Cimani pulls up her nail tech’s page to get to her booking site, one tap at a time.

“Hurry up—“

“Don’t rush me.”

Now it’s his turn to roll his eyes. Reaching over, Sito plucks the device from her grasp.

“Hey—“

“Moving too slow.”

Her upper lip screws up in distaste. Nevertheless, she saddles up to his side, watching him fill out her information for the appointment.

“How ya toes look?” He asks, side-eyeing her as his finger hovers over the ‘package’ section.

“Oh my gosh,” she whines, covering her mouth with her hand. “So bad.”

“Lemme see.”

“No!”

He sucks his teeth and gives her a pointed look. “‘Mani.”

“Okay, but don’t say anything!”

Underneath the covers, her leg shifts. She throws it over his hip. Reaching beneath the comforter, Sito blindly fishes for her small foot. Holding her soft sole in hand, he lifts her leg some and pushes down the covers just a bit to examine her toes.

There’s nothing wrong with them. Her white, gel polish is just chipped, but nothing terrible. And even with the old paint job, she still has cute feet. Nothing wrong with them at all.

“Yeah, you need ‘em done.”

“Boy, fuck you.”

“Mmh,” he hums with a one-sided grin.

The appointment is booked with ease before he passes the phone back. “Now book that lash appointment.”

As she does so, he retrieves his phone to continue his twitter scroll.

All the while, her foot remains in his hand, playing with her toes and even massaging her sole. And neither of them say anything about it, enjoying the moment too much to have mention of it mess things up.

Honestly, ‘Mani’s glad that she doesn’t have to outwardly acknowledge it. How can she even explain to him how much she enjoys his gentle touch?

Eventually, it lulls her to sleep.

Tonight is the first night in a while, that she doesn’t go to bed worried about her future.

ᥫ᭡

MIDNIGHT BLUE OR TORTOISE SHELL BROWN?

Cimani is confident in her ability to make good decisions. She isn’t indecisive, and for as long as she can remember, has never needed anyone to decide anything for her.

She’s prideful about that.

However, swiping back and forth between the two inspo-pictures she’d found from her Pinterest, her bottom lip is caught between her silver-tracked teeth.

It seems her decisiveness has abandoned her.

She wets her lips before speaking. “Sito?”

“Hm?” He hums around his plastic straw.

Stretching an arm over the console, she shows him her screen, looking him in the eyes with a light frown on her two-toned lips. A finger swipes back and forth between the two images.

“Which one?”

Thick brows pull together as his brain struggles to catch up with her rushed thinking. Still sucking down his sprite, he reaches out for the phone, putting a halt to her quick swiping.

She relinquishes her device to him. As he takes the phone, he takes his time to look at each photo.

Cimani eyes him carefully for a few seconds, then the phone, as if trying to observe them in the same way he does. Then she looks back at him.

“C’mon, which one?”

The urgency in her voice doesn’t make him choose any faster. His cheeks cave in as he only keeps drinking.

She sucks her teeth, sitting back in her car seat with folded arms.

He swallows. “Blue.” He tosses the device into her lap, turning his attention back on the parked car in front of them.

“What? What’s wrong with the brown?” She scrapes her phone up, looking back at the photo of the brown acrylics. “It’s different.”

The ice in his cup tumbles around as he rests his cup in one of the twin cup-holders.

“You asked my opinion—” He covers his mouth with a fist as a soft burp leaves him.

“I know, but—the brown’s cute!” She pouts, peering back at the blue nails.

“The blue would look better with your skin.”

He’s got a point. Sito has always thought that rich or saturated colors fit her deep brown skin so well. But, he keeps that thought to himself.

He pulls out his phone, copy-and-pasting the address she’d sent him earlier, into his Apple Maps.

She’s not so quick to respond this time, looking down at her screen with furrowed brows and a deeper frown.

“I feel like I should get the brown.“

“‘Mani—“

“No, I’m gonna get the brown! I really feel like it’ll be good.” She reaches across the console again to steal a fry from his bag of food. Before he can smack her hand away, she snatches it back. With a triumphant smile on her spit-shined lips, she pops it in her mouth.

He remains quiet, pressing his own lips together as he starts the GPS for her nail tech’s location.

It’s only about a twenty minute ride, it would’ve been shorter, but Sito had decided that it would be a good idea to get food beforehand. She found herself agreeing with his decision when they pulled into the drive-thru.

With only ten minutes left of the drive, Cimani is presenting her phone to him at a stop light, once again.

“Which one?”

He’s ready to give an honest answer, until he sees that it’s the nails, again.

He kisses his teeth. “Bro—“

“I’m not your bro. Now which?”

His eyes switch back and forth between the red light and her changing screen. “Wha—that one.” He tries to point, just as he lifts his hand, the light turns green.

“This one?” She smiles, swiping back to the brown.

He waits until she swipes back and lingers a second too long on the blue acrylics. “No—get that one.”

“Ugh!”

He sighs quietly to himself. “I don’t know why you keep asking me. Already told you which one to get…”

For a short moment, she quietly taps away at her phone. He almost thinks she’s ignoring him. “I like the tortoise shell one better.”

That’s where the conversation ends.

With a practiced perfection, Sito parallel parks into an empty spot right in front of Cimani’s nail tech’s studio.

“Thank you,” she sings, slinging her mini-purse over her slender shoulder.

“Mhm,” he says, putting the car in park. Sitting back in his seat, he pulls his phone back out.

The soft ding of her phone chimes just as the back of it flashes with light. She quickly glances at the screen as she opens the car door.

An Apple Cash from Sito, for $230.

She peers back at him over her shoulder with pursed lips.

“Get the blue,” he mumbles, still on his phone.

“Whatever.”

She steps out of the car, shutting the door behind her.

•

He doesn’t jump when the car door suddenly opens. Cimani made sure to text him five minutes before she finished, to give him a heads-up.

In fact, he’s pretty sure she was texting him throughout her entire appointment. If she wasn’t actually texting him, she was sending him Tiktoks or Reels/posts.

And if he dared to complain—not that he would—she would guilt trip him for being a bad “best friend” to her.

