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laylasredemption · 22 days

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john marston x reader words count: 3.5k warnings: cheating, implications of sex but no actual smut summary: The other woman will cry herself to sleep. The other woman will never have his love to keep. And as the years go by, the other woman will spend her life alone.

I dedicate this to @strvberrydoll, the biggest John Marston lover I know <3 ily I hope you'll like it

୧‿̩͙ ˖︵ ꕀ⠀ ♱⠀ ꕀ ︵˖ ‿̩͙୨

The other woman

Since you could remember, you've always loved music. It was a seed your mother planted in your brain from a very young age. She was a simple woman, but she could sing and play the piano. All her skill with the instrument came from self teaching, so she was no Chopin, but it was enough to make you fall in love with the music.

Your father, on the other hand, was a rough man, hardened by years of labor. When he wasn’t working, he was drinking, and when he was drinking, he was angry. The cruel fate decided it would be a good idea if your mother fell ill out of a sudden.

After she passed, your father grew more distant, his anger turning inward, leaving you to care for yourself. You were just a young girl, barely out of your teens, without the slightest idea of what real world was like.

But you decided to go for broke and chose to leave your little town. You had your mother's voice, and you knew how to play the piano. Music was the only thing that made sense to you, the only thing that brought you peace. And so you drifted from town to town, playing and singing anywhere that would give you a few coins.

Eventually, you found yourself end up in Valentine, a lifestock town where the people were hard and the whiskey was cheap. The saloon, of the name Smithfield's, was always lively, full of cowboys looking to drown their troubles in alcohol. Not the most glamorous place in not the most glamorous town, but it was a place where you could make a living.

You made a deal with the saloon owner, Cliff Douglas, who was impressed by your talent. You'd play the piano and sing every night, and in return, you'd get a small room upstairs and a share of the tips. It wouldn't give you a luxorious life, but it was more stability than you had in months since leaving your home.

The night you met John Marston was no different from any previous night in the saloon. Your voice and the piano's music were mixing with the cacophony of the saloon's usual laughter and chatter. You didn't even notice him at first, focused on your job.

He was just another face in the crowd that you didn't even look at, another man looking to escape whatever ghosts haunted him. He was sitting at the bar, a glass of whiskey in his hand as he listened to your voice and watched your fingers.

At one point, you started to feel his intense gaze on yourself. You weren't a stranger to men looking at you, you were performing after all. But his gaze felt... different. As if he had been genuinely interested.

Your delicate fingers played the last chords before you'd head for a break, and last few words of the song fell from your lips. When you glanced up, he made eye contact with the man that had been watching you so intently.

There was something about him that drew you in. Maybe it was the way he looked at you with interest instead of lust, maybe it were the scars on his face that hid stories you couldn't begin to imagine. There was something in the way he looked at you, like he saw more than just a girl singing in a saloon for a few coins.

The saloon erupted into applause, which ripped you out of the hypnotized state you were in. You turned to the rest of the crowd and smiled, announcing a little break, after which you'd come back to entertain them.

You made your way to the bar for your break, as you usually did and not just because you hoped the stranger would initiate a conversation.

But he did.

"Mind if I buy you a drink?" He asked, his voice betraying years of drinking and smoking, and you found yourself even more attracted to him.

But you had to make one thing clear.

"I ain't a working girl, sir." You informed him, in case he thought there's more to your services.

The stranger chuckled at your comment and nodded in understanding, "I ain't lookin' for that kinda attention either, miss. Just a friendly gesture, s'all. Now, what're you drinkin'?"

You thought about your answer for a moment, not having much experience with alcohol yourself. "Whiskey, I guess?"

The stranger turned to the barman, ordering two glasses of said alcohol - one for you, and another one for himself.

"Besides," he then turned to you again, "you're too pretty to be a workin' girl."

You couldn't help but smile at his comment. He looked like trouble and he talked like trouble. That rugged charm of his just kept drawing you in like a moth to the flame with each passing minute.

"Thank you." You said, taking your glass in your hand. "For the compliment, and for the whiskey."

"It ain't often you come across someone with a voice like yours,” he said, taking a slow sip of his drink, "figured I'd try my luck."

It was unusual for a man to buy a lady a drink and expect nothing but a nice conversation in return. You wondered if there's more than simple friendliness to the man's gesture.

"And what kinda luck is it that you're hoping for?" You asked.

"I suppose you could say I'm just lookin' for some company. And you seem like the kinda comany worth havin'." He paused momentarily, remembering he hasn't introduced himself. "Name's John, by the way. John Marston."

"[Y/n]." You replied with your name. "You know, John, I'd love to hear the story behind the scars gracing your face."

You immersed yourself in the conversation with the newfound friend, and hours passed without noticing. You never came back to the piano that night, too busy getting to know the stranger.

At first, he seemed like a man of few words, but the more he drank, the more he spoke. He told you about his life constantly on the move, the hardships he had been through - along with the wolves that were the reason for the scars on his face. And in exchange, you told him your story. Maybe there wasn't much to say, but he listened as intently as Dutch would've if Evelyn Miller stood before him, reciting a book of his.

John began coming to the saloon more often, always arriving just in time to catch your performance, and then to spend some time with you afterwards.

As the days turned into weeks, you found yourself looking forward to his arrival. There was something weirdly comforting in his presence. The more you got to know him, you realized he's not a good man, but you were already too deep to dig yourself out of this.

John never seemed to talk much about where he was staying, or if he had any family. He mentioned something about a brother once or twice, but you couldn't believe there would be just the two of them. Even when he was slightly intoxicated, it still seemed as if he was skipping some parts of his story.

You wanted to know him more. You wanted to understand him better.

But the moment you started asking more personal questions, he changed topic to you. He loved talking about you, hearing about your plans for the future. He would often ask if you ever thought of going somewhere further, he even encouraged you to do so, telling you your voice could take you far, make a career in the big cities like Saint Denis.

Before you knew, you were falling for this man. Every time you fell asleep, you'd think of him and how much you wished he'd be next to you. There was no future with him, he was a drifter and maybe one evening would be the evening you saw him for the last time, but you didn't want to think about it.

You started to think how life would be if he had asked you to join him on his travels. You would agree instantly, after all you could sing anywhere. The idea of leaving with him seemed so perfect, every night you saw him you hoped for such offer to fall from his lips. You found yourself falling for the idea of what could've been.

He knew your dreams, because you opened up to him like never before to anybody. John knew how much you would have loved to be on one of those fancy scenes, performing for rich people in beautiful dresses and tuxedos.

Then why didn't he offer you to leave Valentine with him?

One night, there was something different in the air. After your performance, the conversation followed as usual, but John seemed to be... different. Quieter than usual and even whiskey didn't loosen up his tongue.

"I should probably head back." He said as the saloon became less crowded, but he made no move, as if he waited for you to stop him.

You knew what he was trying to say. You wanted it too, you felt tired of resisting.

"Or you could stay for the night." Words left your mouth before you could think through their possible consequences.

For a long moment, he didn't speak, and it got you wondering if you had made a mistake or crossed a line you shouldn't have. But you thought there was no mistaking in the tension present between the two of you tonight.

Eventually, he replied, his husky voice lower than usual, "I reckon I could." He downed the remaining whiskey from his glass. "Lead the way."

No sooner, you were leading him upstairs to your small room, leaving the world behind as you closed the door. You barely made it to the bed before his lips found yours, and clothes were quickly discarded on the floor.

The tension and desire that had been building up between the two of you had finally reached its apogeum and snapped. The longing pulled you into something you couldn't resist, and you fell into the sheets together.

When it was over, you laid beside him, feeling very content. Your smile slightly faded away when he didn't speak, and you were at a loss of words too, not acquiantanced with situations like this.

You sat up, looking at him for some kind of reassurance. Even if he didn't speak, you hoped to find comfort in his eyes as you always did for the past few weeks.

But you found guilt in his expression.

He wasn't even looking at you. His main focus was the ceiling, as if the answers to whatever bothered him were engraved there.

"I should go." He muttered, sitting up and still avoiding making eye contact with you.

You wanted to tell him to stay, but the regret in his voice hinted it was a bad idea.

"You... don't have to." You managed to utter, your voice quiet, almost as if you didn't want him to hear it.

John ran a hand through his hair, "I do." And with that, he stood up, beginning to gather his clothes.

You remained silent, watching him put his clothes back on. He didn't even bid you a goodbye before disappearing behind the door.

For the first time, you didn't like how tiny the room was. Normally, it brough you comfort, but now it felt as if you were trapped there with your thoughts.

You would have cried yourself to sleep if you could fall asleep. But instead you found yourself staying up all night with the tears streaming down your face.

John rode back to camp under the cover of darkness, the guilt gnawing at him terribly. Abigail had been suspecting something for the past few weeks, she wasn't stupid. But she initally though he was just going out to drink, she didn't accuse him of being with another woman.

Until this one night.

John dismounted from his horse quietly, hoping to slip into his tent without waking anyone, but he found Abigail waiting for him.

"Where've you been, John Marston?" She asked, her arms crossed on her chest.

"I..." He tried to find an explanation, his heart pounding in his chest. "I was out. For a drink."

Abigail's eyes narrowed at him. "You think I'm stupid? You smell like whiskey and perfume."

John recognized the anger on her face, the hurt in her voice, and it only made him guilt grow, drilling a hole in his stomach. He knew there was no talking his way out of this one, not with the smell of another woman still lingering on him.

"I'm sorry, Abigail," he said, wishing his words could erase his actions, "I swear I am."

"It ain't something a sorry can fix."

John's hand reached out to touch Abigail, but she quickly swatted it away.

"Don't touch me." The woman said. "You're nothing but a scoundrel, John Marston. Promising me you have changed, that we'll be a family... sneaking off to another's bed."

Abigail's hands went to her temples, and she closed her eyes for a moment. She was a rough woman, and this must have been the first time John saw her so close to crying.

"I ain't got no excuse." John stated. "But I love you, I love Jack... I don’t wanna lose what we have."

Abigail scoffed, she opened her eyes filled with tears. "Love? You think this is love, John? You think sneakin' around behind my back, lying to me, is love?"

John was unable to argue. He had no explanation, no excuse, and no words that could fix the damage he had done. He didn't know why he did what he did. Maybe it was the excitement that came with meeting someone new. Maybe it were his commitment issues acting up. But that wasn't something a father should have done.

All he could do was stand there, watching the woman he loved hurt because of his own stupidity.

Abigail continued, her voice trembling, "You promised me you'd be different, that we'd be a proper family. I was a fool to believe you!"

"Abigail, please," he begged, his voice cracking, "I'll do whatever it takes to make things right, I swear."

"You think I haven't heard that before? Every time you do somethin' wrong, it's always I'll do better, Abigail. But you never do. You just keep hurtin' me, over and over again."

Before John could reply, Abigail's hand came into contact with his cheek. He didn't flinch, didn't try to stop her, he knew he deserved this and even worse. The sound of the slap seemed to be louder than any gunshot, and it didn't cause just physical pain.

Abigail's tears glistened in her eyes as she turned to walk away, leaving John standing there, feeling like the lowest man on earth. His cheek still burned, but it was nothing compared to the ache in his chest as he watched the woman he loved slip away after he had let her down once again.

"Well, ain't this somethin'?"

John turned around and saw Bill walking over. He stood nearby, hidden by the darkness of the night, and had witnessed the whole scene.

"What was it this time?" He sneered. "Couldn't keep your hands off some whore in Valentine?"

John replied angrily, "Mind your own business, Williamson." He didn't need anyone making fun of him, not right now.

"Guess you got a thing for 'em, huh, John? Can't teach an old dog new tricks."

Abigail spent the night wrestling with her anger and pain, making sure she'll keep it in check in the morning near Jack. But eventually, she decided to go to the town and find the woman.

Leaving Jack with Tilly, Abigail saddled up the horse and headed out to Valentine. She didn't care how long it would take, she promised herself to find the woman. She had to or she would never find peace.

And which place would be better to start looking than the saloon? A place where everyone knows the town's business. If John spent so much time drinking with the working girls there, people must have known him.

The woman pushed the doors of the saloon open and walked inside, anger audible even in her steps. She walked straight to the bar.

Your performance was starting in the evening, but you couldn't sleep the whole night, and the thoughts of John were weighing on you heavily, like a thousand pound rock.

So you decided to walk downstairs to the saloon and clean up after the night. You observed some early patrons come in as you sweeped the floor with a broom.

Suddenly, a woman walked in. Her steps were rapid, echoing in your eyes, she moved with the speed of fire. It wasn't often that women came drinking, not by themselves usually. There was some kind of determination, or even desperation in her steps.

"May I help you with something, ma'am?" The bartender asked her.

She demanded, putting come cash on the counter. "John Marston. That name tell you somethin'?"

You tensed at the mention of his name.

Could he...?

You wanted to believe he just didn't want to lead you into the life of crime you figured he must have led. You didn't want to think of the possibility of John having a family.

You decided to approach.

"Excuse me," you said, setting the broom aside, "you said John Marston?"

You approached closer, and Abigail knew then that the money she offered the bartender for information won't be necessary. She put the cash back into her little purse, and looked at you.

You didn't look just like a maid or waitress who cleans the saloon, but neither did you appear to be a working girl. Your clothes were a testament to how generously men tipped you for your music, your hair was perfectly curled, your hands delicate with not a sign of dirt under your nails.

And the perfume that lingered wherever you set your foot. The perfume was what gave you away. In that moment, she knew you were the other woman.

She found you. But now you two stood there, air charged with realization, and neither of you knew what to say. John had a woman at home, and she was standing in front of you, staring at you, her gaze scarred with the weight of his betrayal.

"I..." you stuttered, knowing theres no way to justify what had happened, "I didn't know, ma'am. I swear, I didn't know. I wouldn't have..."

"Didn't know?" Abigail scoffed, bitterness laced with pain in her voice, "Didn't think to ask, didn't think maybe he had someone waitin' for him back home? Or did you just not care?"

You had feelings for John, but now you were hit with the realization that he could have never developed feelings for you. He could have never loved you more than he loved her. You were a getaway, a toy for him that he could never genuinely care for.

"I should've asked." You admitted. "I should have known better. But I didn't, and for that I'm sorry. Truly, I am."

"Sorry don't fix a damn thing!"

She was right, but what else were you supposed to say? There was no way to go back in time to fix what was broken. And as much as you were unaware of her existance, you felt equally responsible for hurting her. Even if you didn't know the woman, you felt terrible for her.

"If I could, I would take it back, trust me." You said, your eyes starting to tear up.

There was a moment of silence. Abigail looked at you, really looked at you, and for the first time, she saw more than just the woman who had come between her and John. She saw someone who had been deceived too, someone who was just as much a victim of John's lies as she was.

But that didn't make her situation any easier.

"Stay away from him," Abigail ordered angrily, "whatever this was, it ends now. He's got a family and we don't need any more trouble."

You nodded in acknowledgement. If you tried to say anything, there was a chance you would just break down.

A family.

You have never thought it would have happened to you, but it did. You fell victim to the charm of a man for whom family was not enough. It wasn't your fault. He was the one to steer the topic away when you tried talking about his private life.

But you felt guilty. You should have asked if there was a woman in his life.

The woman turned to leave. She walked to the doors, but before pushing it open, she turned to you one last time. "You didn't know. But now you do. Don't be the reason a man walks away from his family."

With that, she left the saloon, the door swinging shut behind her, leaving you standing there, feeling more alone than you ever had before despite the other people in the room.

You had been deceived and so was she. But you were the one left alone, while she was going to go back to John and have him trying to win his way back into her heart.

And all you had left was the pit in your gut, drilled by guilt and regret.

#john marston #rdr2 #rdr2 x reader #red dead redemption #red dead redemption 2 #red dead redemption 2 fanfic #red dead redemption 2 x reader #john marston x reader #john marston one shot #john marston fanfic #rdr2 fandom #rdr2 community

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abyssruler · 2 years

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5 SUNDAYS OF KINKTOBER

5TH MASS ♱ scaramouche x fem!reader

homily — you look good when you cry in the middle of the hall after he deliberately humiliates you in front of everyone. but he thinks you look best when you look up at him through teary eyes as you choked on his fingers in the school’s public restroom.

communion — comment or send an ask to be added to the taglist!

modern au, college au, bully scara, possessive scara, noncon, manipulation, blackmail, degradation, humiliation, dacryphilia, oral m-receiving, semi-public sex, nonconsensual filming, spit kink, warning you now: scara is an asshole

5 sundays of kinktober

Scaramouche could be so pleasant when he wanted to, donning a fake smile that worked on your parents like a charm, talking and laughing with them over breakfast like he hadn’t just been pounding his cock into you last night, your cries and moans muffled by the forceful way he shoved his fingers into your mouth.

He got off of seeing your face twist with pain, tears flowing down your cheeks as you gagged around his fingers knuckles deep in your throat.

It was a wonder your parents never suspected anything of your childhood friend, not raising the slightest question whenever he invites himself to your home for a ‘sleepover,’ as he likes to call it. But a sleepover doesn’t involve him lying next to you as he grinded his hardness over your ass, arms circling around your torso possessively as his hands grabbed and tweaked at your nipples, ignoring your silent protests and the way you futilely tried to move away from his reach.

He never fails to lean in, breaths hot against the shell of your ear, and whisper in a tone that’s so falsely pleasant it makes your stomach churn with fear, “Stop moving. You don’t want those videos getting leaked, do you?”

And like a dog that’s been trained to obey its master, you do whatever he asks of you, whether it’s opening your legs for him or getting on your knees to have your throat abused by him.

Now, he smiles like the friend he pretends he is to you when you’re with your parents, complimenting your mother over the delicious breakfast she made and making conversation with your dad about the latest project at his company.

You know what your parents think of him, that he’s such a sweet boy, so smart and charming, he’d be such a good boyfriend, don’t you think?

It always makes your throat close up, fighting the nausea that threatens to overtake your senses. They don’t know just how wrong they are, how much he’s violated your body and privacy, the blackmail he owns is a constant thing that hangs over your head in shame. The person you thought you could trust most in the entire world ended up being the person to betray you first.

Kunikuzushi was so sweet when you were children, but now you barely recognize him anymore. Not since he got involved with the wrong crowd when you were in high school, not since he started going by the name Scaramouche.

“I better go now, I promised my friends I’d meet with them later,” he tells your parents, pretending to look forlorn at the prospect of leaving. Your parents ate it all up, assuring him that he’s always welcome to return, that he can visit whenever he likes. All the while you’re sitting beside him, twisting your fingers on your lap and trying not to flinch with each word that comes out of your parents’ mouth.

A hand lands on your shoulder. It takes all you have not to rip it away.

You turn your head up to see Scaramouche standing from his seat, looking down at you with something you could almost describe as soft—still all for show. The moment you’re out of your parents’ eyesight, he’ll go back to being his cruel self.

“Will you come see me off?” He asks, but the brief tightening of his grip on your shoulder says enough. It wasn’t a request.

“Y-Yeah, of course, Kuni.” The old nickname slips off your tongue, as familiar to you as your own name. He likes to pretend it bothers him, especially when you call him that in front of others, but you know how much he likes hearing it from you. He always comes undone when you moan his name, on the few times when his hand isn’t covering your mouth or his fingers aren’t choking you.

You walk him to the front door, your parents staying seated at the table. He turns to you when he reaches the door, the smile on his lips gone, replaced with a familiar scowl that continues to haunt your dreams.

His hand closes around your jaw, fingers digging almost painfully to your cheeks. He leans in, eyes narrowed on your frightful face.

“Open your mouth.”

You don’t need to be told twice. You already know what he means to do, so you part your lips, sticking out your tongue for good measure. He likes it when he doesn’t have to say something to make you do it.

He looms over you, opening his mouth and spitting a glob of saliva directly over your tongue. It takes all you have not to shudder in disgust. Even after going through such a thing for what feels like hundreds of time, his twisted perversion never fails to make tears well in your eyes at the humiliation.

“Swallow.”

Your throat nearly protests the action. You have to force yourself not to heave after it goes smoothly down your throat.

Scaramouche’s eyes are focused intently on you, pupils blown wide and his lips stretching into a mocking smile. You jolt when he suddenly reaches down and cups your clothed cunt, having easier access to it due to the skirt that he always forces you to wear.

He steps close, and you still in order to stop any involuntary reactions from you should your movement cause his hand to produce friction against the sensitive spot between your legs.

His eyes bore into you, nearly making you shrink back from his gaze. “Don’t even think about touching yourself while I’m not there. This fucking cunt is mine.”

As if to emphasize his words, his hand applies the slightest pressure, grazing against your clit and evoking a whimper from your lips.

You nod shakily. “Yes, I-I won’t touch myself, Kuni.”

He smiles, pouring all his false saccharine sweetness into that one gesture, loosening his hold on your jaw and retracting his hand from beneath your skirt to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. It would have seemed like a gentle act — if you didn’t know any better.

“Good girl.”

✧

His friends all think you’re his little pet.

Dottore leers at you from across the table, playing with the butter knife in his hand as he twists his lips to show razor-sharp teeth. You avert your gaze hastily, a combination of fear and disgust bubbling in your gut. An amused puff of laughter is all you hear before you feel a hand tug at a lock of your hair.

“Now, who let Scaramouche’s little bitch sit with us at the table?” Comes his mocking drawl, a hint of that twisted sense of amusement in his voice. You try your best to keep your gaze fixed to the table, knowing they’ll see it as defiance should you raise your head to meet their eyes. “Don’t you know dogs belong in the kennels?“ He pulls at your hair, hard enough to make you wince. “Why don’t you—”

A hand slaps away the hand holding a strand of your hair.

“Who do you think you are to touch what’s mine?”

You risk a glance at Scaramouche sitting by your side to find him glaring at Dottore, the fork in his hand gripped so tightly his knuckles have turned white.

Dottore grins unrepentantly, retracting his hands and raising them in the air as a sign of peace. “You should teach your little pet better manners.”

“And you should learn how to mind your own business,” he sneers, stabbing his fork straight into his steak.

Dottore smirks, utterly entertained by Scaramouche’s temper, but ultimately deciding that toying with you must not be worth it.

You reach up to fix your hair, still keeping your gaze on the table. Tugging on the hem of his shirt to get his attention, you murmur when he deigns to turn his head to you, “Thank you, Kuni.”

Though it seems you weren’t as quiet as you’d hoped to be.

Tartaglia, who was sitting on your other side, snorts at the nickname.

You freeze up just as Scaramouche beside you goes still. Heart beating out of your chest, palms beginning to turn clammy, and tears gathering at the corners of your eyes, you dare to look up and see what expression he has.

Your heart drops.

He’s looking down at you, face frozen in a mask of fury, eyes wide with a promise to do unspeakable things to you later.

“Pft. You let her call you Kuni?” Tartaglia fans the flames, knowing how much trouble it’d get you. You feel his hand slither near your side, and you shrink away from his touch. You’ve always thought that if Scaramouche weren’t so terrifying, all his other friends would have forced themselves upon you by now.

Your tongue twists on itself, bottom lip trembling the way it always does whenever you so much as get a hint of his anger. “I-I’m sorry—”

“Shut up,” Scaramouche says icily, whether it’s for you or Tartaglia, you didn’t know.

He doesn’t like it when you call him Kuni in front of others. For all that he gets off of hearing your once-innocent nickname for him be said in such debauched tones accompanied by the squelching sounds of your walls squeezing around him and the slap of skin against skin, he abhors it when you call him that in front of others.