The last time she’d said that, as he was taking her to her gynecologist appointment, he only scoffed.

“Sitooo,” she sings, plopping into her designated seat in his Audi. “I’m back! Did you miss me?”

He side-eyes her, his gaze heading straight for her hand that clutches her phone. Wrapped around the device are perfectly shaped, long square, ombré blue acrylics.

Exactly.

“Yeah,” he says simply, turning the car back on.

“Better have.” She fixes her legging after they’d ridden up her thighs. “Where we going now?”

He scoffs. “I’m taking you home, I got shit to do.”

Her face falls. “What?”

“Yeah,” he chuckles, putting the car into drive.

“So I can’t come?” She scowls.

He doesn’t even have to look over at her to see it. “‘Cause it’s some boring ass shit. M’not gonna keep you couped up in the car.”

“So? We do errands together all the time!” In a flash, a deep furrow wrinkles her brows. “Where you going that I can’t come?”

“Bro, you know you’re gonna complain if I keep you bored in here.”

She fully turns her body to face him, crossing her arms. “If you’re going to see Jada, you could just say that.”

He only exhales, focusing on the road ahead of them. And his silence washes away her anger. Cimani’s brows smoothen out as they pull apart, and her pout is back.

“Sito,” she whines. “Are you serious?”

He glances at her, seeing the sadness on her face.

Quickly putting on his turn signal, he switches lanes. “Stop bringing her up. I don’t even talk to her no more.”

“So where are you going?”

He wants to laugh, he almost does. She sounds like a kid, begging to tag along.

“I’m just going to the shop, get my shit fixed,” he gestures to his head.

She eyes his braids with a scowl, noting his outgrown hairline. “Your hair looks fine to me. Who the fuck are you fixing it up for?”

The corner of his mouth quirks up as he scoffs. “You, before you start cuttin’ my ass about needing a line-up.”

She hums before looking out of the window, seeing the familiar buildings of her neighborhood. “Yeah, you do need to fix that.”

He kisses his teeth. “See? But you just said my shit was fine.”

“I don’t care.”

He rolls his eyes. “But I gotta go take my cousin to pick up his car from the mechanic after.”

“Excuses,” she mutters.

“You being bratty.” He keeps his eyes trained on the road.

“And you’re being weird, like we don’t hang out all the time.” Finally, she turns to him. “What’s so different this time?”

“‘Cause I gotta get my cousin,” he kisses his teeth. “I’d rather it just be us, to be honest.”

Cimani keeps quiet at that. Her silence earns her a quick glance.

“I’m sorry, aight?”

No answer.

“I’ll call you tonight.”

She rolls her eyes, still yet unsatisfied with the outcome of this all. Sighing, Sito settles for her silence that comes with what’s left of their ride.

As he finally pulls up to the front of her apartment, he unlocks her door.

“Thanks for the ride,” she says quietly, grabbing her bag.

“‘Mani.”

She addresses him with a pointed look, like he’s wasting her time.

“C’mon, bro. Stop acting like that, please.”

When she exhales, her tense shoulders deflate. Her eyes fall elsewhere, unable to look him in the eyes. “Okay.”

He raises his brows, leaning towards her. “You gon’ call me tonight?”

“Yes,” she rolls her eyes.

He sits back in his seat, quite satisfied with that answer. He’s even got a small grin on his face. “Thank you.”

Even with her frustrations against him, she stretches over the console and throws an arm around his shoulders for a close hug. As always, she pushes her small face in the warm crook of his neck. He doesn’t hesitate to wrap an arm around her torso, rubbing her back.

“You better not be out all night.”

He fights a shudder back as her lips fluttered against his skin with her softly spoken warning.

“Y’know I won’t.”

The deep rumble of his voice does something to her chest, it makes her feel weak.

After a couple of seconds, they finally pull apart, and before he knows it, she’s out of the car and shutting the door.

He doesn’t pull off until he sees her reach inside the building.

PART 2 HERE

TAGLIST • @wintrrxxo @vibewshyla @icanmakethedickstandup @toji-dabi-wife @genea-myers @whoareyouuuo @thegoatedaries @nova2kss @thecoochiefairy @plutobratz @levibabymama @bubblegum-lollipop @junitries @thevelvetwhispers @pussypinkdoll @venusincleo @soupersaldz @synicalslut

BANNERS • @cursed-carmine | @adornedwithlight & @cafekitsune

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scary-noodlesblog · 2 days ago

Text

Soulbound Ch 10

The Monster At The End Of This Book

Soulbound Masterlist

1st Person POV:

The boys and I walk into a comic book shop in our FBI outfits, suits and long coats. The man behind the counter looks up at us as we approach, already reaching into our coats for our badges.

"Uh... can I help you?" The man asks. Dean holds up his FBI badge, "Sure hope so. Agents DeYoung, Shaw, and Mustaine. Just need to ask you a few questions." "Notice anything strange in the building, last couple of days?" Sam asks. The man gives us a confused look, "Like what?" "Well, some other tenants reported flickering lights." I reply. The man shakes his head, "Uh, I don't think so. Why?" "What about noises? Any skittering in the walls? Kind of like rats?" Sam continues to interrogate. "And the FBI is investigating a rodent problem?" The man's eyebrows furrow, getting skeptical of us. "What about cold spots? Feel any sudden drops in temperature?" I ask. A big grin breaks out on the man's face as he points at us. "I knew it! You guys are LARPing, aren't you?" "Excuse me?" Dean questions, sounding a little offended.

"You're fans." The man smiles.

"Fans of what?" Sam looks at the man in confusion. Dean's eyebrows crinkle, "What is 'LARPing'?" "Like you don't know." The man chuckles. At the sight of our confused expressions the man explains. "Live-Action Role-Play! And pretty hardcore, too." "I'm sorry, I have no idea what you're talking about." Dean shrugs. "You're asking questions like the building's haunted. Like those guys from the books. What are they called? Uh... 'Supernatural.' Two guys and their sister, use fake IDs with rock aliases, hunt down ghosts, demons, vampires. What are their names? Uh... Steve, Dirk, and (Similar name)? Uh, Sal, Dane, and (Other Similar Name)?" "Sam, Dean and (Y/N)?" Sam asks hesitantly. The man points at Sam, "That's it!" "You're saying this is a book?" I tilt my head. "Books. It was a series. Didn't sell a lot of copies, though. Kind of had more of an underground cult following." The man gets up from his stool, walking over to the bargain bin. We follow him over as he pulls a book out, handing the book to Dean. "That's the first one, I think."