He grabs your jaw harshly with one hand, forcing you to look him in the eye and ignoring the way you whimper at how hard his grip is. From your periphery, you can see that the rest of his friends have stopped their conversation to watch your impending humiliation with a sick sense of delight.

“I thought I told you to keep that mouth shut.” He pulls you close, his mouth a hairsbreadth away from yours, breath warm against your lips. But then he leans away, roughly pushing your face away as he lets go, leaving your jaw aching and eyes watery. “Get out of my sight.”

You scramble to do as you’re told, ignoring the jeers of his friends and the pitying looks from nearby tables, nearly toppling your chair from the haste with which you stand up. You don’t see the leg that stretches out beneath you.

Your knees ache, palms red from the force as you fell to the floor. You’re sure you’ll be sporting gashes and bruises on your knees tomorrow, but it isn’t the pain that opens the dam of your tears, lips wobbling in an attempt to smother the hiccup that threatens to rise from you.

It’s the sound of laughter that echoes in your ears.

You all but run out of the cafeteria and into the restroom you always hide out in, practically feeling his gaze on your back the whole way. If you close your eyes, you can almost imagine what sort of look he would have had as you tripped. Eyes leering at you, mouth twisted in a cruel mockery of a smile, and perhaps a hint of pink at his cheeks—the only sign of his arousal, proof of how much he enjoys seeing you get hurt and humiliated.

The door to an empty cubicle locks shut behind you, falling to the closed seat of the toilet and placing your hand over your mouth to muffle your sobs. Even that one simple act reminded you of him, of the way he likes seeing you gag and choke around him and the way he’d push your face over the mattress to silence you, palms heavy against your lips whenever he fucked you in a public space, “You don’t want us to get caught, do you? So be quiet.”

✧

He finds you, just like he always does whenever you run away to have your little tantrums, as he calls it.

“Get out.”

You opened the door of the cubicle, ever the obedient little pet his friends like to taunt at. He’s leaning by the sink with his arms crossed, a frown fixed on his deceptively angelic face, eyes narrowing once he sees you.

Fidgeting with your fingers, you try to apologize again as sincerely as you can muster, “Kuni, I’m sorry.”

Scaramouche is at you in an instand, a hand around your neck and a dangerous look on his face, not quite squeezing but still tight enough to be threatening. Your knees lock in place, hands trembling with fear as you fought the urge to cry again with the way he’s looking at you.

“Get on your knees.”

Your eyes dart to the unlocked door, heart rate rising. Anyone could enter at any moment. He liked the thrill of defiling you on public spaces—fitting rooms, cubicles of public restrooms, the janitor’s closet—but always with an added precaution, always with the door locked.

“Someone might come in and see—”

“So what?” He rudely interrupts, squeezing his fingers around your throat just enough to be uncomfortable. Then he snickers, watching the way your eyes begin to water again. “You’re such a crybaby.”

“Kuni, please. I don’t want—”

His mouth roughly lands against yours, swallowing whatever protests you had as he roved his tongue inside your mouth, taking and taking and taking without consideration. It hurts, the way he’s pressing his lips over yours and the way his teeth bites onto your bottom lip, tongue roving over your own, making sure you taste all of him. It leaves you lightheaded and out of breath by the time he pulls away, a trail of saliva hanging between you that he doesn’t bother wiping away. Just as he likes it. Rough, messy, and filthy.

He likes seeing you covered in his own cum from head to toe, dribbling from your mouth, running down the valley of your breasts, and your pussy so stuffed full that it drips down your thighs and makes a mess beneath your feet.

You think if he could, he would keep you locked up in his room, never stepping out and only there to be used as a cum dump and admired as you lay on top of his bed with your eyes crossed in the wake of an orgasm, legs spread, cum oozing out of your hole and slipping between your ass, utterly making a mess of the sheets below.

Scaramouche laughs at your dazed look, loosening his hold on your neck, enough that you can break out should you wish it. You don’t.

“Are you actually scared?” He taunts, a grin on his lips that managed to show how truly deplorable of a person he is. “Scared that someone would walk in and see how much of a slut you really are?”

You place both palms on his wrist, looking at him imploringly through glassy eyes. “Please—”

“I’ll let you in on a secret.” He steps close, close enough that you can feel his breath fan across your face. Then, in a whisper that is nothing short of threatening, he tells you, “Everyone knows I’m fucking you like the little whore you are, they only need proof. Now, should I send them the video, or are you gonna get down on your knees and beg for forgiveness?”

He delights at the way your eyes dim in understanding. You can feel his hardness throb against you when you bite your lips to stop the rush of tears threatening to spill from your eyes.

You hate yourself for being so easy to be reduced to tears, but mostly you hate yourself for being unable to truly deny him anything.

His hands release their hold on your neck just as you obediently fall to your knees, looking up at him in despair. He raises a brow, gesturing to the growing hardness in his pants with a humorless smile.

Your fingers fumble to undo his zipper, pulling down his waistband and taking him in your hand. Shuddering as you began moving your hand up and down his shaft, he impatiently grabs the back of your head, fingers intertwining with your hair as he forced you to look up at him.

“Open your mouth.”

With only the slightest hesitation, you part your lips for him, taking care to open them wide enough that your teeth won’t graze him. (Your jaw still aches with the memory of being forced to have him inside your mouth until your jaw nearly locked in place and you were crying, pleading with your eyes to please, please make it stop.)

Scaramouche slips inside your mouth with ease, groaning in pleasure as his cock is enveloped with a heat that only your cunt could top. He pushes all the way inside until your nose is brushing against soft tufts of hair and the tip of his length hits the back of your throat. You gag, but no amount of pushing against his thighs has him moving, watching you with pupils blown wide, his cheeks pink and breaths shaky.

“Hah… look at you, all on your knees for me. You’re probably secretly into this, being used like a toy. You’ve always been so hard-to-get, but inside you’re nothing but a slut who likes feeling my cock anywhere inside you.” He laughs, tugging at your hair and pushing himself even deeper than before.

It isn’t until a tear falls from your eye that he retracts himself, giving you only a moment’s respite before pushing your head forward, keeping a harsh but steady pace as he fucks into your mouth, bruising the back of your throat the same way he constantly abuses your insides. Thick spurts of pre-cum escape the slit of his cock, dragging across your mouth and dripping from the corners of your lips. It mixes with your drool, flowing down your chin and onto the floor, slathering his length in a transparent sheen that gathers along the base of cock as he repeatedly slams himself hilt deep into your throat.

You find it difficult to breathe, difficult to swallow, difficult to think as he continues to thrust into your mouth without abandon, his pace becoming erratic, harsh puffs of breath escaping him, and from the familiar twitch of his cock, you can tell he’s close. So you flatten your tongue along his shaft, hollowing your cheeks as best as you can, and closing your eyes to stop the tears from breaking out.

“Fuck, fuck. Look at me,” he orders, voice one pitch away from becoming breathy.

You open your eyes and gaze up at him, unable to stop the wetness that’s gathered in your eyes from falling. His hips falter, his hold on your hair tightening to the point that it makes you cry out from the pain. It only serves to pleasure him more, the vibrations from your throat sending him to the edge as he pushes himself in as far as he can go.

Thick, warm spurts of cum shoot into your mouth, a taste so familiar you barely gag as it gathers in the back of your throat. Scaramouche thrusts himself into you, once, twice, until he’s sure your mouth has finished milking him dry.

He pulls out, not bothering to tuck himself in as he moves his hand from the back of your head to your cheek, tilting your head up. And you already know what he wants you to do, so you open your mouth, let him see his cum mixed with your saliva. Your mouth is too full to keep them all in, flowing down your chin in excess and staining your shirt.

You’re unprepared for the two fingers he shoves into your mouth, hitting the back of your throat and making you gag and involuntarily swallow his cum.

“That’s right, swallow it all like the cum-thirsty whore that you are,” he laughs at you, at the pathetic look you must sport — red eyes, puffy lips, and dried tear tracks on your cheeks.

He retracts his fingers from your mouth, not bothering to wipe them clean.

“Get up,” he orders, stepping away from you and approaching the sink. You stand on shaky legs, knees sore not only from the hard tiles, but also from the fall earlier.

Scaramouche gestures to the counter, his lips pulled up in a leer, roving his eyes over your figure, lingering on the stain on your chest from the cum you failed to keep in your mouth earlier. You nearly collapse by the sink, arms supporting you as you leaned your top over the counter.

His hands push the hem of your skirt up, palms lingering on the swell of your ass, before he unceremoniously pulls your panties down to your knees. You unconsciously clench down on nothing as your pussy is exposed to the cold air.

He runs a finger up and down your folds, gathering your slick and raising his hand to examine them. You finally raise your head, meeting his eyes on the mirror.

“You’re all wet. I bet you enjoyed it, didn’t you? Being used like a ragdoll. Tell me, do you touch yourself when I’m not there?” He delivers it in a nonchalant tone, but from the tightness of his fingers around your hips, you know he’s serious.

Quickly shaking your head, you try to plead that he’s the only one who’d ever touched you, voice scratchy from his earlier abuse of your throat. “I-I promise, Kuni. I’ve never—”

“Liar,” he hisses.

The only warning you have is the way he shifts, and then his cock slips inside you, far too thick and far too big, pushing through your walls and splitting you in half. The vein that runs along his shaft rubs against your insides in a way that has you clenching down at him with pleasure, even as you cry out in shock and pain at being entered without preparation.

“Fuck,” he groans, the tip of his cock touching the entrance of your womb, and you know without a doubt that he’ll continue hitting that spot later, if only to see the way you squirm and cry in a mix of pain and pleasure. “Still so fucking tight even after I’ve fucked that hole of yours so many times. Hah… if I didn’t know any better, I’d think you were a virgin.”

Slowly, he pulls out, relishing in the way your walls clench down on him, trying to suck him back into your heat. And when only the tip of his cock remains inside, he rams his hips into you with a force that has you choking out a sob as he hits your cervix, over and over and over again, until you can no longer distinguish between pain and pleasure. Only an endless motion of him fucking his length into you, fingers digging into your hips in a bruising grip that will no doubt show on your skin tomorrow.

“Kuni—Kuni, please… slow down—” A particularly harsh thrust has you slurring your words, arms losing balance. Your top falls onto the counter, the coolness of the cheap marble against your cheek doing nothing to chase away the heat that’s bubbling inside you, gathering in your belly and threatening to snap with every drag of his length against your cunt.

“Shut up,” he snarls, biting back a moan at how you clench down on him at the harsh order. “I can feel your sloppy little pussy sucking me in. You’re like a bitch in heat, taking my cock in like that. If you even think about letting anyone else use this fucking cunt, I’ll kill them.”

You can do nothing but nod to his words, sobbing on top of the counter as Scaramouche uses you like you’re nothing but a hole for him to fuck himself into, unrepentantly slamming his hips into your ass, blunt nails digging into your skin.

Moans and whines fill the restroom, the air smelling of sex as you cried out his name with every thrust he takes. Your mind is far away, lost in a haze of pleasure, uncaring whether your voice will be heard by any passing teacher or student, uncaring of the unlocked door and the fact that if even one person hears your cries, the whole campus will know it by tomorrow.

So lost in your thoughts as you were, you failed to notice when Scaramouche pulled out his phone and started filming, angling the camera into the sight of his cock pushing in and out of you, a ring of cream gathered at the base, the squelching sound caught by the microphone. He moans, a guttural sound that he doesn’t even try to hide, pace stuttering and hips jerking into you in short, fast thrusts.

You’re unable to hide the way tears run down your cheeks, stopping yourself from reaching your climax until he allows you to, breaths fogging against the counter and toes curling inside your shoes, legs shaking from the effort of keeping your lower half upright, along with your impending release.

“Kuni, I wanna—I wanna—” You sob, unable to form the words and resorting to incoherent babbles.

“Fuck, fuck. You’re so fucking—” Scaramouche lets go of your hip and reaches for your clit, rubbing harsh circles into the sensitive little nub that has you wailing, your hands futilely trying to muffle the loud sounds. “Go.”

Your legs spasm, walls clenching down on him so tight, he has to stop for a moment as you reach your release. Your lips part to let out a scream the way you always do when the thread snaps and your orgasm hits you, and without fail, he reaches out to cover your mouth with his palm, fingers digging into your cheeks.

He lets out a few quick jerks of his hips before he releases inside you, biting down his lip to keep himself quiet, pushing himself deep inside and making sure not a drop of his cum is wasted.

Warmth explodes inside you, as familiar as the feeling of him pulling out, feeling his cum begin to flow out of your hole.

He remains silent, breathing heavy puffs of air before he leans in, pulling your hair back and pressing an impossibly soft kiss to your temple. He holds you steady as you wobble to a stand, arms sore and knees feeling like jelly, eyes red and drool slipping over your chin.

He holds your waist in a steady grip, his arm over your stomach to support you as he helps you pull your panties up and adjust the skirt of your uniform, smoothing out any wrinkles using the palm of his hand.

You watch him do all this with half-lidded eyes, mind still hazy from your climax. Your hands are tight over his arm, trying to keep yourself upright as you lean your back on his chest, trying to catch your breath. You spy his phone lying on the counter but think nothing of it, much too focused on the familiar script of Scaramouche’s quiet aftercare.

He could be so gentle during these times. In the aftermath of his rough fucking, when all that repressed anger has been spent on you, melting away and leaving a hollow shape in his chest. You think he doesn’t know what to do when he isn’t feeling anger or satisfaction — rather, he’s forgotten how to handle feelings that he might call shallow, such as happiness and love.

Quietly, he murmurs, a stark contrast to himself just minutes ago, “I’ll buy us dinner later, just the two of us. I’ll even drive you home after.”

It’s times like these that lets you see a glimpse of his old self, the Kunikuzushi you once loved.

But then he sighs, an annoyed furrow to his brows, and the tender moment is broken.

“Get off. Can’t you stand on your own? Or are you that stupid that you can’t even function without me?”

You take a step out of his hold, legs shaky but managing to support you regardless. From the corner of your eye, you spy him swiping his phone into his pocket, far too quickly for someone attempting to be inconspicuous.

Your heart sinks at the realization of what he’s done — again — but you only have yourself to blame for being so spineless.

Scaramouche turns to you, a considering look in his eye before he reaches out to smooth your hair into something that resembles less of a bird’s nest. He sneers at you, “Don’t go around looking like an imbecile.”

His hand clamps around yours, but despite the harsh look on his face, his touch is soft. He drags you out of the restroom, not even bothering to clean up the mess you’d made in the form of a few splotches of cum mixed with drool on the floor as well as the counters. But neither do you. All that’s on your mind is his hand on yours as he pulls you through the halls.

Like this, with only the back of his head facing you, you could almost pretend you’re back to being those naive children, giggling to each other as he promised to marry you someday back in the summer of your tenth birthday.

Perhaps that’s why you continue to stay, why you’ve never told your parents about the things he’d done to you, why you suffer through humiliation after humiliation just to continue being with him. And it’s unhealthy, you know that much, and maybe you should have turned your back on him when he knocked on your bedroom window with blood on his hands and a terrified look on his sixteen year old face — the beginning of the end, that one turning point in his life that made him the way he is now.

And maybe you do blame yourself for it, for not knowing how to help him, for being so lost and young and utterly ignorant of what was brewing in his head. Maybe that’s why you continue to stay beside him, the guilt of failing him, of failing Kunikuzushi.

His hand tightens around yours when you pass by a gaggle of male students, all of them looking at you with a smirk that soon dies when they see the expression on Scaramouche’s face.

And maybe you can continue deluding and comforting yourself with the thought that you’re here with him willingly, that it’s guilt and a sense of responsibility that makes you stay — even though you know the true reason is that he has a tight leash on your neck in the form of a video he took during the first time he had you, back when he still had bright eyes and a genuine smile, back when you still believed you loved him.

5 sundays of kinktober

word count — 5.1k

taglist — @pardofeliscalico @monicahar @monikidk @sunhareskies @thearcanafan @kaeyats @luvrsthrist @xinii @w9vyy @ineedavirtualboyfriend @holynix @myheartneverbe @karasuneo @rei-vi @shuvvs @miss-fantazmagoria @bunnlatte @shironakuronatasa @leleforpresident @scaranaris-lil-niko @holy365

#not sfw #this is the spiciest fic i’ve ever written #genshin x reader #genshin impact x reader #scaramouche x reader #kunikuzushi x reader #scaramouche x reader smut #fem reader #5th mass #5 sundays #kinktober #genshin kinktober

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daintylovers · 3 months

Text

obsessed with the idea of snow x reader x lucy

like how you meet lucy first, being part of the covey

so obviously lucy and you are pretty close right off the bat

its a running joke around twelve that you guys will get married and somehow have children

its said with cruel intent but lucy sees it as the best possible future she could have

i mean why wouldn't she want to spend the rest of her life with you? she's already spent this much of it doing the same

all you two need to communicate with is one little look

its a furrow of the brows from her and wide eyes from you

lucy isn't a naturally anxious person- carefree and wild is more her lane

but when it comes to you, she can't help but almost mother hen you

always watching out for you during her concerts

and she won't hesitate to get in a fight with a local if it means getting his attention away from you

her worry only increases when she gets reaped

her first thought isn't even about herself

it's about you

if she's gone, you become public domain again

and the pair of you have made plenty of enemies who are just itching to get you alone

but before she can even take her first steps up the stairs a hand shoots out from the audience

someones taking her place- thank god

but, no, not thank god at all

in fact, there probably isn't even a god because if there was, then it wouldn't be you whose hand was raised

as if things couldn't get worse for the songbird

she gets ushered away and the two of you cross paths

she goes out to try to get a grip on you, but the guards yank her away

it's weird because she almost feels betrayed?

how could you do this to yourself? to her? how is she supposed to live if you aren't by her side?

as you make your way up the stage, every piece of you cracks in some way or another

the games have already begun to shape you into a monster

lucy can see it in your eyes, the light faded out

later on, after a day or so of travel, you've decided to try and forget about lucy

it will be easier to die without the reminder of what you've left behind

but also easier to kill, if you have no one who remembers the way you used to be

you've barely talked to the male from your district

in fact, you don't really recognize him

but when he sees you staring, he calls out your name

your stone-cold face doesn't make a change, so he tells you that he knows lucy

fuck

that he's heard all about you and will try to protect you as best as he can

well- so much for forgetting about her

you tell him you don't need his protection and try to shrug him off

it hurts more than you thought it would

the boy wakes you up when you arrive at the capitol

you don't bother to learn his name, it will be easier to kill him if you aren't attached

stepping out of the train car, you see a tall blonde man wearing a ridiculous amount of red pacing around with something in his hands

it's clear he isn't meant to be there, so you don't pay him any mind

but when he turns around and sees the boy from your district, he knows that the smaller figure beside him must be you

his tribute

as soon as he witnessed your little display of love for lucy, the longing looks the two of you shared before being ripped apart, he knew he was in luck

knowing the name of the person you clearly loved most would help him shape you into a nasty little thing for the arena

you would be the key to the plinth price money after all

but jesus you sure are smaller than expected

i guess television does make everything look grander

he calls out your name, but you don't turn to face him

he tries again and gets a little frustrated at the lack of acknowledgment he receives

so he moves to tap you on the shoulder, but as soon as one of his slim fingers meets your shoulder, you swing at him

I'm taking closed fist knuckles out hard as hell swing at him

obviously, it takes him by surprise, and on the impact his head goes flying to the side and he stumbles back, the rose he had been holding dropped from his grip

you move to keep walking forward but he recovers himself and practically yanks you around back to him, holding you away from him like a stray cat

glaring up at him, you still don't say anything, making him feel more uneasy than if you would have started screaming at him

he tries your name again, maybe the television got your name wrong?

but when he says your name for the final time, your eyes water

it's subtle, something only a man like snow would recognize

he said it just like lucy would

except lucy would be holding you tighter

she would feel warmer

this man feels cold, isolated, and dangerous

he introduces himself and you almost laugh at the irony, snow, of course his name is snow

well it's not fully snow, of course he has a first name

but snow suits him better

he tells you that he's your mentor, here to help you win the games

he offers you the rose that he's retrieved from the ground but you don't take it

please is all he says

and maybe it's because he reminds you of the comfort lucy would have given to you, or maybe it's because he just looks positively pathetic, groveling like a little kicked puppy, that you take the damned rose from his awaiting hands

he smiles at you, flashing pearly whites

a sting of insecurity shoots through you, your teeth definitely looked like a lemon compared to his shiny ones

just another reminder of how different you two really are

thank you, you offer him, you're covey and covey know their manners, even in the face of their oppressors

you turn to leave him again, but can still feel his presence close behind

looking around you notice that he's the only mentor here

it makes you feel uncomfortable

now there was a huge target on your back

and that fear is confirmed when you hop into the truck and are met with snickers and glares from your peers

and snow only makes things worse when he jumps in with you all at the last minute

maybe if you don't interact with him, they'll see that you are still one of them

still just a lowly district kid with no other option

you watch as he gets ganged up on and when he looks at you with pleading eyes, a hint of guilt racks you

but he's capitol, you remember, and capitol wouldn't save you either

so you let them at him

but when the truck car starts to tilt, he still moves to protect you, shoving the kids off him and caging you in his arms

his tribute will not die because of shitty driving

everyone tumbles out of the car and into the wild

and when snow pulls you up and away, you see that it really is the wild

you are now caged in some lame forest area?

you aren't really sure what it is because the crowd outside the cage is really throwing you off

and then you see the camera crew and the happy announcer in the middle

but the guy also sees you and snow, locked in each other's embrace

it mortifies you, lucy will see this

you detach yourself as quick as lightning and make your way to the man, who is equally as curious about you as you are about him

and who might you be? wait, hold on, we know you, you're the girl from twelve who sacrificed herself for her lover. tell me, do you regret it?

every part of you screams to spit in his face, how dare he use you like bait for the audience?

but two can play that game

i would never regret saving someone i love. would any of you? lucy gray, i miss you every day, and I'll continue to miss you even when I'm gone and grey.

A/N: tumblr is yelling at my computer and saying this is too long so I've cut it in half. but if you want more let me know because i love this dynamic and i barely explored it here lmfao. had to lay the ground work yk! anyways, lot of love <3

#lucy gray baird x reader #lucy gray baird #coriolanus snow #coriolanus x reader #coriolanus x you #coriolanus snow x reader #coriolanus snow fanfiction #coriolanus snow imagine #lucy gray baird imagine #fanfic #reader insert #fiction #blurb #x reader

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velidewrites · 7 months

Text

This Ends In Fire

Everything goes wrong when Nesta Archeron crosses the Wall to find her sister. Kidnapped and trapped Under the Mountain, she must now become the very thing she swore to destroy. But there is a light in the darkness—a flicker of a flame, ready to show her a way out. If she’d only let it.

Pairing: Nesta Archeron x Eris Vanserra

Tags: Rated Explicit; Marriage of Convenience; UTM AU

Notes: My humble submission for @sjmromanceweek!

Chapter 1 || Go to Prologue || Read on AO3

ONE WEEK AGO

Eris Vanserra wiped the last of his blood off his back and straightened his shoulders despite the soreness. Now that he was alone in the quiet darkness of his rooms, he could hear the rapid pulsing of his veins as it echoed off the stone walls. Eris gritted his jaw, letting his body tense and muscles harden. He would let no one, not even the servants, hear.

Dipping the wet cloth into the basin, he twisted the fabric and watched as the water slowly turned a pale shade of pink. It felt lukewarm on his skin, doing nothing to ease the pain, to bring any sort of relief. Not that Eris had expected it in the first place.