The book has two men and a woman on the cover, standing by an illustration of Dean's Impala. The long haired man is shirtless, I'm assuming that's Sam based off the hair. Dean's counterpart is wearing a black tank top. Standing on the other side of Sam's character is who I assume to be my persona. Her features are exaggerated like Sam and Dean's, a ripped, black dress barely covering her hips and breasts. Sex sells, right? "'Supernatural' by Carver Edlund." Dean flips the book over, reading the back. "Along a lonely California highway, a mysterious woman in white lures men to their deaths." "Give me that." Sam says, snatching the book from Dean's hands. After a moment, he looks up at the man, "We're gonna need all the copies of 'Supernatural' you've got."

~~~~~~~

Back in the motel, Sam is at the dining table on his laptop. Dean lays on the bed, reading the book where we dealt with that racist truck. I sit cross-legged on the other bed, reading the book where the boys and I dealt with the vengeful spirit drowning people related to the men who killed a little boy.

"This is freakin' insane. How's this guy know all this stuff?" Dean asks, making me look up from the book. "You got me." Sam shakes his head.

"Dude, in this book it talks all about us saving Lucas and his mom. Even down to what kind of sandwiches they made us." I hold up the book titled 'Dead In The Water'. "Everything is in here. I mean everything. From the to – to me having sex. I'm full-frontal in here, dude." Dean says.

I cringe, closing my book, "Ew, Dean."

Dean ignores me save for sticking his tongue out at me. He rolls off the bed and walks over to Sam. "How come we haven't heard of them before?" "They're pretty obscure. I mean, almost zero circulation. Uh, started in '05. The publisher put out a couple dozen before going bankrupt. And, uh, the last one – 'No Rest For The Wicked' –" Sam turns his laptop towards Dean. "Ends with you going to Hell." "I reiterate. Freaking insane." Dean scrolls through the website as I stand up, walking over to look over his shoulder.

"Check it out. There's actually fans. There's not many of them, but still. Did you read this?" I point at the screen. Sam scratches the back of his head, "Yeah." "Although for fans, they sure do complain a lot. Listen to this – Simpatico says 'the demon story line is trite, clichéd, and overall craptastic.' Yeah, well, screw you, Simpatico. We lived it." Dean says.

"Well, thankfully they didn't get to the storyline where I have an angel up my ass." I mumble. Sam chuckles, "Yeah. Well, keep on reading. It gets better." Dean grins. "There are 'Sam girls' and 'Dean girls' and '(Y/N) guys'– what's a 'slash fan'?"

"As in..." Sam hesitates. "Sam-slash-Dean. Together. Or Sam-slash-(Y/N). Or Dean-slash-(Y/N)." I cringe while Dean looks horrified, "Like, together together?" Sam nods, "Yeah." "They do know we're brothers, right? And (Y/N)'s pretty much our sister, I mean, we've known her since she was in diapers." Dean argues. "Doesn't seem to matter." Sam almost sounds like he's gonna be sick.

I fake gag, "Dude, they have 'Sam-slash-(Y/N)-slash-Dean'. Oh my God, they have us having threesomes." "Oh, come on. That... That's just sick." Dean shuts the laptop in disgust, pushing it away from him. "We got to find this Carver Edlund." Sam leans back in his chair, crossing his arms. "Yeah, that might not be so easy." "Why not?" Dean asks. "No tax records, no known address. Looks like "Carver Edlund" is a pen name." Sam explains. I cross my arms over my chest, shifting my weight to my right leg, "Somebody's gotta know who he is."

~~~~~~~

"So you published the "Supernatural" books?" I ask the woman.

The publisher's gray sweater flows a little behind her as she walks over to the shelf of books. "Yep. Yeah. Gosh. These books... You know, they never really got the attention they deserved. All anybody wants to read anymore is that romance crap. You know – 'Doctor Sexy, M.D.'?" She scoffs, "Please." "Right. Well, we're hoping that our article can... shine a light on an underappreciated series." Sam smiles softly. The publisher starts to get excited, "Yeah, yeah, because, you know, if we got a little bit of good press then m-maybe we could start publishing again." Dean interrupts her, "No, no, no, no. God, no. I mean, why – why would you want to do that? You know, it's, uh, such a complete series, what with Dean going to Hell and all."

The publisher smiles, fangirling a little bit. "Oh, my god! That was one of my favorite ones, because Dean was so... strong... and sad and brave. And in 'In My Time Of Dying' when John said (Y/N) wasn't real family, and Sam defended her to the end. And Sam... I mean, the best parts are when they'd cry. You know, like in – In 'Heart,' when Sam had to kill Madison, the first woman since Jessica he really loved. And in 'Home,' when Dean had to call John and ask him for help." She gets emotional, sniffling, "Gosh... if only real men were so open and in touch with their feelings." "Real men?" Dean asks, a little offended. "I mean, no offense. How often do you cry like that, hmm?" The woman shrugs. Sam grins a little as Dean says, "Well, right now, I'm crying on the inside." The publisher tilts her head, "Is that supposed to be funny?" Dean smiles sarcastically. "Lady, this whole thing is funny." "How do I know you three are legit, hmm?" The woman walks around her desk and sits in her office chair. "Oh, trust me. We, uh... we're legit." I give her a slight grin. "Well, I don't want any smart-ass article making fun of my boys, and their sister." She says. I frown a little, is that all that I am? Just their sister? "No! No, no, no. Never." Sam stammers.

"No, that's..." Dean trails off, looking at Sam for help. "We – We are actually, um... big fans." I interject, saving their asses. The publisher hums, "Hmm. You've read the books?" I nods, "Cover to cover." She starts a trivia, "What's the year and model of the car?" Dean smiles proudly, "It's a 1967 Chevy Impala." "What's May 2nd?" "That's my – Uh... that's Sam's birthday." Sam replies, almost slipping up. "January 24th is Dean's." Dean shrugs.

"September 8th is (Y/N)'s." I grin softly. "Sam's score on the LSAT?" Sam's eyebrows furrow. "One...Seventy-four?"

"When did Bobby Singer adopt (Y/N)?"

"Bobby took her in on November 26th 1987, but the official adoption wasn't done for a few months after that." I reply. The publisher looks impressed, "Dean's favorite song?" Dean grows a smug look, "It's a tie. Between Zep's 'Ramble On' and 'Traveling Riverside Blues.'" She smiles and shifts in her chair, "Okay. Okay. What do you want to know?" "What's Carver Edlund's real name?" Sam asks. The woman's eyes widen and she shakes her head, "Oh, no. I – No. Sorry, I can't do that." "We just want to talk to him. You know, get the 'Supernatural' story in his own words." I say with a slightly pleading tone.

She shakes her head again. "He's very private. It's like Salinger." "Please. Like I said – we are, um..." He undoes the top few buttons on his shirt, cringing a little as he shows off his anti-possession tattoo on his chest. "... big... big fans." Sam gives Dean and I pointed looks. Dean sighs and I roll my eyes, both of us pulling the collars of our shirts aside to show the same tattoos in the same spots. The publisher giggles. "Awesome. You know what?" She turns around, hiking up her skirt to show the same tattoo on her ass cheek. "I got one, too." I quickly look away, anywhere but there. But, of course, Sam and Dean don't. Dean chuckles. "Whoa. You are a fan."

"Okay." She scribbles something on a piece of paper. "His name's Chuck Shurley. And he's a genius, so don't piss him off."

~~~~~~~

Dean, Sam and I get out of the Impala, walking up the porch steps of the deep burgundy house. We share a look before Dean rings the doorbell. A man opens the door. Dean asks, "You Chuck Shurley?" "The Chuck Shurley who wrote the 'Supernatural' books?" I interject. Chuck's eyebrows furrow, "Maybe. Why?" "I'm Dean. This is Sam and (Y/N). The Dean, Sam, and (Y/N) you've been writing about." Chuck scoffs softly and closes the door. Chuck reopens the door after Dean rings the doorbell again, "Look, uh... I appreciate your enthusiasm. Really, I do. It's, uh, it's always nice to hear from the fans. But, uh, for your own good, I strongly suggest you get a life." Chuck tries to close the door again but I put my hand on it, keeping it open, "See, here's the thing. We have a life. You've been using it to write your books."

I push the door open the rest of the way and walk inside, Chuck taking a few steps back as Sam and Dean follow me in. Chuck backs into his living room, "Now, wait a minute. Now, this isn't funny." "Damn straight, it's not funny." I retort, crossing my arms over my chest. "Look, we just want to know how you're doing it." Sam says. Chuck argues, "I'm not doing anything." Dean's eyebrows crinkle, "Are you a hunter?" "What? No. I'm a writer." Chuck replies, confused and a little afraid. "Then how do you know so much about demons?" Dean advances on Chuck, who falls back on the couch. "And Tulpas, and changelings?" "Is this some kind of 'Misery' thing? Ah, it is, isn't it? It's a 'Misery' thing!" Chuck tries to reason. My eyebrows furrow as my hands fall to my sides, "No, it's not a "Misery" thing. Believe me, we are not fans!" Chuck lays back on the couch, "Well, then, what do you want?!" "I'm Sam. And that's Dean and (Y/N)." Chuck's voice raises in disbelief, "Sam, (Y/N) and Dean are fictional characters. I made them up! They're not real!"

~~~~~~~

We take Chuck outside, Dean opening the trunk of the Impala to show him the arsenal of guns, salt, ammo, and all the other shit we use. "Are those real guns?" Chuck squeaks. "Yup." Dean says, pointing to the bag of rock salt. "This is real rock salt." He opens the box of IDs. "These are real fake IDs." "Well, I got to hand it to you guys. You really are my number one fans." Chuck chuckles nervously. "That's, that's awesome. So, I-I think I've got some posters in the house." He starts to walk back to his porch. "Chuck, stop." Dean demands. "Please. Wait. Please, don't hurt me." Chuck pleads and turns around. "How much do you know? Do you know about the angels? Or Lilith breaking the seals?" I ask, crossing my arms over my chest. Chuck's eyebrows furrow in confusion, "Wait a minute. How do you know about that?" "The question is how do you." "Because I wrote it?" Chuck says. "You kept writing?" Sam questions. "Yeah, even after the publisher went bankrupt, but those books never came out. Okay, wait a minute." Chuck laughs softly. "This is some kind of joke, right? Did that – Did Phil put you up to this?" Dean looks at Sam and I for a moment, "Well, nice to meet you. I'm Dean Winchester, this is my brother, Sam. And our adoptive sister, (Y/N) Singer."