Fifty years ago, back when his magic had still been his own and not yielded to the hands of another, he could have opened a rip in time and space and let the cloth disappear in there, all evidence of tonight erased in the blink of an eye. The best he could do today was a quick snap of his fingers to strain the cloth of all liquid, and a flicker of a flame to burn its remains. The ash, he knew from experience, would soon melt into the cracks between the stones anyway.

With that taken care of, he slid both arms into the sleeves of his jacket, fighting off the wince his body demanded to submit to. Everyone had eyes Under the Mountain—especially the darkness.

He did allow himself a quiet breath, though, as he realised the usually stiff back of the jacket had mysteriously been padded, the fabric no longer roughly grazing his skin as he walked. It did little to calm him—no, his breath only seemed to encourage the fire stirring in the pit of his stomach, the flames rising higher and higher until they licked at the column of his throat. It had been foolish for her to risk it for something so small, so insignificant in the grander scheme of things. For him. But his mother had never seemed to listen, anyway.

Whatever she’d sewn into the spine of his jacket, it helped, and Eris hated it with every step he took as we walked out of his chambers. The Vanserra family tailor answered to his father, like everyone in the family’s employ, which meant Beron would find out about what his wife had done one way or another. She had been shackled to his side long enough to understand that, which made everything all the worse. She knew—she knew what the consequences were, and yet…

She thought Eris was worth it anyway. It was the Mother’s most cruel of punishments, perhaps, to allow Lady Vanserra to keep her heart despite the family she’d been given. It was why Eris never prayed to her, or the Cauldron, or any of the Gods that had once used to roam these lands. They had all abandoned them long ago. The monsters stayed.

One of them awaited Eris at the end of the narrow hallway, carved so deeply into the Mountain he doubted even its native dwellers were aware of its existence. The shadows had led him here once before, the last time he’d needed to bargain. They had sensed his urgency—desperation was not a word Eris preferred to resort to—in his sleep, and revealed the location somewhere in the depths of his dream. It was the first and only night Eris had not been plagued by nightmares.

He had not been blessed with such comfort the second time. All he’d had to do was think the right words at the right time, and watch as a shadow of disdain passed through Rhysand’s face. To Eris, it was confirmation enough.

“Tell me why I should not kill you right where you stand,” the darkness purred, and Eris rolled his eyes.

“I come with a proposition.”

“If there is anything you require, I suggest you take it up in a formal audience with our Queen,” Rhysand said simply. “All this secrecy is…” His gaze narrowed on Eris’s. “Troubling.”

“I would hate to inconvenience our Queen in such a momentous time,” Eris drawled smoothly. “The time is almost up, after all.”

Though Rhysand remained silent, Eris could have sworn the darkness tensed around him—watching. Waiting.

He continued, “A celebration is in order, I hear. The Attor is on the hunt—if my information is correct.”

Rhysand angled his head an inch. “And where do you obtain such sensitive information, Eris?” he asked.

Eris let a smile creep onto his mouth. “Oh, you have no reason to worry, Rhysand,” he crooned. “I can assure you you’re still the only one warming our Queen’s bed.”

Rhysand’s gaze darkened.

Still, Eris pushed, “I do wonder what Amarantha will make of you, though, once her precious Tamlin arrives.”

“You dare speak our Queen’s name?” Rhysand asked him quietly. “I could leave right now and tell her of your disobedience—and I think we both know which one of us she would believe.” A smile of his own tugged at the corner of his lips. “How, I wonder, will your mother take the death of yet another beloved son?”

There it was—the monster he had come to bargain with.

“While I’m sure you’re eager to return to her side,” Eris taunted, “there is something I need from you.”

“And why, exactly, should I feel inclined to help you?”

Eris smiled. “Because if you don’t, I will tell your Queen of your little visit to the Spring Court on Calanmai.”

For a heartbeat, the air around them seemed to still.

Then, “That visit was sanctioned,” Rhysand said. “I was acting on Amarantha’s will.”

“Ah, yes. The three drunken wraiths conspiring to dethrone her rule,” Eris mocked. “One shudders to think what might have happened had you not stepped in, High Lord.”

The darkness seemed to narrow on him. “Is there a point to your empty threats, or have you requested my presence simply to annoy me?”

“A little bit of both” did not seem like an adequate answer at this time, so Eris simply said, “As I’ve told you before, there is something I require from you.”

“And I told you, I am not feeling particularly generous tonight.”

“No, I imagine you save all your generosity for the Queen,” Eris answered. “I can also imagine her pretty face when I tell her the wraiths were not the only traitors you spoke to that night.”

Rhysand went wholly, entirely still.

“A human girl,” Eris hummed, delight rising through his chest as he watched that darkness stir with unease. “With pale blue eyes and hair like ancient, molten gold. A mere Child of the Blessed, one would think,” he mused. “But I am told that minutes after you left, she was approached by a very concerned Lucien Vanserra…and hurried right back into Tamlin’s manor.”

“Your brother has always had an affinity for the ones beneath him,” was Rhysand’s only reply. But Eris could tell—could feel the shift in the power around them, like lightning bracing to strike at midnight.

It was why he waved a dismissive hand. “Lucien Vanserra is an embarrassment to my family, and an exile,” he said, the words souring on his tongue even as he spoke them. “I will not claim him as my brother unless he miraculously regains his senses,” he added, letting a grimace twist his face. “Though I very much doubt that will ever occur.”

“Well, from what you’re telling me, a reunion seems to be imminent,” Rhysand commented. “Your mother will be delighted to see her youngest after such a long separation, I’m sure.”

It was the second time he mentioned Eris’s mother tonight. The threat was more than clear—and that fire inside him stirred at the message it carried.

Rhysand crossed his arms over his chest, something too hidden in the dark for Eris to discern rustling with the movement as Rhysand asked, “How did you get your spies from Under the Mountain?”

“I don’t feel particularly inclined to share my secrets with common whores.”

“Careful, Eris,” Rhysand warned, something cold slithering into his tone—perhaps to combat the fire cracking at Eris’s fingertips. “Your words may be your greatest weapon, but in our current situation, they remain your only one.”

Rhysand straightened then, and even the darkness seemed to take a step back as he announced, “I grow bored of your company. Tell me what it is you want, and don’t try screaming into my mind again.” He grimaced. “Your voice is exceptionally unpleasant, you see.”

For what had to have been the hundredth time tonight, Eris rolled his eyes. But as much as he wished to show Rhysand how, exactly, he’d been trained in handling the monsters’ threats…

“I need you to manipulate someone’s mind.”

Rhysand arched an eyebrow—and Eris thought that, perhaps even if his plan failed, the surprise on the High Lord of Night’s face would be compensation enough.

“So rebellious,” Rhysand drawled, his gaze studying him closely. “What would your dear father have to say, I wonder, if he found out his heir has grown a little too ambitious in the dark?”

“Say we have a deal, Rhysand,” Eris simply told him. “And I will never mention the girl ever again.”

Rhysand must have let the mask slip a little, then—a new kind of darkness finding its way behind his stare as he met Eris’s at last. “Not a single fucking word about her, Eris,” he warned, and when Eris nodded, his shoulders seemed to relax a little. “Alright, then.” He outstretched his hand.

Eris shook it firmly, his own skin tingling strangely as the darkness infused with the quiet scent of jasmine scented night.

“It’s a bargain,” Rhysand said.

***

PRESENT DAY

Nesta’s cell was shrouded in darkness, occasionally broken by a flash of a strange, blue flame. It had taken less than an hour for her to learn that the screams would soon follow, filling the space with an echo of pain and agony.

Somewhere in the distance, the fire burned again, casting shadows on the wall ahead—dancing in what she couldn’t help but feel was a mockery of her misery.

She sat up straighter, waiting for the wailing to come. From what she had discerned earlier, the voice belonged to some male creature bearing wings. She could still hear them flapping in desperation, as if their tortured owner still believed he had a chance of escape.

The only other sound accompanying the prisoner’s screams was the Attor’s raspy laugh, and Nesta tried not to shudder every time it came. She could still feel the monster’s voice on her skin, like grains of sand brushing over her roughly. Though she had not seen the Attor since the moment it had knocked her out mid-flight, the mere sound of its cruel laughs had been enough to make her stomach twist and her heart drop heavily in her chest.

The worst, and perhaps the best thing about all this at the same time, was that Nesta was not alone. She had been tossed into the cell unconscious, but had woken up to the quiet murmurs of both concern and excitement—the mixture odd enough that she figured out quite quickly whose company she’d been shoved into.

Nesta had no interest in finding comfort in the arms of the Children of the Blessed, but she found herself listening in on their conversation anyway.

“You have nothing to be afraid of,” the eldest of the group cooed, her slim hand patting another girl’s head gently, easing her quiet sobbing. “This is all a misunderstanding. Once the Fae understand we have come to serve them, we will be released to perform our duty.

Nesta rolled her eyes.

It did not go unnoticed—and another woman shot her a look, her navy gaze piercing. “You’d do well to show some sympathy,” she hissed. “Where we come from, the Fae do not shove us into their dungeons without prior questioning.”

Nesta was not sure what to take offence more—that someone so empty-headed felt within their rights to snap at her, or that they assumed Nesta, of all people, was one of them.

“Where are you from, anyway?” another Child asked her, red hair spilling over her shoulder as her head angled in curiosity. She had not arrived with the other three, Nesta remembered, with one of the guards only bringing her in hours after. “Do your clans not bear the symbols of our masters?” she asked, finger tapping on the wood-carved token around her neck. Nesta could hardly see the details of it in the shadows, though she made out a pair of hands holding up something rotund in shape—yet another meaningless thing of the world she had no desire to be a part of.

“She must think herself above such things,” the blue-eyed one scoffed, then returned her attention to the trembling girl in her friend’s arms.

Nesta turned back to the red-headed one. “I lost it on my way here,” she lied. “It fell from my neck mid-flight.”

The girl’s brows knitted into a scorn. “You ought to pay better care to such things in the future.”

“I doubt there’s any future for us left,” Nesta replied, ignoring the loud shush of the others as the youngest cried even harder.

The girl glanced over her shoulder quickly. “I saw the creature that brought you here,” she whispered. “It must’ve been terrifying.”

“I thought the Children are servants of all faeries.”

The girl scrunched her nose. “I doubt that thing can be called a faerie at all.”

Despite herself, Nesta snorted—and the girl smiled weakly. “My name is Carisa. You didn’t tell me where you came from.”

Nesta cleared her throat. The girl might have been tolerable, but it hardly meant Nesta was going to reveal to her everything about her life.

Especially not when she felt like, despite being entirely devoted to the torture next door, the Attor was still watching her, somehow.

“I was sent as an emissary to the South,” Nesta explained. “But I come from Scythia.”

Carisa’s face seemed to light up even in the darkness. “So am I!”

Shit.

Carisa continued, “Did you attend Queen Vassa’s coronation?”

Nesta had no idea the human lands on the Continent had appointed a new queen. “I was already gone by then.”

Carisa hummed. “You must have been here long, then,” she said. “You missed quite the celebration. I have a feeling Vassa is going to be a fair and just ruler.”

“I don’t particularly believe in the monarchy.”

Carisa blinked.

“For once, we agree on something,” the blue-eyed one cut in, apparently now part of the conversation as she looked at Carisa reproachfully. “The only authority we recognise are the Fae.”

“How glad we are to hear it,” a hoarse chuckle sounded above them—and they all jumped up with a shriek. Nesta included.

The Attor’s smile revealed all his silver teeth. “Come, Children. Mother has been expecting you.”

***

Eris watched as the blood trickled down the table in thin streams of crimson, the sight so dreadfully familiar he had to fight the urge to check over his back. It pooled at his feet, filling the small chamber with the scent of iron and wet earth, betraying the nature of its owner. These Lessers were native to the southern regions of Autumn, with the power to rip the roots of the strongest oaks from the earth with a mere nod of their fur-clad heads.

It was a shame this one had to die. He had proven himself to be one of Eris’s most capable spies, and, for the past forty-something years, had proven loyal enough that Eris had stopped questioning his reports only two decades in.

But, no matter how useful, he was still only a pawn.

And Eris was playing a larger game.

“Clean it up,” was Beron Vanserra’s only command as he wiped his hands on the pristine white cloth he’d summoned from thin air. No matter how much of his power Amarantha had claimed for herself, he was still High Lord—which meant he had access to magic Eris could only dream of.

It was one of many reasons he had framed his own spy. Why he’d turned to Rhysand, of all people, to get one step closer to winning the game.

“I should feel honoured,” Eris commented, using the spy’s discarded tunic to wipe his own hands. “You usually let Aran and Conall have all the fun.”

Beron scoffed. “Those fools would have bragged about it to the first whore that landed in their beds,” he said, as though it was not his own sons, his flesh and blood he was talking about. He cut Eris a look. “I should not tell you this is a matter of utmost secrecy.”

Eris nodded. “What is your plan, then?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Beron simply told him, his attention already elsewhere as he slid on his dark-bronze jacket, the material thick enough to cover the blood speckled over his formal shirt.

Eris did not let himself get surprised easily, and he liked to think he knew his father well enough to anticipate his reactions accurately. But this—this strange, eerie calmness about him as he buttoned up the hems was enough to make him say, “I do not understand.”

Beron met his gaze.

Eris continued, “We just found out one of our own spies reported for Amarantha. How certain can we be that the others have not been compromised?”

His father waved a hand in dismissal. “She will learn of this one’s death quickly enough,” he told Eris, something souring in his expression as he added, “I do not know what the Hybern bitch is playing at, but with this death, the game has officially begun.”

For Beron—perhaps. But Eris…Eris had been playing for a long, long time.

If the knowledge of Amarantha sending Beron’s own sentries after him was not enough to steer his father’s focus far away from Eris’s own dealings, it only meant Eris had to push a little harder. “You wish to wait for her next move.”

Beron cuffed his sleeves. “I want her gone, as we all do.” Another look at Eris carried a flash of a warning. “I have not taught you such impatience,” he mused quietly—too quietly. “Your mother, perhaps. It would not surprise me to see yet another failure of hers in my one and only heir.”

Eris stiffened.

“Mother has nothing to do with this,” he said slowly, as if to calm the rising urgency in his own chest. Clever—he was so clever bringing Mother into this, dangling her life right before Eris’s nose until he stumbled grasping for it.

Beron hummed. “Perhaps you require another lesson instead,” he said, and something like a smile tugged at the corner of his lips as he gestured to the body and ordered, “Clear the table.”

Eris was going to abide—the way he always had.

His feet carried him to the centre of the room as though they possessed a mind of their own, completely isolated from the thoughts pounding through Eris’s head. His back had fully healed—courtesy of the newfound comfort of his clothing—and, in a few moments, Beron would know exactly who to blame.

But then a knock sounded on the heavy, wooden door—and Eris stopped.

“My lord,” a voice called, quiet and hesitant. “My lord, you and your family’s presence is requested in the throne room.” A pause. “I’m afraid time is of the essence.”

Eris did not dare to move.

Beron sighed deeply. “Clean up later,” he instructed, then made his way for the door. “Kill him on your way back in.”

Eris’s face eased back into its usual stillness. “Naturally.”

“Good,” Beron nodded, the word the highest of praises in his mouth. “Now let’s see what this is all about.”

Praying Amarantha had somehow heard as the High Lord of Autumn referred to her as “the Hybern bitch,” Eris followed his father. It was ridiculous of him to hope, it the thought brought him some entertainment, at least, as they made their way up the labyrinth of corridors carved into the Mountain, passed only by the occasional guards or maids scurrying toward their designated rooms.

They reached the throne room quickly, Beron disappearing immediately to take his place by the other High Lords—in the alcove right above the western side of the hall and overlooking Amarantha’s iron throne.

A little higher up, in the lounges reserved for nobility, Eris slid into his usual chair, his gaze not leaving the throne for one second as he, ever-so-slightly, leaned toward his left. “You should not have done that, Mother,” Eris murmured. “He—”

“Straighten up, Eris,” came the reply, soft and quiet. “Smile.

So Eris did.

“Who are they?” a female voice to his right asked, and Eris bit back a hiss as he realised Aran had brought in a female into his family’s section. Again.

“Fresh meat for the Attor,” his younger brother snorted. The female visibly winced.

Only then did Eris finally regain his senses enough to scan the area below. A small group of people gathered before the throne, where Amarantha lounged—with a smiling Rhysand beside her.

Eris gritted his teeth.

“Kneel,” the Attor announced, wings sprawling high up from where he stood behind the group—as if to block them all from turning. “Before your Queen.”

One of them—the shortest one—slid the hood off her head, the others quickly following suit before dropping to their knees. Eris realised then—there would be no torturing Beron Vanserra today, even despite his best wishes.

No. They’d been invited for a feast.

Amarantha’s red-stained mouth curled into a smile as she leaned back in her throne, her right arm wrapped around Rhysand’s. To his left, Eris heard Conall scoff. “What have you brought me today, my dear?” she asked, clearly addressing the Attor to the horror of Aran’s companion. “Ah. Children of the Blessed. How delighted I am to see your lovely faces,” she added, and one of the women—the closest one whose features Eris could make out—seemed to beam at the acknowledgement.

“These three were found near the Winter border, Your Majesty,” the Attor explained, the rasp of his voice carrying throughout the hall. “This one arrived at Autumn’s eastern docks earlier today,” he pointed to a red-haired woman. “And this one,” he said, wings flaring in unabashed pride, “Came from Spring.”

It only lasted a second—even less, perhaps—but Eris did not miss the flash of fear in Rhysand’s violet gaze. There and gone, like the flicker of a star as it descended down on the last woman.

She looked up, then, her black hood falling farther down her back—and met Amarantha’s gaze directly.

Eris held his breath.

She was, without a doubt, the most beautiful female he’d ever seen.

Woman, he corrected himself immediately after the treacherous thought, if the rounded tips of her ears weren’t enough of an indication. Had Eris not been his father’s only suitable heir, Beron would have killed him for harbouring such a sentiment without hesitation. It would not have been Beron’s first time.

Even so, Eris could not help but let his gaze linger. There was a devastation to her beauty, as though all the gods he’d forsaken had decided to prove him wrong in crafting this woman. When she looked at Amarantha, there was no admiration, no blind loyalty that shone from her companion’s misty stares. No, this one looked at Amarantha with…challenge, shining brightly from those blue-grey eyes.

Eris stilled at that, the realisation ripping the world underneath him open as he understood why he glimpsed fear in Rhysand’s eyes.

A human girl. Those were his own words, spoken no more than a week ago. With pale blue eyes and hair like ancient, molten gold. A mere Child of the Blessed, one would think, but I am told that minutes after you left, she was approached by a very concerned Lucien Vanserra…and hurried right back into Tamlin’s manor.

This woman had come from Spring—and she was no Child of the Blessed.

The lie burned like fire in those eyes of hers as she held the High Queen of Prythian’s gaze. “We are here to serve you, Your Majesty,” she said, her voice smooth and clear.

“Such devotion,” Amarantha purred. “I would be delighted to have you as my guests tonight. A ball—in your honour.”

The other four erupted in whispers, their excitement so palpable it turned Eris’s insights sick as Amarantha added, “And a very special offering from my court later.”

In the past five decades, Eris had attended enough of those celebrations to know exactly how Amarantha liked to play with her prey. To know what would happen to those women the minute the final note of the violins marked the ball’s bloodied end.

But, if he was right, one of those women, the fraud…

If he was right, she was the one they’d all been looking for. The one Rhysand had met that night, knowing she was the key to everything.

A newfound fire sparked in Eris’s chest as a new pawn appeared on his centuries-old board.

He was going to save her.

And in turn, she was going to save them all.

#sjmromanceweek2024 #neris #neris fic #in which eris has fire in his blood and he fucks like it too #nesta x eris #nesta archeron x erisi vanserra #nesta archeron #nesta acotar #eris vanserra #eris acotar #acotar #a court of thorns and roses #my writing

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sankttealeaf · 3 days

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putting rue's letters she wrote to gale and gortash under the cut because idk where else to post them but the world has to read them too

i doubt theres any way to include them in the main fic because a) gale wont read his because rue is alive and b) gortash thinks its another taunt from orin and also won't read his

stupid men.

Gale, my love.

Please know there is nothing you could have done to change my mind.

With each day that passes I feel worse and worse with myself and you deserve something better than I can give right now. I’ve not been honest with you and the guilt is eating me alive, though I know it will be nothing compared to the hatred you will feel for me. I tried, countless times, to speak to you about this in person but my words get tangled in my throat and I end up pretending everything’s okay.

Everything is awful.

Since arriving in the city, since meeting Gortash, since getting a place here at the Elfsong I have lied to you every single day. You may already know, in fact I think you’re smart enough to have found out somehow.

I’ve been meeting with Gortash in secret. It started as a desperate attempt to regain my past but as each night went by and he told me less and less I realised I was going to him for other reasons. We’ve kissed. That’s the furthest we ever went. I need you to know this.

I’m going to finish this. By the time you’ve read this, there’s a high chance I may be dead. I want to end Orin, to destroy the temple of Bhaal and renounce my blood but I know that I will most likely not survive the outcome.

I love you. I really do. I think you were the first person I’ve ever said those words to. Love doesn’t sit well within me but with you it’s as easy as breathing. You were the best part of all of this and I’m glad fate fucked me so we could meet. You were the kindest person to me despite everything wrong in my blood and I have never felt hope as strongly as I have when I’m with you. I wish things were different. I would have loved going to Waterdeep with you, to meet Tara properly, to meet your mother, to have a nice life away from all this. There’s no soft endings for people like me. I understand that now.

And I’m sorry it has to end this way.

All my love,

Rue.

Gortash.

One day, you will die. Not by my hand, but by someone else’s who deserves to get their vengeance on the cruelties you put them through. If I could I would throw you to the masses for them to rip and tear into you but even then I think that death is too kind.

I didn't plan on writing this, nor am I entirely sure what I’m supposed to say. What do you say to someone you can’t ever remember loving? I truly believe she loved you. Rumour, that is. We both know we aren’t the same person anymore and it’s easier to think about her as a separate entity. Maybe that’s how I cope with what I’ve done. What we’ve done.

I think she loved you in such a way that it hurts me to see you go. Which is why I won’t be there. The thought of you dying kills me but I know I’m not supposed to feel like that. We were to die in each other’s arms when the whole world took its last breath. I can’t see you die before then.

I’m confronting Orin. Part of me knows that whatever happens, one of us will die. Maybe it will be me. Maybe this time she’ll finish the job. Or maybe Bhaal despises us both so much he plucks the blood from our bodies and kills us both. I’m fine with either.

I’m fine with death. A world with such kindness in it isn’t made for cruel hands like mine. I think I understand that now. I can only be forgiven if I leave this plane and that’s what I’m doing.

If our gods allow it, I would like to wait for you. Perhaps we can reconnect after death. You said that we will always find each other and I hope that whatever comes next for me, I will find you again. Maybe I’ll be a bird that nests outside your window. Maybe then I’ll finally feel free.

Enver. You were her friend. She did love you. I need you to know that. I’m sorry it’s come down to this. There’s no other way.

Forgive me.

Rue.

#; let sleeping dogs lie #bg3 #the dark urge #there's something kind of tragic about it all #she can only admit to gortash that she loved him through a letter #ow

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thedelusionreaderbitch · 1 year

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Parental! Kanej x gn! Reader - History repeats itself (sometimes in the worst ways)

A/n: I had a question, a terrible question and decided to write about it :)

Warings: child exploitation, slavery, allea gets slapped my inej when she's in a bad headspace, gore, blood, death, rape (it's alluded to, you never read anything that happens), dismemberment, thoughts about suicide, kidnapping, guns, knives, violence, injuries, swearing, violence against children, I think that's it? You have been warned!