Chuck only seems more confused. "The last names were never in the books. I never told anybody about that. I never even wrote that down."

~~~~~~~

Chuck pours himself a large glass of whiskey and drinks it all in one go. He sets the glass down on the kitchen sink and turns around, groaning at the sight of myself and the boys. "Oh! Oh, you're still there." "Yup." I say, sitting in at his desk, Sam leaning on the back of my chair. "You're not a hallucination." "Nope."

"Well, there's only one explanation." Chuck says, making us give him confused looks. "Obviously I'm a god." Sam's eyebrows crinkle, "You're not a god." "How else do you explain it? I write things and then they come to life. Yeah, no, I'm definitely a god. A cruel, cruel, capricious god. The things I put you through – The physical beatings alone." Chuck's tone becomes guilty and sympathetic. "Yeah, we're still in one piece." Dean replies from his spot against the wall. "I killed your father. I burned your mother alive. And then you had to go through the whole horrific deal again with Jessica." Chuck looks at me. "I killed both of your parents because I thought being connected to an angel would be cool." "Chuck..." Sam trails off. Chuck just continues, turning his back to us. "All for what? All for the sake of literary symmetry. I toyed with your lives, your emotions, for... entertainment." "You didn't toy with us, Chuck, okay? You didn't create us." Dean says, walking over to Sam and I. "Did you really have to live through the bugs?" Chuck asks. I cringe and nod, "Yeah." "What about the ghost ship?" "Yes, that too." Dean replies. "I am so sorry. I mean, horror is one thing, but to be forced to live bad writing... if I would have known it was real, I would have done another pass." Chuck says. "Chuck, you're not a god!" Dean yells. "We think you're probably just psychic." Sam shrugs, standing up to his full height. Chuck shakes his head, "No. If I were psychic, you think I'd be writing?" He sits down at his computer. "Writing is hard." "It seems that somehow, you're just... focused on our lives." I explain. "Yeah, like laser-focused. Are you working on anything right now?" Dean asks. "Holy crap." Chuck says, making a realization. "What?" Sam questions. Chuck picks up from papers next to his computer, "The, uh, latest book? It's, uh, it's kind of weird." "'Weird' how?" Chuck cringes a little, "It's very Vonnegut." Dean leans over Chuck's desk, "'Slaughterhouse-Five' Vonnegut or 'Cat's Cradle' Vonnegut?" Sam looks at him surprised, "What?" Dean gets defensive, "What?" "It's, uh, 'Kilgore Trout' Vonnegut. I wrote myself into it. I wrote myself, at my house... confronted by my characters."

~~~~~~~

We sit at the laundromat, Dean is reading over the latest of Chuck's work while Sam and I are doing the laundry. "I'm sitting in a laundromat, reading about myself sitting in a laundromat reading about myself. My head hurts." Dean says. "There's got to be something this guy's not telling us." Sam says as he tosses his dark clothes into the machine. "'Sam tossed his gigantic darks into the machine. He was starting to have doubts about Chuck, about whether he was telling the whole truth.'" Dean reads, making me chuckle. Dean continues, "'(Y/N) chuckles at Sam's clothes being described as gigantic.' She mentally calls you Sasquatch."

"Dean!" I chastise. Sam gives me a playful glare before looking back at Dean, "Stop it." "'Stop it,' Sam said." Guess what you do next." Dean asks, making Sam look away with a scowl. "'Sam turned his back on Dean, his face brooding and pensive.' I mean, I don't know how he's doing it, but this guy is doing it. I can't see your face, but those are definitely your 'brooding and pensive' shoulders." Sam sighs as Dean looks back down at the manuscript. "You just thought I was a dick." Sam turns back around to Dean with an impressed face, "The guy's good."

~~~~~~~

The boys and I end up back at Chuck's house the next day. I sit on the couch, Dean in a chair across from me and Sam leaning against the fireplace. Chuck paces the room nervously with pages in his hand. "So... You wrote another chapter?" Sam asks. "This was all so much easier before you were real." Chuck says, not wanting to say what he wrote down. "We can take it; just spit it out." Dean urges. Chuck gestures to Dean, "You, especially, are not gonna like this."

"Oh, joy." I mumble sarcastically. "I didn't like Hell." Dean retorts. Chuck sighs, "It's Lilith. She's coming for Sam." I sit up straighter, "Coming to kill him?" "When?" Sam asks, taking a couple steps forward. "Tonight." "She's just gonna show up? Here?" Dean questions incredulously. Chuck puts on his glasses, "Uh... let's see, uh, 'Lilith patted the bed seductively. Unable to deny his desire, Sam succumbed, and they sank into the throes of fiery demonic passion'." Sam laughs in disbelief, 'You're kidding me, right?" "You think this is funny?" Dean asks. "You don't? I mean, come on. "Fiery demonic passion"?" Sam says, still chuckling. "It's just a first draft." Chuck defends weakly. "Wait, wait, wait, wait. Lilith is a little girl." I point out. Chuck shakes his head, "No, uh, this time she's a 'comely dental hygienist from Bloomington, Indiana'." "Great. Perfect. So what happens after the... "fiery demonic" whatever?" Dean asks. Chuck takes off his glasses, "I don't know, it hasn't come to me yet." "Dean, look, there's nothing to worry about. Lilith and me? In bed?" Sam asks incredulously.

"Thanks for that mental image, Samuel." I roll my eyes. Sam only gives me a 'bitch' look while Dean glares at his brother while asking Chuck, "How does this whole psychic thing of yours work?" Chuck tilts his head, "You mean my process?" Dean sighs, "Yes, your 'process.'" "Well, it usually starts with a headache. A really bad headache. Aspirin is useless, so... I drink. Until I fall asleep. The first time it happened, I thought it was just a crazy dream." Chuck explains. "The first time you dreamt about us?" I ask. Chuck puts his head in his hands, "It flowed. It just, it kept flowing. It still does. I-I can't stop it, really." "You can't seriously believe –" Dean interrupts Sam, "Humor me." He stands up, "Look, why don't we, we just..." Chuck holds out the papers to him. He pauses and takes them, "Take a look at these and see what's what." Dean looks at Chuck, "You –" Chuck nods, "...knew you were gonna ask for that. Yeah."

~~~~~~~

Dean is driving while Sam reads the next chapter in the passenger seat. "Dean, come on." Sam says as he reads from the manuscript, "'The minivan accident wasn't that bad, but Dean was still seeing stars. He scratched absently at the pink flower Band-Aids on his face'." "So?" Dean asks. "So, I've seen you gushing blood. You'd use duct tape and bar rags before you'd put on a pink flower Band-Aid." Sam retorts.

"What is this? Paul Blart: Mall Cop?" I laugh. Dean gives me a playful glare, "What's your point?" "My point is this – all of this – is totally implausible, it's nuts." Sam argues. "He's been right about everything so far. You think he's just gonna ground out at first now?" I reply. Sam scoffs and continues to read the manuscript, "Huh. 'Dean slid behind the wheel of his beloved Impala and drove off, the plastic tarp on the rear window flapping like the wings of a crow.'" "A tarp?" Dean asks. "Yeah. On the rear window. And you drive it like that." Sam explains. Dean shrugs, "Well, he might be wrong about the details, but doesn't mean he's wrong about the end result." "So we're just gonna run?" Sam asks. I cross my arms over my chest, "Dude, we are a long way from ready for a face-to-face death match with Lilith." We come up across a roadblock, police cars parked perpendicular to the road. Dean comes to a stop and a deputy walks up to the window. "What seems to be the problem?" Dean asks. "Bridge is out ahead." The deputy explains. "We're just trying to get out of town." Dean says. "Yeah, afraid not." The deputy replies. "Is there a detour?" Dean asks. The cop shakes his head, "Nope." Dean pauses for a second before asking again, "There's not a side road that takes us to the highway?" "To get to the highway, you have to cross that river." The deputy nods his head in the direction of the river, "To cross the river, you have to take that bridge." "How deep's the river?" Dean tries to reason. "Sorry. Afraid you three are gonna have to spend the night in town."

Dean nods as the deputy walks away, and he turns the Impala back around.

~~~~~~~

Dean is now looking over the chapter while Sam and I look at menus in the little diner we stopped at for some dinner. Dean looks up at Sam and I, "Hey, this could be a good thing. I mean, if this is what puts us on the path to Lilith, then all we got to do is get off the path." "How do you mean?" Sam asks. "It's a blueprint of what not to do. I mean, if the pages say that we go left –" Dean trails off. "Then we go right." I finish. "Exactly. We get off-book. We never make it to the end. It's opposite day. It says that we, uh, we get into a fight. So, no fighting. No research for you..." Sam smirks, "No bacon cheeseburger for you." I laugh softly and Sam turns to me, "No breakfast food for you."

I roll my eyes, "You wound me, Winchester."

Dean chuckles, "Then no sarcasm for you."

I give Dean a 'bitch' face as the waitress approaches to take out orders. "Hi, uh, what's good?" Dean asks her. "Well, if you like burgers, Oprah's girlfriend said we have the best bacon cheeseburgers in the country." She says. Sam laughs, "I'll just have the cobb salad, please." "I'll have the... veggie tofu burger. Thanks."

I raise an eyebrow at Dean and tell the waitress my order, and unfortunately isn't breakfast food. The waitress takes our menus and walks away as Sam says, "This whole thing's ridiculous." "Lilith is ridiculous?" Dean asks. "The idea of me hooking up with her is." Sam explains. "Right. 'Cause something like that can never happen." I mumble sarcastically. Sam glares at me for a moment, "Guys, for the first time, we have warning that Lilith is close." "So?" Dean asks. "So... we've got the jump on her. If we know when she's coming, we know where she's – this is an opportunity." Sam argues. "Are you –" Dean starts.

"Boys." I warn, reminding them that they aren't supposed to fight.

Dean sighs, "It frustrates me when you say such reckless things." Sam's eyebrows furrow, "Well, it frustrates me when you'd rather hide that fight." There's a tense silence before the waitress comes over with our food, "Cobb salad for you. And the tofu veggie burger for you..." She sets each of our plates down. "Thank you." Dean says before leaning in to the table. "It's not hiding. It's being smart. It's picking your battles. This is a battle that we are not ready to fight." He takes a huge bite of his burger and his eyes light up. "Oh, my god. This is delicious. Tofu is amazing!" The waitress comes back over, embarrassed, "I am so sorry. I gave you the bacon cheeseburger by mistake." She takes his plate away again as Sam scowls at his brother.

~~~~~~~

Dean pulls the Impala into the parking lot of a motel, one that looks like its solely made for happy endings if you know what I mean. I lean forward, pulling myself up using the back of Sam and Dean's seats, "Dude, this place charges by the hour. They're gonna think we are recreating that Sam-slash-(Y/N)-slash-Dean things." I cringe. "Yeah, well, the book says Lilith finds Sam at the Red Motel. Hence, the uh, hooker inn. It's opposite day, remember?" Dean argues as we see a man walk by with a very obvious...working woman.

When we get inside the room, Dean drops a bag on the bed and starts pulling out some hex bags, placing them strategically around the room. "What are you doing?" Sam asks. "Couple of hex bags ought to Lilith-proof the room." Dean explains. Sam's tone turns irritated, "So, what? I'm supposed to just hole up here all night?" "That's exactly what you're gonna do, okay? And no research. I don't care what you do –" Dean pauses before gesturing to the bed and the television. "Use the or watch Casa Erotica on Pay-Per-View." Dean reaches in Sam's bag, pulling out his laptop and confiscating it. "Oh, dude, come on." Sam complains. "Just call it a little insurance." Dean smiles. "What are you gonna do?" Sam asks. Dean shrugs, "Well, the pages say that (Y/N) and I spend all day riding around in the Impala. So I'm gonna go park her. Behave yourself, would you? No homework. Watch some porn." Dean smiles like he's pleased with himself, ushering me out the door with him following after me.

~~~~~~~

Dean drives us into town and parks the car. We get out and he double checks the locks before we cross the street. I walk a little ahead of Dean, but turn around when I hear him yell, "Hey!" A couple guys are trying to break into the Impala. Dean goes to cross the street, and right as I step off of the curb a van plows into Dean. Dean rolls onto the hood and windshield before hitting the asphalt.

"Dean!" I shout worriedly, going to kneel next to him.

The woman driving frantically gets out of the car, "Oh my God is he okay?"

I look Dean over, seeing no visible injuries. "I-I think he'll be fine." I glance up at the woman, her star-shaped earrings making my jaw clench. 'The minivan accident wasn't that bad, but Dean was still seeing stars.' I glance down at Dean again, seeing a little girl putting flowery Band-aids on his face.

Dean slowly starts to come to, making the woman re-explain herself to him, "Oh my god. Just take it easy, you're gonna be okay." Dean blinks and lifts his head as the woman continues. "I'm so sorry. I just didn't see you. Are you okay?" He sits up, the woman gestures to her daughter. "And sorry about... you know. M-My daughter's going through a doctor phase." "What are you talking about?" Dean asks roughly. "You're all better now." The little girl says, making me let out a breathy laugh. Dean glares at me for a moment and I help him stand up. He looks up to the Impala, the back window now shattered and the driver's door is open. His face changes, completely horrified. "Oh, no..." Dean stomps over to the car, fuming before turning to me. "You didn't stop them?"

"I'm sorry, I was worried about my big brother's life." I retort, knowing he isn't that upset with me. I cross my arms over my chest, "You okay, though?"

Dean's face softens and he nods, his hand cupping the back of my head to tilt it down and he kisses the top of my head. He catches his reflection in the side mirror and frowns, peeling one of the Band-Aids off.

"Come on, let's go, Paul Blart."