Request by: @nikfigueiredo (I'm sorry this took forever, and I will fulfill your other request soon!)

Summary: When one of the worst things imaginable happens to you, your family stops at nothing to come and save you. Unless of course, it's too late.

The 3 P's:

[Pronouns used: you/your, they/them] [Pov: multiple/2nd person] [Pairings: (parental!) kanej x reader, (sibling!) allea x jordie x reader, (romantic!) kaz x inej]

Inej

Kaz had stumbled into the house with a panicked look on his face, with a crying Allea at his side, Inej knew something was terribly wrong.

She didn't even have to question him for Kaz to know what she was asking, as soon as their eyes connected he knew.

Perhaps even worse, she knew too.

But she had to hear him say it.

"Y/n's gone."

Her breath stuttered in her throat and she had to grip the side of the chair she was standing beside.

It's Jordie, her eldest who asks what truly happened, and the answer makes her blood run cold.

"They were taken by slavers."

No, no, Inej couldn't- She tripped over her own feet and fell backwards, not even registering that Jordie had gone to catch her.

Her child, her beautiful child had been taken by the same people who had taken her, she couldn't even fathom the reality. Why must fate be so cruel? What had Y/n done to deserve this? What had she done to deserve this?

Saints- No. No more saints, no more games! Her- her sweet Y/n, had been taken, despite everything, despite the fact that Inej literally hunted slavers they had still been ripped away from their family. Inej was tired of everything going right then so, so, wrong, she wanted peace for once, she wanted-

She wanted her youngest child in her arms.

"It's okay mamma." Allea murmured softly, as tears bleed down both their cheeks, Jordie taking a step back to give the two of them space. "The saints will watch over Y/n I'm sure of it." She whispered.

Slap!

"No! No more talks of saints, do you hear me!" Inej screams and looks at everyone wildly, as Allea scampers away from her mother, "Never speak about them again!"

"Allea step away from your mother." Kaz's soothing voice comes out like a hand in the darkness.

Slowly, he limps over to her, he doesn't touch her, all he has to do is count a few times until her breathing is under control. Once it is, he pulls her into his arms.

"We'll find her, treasure." He whispers into her hair.

Inej grabs the hand that he's given her, pulling her out of the darkness and finally she speaks. "We will, and when we do will burn them all down."

____________

Y/n

You didn't know where you were.

You didn't know if your family was okay, you didn't know if they were alive and well, hell you didn't even know if you were.

Perhaps this is hell, maybe you died on that boat.

Often, you would look at the door and wonder if you should make a run for it, but you can't you're indentured. You could hang yourself with your silks from the ceiling.

Anything is better then living this life.

Your hand twitches at the collar around your throat but you close your eyes and you open them again to this wretched world.

Terrible, cruel, evil world. Oh, how fate must have been having the time of her life watching you suffer. You didn't want to suffer any longer.

But you are indentured and there are kids here.

It must be a pretty new pleasure house because the kids that were on the boat with you are the same ones who are here now. Most are younger than six.

You curse all the saints above that they look up to you, to them you were the closet safe adult- even parent. You whisper to yourself at night that you don't truly care for any of them, that they don't matter to you.

Yet you know that's not true, it's as true as saying Allea didn't get piss-drunk and fall off of one of your ma's ships once.

Your family, you chocked on tears as you brought your knees closer to your chest. You want your dad, you wanted your mom.

"Y/n?" A little voice mumbled among the darkness of the room you all shared.

"Yes Kai?" You questioned the little girl as she shifted closer to you before you opened your arms and let her fall into them.

"The others want a bedtime story."

Rolling your eyes fondly you called the others over.

"Come here, I know you're all awake."

Eventually, six more pairs of eyes of all different colors surrounded you, and as you gestured for them to get closer they all snuggled into your arms.

"Have I told you the story about Santka Inej yet?"

_________________

Nina

Barreling through the rest of the crows Nina panted before Inej and Kaz.

"We found them."

Kaz stands abruptly and bangs his cane on the ground. "Where?" he growls.

Nina wishes it wasn't true, that you were taken somewhere in Ravka or even Fjerda, that history didn't have to repeat itself. When she found out, she pondered why they had taken you on a boat, perhaps to throw off their tracks? She wonders why it all fell onto you, why did you get all the ugly parts when the others got all the good parts?

"They're here, in Ketterdam."

_______________

Y/n

A man yanks you by the arm, taking you out of your living quarters as he yells something in a language you don't know.

You know many languages, Suil, Kerch, Fjerdan, Ravkan, and Zemeni, there are very few well-known languages that you don't know. It had been something that scared you in the beginning, not knowing what their next move was, even now it still sent an elusive shiver down your spine.

"I don't know what you're saying!" You yell back in Kerch.

"It's okay little crow, you'll find out soon enough."

A man with blonde hair comes up from behind you and grips onto your shoulder as he plays around with a little lion toy in his other hand. You freeze in your place immediately, as you have come to know him as the boss. The man who ran this place.

"Let's get out of here, shall we?" He keeps his grip on you as he leads you out of the building.

It was as if you weren't in control of your own body, you were just a puppet for these men.

"Where are we going." You whisper as he loads you into a carriage with himself and no one else.

"As it seems from all the houses I have set up in Kerch," He begins, and you wish he would stop.

Wait you were still in Kerch?

The man continues, much to your displeasure. "This one has been the least profitable, they don't like the workers."

Probably because they were young children, you scoffed in your head. Most people who come to pleasure houses at least like their workers to be around your age, it helps clear their consciousnesses, although you're not too sure how.

Then he grins and leans down towards you, and what he says next, makes bile rise to your throat. "But they love you."

You hear it first, it's a sound you usually only hear when uncle Wylan is around, then you turn around and you see it.

The building has exploded.

There were screams ringing throughout the air, and fire everywhere and all you wanted to do was run back.

The kids, the kids.

"There are kids in there!" you screamed as you banged on the carriage doors. "Stop! Stop the horses, there are children in there!"

No one stops though, and the man across from you only laughs.

"You little crow, are going to be my prized possession, I am sure of it."

Without thinking you lunged forward. "You bastard!" You howled. "You're a fucking monster, Rollins!"

Alby Rollins doesn't even seemed fazed by all your howling and fighting, all he has to do is shove you to the ground. You crumble as soon as he does, the lack of proper care lets him over power you easily.

"Shut your whining," He slid a hand over your thigh. "I own you, you are mine." He growls, his eyes glinting with things you wish you could unsee.

You don't know what he does to you after that, you had left your body then, the only thing you could think about is what must have been the children. Even if they would have survived the initial explosion, the rubble would have eventually suffocated them.

Did Kai cry out for help, did they cry out for you?

_____________

Kaz

Kaz doesn't believe in fate.

That's what he's repeating to himself anyways, as he sees the man who's beside you.

He may not believe in fate, but this was pretty damn laughable.

It's Alby Rollins who's sitting at the table, with you, covered in black silks, your eyes are covered in kohl and there's some dark feathers that wind around your neck, and your wrists. Inevitably, to cover the chains that bound you to this place.

It's called the fucking sweet shop. Kaz felt like he was going to throw up.

All the other available clients were dressed up like candy, but not you, no this is a different kind of torture Kaz wasn't prepared for, because you're dressed like a crow. Kaz has told you, and your siblings time and time again about how it was an honor to be a crow. That crows always knew how to pick the right people, that they were strong. Now it's being used against you and him, in the worst way possible.

He was sure you'd never wanted to be called a crow again.

Nevertheless the terror doesn't take him, because he's Kaz fucking Ghafa-Brekker, and he was going to show them what happened when they fucked with his kids.

"Mr Brekker, I was hoping you'd show up tonight!" Alby clapped his hands as a smile creeped onto the man's face. "Let's get to our agreement, shall we?" He gesture's for Kaz to take a seat but he stays stubbornly standing, looking at the monster before him with a blank face.

"You said you would set Y/n free during our agreement process, so they could have a pitch in it themself'." He raised an eyebrow at the Rollins. "It's obvious you have not done so."

Alby pursues his lips before his eyes flicker something sinister behind them, behind all that sweetness that people see. Behind the facade, and out of the corner of his eye, Kaz sees you shift nervously. Though he doesn't dare to look at you directly.

"That was before my crow here broke the terms of our agreement." He says firmly as he wraps an his disgusting hands around the chain that was hiding beneath his desk and pulls you closer to him with it. His hand rests underneath your chine, as he forces you to look at him. Kaz's hands twitch on his cane and Alby grins at the thought of Kaz Brekker getting twitchy, not yet knowing the full truth

Just then a woman comes out of the shadows and puts a knife against his throat.

"If you don't release my child now, I will cut your throat." The Wraith hisses, her hands tightening around her dagger.

The demon only chuckles, even as a bead of blood trails down his neck. "What would your saints think of this one Inej Ghafa? Now that you no longer need to kill to survive?" He taunts her.

"Didn't you hear? Our mother is an extension of the saints themselves." Your sister's voice comes to hit everyone's ears, as Jordie stands beside her, a gun in hand, as she has a knife in hers.

Kaz, despite the situation couldn't be more proud of his family, for coming together, defending each other like this. Though, he would trade it all if this were to never happen, he would've traded his own freedom to make sure this never happened to you, yet he can't change what's happened. So, he has to make sure this pathetic bastard will never stand on this earth again, that he would find out how Dirtyhand's wrath would feel after years of being soothed and coddled.

Nervously, Alby looks frantically all over the room before he sighs in defeat and steps away from you.

For the first time since coming in here, Kaz lets himself properly look over you, his kid. As you walk over to his side, he sees that your eyes underneath the khol are puffy and red rimmed. While the black silks cover you more nicely that he would have originally thought, he can still see the blood that is slowly dripping from where the chains around your wrists, and neck have dug into your skin. Kaz wants to throw Alby Rollins against a wall.

Revenge, would be quicker this time, so his child wouldn't have to suffer at the hands of this man ever again.

However, because of the fact that he was distracted, just even for a second, it was a second too long.

Alby smashes his head back into Inej's face causing her to lessen her grip on her weapon slightly, but enough for him to get out of your mom's iron hold. He darts to his desk, narrowly missing a bullet that Jordie shoots and grabs a clawed knife and pulls his arm back and throws.

Leaping towards you, Kaz tries to push you out of the way, but it's too late. The claw embeds itself in your eye, and you let out a shrill scream, while crimson starts to cover your face.

Kaz takes you in his arms, and to the best of his ability tries to comfort you as Inej and Alby dance a dangerous fight with knives. The blonde only goes down when Jordie shoots him in the leg.

Immediately, Inej kicks away her fallen weapon from the first time, and seizes the demon's weapon as he stays on the ground groaning in pain. Then he's at the mother bear's mercy.

Inej

She waits for your cries to calm, therefore Kaz can join her. She knows your siblings will take care of you, but you need your father's love first, your dad's rare embrace to calm you enough. To console you, so you don't break out into a panic attack, and faint, or worse.

Inej wishes that she could be doing that for you, that she could remove your chains and sooth your tears. That she could be the mother that you deserved, that she hadn't failed you despite the fact that you were taken by the same people she's vowed to destroy.

Glancing in your direction she catches a glimpse of your figure slumped into Allea and Jordie's arms. As her husband makes his way towards his wife.

"It's time for death to take you Rollins, just like it took your father." She hisses as Kaz nods once and she lifts her dagger to carry out the killing blow.

"Wait!"

Hobbling to your parents, you stand in front of the man that took you, that took everything and more from you with a hand limply covering your eye. Even while the clawed dagger sticks out of it.

"Don't kill him." You whispered as you pluck the blade that Inej had dropped and step closer to the man.

Inej can't help but let panic engulf her for a moment as her eyes widen and lunge forward to stop you as you get closer to the man. She couldn't let him take you away from her again, she couldn't let you go down a path you wouldn't be able to come back from.

However this once the Wraith is not fast enough, neither is Dirtyhands, who dove in front of you. They both miss you by a centimeter, just one, but it's enough for you to do what you'd intended.

With force they didn't know you possessed, you sliced your blade and Inej heard two sickening thuds on the floor. Your chest heaves, your eye go awry and all she wants to do is take you into her arms.

Even if she knows you've done something terrible, possibly irredeemable, she knows that you're her kid. Her wonderful child, and nothing will ever take that away from her. She doesn't care if you killed hundred men, with the state that you are in now, she would always pull you into her loving embrace and let you cry. She can see the way your body quakes and how you blink excessively to make sure it is all real.

Inej is shaking too, shaking in fear for your soul. She hopes that they haven't molded you into their will, made you something you could never be.

Then you burst with sudden energy, and a scream of pain is heard from you as you pull the clawed dagger out of your eye and shove it down Rollin's throat.

His eyes were like saucers, wide and afraid. Gurgling, his quivering hand goes to his neck as you cut something in his mouth and he goes to scream but nothing comes out.

Releasing him, his head drops forward and his mouth opens. As it does, Inej looks on with horror as Alby's tongue rolls out of his jaw onto the floor below. Following it with her eyes she spots two other pieces of flesh on the floor and Inej quickly realizes, it his severed hands.

A dark part of her is proud, proud of you for taking initiative, proud of you for doing what you thought was right. Another part of her, is disgusted, and asks why didn't you just kill him?

"Listen carefully Rollins," Your voice pulls her out of her moral debate. "I am going to let you go, let you walk away. But if I ever hear of you in Ketterdam again, if I ever hear of you opening up an establishment anywhere in the world."

You haul him up by his collar and snarl, "I will destroy you, brick by brick."

Slowly, Inej turns her face to look upon Kaz's petrified expression.

Kaz

Kaz can't slow his breathing, not when you look like he used to.

When he was relentless, when Inej was unafraid. He thought he had officially left that all behind, behind in the depths of the barrel, now he was back and it had all been resurrected in you.

Your eye - omen's eye, getting taken - Inej being kidnapped, being put in a pleasure house - Inej being placed in one as well. Saints, he never told you about his motto when he was teen! There were more though, why did there have to be many similarities? Why did fate want to torture him so?

My crow, he thinks somberly, as he sees you with your head held high despite the tears lining your eye.

I'm sorry.

Words 3117

-thedelusionreaderbitch

Grishaverse taglist: @kaqua @rika90 @thefandomplace @musical-theatre-obsessed-dumbass @gallysonegoodlung @navs-bhat @sumsebien @dontjudgeabookbythecover @brekker-zenik @alohastitch0626 @brekkers-desigirl @emmsamultifan06

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theres-an-endless-starry-sky · 8 months

Text

I'm sorry but imma wait till tomorrow to publish my one-shot! Heres a sneak peak tho!!!

His hair was too long. It might have only just brushed his shoulders, dark curls falling across his face to rest on his collarbones, but it may as well have been down to his waist with how it made him want to rip the strands out of his skull. He knew it was stupid to feel this way, especially when he had chosen to grow his hair like this, the twisting black strands hanging in a cruel mockery of his brother's own curls. Sirius’ curls were wild and untameable, tangling with each other to give the appearance of not being brushed for some time but Sirius somehow managed to not look insane, most of the time at least. Regulus’ own curls, however, fell softly across his face, too smooth and controlled, and not nearly wild enough to pull off the roguish appearance of Sirius. His hair was more like his elder cousins' curls than any of the men in his imminent family, a fact that his mother constantly reminded him of.

Now his brain had started, it wouldn’t stop. It was finding every flaw that Regulus had tried to bury away and dug them out harshly, displaying them out in the open for all to see. His hair was too soft, his face too rounded with a jaw not nearly as sharp as his Fathers or Sirius’, his hands were smaller and more delicate than most and his eyes that he knew were far too much like his Mothers. The way his chest stuck out from the rest of his body, the way his shoulders didn’t and the way his stomach wasn’t as flat as the rest of his dorm mates. oneshot/all fics tags: @canonically-dorcas-wife @beautyoftheships @thestarslittleking

#harry potter marauders #marauders fandom #marauders #james potter #jegulus #regulus black #marauders fic #trans regulus

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safely-in-vhagars-belly · 1 year

Text

Dark! Aemondx reader

Five elements part 2♡

Warnings: Not so feministic Aemond, abuse on the half blinded (Aemond) smut and kinks definitely some praise kink mc, they all need therapy, spankings and implied martial abuse. Non con kissing and willingly for other things. Incest as Aemond is sorttaa related to baratheon (is he? *music stops*) and incest and also dirty daydreaming and fantasying .

Taglist: @iiamthehybrid @winxschester

Concept: Aemond comes wife hopping at Storm's end and you and your sisters are first getting tasted before he makes his choice. Very sub mc and dom aemond but also aemond with her sister's and mc watching.

Robert: I hate all Targaryens

Aemond:

Robert; he's cool tho

There is a brief moment before panic erupts under all of you. Your mother comes over as well, horror written across her face. 'Prince Aemond, I must insist that you behave yourself under our roof. These are my daughters, and your future wife is among them. You will not taste them, and you will most certainly not question their innocence.' Your mother wants to do even more like smack his head against a wall and yell at the prince, but your father calls her back, horrified and embarrassed.

You realize your mother is about to be punished. He has not done that in years. The last time was during a supper. He grabbed and dragged her away to their bedchamber. You heard about what husbands do with their wives when they are disobedient. 'Elenda, get here.' He does not even yell. Your mother freezes up at his strict voice.

Aemond's lips smack, in amusement and cruel sadism. He is like a little boy who gets told by his father that he is right to bully his siblings. 'Seems like you got yourself into some trouble, my lady.' He mocks her openly. 'Do not worry about your girls. They are in good hands. ' He says with a cold smirk. Your father drags your mother away.

The prince walks over to the throne not long before sitting down on it. One of the guards, you know him as Edan Stone, is brave enough to confront him. ‘My prince, that seat is not yours.’

The only sound the Targaryen prince makes is a soft chuckle. ‘You must not be aware of how politics work. Well, what do I expect from a mere soldier? You never had a proper education. You would not dare even question my motives if you did.’’ His voice is much sharper and becomes louder with every passing word. Ellyn reaches for your hand, squeezing it tightly when softly muttering that she would like to go to her rooms again. You agree. Everything is better than enduring this. 'now leave us all.' The guards leave the room.

The prince cocks his head at her, noticing her tears and her trembling hands. He has the smile of a wolf who sees a deliciously easy lamb to rip apart. ‘You, get here.’ He is not just calling her over, he is commanding her. Maris shakes her head at Ellyn but Ellyn does not have her courage. She slowly makes her way to Aemond.

You can see the jealousy in Floris’s eyes grow, just as her smirk as she thinks of a clever little plot. You and Maris share a glance and seem to think the same. ‘Princess Rhaenyra was allowed to sit in that chair, when she had her suitors come over. I am sure that father would not mind sharing his seat with his future son in law.’ Floris speaks, quickly interrupting Aemond and trying to steal away the attention from her sister. Aemond sinks back in the chair, resting his arms on the armrests. He forces his head against the back of the chair and gestures for Ellyn to come closer.

She hesitates. He chuckles before getting up. ‘I do not think I have ever been denied before by any woman.’ He ignores Floris and by his smirk you can tell its on purpose. He grabs Ellyn by her waist, ignoring her protests and whimpers when he is a bit too rough. He forces her head closer to his own and kisses her on her lips. She tries to break free desperately as if she is a bird in the mouth of a cat. You watch, frozen when your sisters are fed up with Aemond. Ellyn catches her breath and he uses that opportunity to force his tongue in her mouth. He grabs her chin and holds her during the kiss, so she has no chance of escaping.

Once he is finished, he drops her as if she is nothing, moving on to his next target. It is quite amusing watching him count you and your sister and realizing that one is missing. It is even more amusing when he realizes someone has snuck behind him, and you are laughing when Maris smacks him across his arrogant face, leaving a good red mark.

Ellyn uses this to escape and rushes to your side across the room, before crying out in your arms. She probably imagined her first kiss differently.

Cass takes the pitcher from the servant and fills her cup before raising it to Maris. Floris looks horrified and tries to earn his love by rushing to his side and offering her help and support. You are the only one staying far away. ‘Get off of me, wench.’ He groans at Floris as she touches his face. She obeys him, shocked that she is for once not the thing everyone wants.

‘You,’ he sounds even more hateful than before. Maris makes a curtsy and lowers her eyes but they are twinkling with mischief. You release a laugh. The prince’s head briefly snaps towards you before glaring at you. You stop laughing. Cass stops drinking and watches the exchange between the two of them, worried.

Maris and your sisters enjoy this victory and his shame and humiliation of being beaten by a girl for a brief moment. Then, you all regret it. He grabs Maris by her throat, squeezing it so harshly you can see his fingerprints on it. He grins, laughing as if he has gone insane. ‘Apparently you are a bit jealous. Do not worry, you are next.’ He groans in her face, dragging her to the throne.

‘You are an insolent stupid, ignorant, dumb little-’ He scolds when sitting down and taking her on his lap. You never saw anything like that before and have trouble looking away. You watch as his hands go over her neck, to her back, and to her behind...

Ellyn clutches to Cass’s side. ‘What will he do with her? We need to get father. He will stop this madness.’ You doubt it.

You hear Maris cry out and realise that Aemond has hit her. 'You can't hit a lady!' Your sister Cass roars angry. 'You are a despicable little beast.'

The prince scoffs unbothered and even smiles when Maris whimpers terrified of him. 'But I can spank her. This is nothing unusual for a wife and her husband.' You know what that word means from a few books Cassandra reads sometimes and watch as your sister lies over his legs getting punished by the prince. She keeps quiet mostly and he hates it. He does everything in his power to make her scream, cry or to even beg him.

The way he hits her looks so painful. You can almost feel his hands on your flesh hitting you. You see her ashamed cheeks turn red and watch as she tries to fight but eventually accepts her punishment. Aemond has not stripped her, as he is not her lord husband yet. He has no right, yet.

When Maris is properly tamed and done for She is lifted. He grabs her by her throat as a warning and feels her breasts with his hands. You watch fascinated and worried as he smashes his lips on her own kissing her. Maris moans and feels his knees where she was laying moments earlier. You feel a strange thirst. You feel yourself become breathless.

The prince sends her away.

'Anyone else who needs to be taught a lesson?' He eyes you and your sisters, eager to punish whoever might defy.

You bite your lip and raise your chin; making direct eye contact with the prince. He grins and raises a brow at you before patting his knee, inviting you over. You quickly blush and back away, hiding from him. He chuckles.

You quickly glance back at your feet. That was poor timing on your behalf. You scold yourself in your head. Your other sister, meanwhile, sits the throne. Floris slowly takes off her dress, revealing her breasts. Aemond seems interested and comes over. He grabs her and forces her to stand. She kisses him desperate like lovers do.

Floris subtly drops her gown a bit, showing more of her breasts. Aemond grins before touching her nippels and biting her neck as if he is an animal. You watch as the two of them kiss each other passionately. Aemond slams her against the throne and spreads her legs...

Your mouth turns dry as his hands vanish under her skirts touching her. She lets out cries of pleasure. You wonder how he is touching her. How is making her feel that good. If he can make you, feel that good.

Someone squeezes you, and you are startled. Cass glares at you. 'Bentha,' She whispers furiously. 'You are watching.'

Your voice cracks and you are in need of a drink.

'I never saw any man-' you try to defend yourself.

Cass sighs. 'I will get you a man, but not him. He will destroy you.' You hear a voice whisper that no man will do that with you what he does.

Floris cries out, and you watch her closely studying her. 'What is happening to her?' Ellyn asks, worried for Floris's safety.

'She has just finished.' Maris responds drly. Ellyn blinks.

Ellyn blushes, hoping she midunderstands it all. 'With what exactly?' You all groan.

The prince sighs and grins as Floris puts her dress back on. He walks back to you all. You watch as he dryly wipes off his fingers on a towel. 'You girls are tameable, it seems.' He makes you all sound like disobedient women.

He counts you all again shoving some of you aside. 'I already kissed you, you and now you...'

You and Cass remain.

'Leaving you two.' He says joyfully. Cassandra sighs before accepting that she is next. She grabs his face gently and kisses his lips before he can even understand what is happening. She also uses her tongue like he did on Ellyn. She grins when he is absolutely shocked and wordless by her bold display.

'That was everyone.' She joyfully says. 'You did it.' She is saving you from him.

Aemond seems that confused that he does not realise that mistake.

'No; Bentha remains.' Floris suddenly rings out joining you.

You feel yourself shake. You gulp.

The prince grabs you by your hips dragging you closer to him. You feel his hot breath on your lips and feel yourself fall. 'You're mine, little stag.'

You gulp. 'Let her be, Aemond. She is the youngest. She has no interest in you.' Maris tries to intervene. It's useless.

Floris growls. 'It's a kiss.' Aemond brings you back to the throne.

You are pushed on his lap, forced to sit. You feel his warmth and sweat unintended. You never were so close to any man.

'I am not sure that is entirely true.' He says once you are sitting. You feel him touch your legs gently. You think of him parting them and feeling you like he did with Floris. What is wrong with you? He hurt your servants.

'Shall we kiss?'

'I want to have a chat with you first.' He saw you. He saw you watch. You blush. 'Yes, I saw you peek when I finished your little sister off. When she came on my lap. I also saw you gawk when I spanked your sister and forced my tongue in your other sister's throat.' He describes it.

'I was worried for their safety-' he laughs.

'I gave all your siblings a little lesson. Ellyn learned how to kiss, Maris learned the value of spankings, Floris learned how to come, and Cassandra learned how to seduce. What do you hope I teach you, little stag?' You are surprised that he even knows your names and who is who. Some servants take years.

He kisses your neck, and you gasp.

'They didn't like their lessons.' You say nervously.

'You are different. I bet you'd be the most wonderful student. So obedient to please your teacher.' Your body reacts so unpleasantly. You are wet.

'I need-' you need to get away from him. Now.

He grins. 'No, little stag. I am not quite finished.'

'Please-' you beg getting up.

'No, I said.' He says strictly and gives you a light smack on your behind. It is not enough force but it turns you on so quickly. You moan even. You blush mortified and ashamed. You definitely liked that. Wether you knew it prior or not. You whimper. You hear him chuckle. 'I will teach you.'

'I will teach you what it means to be a woman.' You watch in horror as he shoves a small silver ring around your finger before grabbing you and throwing you over his shoulder. 'Tell Lord Borros I claimed his youngest.' He tells the other girls before carrying you off. 'O, and don't come knocking any time soon.'

/a/n

IF THE DRAGON IS ROCKING DONT COME KNOCKING.

#house of the dragon #aemond targaryen #dark aemond targaryen #house of the dragon fanfiction #dark aemond targaryen x oc #dark aemond targaryen x reader #dark!#head the warnings #dubcon #possible triggering content #She/her reader #AFAB Reader #DarkFantasy #Possible noncon #Possible gore #Old work

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agirlandherquill · 2 months

Text

matches of morrow

another chapter of ruin's reprisal is done! i really, really enjoyed writing this one, so here's an excerpt from the latter end of the chapter,

~ ~ ~

Fenley walked to the window, resting one hand on the frame, she followed his gaze to the shadows outside, the world was just starting to stir. “He could get in your head. He could know, Edeva,” Fenley spoke gravely, “He could know."

“He won’t.”

“He nearly did. He almost kissed you.” His hiss stung her deeply. She had to set his thoughts right. “No, that was… Something else. It was a distraction, nothing more.”

“Nothing more?” Fenley laughed, the sound was cruel, bitter, “Nothing more is a brief conversation between two former lovers, or whatever you were. A kiss, Edeva, is something. I can’t trust something.”

“So you can’t trust me?” Her voice was quieter than she liked.

“I… Can’t trust him.”

She needed something to distract herself, to restrain her anger - she didn’t want to shout at Fenley because he wouldn’t understand it, as it stood he didn’t understand her either, and that hurt, so she took it out on her laces, ripping the knot undone. “I need my answers to stop this pain Fenley, it’s there, no matter how hard I try to bury it, and I’ve had enough. I need it to end. So whether you trust me or not… I have to go.” Her fingers ached, pulling the laces so hard that the leather creaked.

“I know how much it pains you, I see it in your eyes every day, do not mistake my anger, my confusion, for blindness. I know you hurt but what you don’t know is how much I loathe being unable to change that. Your pain is your right, but do not use that as an excuse against me.”

“An excuse?” Her fingers pulled too taut on the knot she was tying and an end of the lace fell through. “What I feel is not an excuse. You can feel whatever you like about the matter but I am going. I’m seeing him.”

She watched his shadow move along the floor, she didn’t dare to look up, fearful of what she might see as he stopped in front of her, and she tensed, not sure what he would do. “Edeva…” Was he going to say please? Whatever shadow of guilt she felt was drowned out by her anger, her frustration, at him, and at everything. She finished tying her laces. “I’m going.”

Fenley carried on walking, she heard the door open, she turned her head just enough to see him hesitate at the threshold, his shoulders were heaving, but she couldn’t see his face.

In a way, it was good, it was a kinder thing than his words.

His words that haunted her.

“Then don’t bother coming back.”

~ ~ ~

She was gone. He watched the dying embers dance along the edge of the hearth in his chambers, trying to calm the rage in his heart, but as that died, he became overcome by something else, something worse, something even more powerful.

Regret.

He had never regretted something so badly in all life as he did then, knowing she was gone, she had left, and he hadn’t made that easy either.

I told her to go. I did that.

When in fact, it was the last thing he wanted.

He had been too rash, too stubborn, too selfish to even try to understand her, but the harder he thought it over the worse his mistake became. Fenley had driven her away when she needed him the most.

This is about her mother, her pain - and I disregarded the lot of it. He buried his face in his hands and let out his frustrations in an echoing roar - no-one would come and disturb him, they knew better, so he kept on going until the breath was gone from his lungs and he was doubled over, heaving.

I hurt her. When she needed me, I told her to go. I hurt her.

He trudged to the window, looking into the distant forest, but no matter how hard he looked he could see no sign of her, he didn’t know where she had gone, he didn’t know what had happened to her. She was alone. In danger.

He had driven her away. It was a monstrous thing to do. And what could she possibly want to come back to? After all I’ve done? After how I’ve acted? I wouldn’t come back if I was her - I wouldn’t. The thought was a blow to his gut, his breathing stuttered and he stepped from the window. What can I do, to make this right? I’ve never made such a grave mistake before.

He paced back and forth, thinking of what to do, when it hit him. Fenley made up his mind in an instant and left the room, taking the stairs two at a time until he was throwing himself against the doors to get out of the manor.

He was going to go after her, fix his mistake, and try to fix them.

He had never run so fast in his life, but he ran for her, and nothing else mattered.

~ ~ ~

now for the tag list!

(p.s if you'd like to be included/notified too, interact with this post :))

@humbly-a-doppelganger @imawholeassmood @frostedlemonwriter @yrndrgn @abditorywriting

@riveriafalll @lead-to-code @casualsuitturtle @floweryprosegarden @joeys-piano

@catwingsathena @godsmostfuckedupgoblin @nothoughtsjustmhaandotherthings @anaisbebe

@drchenquill @leahnardo-da-veggie

#writeblr #writing #spilled ink #spilled writing

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gatorbites-imagines · 2 years

Note

Hi, there could you do Padawan Anakin where Male Reader is like a father figure to Anakin and without Anakin knowing reader went to Tatooine and saved his mother from slavery.

Bonuses; Reader and Anakin's Mother fall in love and Reader legally adopts Anakin giving him a stable loving family.

Padawan Anakin Skywalker x Father figure male reader

Headcanon

Sorry, this took so long to write anon, hope you enjoy :)

This is platonic obviously. I imagined the reader as a non-human species of some sort, and I ended up giving him feline like features. I was thinking panther or tiger when I wrote this, but its up to yall what you imagine.

The jedi council when a senator from a powerful planet adopts their chosen one from right under their noses: 😲

- You were no jedi, never had been and never would be. You didn’t even truly believe in that whole force thing most of your life, until you actually met Jedi when you became a senator for your family. Here you learned you were immune to force tricks and mind manipulation.

- You were the child of the royal family on your planet and some neighboring planets, and was the 7th born out of your siblings 9 siblings, meaning you had very little chance of becoming the heir to the throne.

- But because of your extreme knowledge in anything from politics to warfare and iron spine, and apparent immunity to being force compelled and mind controlled, your family and the royal council decided to make you the senator for your planet.

- Now you weren’t happy about it in the beginning, and the other senators all seemed insulted at someone so young being placed in their midst, you only being in your mid 20s when you were titled senator.

- As time progressed though, you started to like your job more and more, mainly because you loved to rip apart whatever stupid and mindless laws and ideas the other senators had. Some people even started calling you the bloodthirsty senator, because nothing that was cruel or unfair ever passed through your claws without being picked apart brutally.

- It had been another day of ripping apart the old senator’s ideas, this one being so out of this world you couldn’t even imagine how it passed proof reading. It was pretty much just veiled slavery, so you were quick to sink your claws in and giving them all a verbal lashing.

- Your tail was curling behind you in a pleased manner, internally taking joy at the sour expressions of the old pricks who had wanted to pass this law. You were also interested in the new senator from Naboo, a young woman named Padme Amidala.

- You could tell when you met, she was royalty, since she carried herself the same way you did once, though you had relaxed over the years and grown less tense and collected.

- When you turned the corner, you came to a stop at seeing a young child seemingly waiting, leaning up against the wall and attempting to look comfortable and sure of himself, but you could tell he was anxious and uncomfortable. Your whiskers twitched as you approached.

- You crouched down in front of the child and asked if he was alright, and what brought him to the senators building. It was only then he seemed to realize you were there, and he jolted and fumbled with his hands, making some comment about it being jedi business.

- Now that you really looked at him, you could see the clothes he was wearing and assume he was a padawan, but you had never seen one this young before brought to political buildings.

- When you asked where his master was, you learned he was apparently off somewhere having meetings and negotiations with some other senators.

- Your tail gave an annoyed lash from side to the side at the knowledge that this child had just been left alone, so you stood up and offered him your hand, asking if he would like to something to drink or eat until his master returned.

- The child, who was named Anakin you learned after introducing yourself, jumped up and took your hand, smiling so brightly you swore you could feel your heart melt.

- If you were anyone else and didn’t want to keep the peace with the jedi, you would snatch this little one up and bring him home to your home planet, where you knew he would be pampered left and right by your parents and siblings.

- The two of you were soon found in your office, the door open, enjoying some snacks and drinks from your home planet. You quickly learned he didn’t seem to enjoy tea, so you gave him something else.

- You sent a message off to his master where he was, and the two of you fell into talks. You learned he was from Tatooine, about his life up until now, and you learned about his mother. In exchange you told him about your own life, and he seemed to find the concept of having 8 siblings fun, “since you would always have something to play with” in his words.

- When Anakin’s master came to pick him up, you learned his name was Obi Wan Kenobi, and your judgement of him lessened when you noticed how young he himself was.

- You would have to pull some of the master jedi aside and give them a good shake at the knowledge they let such young ones become masters and take on Padawans.

- When Obi Wan tried to apologize for Anakin bothering you, you gave a small laugh and waved them off, telling them Anakin would always be welcome, Obi Wan as well if he wanted a break.

- And so, it continued, Anakin would join you whenever Obi Wan had stuff to do with the senate or near the senate building, and you enjoyed spending time with the padawan. Because of you bonding with him, Anakin doesn’t go to Palpatine for support, but to you.

- Because of your healthy guidance, Anakin doesn’t struggle as much with his rage, and he tells you about his issues with the jedi and not fitting in. As your bond grows stronger it’s not unusual for the two of you to hug, and for you to purr at him to help calm him when he is struggling.

- Without either of you noticing, you seem to take a fatherly role to Anakin. He comes to you for comfort and acknowledgment, and you happily give it to him. When you family learn of him, your older siblings and parents are already trying to find ways to swoop in and adopt Anakin from the jedi.

- They had all given up on you having children since you showed no interest in anybody, so when you became a father figure for Anakin they pounced on the opportunity. They are able to get his birthday out of you and send him lots presents. He keeps them at your apartment or office though, since Jedi arent supposed to own so many things.

- What Anakin didn’t know is that you had planned on ways to get his mother free from slavery for a long time, and now with your families help you are able to do it. One of your siblings takes your spot in the senate for a while so you can travel to the outer rim and free her.

- You couldn’t just free Shmi though, so you end up freeing all the slaves on Tatooine and chasing the hutts off the planet.

- You get hurt during this venture, and as Shmi patches you up you can’t stop your tail from wrapping around her waist and the tiny purr that you let out as she makes your heart beat in ways it never has before.

- You bring her back to your home planet where your family has set her up with an amazing house, not too over the top though since you had given them strict orders on how it would make Shmi uncomfortable.

- You stay on your break from the senate for a while to help Shmi get used to your planet and its culture, and her being free from slavery. During this period the two of you start to fall in love, and she seems to find how you can’t control your tails endearing.

- She always laughs when it wraps around her out of your control, or how you purr whenever she stands near you, or you hold her.

- When Shmi is settled in you both agree its time to contact Anakin, as she didn’t want her son to see her when she was struggling and hurting. You are able to pull some strings and use some secret blackmail you have gathered over the years to allow Anakin to come to the planet on his own outside of Jedi business.

- When Anakin arrives, he is immediately pounced on by your family before you or Shmi can even approach him. Your parents are especially happy to see him and hug him and ruffle his hair, much to Anakin’s confusion.

- When Anakin finally wrestles himself free from your large family, he looks around for you and smiles when he does, but freezes when he sees his mom. He looks lost for a second before Shmi smiles and opens her arms at him.

- Anakin immediately sprints over to tears in his eyes and hugs his mom, starting to cry as she holds him. Shmi pulls you into the hug and Anakin just melts into your embraces, muttering about how much he’s missed his mom and you.

- After some crying the three of you return to Shmis home, which you pretty much have moved into at this point, and much time is spent just catching up. When it comes out and you and Shmi are romantically involved Anakin needs a few moments to comprehend what you just said.

- When it clicks, he gets extremely happy because his two parents are together, and hes so proud when he returns to the Jedi, he doesn’t even care that Jedi aren’t supposed to be close with their parents.

- He uses you being his dad to be able to visit a lot more, and because you are a senator, Shmi is brought with you to the planet which means Anakin can visit her too. This is super helpful for Anakin and his struggles because he now has a super solid support system, in Shmi, you and your large family.

- If Shmi ever gets pregnant Anakin will be the best older brother in existence, and if the jedi give him the ultimatum to leave the jedi or stay but cut most contact with his family, he would leave without question.

- During all this time Palpatine is figured out, and a new chancellor is chosen, maybe its you if you are up to the challenge.

- If Anakin stays in the jedi if they don’t give him the ultimatum your family is his biggest supporter, and even if he leaves you all stand behind him in whatever he wants to do.

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oohnotvery · 7 months

Text

Throwing Good After Bad (Chapter 23) - FINISHED

Scully

They have to take separate cars home from her mother’s house, and because she is historically the faster driver, she beats him to her apartment by five minutes. Although the long drive alleviated some of her building nerves, as she sits in her car waiting for him, her heart starts to pound.

It’s exceedingly clear what’s about to transpire between the two of them. They’ve been through hell and back—literally—over the past few weeks and it’s brought them closer in ways not even the cancer seemed to do. For a minute, she considers that. During her cancer, she recalls how much she tried to pull away from Mulder. Back then, her love for him was strong, but she couldn’t help but think that admitting her love would be cruel. Cruel to give every bit of herself to him, only to have it ripped away from him once she died. Cruel to leave him alone in this world. Cruel to expect him to give her anything in return.

The threat of imminent death isn’t new to either of them. In fact, it’s one of the most reliable parts of her job. But the cancer was slow. It gave her time to think, rationalize, plan. But the fire, the sacrifice—that was instant. Quick. Immediate. She didn’t have the opportunity to consider whether it was fair or not to be open and honest with Mulder about her feelings. All she knew was that she loved him so completely that she had to share it with him. She couldn’t leave this earth without expressing it.

And now she’s about to express that love physically. Openly. Vulnerably. Her stomach clenches.

Mulder pulls up beside her and shuts off his lights. She glances over and finds him watching her with an unreadable look. It makes the butterflies in her stomach flutter so strongly that she has to look away.

They meet at the door to her building and he hovers behind her as she leads the way to her apartment. Her hands tremble slightly as she inserts the key into the lock. She has fantasized about this moment many, many, many times. One of her most recurring fantasies, in fact, involves him following her home after a long day at the office. As she fits the key in the lock, he suddenly appears right behind her, pressing his long, hard body against her own. He then dips his lips to the crook of her shoulder and plants a wet kiss there, whispering, “I’ve been thinking about you all day.” And then he shoves them inside and takes her roughly against the door.

But none of that happens. Mulder keeps a respectable distance between them, even shoves his hands in his pockets when they walk inside together. She busies herself turning on a variety of lamps and adjusting the temperature, then pours herself a glass of water. He glances around her apartment like he’s never been here before, and she suddenly starts to doubt whether this is right. He doesn’t look quite as eager as he does in her fantasies; nor does he look as aroused as he did on the island. She bites her lip. Maybe the threat of death had that effect too—heightening emotions, elevating feelings to a level they don’t really occupy in normal life.

Her mind clouds with worry and Mulder, being Mulder, seems to pick up on it.

“Everything okay?” he asks tentatively, hands still buried in his pockets. She wishes he would pull them out and take control. She wishes he would bend her over the counter or the table and take her without hesitation.

She nods, but it must not be convincing because he huffs a little laugh.

“This is strange, yeah?” he asks, one of his hands reaching to scratch at the back of his neck.

She whips her gaze to his, alarmed that he would give voice to this thing between them. They aren’t supposed to talk about. They’re just supposed to . . . do it.

“We can wait, if you want,” he says, and her heart plummets. He’s backing out. Off the island, under normal life conditions, faced with the reality of their partnership, he doesn’t want to be intimate with her anymore.

She understands. She quite honestly is having a hard time jumping into the mindset she occupied on the island—fearless with her body, her sexuality, her declarations of love. Now, all she can think about is how strange it will be to touch Mulder, to see his penis. How bizarre it will feel to let him touch her that way. This is her coworker, her friend. Someone who’s seen her throw up, who’s peed in front of her, who’s gotten to know every nook and cranny of her mind, her intellect. That’s a boundary they’re supposed to respect, right? Because what do they become once she shares a different side of herself? How will he see her then? Can you hold in your mind two very different versions of the same person? Are they compatible, or does one destroy the other?

Her mind briefly flickers back to the bath they shared, to the way she pressed herself into him as she demanded he follow her instructions not to leave her. Any time she recalls this particular memory, her cheeks heat and her palms sweat. What must he have thought? How embarrassing that he saw her in such an erotic way.

The sound of Mulder moving through her apartment drags her away from her self-pitying thoughts. Slowly, he begins to click off the lamps she just turned on, throwing them into total darkness. She blinks quickly, her eyes surprised by the sudden change. She hears rather than sees him move towards her, then feels his hands settle heavily at her waist. She sucks in a sharp breath.

“This better?” he asks, his voice quiet, patient.

Her heart is beating so quickly in her chest that she momentarily thinks she might throw up. The darkness helps. It helps not to see him, not to watch them turn from coworkers into . . . something totally new, totally scary.

She nods, the ends of her hair brushing his chin. His palm moves lightly over her waist, skimming up the length of her arm until it’s at her shoulder. His fingers trip around her neck, then edge up into her hair until he’s cupping the back of her head. And then he stills. She hears his breathing, quiet but quick, and that nervous feeling pulls at her gut again. They could stop right here, and it wouldn’t be something they couldn’t undo.

As if sensing her hesitation, he speaks. “Scully,” he says, “I want this more than I want anything else in my life.” He pauses and she stiffens. “I know you want this too,” he says, “but is it too much, too soon? You seem . . . uneasy.”

Momentarily, she is mortified, too embarrassed to answer. He’s exposing her all too quickly.

“On the island,” she replies after a time, “it all seemed so inevitable. Our death. Our . . . love.” She peers at him through the darkness. “If it hadn’t been for the island, would you feel this way about me? Would you want me like this?” She pauses, taking time to gather her thoughts. “And what do I become to you now? What are we to each other? Am I just someone you’re sleeping with?”

He laughs, low and deep in his chest. “Not a chance, Scully. You clearly haven’t been living in my mind for the past five years.”

She tilts her head in question.

“It wasn’t just the island, Scully,” he promises, and as her eyes begin to adjust, she can see the burning way he’s staring at her. She holds his gaze, unable to look away. “It wasn’t just because we were dying. I’ve felt this way about you for so long, I don’t even remember a time when you weren’t my sole preoccupation.”

She huffs a nervous laugh, her fingers rising tremulously to push a strand of hair behind her ears. “That and the X-Files,” she manages to whisper.

He leans close and his lips brush her forehead. “Fuck the X-Files,” he says through a grin.

That gets a bigger laugh from her, and suddenly she feels a little lighter, a little calmer. His thumb stretches around to slide against her jaw. It is an intimate touch and her eyes close as warmth slides down her spine.

“You agree? It wasn’t just the island?” he asks, and she suddenly realizes that maybe he is also scared of the same things she is.

She meets his gaze, biting her lip tentatively. She thinks of the great, unconquerable feelings she has harbored for him for years. She thinks of the unique, beautiful, otherworldly bond they share, which she is terrified to ruin. But does love ruin, or does it enhance?

She shakes her head. “It wasn’t just the island.”

He smiles, nods, and that seems to clear the air. He bends down and presses his lips into hers. Her mouth immediately remembers his, recalls the shape of his lips and the slickness of his tongue. She raises her hands and sinks her fingers into his hair, just the way she did on the island, the feeling of his thick dark strands soft and pliant under her hands. He leans over her and her back bends slightly, her stomach pressing into his hips. He is already hard enough that she feels him through his jeans, and she opens her mouth in a pant. His lips slide past her mouth down her neck, grazing the soft skin of her shoulder before running back up to capture her mouth again. When his hands leave her hair to slide down her body and grab her ass cheeks, she inhales sharply.

“I didn’t get to these on the island,” he whispers through a cheeky grin, and she grins back.

He surprises her by lifting her into his arms and her body responds as it should, legs wrapping tightly around his waist. Almost as if it were his own apartment, he carries her blindly through the rooms to her bedroom, depositing her gently onto the bed, then standing to stare at her.

She waits breathlessly, half-expecting him to crawl on top of her, to kiss her patiently while he touches her breasts or reaches his hand under the waistband of her jeans. Both would be welcome, certainly.