~~~~~~~

Chuck walks in holding a bottle in a brown bag and six-pack of beer. He doesn't seem surprised to see Dean and I sitting in his living room. "Dean. (Y/N)." He says. "I take it you knew we'd be here." Dean replies. "You look terrible." Chuck points out. "That's 'cause I just got hit by a minivan, Chuck." Chuck sighs, "Oh." Dean leans forward, his voice raising. "That it? Every damn thing you write about me comes true; that's all you have to say is 'oh'?!" Chuck sets the alcoholic drinks next to him, sounding fearful. "Please don't yell at me." Dean stands up. "Why do I get feeling there's something that you're not telling us?" I stand up as well in case I need to intervene. "What wouldn't I be telling you?" Chuck asks nervously. "How you know what you know, for starters!" Dean yells.

"Dean..." I try to reason, taking a couple steps forward. "I don't know how I know, I just do!" Chuck yells back. "That's not good enough." Dean shoves Chuck against the wall, pining him there. "How the hell are you doing this?!"

"Dean!" I move quickly, trying to pull him off of Chuck. "Dean, let him go!" A gruff voice commands. Dean and I both turn to Castiel. "This man is to be protected." "Why?" Dean asks. "He's a Prophet of the Lord." Castiel explains.

"You... You're Castiel... aren't you?" Chuck stammers behind Dean and I, making him and I look over our shoulders while Cas looks between us. "It's an honor to meet you, Chuck. I... admire your work." Castiel gives him a single nod, picking up one of the Supernatural books. Cas looks up briefly, giving me a soft, barely-there smile. I smile back a little, walking up to him to look at the book over his shoulder. Or just to be by him, haven't decided yet which explanation I want to go with. It's the book where Sam leaves Dean and meets Meg hitchhiking while Dean fights a scarecrow.

"Whoa, whoa, what? This guy, a prophet? Come on, he's – he's... he's practically a Penthouse Forum writer." Dean argues. He then looks at Chuck, who has plopped down in an arm chair and cracked open his whisky. "Did you know about this?" "I, uh, I might have dreamt about it." Chuck says nervously. "And you didn't tell us?!" Dean yells. "It was too preposterous. Not to mention arrogant. I mean, writing yourself into the story is one thing, but as a prophet? That's like M. Night-level douchiness." Chuck retorts, finishing his glass of whisky. Dean looks between Castiel and I before asking Cas, "This is the guy who decides our fate?" "He isn't deciding anything. He's a mouthpiece – a conduit for the inspired word." Cas says, not looking up from the book. "The word? The word of god? What, like the new new testament?" Dean asks. Cas closes the book, "One day, these books – they'll be known as the Winchester gospel."

I cross my arms over my chest, mildly offended. "Always the forgotten one." I roll my eyes. Dean and Chuck both say, "You got to be kidding me." Completely ignoring my statement. Castiel's eyebrows furrow in slight confusion, his arms dropping to his sides, "I am not... kidding you." Chuck stands up from his chair, clutching the bottle of whisky. "If you'd all please excuse me one minute." He quickly rushes upstairs. "Him? Really?" Dean asks. Cas sighs, "You should've seen Luke." Dean takes a few steps to the arm chair Chuck was just sitting in. I let my arms drop to my sides, my hand bumping Castiel's. I could feel my cheeks heat up as he looks down at our hands. "Why'd he get tapped?" Dean asks, making the angel look back up at him. "I don't know how prophets are chosen. The order comes from high up on the celestial chain of command." Castiel explains. "H-How high?" I stutter. Cas looks at me again, "Very." "Well, whatever. How do we get around this?" Dean's tone starts to get more frantic. "Around what?" Castiel's eyebrows furrow in confusion. "The Sam-Lilith love connection. How do we stop it from happening?" Cas hesitates for a moment. "What the prophet has written can't be unwritten. As he has seen it, so it shall come to pass."

~~~~~~~

The tires of the Impala squeal as Dean pulls into the parking lot of the motel quickly. Both of us get out of the car quickly , rushing into the motel room.

"Come on. We're getting out of here." Dean says as we enter the room, walking passed Sam. "What? Where?" Sam asks incredulously. "Anywhere, okay? Out of this motel, out of this town. I don't care if we got to swim, we are getting out." Dean looks at Sam and I for a moment, then glances around the room. "Dude, where are all the hex bags?" Sam takes a breath, "I burned them." I look at Sam like he just grew a second head. "You what?" "Look, if Lilith is coming, which is a big 'if' –" Dean interrupts Sam, "No, no, no. It's more than an 'if.' Chuck is not a psychic. He's a prophet." Sam's eyebrows crinkle, "What?" I cross my arms over my chest, "Cas showed up, and apparently Chuck is writing the gospel of us. You." I correct myself. It's the Winchester Gospel. Not Winchester and Singer. "Okay." Sam just looks more confused. Dean walks passed Sam to his bag. "Okay. Let's get the hell out of here." I go over to my bag, starting to put my clothes in it. I can hear Sam sigh. "No." He says. The older Winchester pauses for a moment before slinging his shirt into his bag angrily. "Lilith is gonna slaughter you." "Maybe she will, maybe she won't." Sam shrugs. Dean takes a couple steps towards his brother, "So what? You think you can take her?"

I glance at the door for a moment, not wanting to be in the middle of another dick measuring competition. I quietly make my way out of the room, deciding to give them their time. I'm surrounded by too many fucking men.

I walk over to a soda machine nearby, putting some coins in the machine. I sigh, letting my forehead rest on the front of it. I do the only thing I can think of, "Castiel. I don't know if this praying thing actually works but we need help." "Prayer is a sign of faith. This is a good thing." Castiel says, saying something else at the end of the sentence that isn't in English. I turn around and look at him, confused. I shake it off and ask, "So does that mean you'll help me?" "I'm not sure what I can do." "Drag Sam out of here, now. Before Lilith shows up." I plead, taking a step towards the angel. Castiel shakes his head, a sympathetic look on his face, "It's a prophecy. I can't interfere." "Cas, I have never asked anything of you. Please. I'm...I'm your soulmate Castiel." My voice comes out in a whisper. "Save my brother." I gently reach my hand out, my fingertips brushing over the warm skin of his hand. Castiel looks down at our hands, just like earlier at Chuck's house. "What you're asking, it's... not within my power to do." "Why? 'Cause it's 'divine prophecy'?" I ask. The angel nods, hesitantly lifting his hand, holding mine. "Yes." Castiel's thumb brushes over my knuckles as I ask, "So, what – We're just supposed to sit around and, and wait for it to happen?" I really don't want to be mad at him for something he can't control. Cas sighs, "I'm sorry." He pauses for a moment, his gaze still fixated on our hands. "You must understand why I can't intercede. Prophets are very special. They're protected."

I let out a heavy breath and nod, "I get that." "If anything threatens a prophet, anything at all, an archangel will appear to destroy that threat. Archangels are fierce. They're absolute. They're Heaven's most terrifying weapon." Castiel explains, looking up at me now but keeping his gentle hold of my hand. I smile softly, catching onto what he's implying. "And these archangels, they're tied to prophets?" "Yes." Castiel confirms. "So if a prophet was in the same room as a demon –" I trail off. "Then the most fearsome wrath of heaven would rain down on that demon. Just so you understand... why I can't help." Castiel's eyes search mine with a barely-there smile. "Thanks, Cassie." I grin, gently squeezing his hand before letting it go. "Good luck." Castiel replies as I start towards the motel room again. "(Y/N), wait a moment." I turn to look at him and he says, "You are not the 'forgotten one'. You are just as important as Sam and Dean."

~~~~~~~

Dean and I enter Chuck's house, and this time, he actually looks surprised to see us.

"What are you doing here? I didn't write this." Chuck says, startled.

Dean grabs Chuck's arm, pulling him up from the couch, "Come on. I need you to come with me." "What? Where?" Chuck asks. "To the motel where Sam is." I explain. "That's where Lilith is." Chuck argues, pointing out the obvious. "Yeah, exactly. We need you to stop her." Dean says. "Are you insane? Lilith? I know what she's capable of, Dean. I wrote her." Chuck shakes his head. "All right, listen to me. You have an archangel tethered to you, okay? All you got to do is show up and boom! Lilith gets smoked." I try to reason with the prophet. Chuck shakes his head again. "But I-I haven't seen that yet. Th-the story –" "Chuck, you're the only shot that I've got left." Dean pleads. "But... I'm just a writer." "This isn't a story anymore, man. This is real! And you're in it! Now, I need you to get off your ass and fight." Chuck takes a few steps forward, walking between Dean and I. "Come on, Chuck." Chuck hesitates for a moment. "No friggin' way." He replies, sipping his whisky. Dean strides towards him. "Okay, well, then, how about this – I've got a gun in my pocket, so does (Y/N), and if you don't come with me, we'll blow your brains out." "I thought you said I was protected by an archangel." Chuck retorts smugly. "Well, interesting exercise. Let's see who the quicker draw is." Dean says.

"And whoever that archangel kills first will be the perfect distraction for the other one to take the shot." I shrug.

~~~~~~~

It didn't take much convincing after that. We bust into the motel room, seeing Lilith on top of Sam with the demon-killing knife. We take a few steps into the room as Chuck shouts weakly, "I am the prophet Chuck!"

Lilith climbs off of Sam, knife still raised, "You've got to be joking." She glares at Dean, Chuck and I. The walls start to shake, hell, the entire building starts to shake and crumble around us. "Oh, this is no joke." Dean yells, a white light pouring in from the windows and pieces of the ceiling collapse. Chuck flinches and I take a step back away from the rubble. Dean continues to taunt the demon in front of us, "You see, Chuck here's got an archangel on his shoulder. You've got about 10 seconds before this room is full of wrath and you're a piece of charcoal. You sure you want to tangle with that?" Lilith looks at Sam one more time, anger written all over her face. The demon expels from the blonde woman's body, the black smoke breaking out the window next to the bed. Sam pants as the room stops shaking. Chuck, Dean and I approach the woman's body, who has collapsed to the ground. The boys and I share a look and a sigh of relief.

~~~~~~~

Dean is driving, Sam in the passenger seat like always. I sit in the back like normal. The back window is still busted, the tarp flapping in the wind, which, quite frankly, is fucking annoying. "So a deal, huh?" Dean asks randomly. Sam sighs, looking out the window, "That's what she said." "To call the whole thing off – angels, seals, Lucifer rising, the whole nine?" Dean continues to interrogate. "That was the gist of it." Sam says. Dean nods with a hum. "What?" "You didn't think once about taking it?" Dean questions. "You kidding me?" Sam looks over at his brother. "Dude, you and (Y/N) spent all day trying to talk me off the Lilith track." Dean shrugs, "I'm just saying..." "She would have found some way to weasel out of it. And all it would have cost us was our lives." Sam says. "Yeah, I guess you're right." "Anyway, that's not the point." Sam shakes his head. "What's the point?" I ask. "The point is, she's scared. I could see it. Lilith is running." Sam explains. "Running from what?" Sam shakes his head again, "Don't know. But she was telling the truth about one thing." Dean turns his head to look at Sam, "What's that?" "She's not gonna survive the apocalypse. I'll make sure of that."

(A/N): I hope y'all liked this chapter! I hope (Y/N) and Dean's sibling bonding wasn't weird and I hope (Y/N) and Cas' moments were cute-awkward and not bad writing-awkward. Please give me feedback if you think either of those to be true. And I'm sorry this wasn't finished like 2-3 days ago lol

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