But instead, he drags her forward until her legs hang off the bed, and then he goes to work on her pants, unbuttoning them quickly and dragging the zipper down fast. He yanks them off and then lifts the hem of her sweater, pushing it up until she removes it for herself. When she sits before him in just her underwear, he grins and strips off his own shirt, then his jeans. She wants desperately to do it for him, to touch him boldly, to demand he undress for her, but she is still too nervous. It is still too foreign, too forbidden. And so she just watches, until he is down to his boxers, his lithe, lean swimmer’s muscles rippling in the dim light from a street lamp.

He leans forward and strokes his palm against her cheek tenderly, as if reminding her that it’s just him, that it’s Mulder, that he loves her. And then he sinks onto the bed, scooting up to the headboard and leaning against it. He gestures for her to come forward. Swallowing against her nerves, she crawls up the bed to him. When she’s at his knees, he takes her hands and lifts her. It takes her a minute to understand his direction, but when she does, she remembers.

She slips onto his lap, straddling his waist, her knees pushed into his hips, her center pressed snugly against his groin. His warm hands span the length of her back, sliding up and down her spine. For two people who have never made love, it is a position with which they are strikingly familiar. She remembers grinding against him recklessly, stupidly, madly, on the island as they tried to trick spying eyes. She remembers pressing her bare center directly against his cock in that sacrificial bathtub, drawing out of him a promise he ultimately wouldn’t keep.

He meets her eyes and she is grateful that he knows her so well, that he knows she needs some semblance of familiarity before they jump into this great unknown together.

“Remember this?” he murmurs, his hands pulling and pushing at her hips. Her body takes up the rhythm on its own, and as he presses up into her, as his groin intermittently hits at her clit, she feels warmth spread and pool in her panties.

Her mouth falls open as arousal begins to take over, and she is grateful for the way it drives away other thoughts, other concerns. For the first time since this began, she finds the courage to dip her lips to his, to initiate their kiss. He loves it; his hands clench at her waist and neck; his groin shoots up into hers. They both groan into each other’s mouths, and when it’s too good, too pleasurable, she lets her forehead fall against his cheek.

They continue on, the pleasure building and building in her center. She changes angles, leaning back, pressing her hands into his knees to give herself more thrust. His eyes climb to meet hers, his long throat tempting her to lick it, his firm jawline clenching with arousal or pleasure or withholding, she doesn’t know.

At the look in his eyes, her breath catches in her throat. She stills even as need courses through her urgently. He lifts his hands, catching her face in his palms, and draws her back down to him, kissing slowly. His fingers dance across her back to unhook her bra. She’s shifting to allow him to fully remove it when he nods at her underwear. “Those too.”

With a wry smile, she lifts off him and wrangles off her underwear, watching as he too kicks off his boxers. That this is not the first time he has seen her fully naked is a stark reminder of how strange her life is. His eyes flicker over her briefly and then he grips her hips again, grinding her down into his erection once, twice, three times, before he starts scooting down onto the pillow.

“Wha--?” she starts to ask as he cups his arms around her legs and starts dragging her up the bed towards his face.

“I’ve been thinking about this for weeks,” he mutters hungrily, his eyes running over her breasts before landing in between her legs. He briefly glances back up. “May I?”

This is it, she thinks. This is the moment that defines them from here on out. Everything before this moment was perhaps something they could write off, pretend away, sweep under the rug. But the moment his mouth hits her pussy, there’s no going back. You don’t go down on someone and show up to work the next day as if nothing happened.

She heaves in a deep breath, want and need building wetly and hotly, trickling down her thighs. She suddenly begins to feel it again—that powerful, wanton, reckless, desirous energy she felt on the island. The way it emboldened her, the way it served her.

She doesn’t answer him, just takes his hand and flips it palm-side up. Her eyes never leaving his face, she brings his palm up to the space between her legs and presses him into her, letting him feel how dripping wet she is for him. His mouth slackens as she rocks back and forth against his palm, enjoying the friction it brings. He twists his wrist slightly and then she feels one long finger enter her, and it’s so good that she moans. That seems to do it for him, because he draws out of her quickly and yanks her hips up to his face.

He roughly tugs her down onto his nose and lips and she has to brace herself against the headboard to keep from falling over. One of his hands grips her thigh so tightly she knows there will be bruises in the morning. She’s never actually done this before, and it is momentarily intimidating to sit so heavily on someone else’s face. But as soon as Mulder gets to work beneath her, she is lost to sensation. Are those his lips, his fingers, his tongue, his nose?

“Oh my god,” she whimpers as he brings the focus directly to her clit.

It is so good, maybe the best she’s ever felt. Her hand leaves the headboard to tangle in Mulder’s hair, and he must like it, because he groans beneath her. Her body starts to moves on its own accord, tugging his face even closer, even deeper, building her up and up and up.

She dimly has the presence of mind that although this is really, really, really good, she wants to get to the main event. She releases his hair and lifts her hips, laughing to herself when he chases after her, grabbing at her thighs to pull her back down.

“Stop, stop,” she says through a half-moan, half-laugh as he suctions her clit between his lips.

“No, no, no,” he insists when she again lifts off him to crawl down his chest.

She catches his eye as she scoots down his body, momentarily struck by the dazed look on his face. She leans forward to capture his lips, pressing her body to his completely in a gesture she hopes expresses her gratitude. When she rises off him, he is grinning smugly, and she knows she’s left him with no doubt about how much she loved it.

“Feeling good?” he asks as she begins to slide along the length of his erection.

She smiles coquettishly, enjoying the way his grin falters as she increases her rhythm.

“Very,” she murmurs. “You?”

His eyes are trained on her hips, but he drags his gaze back up to her eyes. “Also very good,” he says tightly, “though I think I haven’t reached my peak.”

She raises an eyebrow in challenge, then shifts and lifts her hips, positioning him at her entrance. His eyebrows crease very slightly in anticipation. When she sinks all the way down, her hands fall forward onto his abdomen and her head drops to her chest as he hits pleasure points previously untouched.

They find a rhythm easily, and she surprises herself by coming as soon as he starts putting pressure on her clit. Her orgasm hits her so hard that it steals her breath, and she falls forward onto him, her chest heaving with great, gulping breaths. He goes still beneath her, fingers trailing up and down her spine and tangling in her hair.

When she is breathing normally again, he shifts them onto their sides, pulling her into his chest and drawing her leg across the top of his legs. His lips fall to her bare shoulder and his hands move restlessly, gripping her waist then hips then breasts as he begins to pump into her again.

“Oh—fuck—yes—fuck—fuck—fuck—” he grinds out, and she feels his teeth sink briefly into the skin of her shoulder before retreating. “Fuck—fuck—fuck—fuck—fuck,” are his final words before he comes.

When he finally stills behind her, she turns towards him to plant a chaste kiss to his lips. He seems too exhausted to return the gesture even half-heartedly, and she smiles.

“You have a sailor’s mouth,” she muses.

She feels his laugh echo through her own body. “You seemed to enjoy my mouth.”

Her smile grows wider. “Very much,” she murmurs.

They lie in silence for a while, but ever-practical, Scully makes them eventually get up and clean up. Not surprisingly, Mulder turns out to be ravenous after sex, and he orders them a huge pizza which they share along with some bad T.V.

It’s nearing midnight by the time they retreat to her bed.

“I know you didn’t plan on me crashing here,” he says as he tugs her into his chest. “I can go in a few if you want.”

She considers it, feeling that slow creep of unease start to intrude again. What will this new thing between them look like? Will sleepovers like this become their new normal? She’s not opposed to it. They each are already near-permanent fixtures in the other’s apartment.

“I like it,” she finally says. “I don’t really like being alone.”

He hums. “No, me neither.”

After a minute, she glances over at him. “Mulder?”

“Yeah?”

She hesitates. “What do you think about us?”

“Rockstars in every way. Top-of-the-line investigators, sexy-as-hell humans, fantastic bedmates.”

She rolls her eyes even as she suppresses a smile. “You know what I mean.”

“No, I don’t. What do I think about . . . whatever we just did?”

She hums. “That, and other things.”

“. . . . such as?”

She colors slightly. “Such as what we are to each other. Besides the obvious.”

He ghosts his lips across the shell of her ear. “What’s the obvious?”

She shakes him off. “Partners. Friends. Coworkers.”

He sighs. “You thinking it’s time for us to finally get hitched?”

She smacks his arm in frustration. “Can you be serious for once?”

He is quiet for a long time, which makes her hopeful that he’s cooperating. Eventually, he gathers her hand in his and squeezes.

“If I’m being serious about it, Scully, my fantasies about you and me have always stopped in the bedroom.”

She snorts. “How romantic.”

He huffs a laugh. “I don’t mean it like that. I mean—I’ve never even let myself consider that you’d want me as more than a friend or coworker or someone to take the edge off.”

She nods. “I guess I can say the same for myself.”

“When I used to imagine my future, before I met you, I always saw myself alone. Doggedly pursuing the truth, lonely and grumpy and quarrelsome til the end.” He pauses. “But after I met you, that vision changed, and I started to see you by my side. In my eyes, we’ve always been inseparable, committed, loyal. My relationship with you has always been something sacred. It’s something that no one else gets. And maybe that’s why I acted the way I did when Joe came into the picture. Because we’ve always belonged to each other. It didn’t feel right for you to belong to someone else.”

She hums sympathetically, pressing a kiss to his neck.

He continues. “So the part that I never imagined, or dreamed, or even dared to wish for, was the part where you cared about me the same way I care about you.”

“That’s called love, Mulder,” she says gently, ruffling his hair.

He laughs. “So when you ask what I think about us, I think this thing between us changes things as much as it doesn’t. I still see you by my side. I still want you by my side. You’re always . . . you to me first. You’re always Scully before you’re a coworker, before you’re my friend. Before you’re even my . . . lover.”

“Lover,” she whispers naughtily, even as her thoughts turn sentimental.

They fall silent. She feels herself starting to doze off when Mulder speaks again.

“I think you’ve learned I don’t like to be separated from you,” he says quietly.

She smiles to herself. “Does that mean you want to go steady?” she teases.

“It means I’m in love with you,” he replies solemnly.

She knows this already, but hearing it sets her heart racing.

“It means I’ll always see a future with you, except now that future involves . . . everything.”

Everything. Tempting, beautiful scenes flit through her mind. A home, a mortgage, a shared bed. A baby.

Unable to speak, she turns into him and presses a kiss to his lips, enjoying the way she gets to freely touch and taste him now. She presses their foreheads together and nods.

“I want everything with you too,” she admits quietly after a time.

She feels him smile as he plants a few more kisses to her lips, then her cheeks, then her forehead. Eventually, he stills, and after a time, his breathing deepens and his body softens. When she closes her eyes, she dreams of flames and fire, but she isn’t scared. They were forged together well before they entered the fire; they’ll come out stronger every time.

She tucks her head under his chin, inseparable from him even in sleep.

The End.

#msr #txf #x files #mulder x scully #the x files #x files fanfic #dana scully #msr fanfic #fox mulder #xfiles fanfic

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crownofconvergencerp · 4 months

Text

𝐍𝐎𝐋𝐀𝐍 𝐂𝐀𝐋𝐋𝐀𝐆𝐇𝐀𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐆𝐈𝐅𝐓𝐄𝐃 𝐇𝐔𝐌𝐀𝐍 𝐑𝐄𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐑 𝐒𝐇𝐎𝐏 𝐎𝐖𝐍𝐄𝐑

nolan (he/him), owner of callaghan’s repair shop, is a gifted human with the power to see how inanimate objects work, magic or otherwise, and how to fix them should they be broken--a gift that has built him a strong business and reputation in the eight years he’s been in destarin. despite the length of time he’s lived in the town, nolan remains a mystery to most around him, keeping his dark past to himself and drowning himself in his work.

TW: Murder, Death, Child Abuse, Suicidal Ideation, Suicide Attempt.

Born in a small, rural village on a continent far from Destarin, Nolan was a strong, healthy child, destined for a quiet life of farming like his mother and father before him. That was, however, until that future was ripped away from him at the young age of ten. Raiders stormed his village one night, terrorizing the townsfolk and apprehending all the young boys, Nolan being the oldest of the taken.

The rest of Nolan’s childhood, or lack thereof, was a blur of strict training and brutal treatment at the hands of men that meant to turn him and the other stolen boys into obedient fighters to be sold to a cruel king. While Nolan surely would have excelled at the docile life that he’d been originally given, obedience came easily to him and he excelled nonetheless amongst the violence bestowed upon him--even if it was just a means of survival.

For the next fifteen years of his life, Nolan did just that: he survived. He fought and killed in other men’s battles, enduring the trauma by escaping to a world in his mind where he still existed in that small village where he was born, clinging to the hope that he might one day get to see it again. He spoke very little to the other young men that were raised alongside him, struggling to watch the reflection of himself in boys growing into monsters for the sake of some cruel man’s battles.

He’d been starting to lose himself when it happened. The memories he’d used to ground himself were fading, replaced with screaming and bloodshed that refused to leave him long after the battles were done. When it happened, Nolan wasn’t sure if it was an accident. Whether he let himself get run through with the sword on purpose or not, or if his lack of hope had rid him of his fighting instinct, he really couldn’t be sure, but, at the young age of twenty-five years, Nolan was certain that in death he would find freedom. Much to his surprise, however, he didn’t die.

The men left and blood dried and Nolan awoke amongst the smell of burning bodies, and with what little strength he had left he dragged himself away from the mess, finding freedom in a way he never thought possible. The hope that had slowly been dimming inside him had been reignited and despite his wounds and the harsh terrain ahead, Nolan survived.

It took Nolan close to a year to use the scraps of memories that remained in his mind to locate his lost village that had kept him going for so long. What he found there wasn’t the thriving village that he’d once been a part of, instead it was empty and overgrown--the remains of a forgotten place that had clearly been decimated many years ago. The realization that his village--his people--had been wiped out after he'd been taken was crushing; despite the hope he'd held in his mind all this time, there was no one left waiting for him. The grief was deeper than any he’d felt before, and Nolan spent the next month giving a proper burial to any bones that remained.

While it was the only place he’d ever yearned for, Nolan knew that he couldn’t stay. He knew that he’d have to put distance between himself and the land his captors occupied, so he did just that. For the next several years of Nolan’s life he traveled, no destination in mind other than fleeing as far as he could. Finding work was easy for the young man as he’d always had a knack for fixing things, a talent that had gone unused while his life had been so focused around violence. While he traveled over land and sea, it was easy to keep the thoughts of his previous life at bay, working himself so hard that there was little room in his head for anything other than exhaustion. Despite his running, he longed for a place to settle, and after many years, when Nolan was thirty-one, he found Destarin.

It was when he’d been working for a clockmaker named Callaghan, helping the old man fix the timepieces, when he learned that his talent for fixing ran much deeper than he’d realized. Nolan had always been able to look at objects and seemed to understand how they worked, and what the issues were if they were broken, but when a woman walked into the shop one day with a pocket watch laced with magic, the depths of his ability were uncovered. Nolan, while having no ability to create magic itself, could see the way it worked itself around the object and where a bundle of the magic was twisted and frayed--he could see where the magic was broken, and manipulate it into how it was supposed to be to make the object function as it was supposed to.

It was not hard for Nolan to seek out someone in Destarin who could enlighten him on his abilities, and he learned that his people had likely had gifts such as his, passed down through generations. As the last of his people, he carried the last of their gifts.

A year into working for him, the old clockmaker died and Nolan adopted the man’s name and took over the business, widening his repair services to more than just clocks, but any broken objects, non-magic and magic alike. Over the past eight years, despite his quiet and brooding nature, Nolan has built a name and reputation for himself as the man who can help you fix anything, and he won’t ask you too many questions while doing so. While his business thrives, Nolan’s past still haunts his dreams, despite the mental walls he’s built or how far he’s run.

WHAT ARE YOU...?

species: gifted human. weaknesses: his power is limited to inanimate objects only, he is limited to his knowledge of materials and resources available to fix said object, while he can manipulate existing magic to fix objects, he is unable to produce magic of his own, he is still human, thus he is subject to all human weaknesses. strengths: the ability to see how inanimate objects work (magic or otherwise), if they are broken, and what must be done to fix it. physical description: nolan looks like any other human. additional info: it is likely that Nolan came from a line of other gifted humans, but due to a loss of his people and his past, much of his understanding of himself has been lost. .

nolan callaghan is played by ryan and their fc is zach mcgown.

#fantasy rp #oc rp #semi appless rp #medieval rp #town rp #taken male #taken #bio

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according2thelore · 1 year

Text

with hearts that are guilty, not remorseful on ao3

link here

rating: Explicit

word count: 14,595

relationship: sam/dean

important tags: season 3, yearning, love confessions, anal sex, getting together, angst, hurt/comfort

excerpt:

“I’ve wanted you since I knew what wanting was.” It’s a fact, as plain as the day. The sky is blue. Their mother was killed by a demon. They hunt monsters. Sam wants Dean. “I’ve loved you for longer, I think.”

“God,” Dean’s voice is barely a whisper, raising a hand to grip his own hair by the roots and pulling. He looks absolutely wretched. “I fucked you up, didn’t I?”

Sam slams the motel door shut behind him. Dean is already sitting down on the foot of his bed, shucking his muddy boots as if nothing is amiss. It makes Sam irrationally pissed, and he has to take a deep breath just to beat back the urge to start throwing punches.

Dean had been incredibly reckless—a-fucking-gain—and almost gotten his head ripped off by a lake monster two towns over. Sam had a clear shot (consecrated silver pellets) but Dean had shoved him to the ground to take the incoming blow from a stray limb instead, sending Sam’s shot wide. The fight had lasted twenty minutes longer than it had to, with them having to scatter in a dock-side storehouse, hiding underneath nets and overturning buckets of chum. They both smelled fucking atrocious, but their clothes had remained relatively unscathed. Small mercies, as Sam didn’t see a laundromat coming into town.

Dean was always doing this now: being stupid and reckless and almost trying to get himself killed. If it were just that, Sam could safeguard against it, but Dean was always doing it for Sam, which made him mad enough to spit. Whenever Sam would try to approach Dean’s near-suicidal idiocy, Dean would get all forehead-wrinkly and irritated. I don’t know, Sam, I guess I was just tryin’ to save your damn life. As if Sam was the crazy one here. Save your life. That was another goddamn thing.

Sam wasn’t supposed to be saved. Not like this, and not at the expense of Dean’s own life.

When Dean eventually died, he would join Sam on the other side, whatever that looked like. If there was a Hell, there could be a Heaven, right? Dean couldn’t have just waited, could he? They would never see each other again now, unless Sam decided to really fuck things up for his future. And in the dark of night with Dean breathing quietly across the room, Sam wondered…but no. What pissed Sam off the most though, was the fact he was a fucking hypocrite. He didn’t have to imagine anymore—a life without Dean, fifty, sixty, seventy years (if the world was feeling particularly cruel) was becoming an increasingly probable unescapable nightmare.

Sam had loved—been in love with—his brother as long as he could remember, before he knew that there were different kinds of love. There was just Dean, and Sam would do anything for Dean. He had realized, horrified, in the sixth grade that other kids didn’t talk about their siblings the same way Sam did.

I hate my brother, his friend had said. I wish I was an only child. An only child? When Sam tried to picture life without Dean, he couldn’t—it was just…blank.

Dean had been front row at all of his soccer games and plays and recitals. Dean had showed up to family day at school, had snuck over from the high school to have lunch with Sammy on Wednesdays, had taken Sam to get a rental suit for prom.

And then Sam realized that the reason his skin heated up wherever Dean touched him wasn’t just because Dean was a particularly warm person. It was because Sam was wrong, was fucked-up, and wanted too much.

His first wet dream was about Dean’s mouth.

And Dean couldn’t get it through his thick fucking skull that he was the axis of Sam’s life.

When he started college, he tried a bunch of different classes to pick his major. Now that he had a world of possibilities, he had gotten drunk on it. In physics, he had learned about something called restoring force. The further that you pulled a mass from its equilibrium position, the greater the force is returning it to where it’s supposed to be. The farther that Sam had pulled away from Dean, the greater the restoring force had been in his shitty kitchen with Jessica looking at him and Dean, unable to drag their eyes away from each other. Dean had told him, in the dark of the Impala, no oncoming lights to illuminate the look on his face. C’mon, Sammy. You get the life you always wanted. Find a nice girl, have a couple a’ kids. A normal life. You don’t need me—you were always the stronger of the two of us. The words had almost made Sam slam his head into the dashboard until the echo of them left his ears.

Look at me! Sam wants to shout. You have doomed me to a half-life. Everyone who passes me on the street will know that half of me has been obliterated. What is that? They’ll scream. What the fuck happened to it?

There wasn’t a delineation between what was Sam and Dean anymore. They had merged, burrowed into each other so deeply that to separate them into two disparate parts could only be called a massacre.

You can have a normal life now, Dean had said. But Sam knew. Who would want me? Who would want me with my guts falling out into my hands, with my muscles twitching in the aftermath of being stripped, string by strong, with my breath heaving, unable to adjust to taking in half as much oxygen?

The problem with the request lies in the first word: “find.” A command. Sam couldn’t. Dean couldn’t make him. His life had never had a pre-Dean, and the gaping maw of a post-Dean threatened to swallow him—not whole, but bite by excruciating bite. Sam didn’t want to find another person to fill the looming paralyzing vacancy in his life. If his arm had been amputated, he didn’t want to hold up a series of strangers’ arms until he found the one that made him look most like himself again. It wouldn’t be his dependable hands, familiar nails, the hairline scars on his fingers. A stranger, even once acquainted, would never inherently know Sam in the way Dean did.

Sam has no desire to share skin with anyone else.

Sam needed Dean in the way a musician needed their ears, in the way a chef needed their taste, the way a painter needed their sight. He could survive, in a way without him, but the color of life would be leeched from every corner.

Sam crosses over to Dean, the fight slowly draining from him with every thought. Dean shifted over to face Sam’s bed, so when he sat down, they sat knee-to-knee.

“You still pissed?” Dean asks. Sam just looks at him. He has a barely-there cut above his right eyebrow. It’s already scabbed over, but the fact that it exists at all makes Sam’s chest constrict. “You’ve gotta stop.” He says. Dean blinks at him, a little taken aback. “Stop what?” “Trying to get yourself killed. For me.” “What the hell—“ “You already sealed the deal—isn’t that enough?” Sam shoves the heels of his palms into his eyes, feeling the pressure there. Dean doesn’t say anything for a long second, and Sam finally caves, looking back up at him.

Dean’s face is closed off, and he’s not looking at Sam. His gaze is fixed on Sam’s knees, jaw working.

When Sam had nightmares as a kid, Dean would shove him over in bed, crawling into the space between the door and Sam, as if a silent promise that Dean would protect him from the monster in the dark. Sam would press his face into Dean’s collarbone, tiny hands grabbing uselessly at the collar of his shirt. Dean had effortlessly calmed Sam’s panic attacks, put bandaids on his scraped knees, told him bedtime stories when Sam couldn’t sleep, taught him how to tie a knot and shoot a gun and throw a punch. Dean had never hesitated to comfort Sam, always doing exactly what Sam needed in the moment. Sam had been chasing the goal of returning even a fraction of that devotion back, pressing small acts into Dean’s collarbone, for a decade.

Sam never had much dignity when it comes to Dean, so he slides from his perch on the bed. He tucks himself into the space between their beds, on his knees, looking up into Dean’s face to catch his blank gaze. Dean—too shocked to fight the instinct—opens his knees wider to allow Sam room to slip between them.

“I can’t lose you a second before I have to, okay? For me, Dean.” Sam tries to press as much emotion into the words as he can. Do this for me. Live for me. Try for me.

Dean looks back and forth between Sam’s eyes, his own wide. A thin smile splits the disbelief. “Yeah, whatever you say, Sammy.” Sam doesn’t know if Dean means it—prays silently, fervently that he does—but can’t do much better than that tonight. Sam searches Dean’s face for any trace of falsehood, but Dean’s looking at his face just as intensely. Dean’s trying to probe Sam for something, but what?

He can’t make Dean want to live, even for Sam’s own selfish sake, and it kills him.

Sam sits back, but falls forward into Dean’s legs, exhausted. He can feel Dean tense, along the line of his spine, thighs clenching. “Sam, what are you doin’?” Sam shakes his head, feeling the hard dig of Dean’s patella into his cheekbone. Sam feels his familiar impotent anger curling low in his stomach. He hates Dean, sometimes, when he gets like this. When Dean pretends that he doesn’t need Sam, too. When he freezes up and gets his smarmy, cocky smile plastered on his face in time to hide (God forbid) an actual, genuine emotion. Sam hates him, he thinks. He doesn’t know if he believes it yet. Right now, he’s just exhausted. “Just…shut up for a second. I just need…just a second. Please.”

Sam needs to feel the press of Dean’s bones against his own—before Dean takes them away, before they become dust and ash. Before Dean becomes the worst thing he could: not Sam’s anymore. Dean acquiesces, as he is wont to do when Sammy asks with this particular brand of whine in his tone. He should feel bad about using his Dean-power for evil, but he doesn’t. He wishes Dean’s legs were bare, so they could be pressed skin-to-skin. As it stands, Sam can barely feel his warmth through the thick denim.

Sam presses his forehead into the side of Dean’s knee. His knees aren’t as knobby as they used to be, when Sam would sleep pressed to Dean’s side, when he was young enough for that type of comfort. Dean reaches down, pressing a warm hand into Sam’s hair. His fingers are so familiar that Sam aches with it. How is he supposed to live without this? How can Dean expect him to, when Dean couldn’t live without Sam for seventy-two hours?

“Sammy,” Dean says. Just that. Just Sammy.

Sam looks up into Dean’s face, caught by the anxious need to see his eyes, as if he’ll disappear. The vise in his chest doesn’t relax until Dean looks back at him. His eyes are green, always so green and beautiful and they shred Sam’s lungs like a hellhound.

The need to be closer, as close as possible, doesn’t abate. Sam is brimming with the need to weave them together—as if anything that wants to get to Dean has to tear him asunder first—almost spilling from his lips, bursting from every pore.

He doesn’t think.

He sits up, Dean’s hand still tangled in his hair, and kisses him.

The angle is awkward, as Sam has tilted his head almost ninety degrees to get at Dean’s lips, but Dean jerks back, a little shocked. Their lips don’t part, as Sam presses forward again, blind to anything but the feel of Dean’s lips, slightly chapped.

And then.

And then, Dean kisses back.

Sam’s brain explodes in a white, hot rush of Yesyesyesyesyes. Dean presses forward, hand in his hair tightening, a noise akin to a wail coming from his mouth.

Sam had watched Dean kiss people his entire life—faceless girls in every bar in America, housewives on cases, and on one occasion, a boy with long brown hair pressed against the wall of an alley behind a motel in Vermont.

Sam had become an addict, obsessed. He watched Dean’s mouth with the reverence of a pilgrim, eyes traveling to the shrine of a full bottom lip, teased with teeth and soothed with tongue. And now, he was touching. Dean’s full mouth was pressed to his, and Sam could do nothing but fall to his knees and worship.

Sam gasps, heart catapulting so fast in his chest that he’s distantly surprised he hasn’t keeled over. He can feel his heartbeat everywhere, in his ribs, in his ears, his tongue heavy with it and pulsing against the zipper of his jeans.

Sam opens, begging Dean to come into his mouth. Anything, anything you’ll give me pleasepleaseyesyesplease. Dean’s tongue flicks out, a flutter against the top row of his teeth, testing.

Sam makes a noise he would definitely be embarrassed about later, whining and pained and so desperate it feels like his skin will peel off if Dean doesn’t touch him everywhere. The noise does something to Dean, for his other hand comes up and presses against Sam’s chest, feeling the rapid pulse there. His grip on Sam’s hair tightens further, and he uses his grip—(a scratch of nails against his scalp, Sam keens)—to force Sam’s mouth up against his so hard Sam’s sure his lips with bruise as they set in to devour each other. He’s steering Sam’s mouth where he wants him using his grip on his hair, and he tastes like whiskey and warmth and home.

It’s filthy, the way Dean is eating him alive. Sam wants it, with a power and desperation he has rarely wanted anything. He has become an animal of need, pawing at Dean’s face, letting himself be devoured by the throbbing pulse of them, combined. Dean’s tongue is on the inside of his mouth, pressing against the roof, tender strokes against his own. Sam’s lungs are burning but he’d sooner cut off his legs before he’d pull away. Dean makes the decision for him, pulling back for barely a second to reposition their mouths, biting savagely down on Sam’s bottom lip. Sam hopes desperately that it’ll leave a mark, that he will be indelibly marked with Dean’s incisors and everyone will know.

My turn, my turn, Sam’s brain whines, and he raises a hand to ball in Dean’s shirt, pulling him back to his mouth. He has to press the heel his other hand down on his cock, still straining against his zipper painfully, to alleviate some of the aching, throbbing tension there. He’s harder than he’s ever been in his life, and it twitches in his jeans at the pressure, causing Sam to whimper again into the cavern of Dean’s panting mouth. Sam worries Dean’s bottom lip with his own teeth, tongue driving out to lick a damning “S” against the flushed angle of it. Mineminemine Dean please.

“Sammy,” Dean rasps, and it’s a shock to Sam’s system more than any punch to the gut. Dean locks up all at once, tension pulling his body tight like a bowstring, and mouth leaving Sam’s in an agonizing shred of flesh.

Dean pulls away, hands pressing at Sam’s chest to keep him at a distance. A string of saliva snaps as they part, and Sam’s eyes are glue to where it sits now on Dean’s lower lip. Dean’s eyes are wild, half-feral—desperate and hurt. In the summer of 1996, Dad and Dean came back after a werewolf hunt, and Dean’s arm had almost been ripped off at the shoulder. The werewolf had gotten his teeth in the meat of his shoulder and yanked. Dad hadn’t wanted to take him to the hospital, but the sheer amount of blood and raw meat of Dean’s shredded skin—more viscera than anything resembling a human body—made Sam hysterical. The look in Dean’s eyes—genuine, palpable agony that he had always been so careful to hide—was so terrifying that Sam went into a complete meltdown. He had begged so vehemently—screaming and shaking—for Dad to turn his car around that he had vomited all over his shoes.

This is worse. Somehow, the look in Dean’s eyes now is more petrifying than back then because Sam had caused it. Dean is looking at Sam like that. Sam backs off immediately, falling back onto his heels. Dean’s chest is heaving, and he’s staring at Sam like he’s never seen him before.

“No.” Dean’s head starts to shake back and forth, a tongue flicking out to wet his lips. Sam watches the movement helplessly. That was my saliva, his brain whines. Dean, taking in a part of him, makes him throb. “No, Sam, we’re not doing this.” His hands, on his thighs now, start to shake. “You’re not giving me this. You’re not.”

He’s starting to look angry, brow furrowing and mouth flattening into a line. But worse—infinitely, blindingly worse—wetness is gathering at his bottom lashes. Sam feels so wretched, so broken and wrong and evil that he feels like he’s dying.

“No, Dee, please don’t be mad at me.” Sam sits up, distress clawing up his throat and hands grappling desperately at Dean’s calves as he stares up into his face. Tears build in his own eyes. He feels like a child again—broken Dean’s tape player and begging wildly for his forgiveness because Dean is everything. “Please don’t. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” Sam’s ruined it. He’s ruined everything. Dean will die hating him, disgusted with him. Dean is still shaking his head, but he reaches down to still Sam’s grasping fingers. He might be pissed, he might be disgusted and repulsed by his fucked up little brother, but he is physically incapable of not comforting a terrified Sam.

“You don’t want me, Sammy. You don’t want this. You’re scared and sad and pissed I’m dyin’, but you don’t want this.” Dean is searching his face, but pulls away from Sam’s seeking fingers. It would have hurt less to be stabbed.

Sam lets his eyes rove in turn, soaking in Dean as he’s been trying to do for the past eight months. The swoop of his flushed mouth, the devastating curl of his eyelashes, his strong jaw. Even the things Dean hates: the curve of his nose, the splash of darkened freckles across his cheeks.

“Do you remember Leah Templesmith?” Sam asks suddenly. Dean blinks. His face screws up.

“What the fuck, Sam?” “Do you?” Sam presses, eyes fixed on the furrow of his brow and fighting every impulse in his body that wants to press his lips to it. “From Iowa. Fall of ‘97.” Dean shakes his head, lips (still shiny and full in the low light) thinning into a line. Sam can’t stop his fingers from tracing the grain of Dean’s jeans, thumb nail trailing over his shin bone.

“She was the first one that looked like me.” Sam says, and he might as well have shot Dean in the sternum. Dean flinches hard, but his body has nowhere to go now that Sam has his legs pinned to the bed. “She had short brown hair, hazel eyes, and I wanted to strangle her in her sleep.”

Dean is still looking at Sam like he’s going to snap and rip Dean’s head from his shoulders. “Stop, Sam.” Sam presses on. “You were still in school. I would see you pressing her against lockers before class and under the bleachers during lunch. I was spitting with jealousy, but I had no idea why.”

“You were fourteen.” Dean says, like it’s the saddest thing he’s ever heard. His eyes are wide. Sam shrugs. “I’ve wanted you since I knew what wanting was.” It’s a fact, as plain as the day. The sky is blue. Their mother was killed by a demon. They hunt monsters. Sam wants Dean. “I’ve loved you for longer, I think.”

“God,” Dean’s voice is barely a whisper, raising a hand to grip his own hair by the roots and pulling. He looks absolutely wretched. “I fucked you up, didn’t I?”

He tries to give Dean a smile, but it feels false and plastic on his face, like the tree he had stolen for their Christmas all those months ago. Prickly.

“You always assume you’re the fucked up one between us.” Sam laughs, just a puff of air with no humor. “What if it’s just me? What if I was always like this?” Sam wants to start screaming, just to alleviate the pulling tension in his chest. “Loving you was the only constant thing in my life, and I’m not sorry for it. I can’t be.”

Dean looks suddenly unbearably young. And he is. He’s twenty-goddamn-seven. Way too young to look at Sam like that, to say “The truth is I’m tired, Sam.” and mean it.

“Sammy.” Dean says around a croak, a catch in his throat that Sam wants to reach up and feel. “You’re…You’re my—“ Dean chokes. Sam leans up a little—not enough to scare Dean away again, but far enough to see the golden flecks in his eyes. “Exactly.” He cuts him off. “I’m yours. Just yours.”

Dean whispers his name like a curse. He closes his eyes, seemingly unable to bear the weight of what Sam has laid in front of him. He rubs a hand over his face, rough, his ring catching the watery light of the lamp. Sam’s knees are cramping, but he doesn’t think he’d be able to get up if he tried. Sam sits there, an open nerve exposed to a scalpel. Please be gentle. Please sever me with care.

Dean opens his eyes.

There’s a hard set to them, a glint of steel and a flash of gunpowder. He looks at Sam in a way he never has—even when Dad had begged him to, when Sam had sulfur on his tongue and dreams of blood and his finger on triggers they had no business being on. He looks at him like Sam’s a monster, and Dean’s on a hunt. Focus. Undivided, analytical attention that makes Sam feel dangerous. His skin prickles with heat, starting low and traveling to the tips of his fingers, where they still on Dean’s knee. He’s searching Sam for something, and Sam lets himself be searched. Throwing open drawers, helping Dean overthrow mattresses. Dean flays him open, before his eyelids slowly lower, and there it is. The flash of a tongue against his bottom lip.

Sam has seen this look on Dean before, directed forever outward, at waitresses, at Bela, at bartenders and clerks and Leah goddamn Templesmith. But never at Sam. Sam aches, and he can’t tell if it’s a good or bad hurt, but he wants more of it. “Well.” Dean finally says, his voice an octave lower than it was a few minutes (an hour, a decade, a lifetime) ago. “I’m already going to hell, aren’t I?”

Sam’s breath catches in his throat, and he doesn’t get the chance to gasp before Dean’s mouth is on his again.

It’s more violent this time—all teeth like a punishment, but Sam believes in penance, so he melts into the curve of Dean’s body, against the hard line of him as Dean takes.

Dean pulls hard, and Sam has no choice but to follow Dean up onto the bed. It’s a tangle of limbs, Sam having to unravel from his spot on the floor. Somehow, he manages to crawl on top of Dean, pinning him between his arms on the bed. Dean goes eagerly, slotting his thigh against the apex of Sam’s thighs and against the line of his dick. It responds eagerly, and Sam feels himself hardening again. Dean does something simply criminal with his hips, and Sam has to pull back to gasp for air.

Dean doesn’t let him go far, balling a fist in Sam’s shirt to keep him close. “If you don’t get this thing off,” Dean growls, but doesn’t get to finish his threat. Sam pulls back and rips his shirt off of his head. He’s stopped from kissing Dean again by the look on his face. Dean’s eyes are rapidly tracing over his chest—over his pecs, his abs, the small trail down to his jeans. His irises are almost completely swallowed by the black dots of his pupils. He wets his lips. Sam feels…well, sexy. Sam leans forward, a little hesitantly because Dean is still looking at him strangely, but Dean reaches up and puts a hand on his chest to keep him away. “One sec.” He says, a rasp. “I didn’t allow me to look.”

Sam tries to string the words together in his brain to something that makes sense. It takes a second longer than it should, because Dean’s touch has turned into a caress, moving over ribs with a steady, firm intent. Oh.

Dean hadn’t given himself permission to look at Sam like this. Before. How long? How long had he looked away on purpose?

Sam is seized with the intense need to see Dean, too. He had snuck glances as long as he could get away with—which was much more often than one would think. In long, sticky summers when motels didn’t have air conditioning, Dean would parade around their 300-square-foot room with a glistening chest and chiseled stomach. It was enough to drive any horny fifteen-year-old into madness. Sam yanks on the bottom of Dean’s t-shirt.

“Turnabout. Fair play. All that.”

Dean eyes get a little sharper as he pulls his shirt off in a practiced movement. It feels like a mask—Dean pulling on a protective cover as familiar as Dad’s jacket or his worn pair of jeans. Sam immediately hates the look. It’s more lascivious, but infinitely less personal, less like the look that has always been the way he looks at Sam and more like the way he eyes up waitresses and secretaries.

The press of his bare skin against Sam is enough to blast the thought to ashes—salted and burned. It feels like fire, like they will melt together into one being. Sam tries to remember when he had this much of someone else’s skin pressed against him and he can’t. Every pore where Dean connects light up like a neon sign. Sam gasps, but Dean reclaims his mouth, pressing his tongue where it belongs.

Dean slithers a hand down to Sam’s stomach, trailing the softness of his stomach, the divot between his pecs, the swell of his chest. He leaves sparks in his wake.

Sam arches up into Dean’s touch, breaking the kiss to press a series of increasingly sloppy kisses to Dean’s jaw, throat, nape. He hopes, as he bites hard down on the meat of Dean’s shoulders, that he’ll leave marks. He wants Dean to look in the mirror and see what Sam had done, had done to keep him. He wants everyone who passes Dean on the street and every waitress who flirts with him to know that he has been claimed.

As Sam continues to kiss across Dean’s collarbones, his mouth catches against something hard. He pulls back a little, and sees that it’s the leather cord—body-warm and well-worn—of Sam’s necklace.

He had been surprised, two years ago, to see it still on Dean’s neck. He had figured after the words they had lobbed at each other like needle-point blades—designed to inflict as sharp of a pain as possible—Dean would have cut him from the tapestry of freckle-spotted skin, excising a tumor.

But Dean had come for him. The first thing Sam had felt, when Dean had pressed him to the cold wood of his kitchen, hands rough and warm, was a cold sting of metal brushing his cheek. He had thought, panicking, that it was a knife, but the small face of the amulet had gotten his attention.

Dean.

Sam trails the cord of the amulet now with his mouth, until his lips are pressed against the burnished gold of the figure.

Dean is panting as if he had run a marathon, chest rising and falling in spurts, and Sam rises and falls with the movement as he takes the pendant between his teeth. Mine, mine, mine.

Dean had kept it—kept Sam—as close to his heart as possible. Dean makes a noise like Sam had make the amulet into a garrote, choking on air, chest arching up to fit to every curve of Sam’s body. Sam smirks, drunk on the power that having Dean like this gives him. His immediate, unquestioning submission to Sam, to what they have, threatens to undo him. How long could he have had this? Sam tries to imagine a younger, bright-eyed Dean pressing Sam at age eighteen to that motel wall in Vermont, replacing the brown-haired boy. He tries to imagine if Dean would be gentle with him, surrendering his first time to a boy who deserved all of his firsts.

The thought makes an unexpected lump form in his throat. No. He’d still have to leave—he needed to figure out who he was without the twin shadow of Dean, making up more of Sam than Sam himself was. Stanford was hard, but it was the first thing that was his alone. It was better like this: crashing together when they were both strong enough to survive the collision.

Any earlier, Sam thinks, would have destroyed them. It would have mangled them so they would never fit together like this again.

“C’mon, Sammy,” Dean groans, head slamming back into the pillow so he could press the long, hard brand of his cock harder against Sam’s thigh. “That big head of yours more interesting than me?”

Sam drops the pendant from between his teeth (which he had been pressing his tongue to unconsciously, and his mouth tastes like metal) and kisses Dean hard to shut him up.

When he can finally pull himself away from Dean’s lips (who gives a hell of a fight, winding a tight hand into his hair to keep him where he wants him), he moves back to the foot of the bed. He reaches up and places a hand on Dean’s belt buckle. He looks up at Dean, with the intention of asking if it’s okay, but the view punches his breath from his lungs.

Dean is beautiful. Objectively, it’s just a fact. But this. Here. He’s looking down the firm, built line of his body at Sam, green eyes almost swallowed completely by pupil. Dean’s necklace is lying on his sternum, visibly wet from Sam’s mouth. Sam has to swallow hard to prevent from choking. “Sammy,” Dean gasps, hands bundling in the itchy fabric of the motel bedspread.

The look in Dean’s eyes from before is completely gone. He’s looking at Sam the way he always looks at him, and Sam is finally letting himself recognize the devotion there. The adoration. Dean is looking at Sam and seeing him. The armor of before has been destroyed.

This. Here. It’s Sam’s.

Sam’s suddenly fucking starving, and he wraps his fingers around Dean’s belt buckle, pulling with wide eyes. “Dean, can I?” He’s surprised at how deep his voice is to his own ears.

“Fuck,” Dean says, more whine than word. “Fuck. Yes. Fuck, Sammy.”

Sam doesn’t think he’s ever undone a buckle faster in his life, despite the fact that he’s so overeager he drops it twice. The heat of Dean’s skin is melting his fingers even through the fabric as Sam fumbles for the button. He looks up at Dean as he pulls the zipper down, hungry for the look in his eyes.

Dean does not disappoint, mouth opening so he can pant, and Sam doesn’t even have his hands on him yet.

Dean is straining against the fabric of his boxers, and Sam eyes the outline of him hungrily. He looks up at Dean as he presses his fingers, barely there, tracing the hard line of his cock. Dean swears, and his hips twitch.

“Are you always this eager?” Sam wonders aloud, “Or is this just for me?” Deans makes a noise like he’s been shot, and Sam can feel his own dick twitch at the noise. Noted.

Sam bends his head, and places his tongue to the spot where the fabric of his boxers is a bit darker. Salt on his tongue. He’s a little flattered, really. Or he would be, if he had the brain capacity to be flattered. If he had anything going on in his head right now but the pulsing, throbbing rhythm of Deanfinallyyesyesminefinally. He kneads the spot with his tongue, soaking Dean’s boxers through and absorbing Dean’s whimpers and trying to feel the head of his cock through the fabric.

When he feels like he can’t take it anymore, he pulls down Dean’s boxers and jeans in one full movement. When he finally gets himself settled back where he belongs (between Dean’s knees), Dean has a hand around his dick, pumping slowly and a challenging smile on his face. Sam swats his hand away, and finally gets a look.

His dick is a wonder. Sam tries to catalogue it as fast as he can (shorter than his but thick enough that Sam’s brain goes a little sideways) before he’s pressing a kiss to the base of it. “Sam,” Dean groans, “Stop teasin’ me.” Sam raises an eyebrow, looking up at him, and Dean opens his mouth in a clearly sass-filled retort. To nip that in the bud, Sam descends. He takes Dean’s cock in his mouth, taking mind of his teeth and sinking down as far as he can without choking. Dean’s spine snaps taut, before bending in a sensuous arch. The noise he makes is probably the hottest thing Sam has ever heard. Sam’s hands find their ways to Dean’s strong thighs, pressing thumbs into the sensitive joint of his legs.

Sam has never given a blowjob (dreamed about it more than once, Dean in the back of the Impala, Sam in the footwell and taking Dean all the way to the back as he shook apart in his arms), but knows what he likes. He alternates between a gentle suction and teasing the tip, tongue licking into the slit and around the flared head.

Dean is loud, cursing and giving soft little whimpers that go straight to Sam’s cock. The realization that he’s really here, that it’s Dean on his tongue is enough to have him scrambling for his own belt, shoving his jeans down just enough to work his own hand into his pants.

Sam could get addicted to this: the warm press of Dean’s bare thighs, the power of having Dean entirely at his mercy, the act of finally being able to take care of Dean, returning a fraction of that devotion.

Dean’s hand finally slides into Sam’s hair, and Sam’s everything is Dean—Dean filling his nose and his mouth and his hand sliding through his hair and calves pressed into his shoulders. He smells warm and Dean, and his tongue is heavy, and his eyes are watering, but from how deep he’s managed to work Dean in his mouth or the sheer overwhelming sensation he couldn’t tell. Spit is gathering at the corners of his mouth, dribbling slowly from his lips, but Sam only increases his efforts, wanting to feel the blunt head of Dean hit his soft palate. When Sam presses the flat of his tongue fully against the pulsing vein along the bottom, Dean’s hand tightens painfully in Sam’s hair, pushing down, and Sam’s brain goes white, sparks dancing along his vision. He tries to moan, more vibration than noise and Dean fucking wails.

“Stop!” Dean yelps, pulling Sam up, fingers grazing his neck in his haste and pulling, making Sam almost choke in a way that shouldn’t be as arousing as it is. “Fuck!” Dean is panting, heaving. “Want you in me, Sammy. Don’t want to finish like that.”

Sam’s brain goes offline. He blinks. Once. Twice. And then he has to press tightly around the base of his dick to stave off the rush of FUCK as he imagines Dean spread out, hot and slick and fucking—

Sam tries to speak, but coughs. “I—um. Fuck. Yeah, okay.”

They stare at each other. “So…” Dean starts, looking suddenly very unsure. A second passes. Dean is looking increasingly uncomfortable, which makes Sam scramble for his brain power again. “Have you…have you done this before?” Sam asks. Dean raises an incredulous brow. “Sex?” Sam swats his thigh. “Sex with a guy, asshole.” Dean shifts his weight on the bed, propping himself up on his elbows. “Yeah, I mean. I’ve fucked a couple of guys.” “Have you ever…” Sam gestures down. Dean flushes a truly incredible shade of scarlet that Sam can now see goes down to his sternum. He had always wondered. Dean mumbles something, looking at the TV stand Sam’s sure is over his shoulder.

“What?” “No! I haven’t.” Dean still looks a little spooked. “But I know the mechanics of it. We need lube and a condom. And…” Dean trails off like Sam is supposed to fill in the blanks. “Wait—“ He cuts Sam off before he can put Dean out of his misery. “Have you done this before?” Sam shrugs, aiming for nonchalance. He had absolutely tried to fuck Dean out of his system in college, but no pair of green eyes or blonde hair or full lips had stuck. Until…well. Until Jess. “Yeah, both ways.” Dean’s eyes bulge almost comically. “You let some guy fuck you?”

Sam snorts. “Um. Yeah? His name was Trevor.”

Dean scowls. “I didn’t need to know that. Now I’ve got a Trevor on my shit-list. Poor guy doesn’t even know what’s coming.”

Sam can’t help but smile. Dean had always been almost comically focused on his love life, encouraging Sam to get as much experience as humanly feasible. Is it possible, that maybe, it was projection on Dean’s part? Sam knows that his skin would crawl whenever Dean would pick up a girl at a bar and leave Sam sitting behind sipping a beer and trying not to imagine what Dean would look like mid-orgasm. Jealousy. Dean’s jealous. Of Trevor, from art history.

Sam keeps having to remind himself: this is Dean. Dean’s jealous over him. Dean, whom Sam loves more than any other person, alive or dead. “I mean, I could always…” Sam says, trailing off. Dean’s eyes widen a little. “Or not.” He hurries to add. “I mean, hell, Dean. We don’t even have to do anything tonight if you don’t want to. Or we could always jack each other off and watch TV after, if we want something slower.” Sam would take anything Dean would give him, even if it was nothing. Sam would sit on the ratty motel couch and watch I Love Lucy reruns for hours with an aching boner if Dean wanted him to, and he’d do it with a smile. Okay, maybe not a smile. But at least he’d do it.

“No.” Dean says quickly, and then seems to remember he’s embarrassed. “I…” He clears his throat. “No. I, uh. I want you.” Dean tries for a smirk, but his eyes are still a little wide, vulnerable. “Aren’t first times supposed to be for someone special or whatever?”

Sam’s heart makes a valiant effort to eviscerate his chest cavity.

“They can be. Or they can be a logistics nightmare with Stacey Masters under the bleachers at the Homecoming game against Boston.” Dean, caught of guard, throws his head back in a cackle.

“Your first time was in public? You sex-freak.” Dean laughs again. “You maniac. I fuckin’ knew it.”

Sam shrugs affably, just happy that the stressed set to Dean’s jaw is gone. When Dean quiets, his shoulders are much more relaxed. Sam shifts to the side, to allow Dean room to move off of the bed. “First things first, you smell like ass.” Sam says. He doesn’t really, but he does smell like the fresh water wet tang of fresh nickel (anything outside of this room feels like it was a year ago, a decade, the only thing that has ever existed is Dean, here, now), and…well. If they’re going to do this, Dean needs to get…clean. Dean shoves his palm into Sam’s face, tilting it to the side playfully. Sam goes with the movement, letting Dean slip past him and off the bed. Sam stares after him, chest feeling unbearably tight. Happiness. Relief.

A slow exhale eleven years in the making.

Sam follows Dean, an action so familiar that he doesn’t recognize the movement until he’s already standing in the doorway.

Dean’s already turning the water on, holding his hand under the faucet to test the temperature. Sam has to lean against the doorway because…Dean’s still naked. His corded muscles move in his legs as he bends over, baring the full curve of his ass, the small divot where it meets the meat of his thigh. Sam wants to press his tongue there, and has to bite down on his lip to curb the urge.

Sam’s arousal, which had abated somewhat, stirs again. Dean, seemingly satisfied, turns back around to look at Sam in the doorway. A slow smile blooms on his face.

He moves forward, way too much confidence for someone completely bare, body lithe and sure from years of hard exertion. Sam swallows.

“Woah, Sammy.” Dean pulls at Sam’s jeans, unbuttoned but still low on his hips. His thumbs brush against Sam’s dick as he pulls at the waist band. Dean looks up into Sam’s face, slow and inviting. “All for me?”

The use of the nickname, here, now, with Dean’s burning fingers inches away from something more makes Sam flush.

“Always.” Sam says, a touch too earnest. Something behind Dean’s eyes flickers, then, but he’s turning back around and sliding the curtain back before Sam can chase it.

“You coming?” He asks, throwing a look over his shoulder as Sam shucks his pants. “That’s the idea, yeah,” Sam calls over the water, and Dean boos. Sam, giddy, tries to classify the noise that comes out of him as anything other than a giggle and finds that he can’t.

Dean pulls him into a kiss as soon as Sam’s foot has cleared the rim of the tub. He spins them, clumsily, biting down on Sam’s lip again as Sam’s neck and back get pelted with water. Dean pushes him down a little, so Sam’s hair gets soaked through. He can feel water drip over his closed eyes, spilling into his and Dean’s mouths as their tongues tangle. Dean’s taste is tinged with a metallic taste as the water mixes in their mouths.

Hard water, Sam’s brain supplies distantly. That means that this is hard water.

The name feels hilarious, suddenly, and Sam smiles against Dean’s mouth. Dean, catching Sam’s infectious, shaky elation, smiles back. Sam knows because he feels the slick slide of Dean’s teeth against his upper lip. Sam is floored then, by the realization of how good this feels. Wanting Dean had always been shrouded in so much pain and agony and guilt that even exhausted daydreams about what this would be like were always cast in dark shadows. Sam’s gut would be churning even as he imagined bringing Dean to the precipice, and so the distinct lack of agony was enough to bring Sam to his knees. This, more than anything else, convinces Sam that it is real.

This feels good. Sam’s hand in Dean’s short hair feels like worship. Dean’s hand on his hip, a benediction. Like being forgiven. Absolution. Kissing Dean feels like absolution.

Dean chokes a little giggle into his mouth when he almost slips, and Sam can’t stop smiling. Their kisses are barely kisses, just soaked touching of lips and laughs swallowed by hungry mouths.

Dean’s hand is tangled in Sam’s hair, and he is panting wet, hot breaths into his mouth, water falling over his eyes and in rivulets down his front.

Dean pulls back to heave for breath, and Sam is surprised that he doesn’t choke. Dean looks down at their feet, and makes a choked little noise—almost a whine. He looks back up at Sam, and he recognizes the look: indecision. Dean is biting his lip so hard that Sam wants to press his thumb to it and free the flushed skin. “Unh,” Dean makes the noise again. “Fuck it. Fuck it, fuck it.” Dean slides to his knees. It involves a lot more maneuvering of long limbs, as they’re both way too big to be in the shower at the same time. The noise Sam makes is probably humiliating, but Dean is already mouthing at Sam’s skin like he loves it.

Sam almost wants to stop him, to tell him that Sam doesn’t expect anything, but Dean’s hands are roaming over his bare calves, his mouth gaping open as he eyes Sam’s cock and up into Sam’s face and Sam’s trying to come to term with the fact that Dean might need this as much as Sam did, to feel Sam’s heartbeat in his mouth, to swallow Sam whole. He runs his tongue over the joint of Sam’s hip, into the crease of his thigh—inches away from Sam’s aching cock. He noses along the length of him, barely a brush of mouth, before he trails lower, a hairsbreadth away from Sam’s balls, heavy and aching.

Sam can’t help himself. He grabs a fistful of Dean’s short hair, fingernails reaching to the nape of his neck. Dean pushes his head into Sam’s fingers, a throaty groan sliding out between his teeth. When his eyes open next, his pupils are blown so wide Sam almost can’t see the ring of his irises. “Shit. Do you know how many cocks I’ve choked on pretending it was yours?” Dean says, and it’s a miracle Sam hears him over the spray of water and the creaking pipes.

And Dean swallows him.

It is immediately obvious how much better Dean is at this. Sam feels himself abut the soft, velvet heat of the back of Dean’s mouth alarmingly quick. Sam had gotten blown before, but Dean treats it like an art form, bobbing his head and using his tongue in ways Sam feels should be outlawed immediately. Hot, burning arousal almost blinds him, and Sam bites down on a keen. Dean gags, tears coming to his eyes, poising on his lashes before being washed away by the shower but he keeps moving forward, backing off for barely a second before descending again. The sounds he’s making are fucking obscene. His throat keeps constricting around little bids for air, choked whimpers and moans. Sam’s spine is melting. He has to slam a hand into the tile over Dean’s head to keep himself upright. His vision is narrowing into this—Dean’s big eyes, wet with tears, as he stares up into Sam’s face, watching every expression raptly. Dean is fucking starving for this, and that thought alone almost sends Sam over the edge. He can feel his heartbeat in his ears, in his mouth, in his cock as Dean flicks his tongue over the head.

Sam (against every instinct in his body that demands he press Dean to the tile and) pulls Dean off his cock by the hand in his hair. Dean lets go immediately, a wet drag as Dean licks the precome from Sam’s tip.

His smile is carnivorous.

“Sam, you gotta go.” Dean rasps, his voice so wrecked, and Sam’s whole body throbs. It takes his brain a second too long to catch up, and cold dread creeps up his spine until Dean presses a soaked hand to Sam’s calf, nudging him away. “I gotta. I gotta take care of things in here.”

Sam nods, pushing his hair dripping with water, from his face. “I’ll get the.” He has to gasp, not enough air in his lungs. “I’ll get the…shit. The stuff.” Dean looks up at him, eyes still dark. “I’m kinda pissed that that still sounded hot.” Sam’s knees and laughter shake as he awkwardly steps back over the rim of the tub. He walks (waddles, really) back into the room, and beelines for his bag. He fumbles with the side pocket until he manages to grab the lube, blinking water from his eyes and shivering in the cool air of the room.

He rips a condom from the roll, and has to try twice because his fingers slip on the slick foil. He moves to sit on the bed—his this time, as Dean’s is still mussed with the fresh water from earlier. He pulls the sheets down, and cradles the bulk of the lube bottle in his hands to warm it. He’s lost, then, in the image of a younger Dean (how young? twenty? eighteen? younger??) on his knees for hazel-eyed strangers, strange fingers in Dean’s hair. It makes him burn a little, and tries to imagine a younger him (twenty-one? nineteen? younger??) in their place, cradling Dean’s face in his hands as Dean gagged. Sam imagines the reverse—Dean pressed against a brick wall of some bar or motel or warehouse, eyes bright and face unlined with the evidence of a lived life.

“Clean as a whistle.” Dean says, and Sam jumps guiltily. Dean is fucking gorgeous, standing proud in the light of the bathroom behind him, alive and stunning and too good to be real, to be permanent. A sudden feeling of uncertainty hits him then, but Dean doesn’t give him the time to get lost in his head. He walks forward, greeting Sam with an open-mouthed kiss, hands going immediately to Sam’s hair so he can tilt his head back. Sam mewls against his lips. They fall back, Dean crawling on top of Sam with the confidence and ease of a predator sizing up easy prey. He slips off just as easily, laying back like he was just born to take it. Sam gets his knees underneath him, clambering back on top of Dean like a giraffe on roller skates. Coordination. Sam needs to work on his coordination.

Dean reaches over to his left, snatching the supplies Sam must have dropped. When his fingers brush the foil packet of the condom, his brows furrow. “You wanna use a condom?” Dean seems a little incredulous. He holds up the little foil packet for his inspection, flipping it back and forth like checking for nutrition facts. Sam snatches it back from him. “Um. Yeah?”

Dean shifts on the bed, the wet head of his dick leaking onto his stomach. Sam watches the wet spot now on his skin with a laser focus so intense that he almost forgets to breathe. Dean shifts his eyes to Sam, which is possibly the only thing that could break his attention now.

“I kinda.” Dean swallows, and his throat clicks. “I kinda want to feel you.” Sam opens his mouth, but nothing comes out. He doesn’t think it’s possible to be harder than he is, but it’s a welcome surprise as his entire body throbs in a shock of heat. His brain restarts slower than a library computer. “That’s super irresponsible.”

Dean raises an eyebrow. “You gonna knock me up, Sammy?” Sam sputters, and he knows he’s blushing. “You—What—That’s not the only reason to use a condom—“ His voice is mostly squeak. Dean chuckles a little, but holds the packet out to him. “If you wanna.”

Sam looks from him to the condom. He slowly grabs it from Dean’s fingers. He shocks a laugh out of Dean when he throws it over his shoulder, bending down to devour Dean’s mouth in his own again.

Dean is arching up into his body, water-damp skin sliding against Sam’s in a maddening push-pull. Sam reaches for the lube, shakily pouring some onto his fingers. He way overshoots the amount he needs, and the slick running down his arm shouldn’t feel as erotic as it does. He pulls away from Dean’s mouth, and Dean presses a final kiss into Sam’s mouth just as he mouths Dean’s name. Dean falls back to the bed, chest heaving. His lashes are fluttering against his high cheekbones, kissing the freckled skin. A trail of blushing hickeys are already darkening against his lithe column of his neck, and the sight makes a dark, growling part of Sam purr in pleasure. “C’mon, Sammy. Fuck me already.” Dean gasps, humping the air in vain for some friction. “Need you baby boy, c’mon.” Sam lowers his hand to circle Dean’s entrance, before pressing his middle finger slowly past the ring of muscle. Dean inhales sharply, and Sam stills.

“Okay?” Sam asks, looking carefully at Dean’s expression. Dean’s brow is furrowed, but he nods. “Strange.” He says finally, tightly, like he’s been holding his breath. Sam smooths a hand over his ribcage, encouraging him to take a breath. Dean’s chest spasms, filling Sam’s palm around an inhale. “We can—“ Sam starts, but Dean cuts him off with a glare. “If you were going to say stop, I’ll kill you.”

Sam was going to say that, but switches tacts. “You can flip over. It might be easier starting on your stomach.” Dean looks at him a little strangely. He inhales again. “I’d. I’d like to see you, yeah?” Dean looks like he’s forcing the words out, and Sam’s insides go all hot and fuzzy for a second. Sam nods, and tries make his next words as neutral as possible.

“Yeah, okay.” Sam presses his finger in a little farther, reaching over to add more lube to the stretch. Dean’s insides are wet, hot, tight and Sam has to breathe slowly through his mouth. Dean’s muscles are vise-tight, and Sam tries pressing against his walls to no avail.

“Shh, Dean, you’ve got this. Relax for me, baby,” Sam pets down Dean’s thigh, thumb brushing the base of Dean’s flagging erection. Dean’s panting like a racehorse, lungs expanding and constricting like bellows. His eyes are wide, but his face is neither twisted in pleasure nor pain. “You’re being so good for me, sweetheart. So perfect.”

Dean bites off a whimper, and hitches his hips down. “Not a girl. And ’m not gonna break. More.” Sam soothes him with another hand on Dean’s stomach, but pulls out slightly to insert his ring finger alongside his middle. Sam wants to press kisses to Dean’s hip and tell him that Dean deserves to be treated like he could break—fragile, delicate—but Sam knows Dean wouldn’t take it as he means it.

He scissors his fingers gently, spreading them apart. Dean’s body opens slightly, but his muscles are still so tight. The slick, burning hot, velvet, tight skin of him makes Sam’s brain a little fuzzy, and he tries to keep this about Dean.

He pushes a little deeper (wet groan from Dean), crooking his fingers and stroking Dean’s walls until he finds— Dean jerks in his arms, a sharp cry, as his spine shoots straight. Sam repeats the movement, stroking along the bundle of nerves punishingly. Dean is moaning like one of those girls he brings back to their motel room, and Sam is addicted to the rumble of his chest, the slick, aching heat of him, the way Dean’s hands are scrambling for purchase on Sam’s shoulders, the bed covers, anything.

He’s babbling now, aborted combinations of Sam’s name with Jesus, Fuck, More.

Dean’s cock, which had flagged earlier due to the uncomfortable stretch, is fully erect again, brushing against his stomach as Sam presses another finger into Dean.

He could do this all day. His fingers are starting to cramp, scissoring and flexing in Dean’s heat, and his wet hair is curling against his overheated skin, but Sam is completely enraptured with the sight in front of him. In minutes, he has reduced Dean to babbling, as he thrusts his fingers gently against his prostate again and again and again. Dean has loosened up enough that Sam can spread his three fingers apart and Dean’s body accommodates him, pulling his fingers deeper and fuck. Sam feels his jaw slackening, but he’s never seen anything hotter, can feel the throb down to his bones, pulsing in his own cock and saliva pooling in his mouth.

Dean starts clawing at Sam’s shoulders, nails turning punishing as he inhales sharply again. “In me. Inside. Now now.” It takes Sam a second to process what Dean is asking, and fuck how could he have forgotten? Sam had been so absorbed with the offering of Dean’s pleasure, the thin sheen of sweat catching the yellow light of the lamp and making his skin glow, that he had entirely forgotten his own body. His dick throbs painfully, bringing him back to the present. Sam reaches for a condom before he remembers that Dean didn’t want one, and now his blood is aflame in his body, overwhelmed with the potential in front of him. Any second.

He pulls his fingers from Dean’s body, and Dean makes a wounded noise. Sam pumps his cock once, twice, before lining it up to Dean’s entrance. “Tell me I can, Dean. Please.” Sam leans over to bite hard on the meat of Dean’s shoulder, where the werewolf did all those years ago—a claiming mark now, as opposed to one of violence—tongue laving the sweat and spots of water. “Say it.” Dean makes an incoherent noise, part wail, part sob. His fingers dig into Sam’s back, pressing hard against the curve of his spine. “Yes, yes please, fuck me, fuck me.” The words are directly into Sam’s ear, hot, wet breath curling around his cheekbone. Sam slides home. He goes slowly, but the second he breaches Dean’s body, every nerve in his body lights up. Even though he’d been careful about opening Dean up, he’s still so tight, still so fucking hot, that Sam’s skin aches everywhere it’s not touching Dean’s.

Sam mouths at the indent of teeth he left behind on Dean’s shoulder, apologetic kisses as Dean gasps around the intrusion. Dean makes a noise that could sound like the word ‘more’ if given more voice, so Sam complies, sliding in inch by inch.

When he finally is in all the way, Dean sighs loudly, like he’s proud of himself, like he does after a difficult hunt or after Sam compliments him on a plan. “Full. Fuck, Sammy. I’m so full.” Dean presses a hand below his stomach, almost as if he would be able to feel Sam’s cock through his skin. Dean’s throat clicks as he swallows, and Sam watches the movement of his Adam’s apple hungrily. “Mine?” He asks, but he sounds unsure, like he doesn’t know whether he should be saying it at all. Sam feels a whine slide between his teeth. “Yeah, baby. Just yours.” Dean starts making little movements against Sam’s hips, where their pelvises are resting against each other. Being in Dean feels…indescribable. Like an itch that had finally been scratched, relief so thorough and alleviating that Sam shakes with it. Like Odysseus must have felt like stepping onto Ithaca’s shores again, like a shoe must feel placed on a mat, like the falling Sun must feel when it sees the Moon rising. Like Sam is finally whole. A whole person. There’s nothing wrong with this—nothing could possibly be wrong with the sudden, intense calm in his head. Dean’s pelvis bone against his, legs wrapped around Sam’s thighs, as close as two people can be—inside of each other—without ripping open skin.

Dean starts making encouraging noises, shifting up in Sam’s arms, and Sam—suddenly aware of every nerve in his body—acquiesces, pulling slightly out of Dean. Dean starts making a noise that is punched out of him as Sam slides home again.

Sam’s skin is melting off of his bones—it’s the only explanation for the prickling, throbbing heat over every pore. Sam fucks up into Dean again, and adjusts his angle so the next thrust is aimed at his prostate. Dean throws his head back, eyes wide and blissed out, mouth agape. Sam lets go of Dean’s hip with one hand to tangle in the short hair at the back of his head and increasing the angle, forcing Dean’s head back, into bearing his throat, into submission. Sam begins mauling Dean in earnest, hips pumping and mouth biting, licking, every inch of Dean’s skin he can reach, his collarbones and sternum and neck.

Dean balls a hand in Sam’s hair, down to the roots, and Sam worries distantly that Dean will pull him off, but Dean does the opposite. He presses Sam’s face to his skin harder, turning his head back to what must be a painful angle so Sam has more access to the canvas of skin. After sucking a particularly livid bruise over the skin above Dean’s heart is Sam satiated, and he pulls back a little.

A glint catches Sam’s eye, and he looks to see tears brimming over Dean’s lashes, trailing down his temples and to the pillow. His eyes are wet, and he gasps a wet breath, biting down on his bottom lip punishingly. Sam stills immediately, a hand reaching up to brush the wetness from Dean’s lashes. “‘m good. Don’t stop, don’t you fucking dare.” Dean says, but his voice is breathy, shaking and tremulous. Sam doesn’t know what to do. He’s paralyzed by Dean’s tears, but Dean is making little hitching movements with his hips, trying to slide Sam deeper.

Sam only rasps Dean’s name, a gentle prod that Dean shakes his head at. “Good.” Dean finally manages. “Harder.” He says, shifting his hips down to meet Sam’s tentative thrust, their bodies working in concert. “More.” Sam’s brain white-outs, and he speeds his thrusts. Every push into Dean’s body is ecstasy, every nerve and pore and inch of skin alight with mind-numbing pleasure. Sam doesn’t know how he lived without his until now—doesn’t know if he can force himself to live without it again.

Dean has fucked a lot of people, but Sam doesn’t think Dean has ever been theirs in the way he is Sam’s right now. He’s completely pliant in Sam’s arms, head rolling and hands tight in the short, sweat-slick hair of Sam’s nape. He keeps trying to say something, but he’s so fucked out that his mouth is only moving around nothing. That sick, possessive thrill runs through Sam again, and he’s dangerously close to coming apart.

“Look at you,” Sam mutters, leaning up to see the full sensuous line of Dean’s body. “God, Dean. So perfect. So beautiful baby, you’re so good to me. So fucking gorgeous.” Dean’s brow furrows, but his cock jerks between them, leaking precome onto his already soaked skin. Sam wraps a hand around his neglected dick, sliding fingers loosely around him. Dean sobs, jerking up into his touch. “Do you like that, hm baby? Being so good to me?” Sam leans down, licking a stripe along the hinge of Dean’s jaw. “Hearing how good you’re taking care of me?”

Dean’s eyes go comically wide, a wail ripping from his throat.

“Jesus Christ, Sam. Where the fuck did you learn to talk like that?” Dean’s pupils are blown and his words are mostly gasps, but his hips are still jerking against Sam’s hands. When he reaches up to cradle Sam’s face, his hands are shaking. He presses his forehead to Sam’s, breath panting directly into Sam’s mouth, who opens his mouth further to feel Dean’s breath directly from his lungs.

Sam smiles. “Trevor.” Dean puffs a laugh, a finger tilting so he can dig a nail into Sam’s sideburn. “Fuck you.” Sam’s chest is aching, warmth and adoration and emotions too big for Sam’s body beating against the inside of his ribs. “I love you,” Sam says, helpless to anything else. “God, I love you so much I think it’ll kill me.” He speeds his hand on Dean’s cock, tightening his grip just enough to finally provide the friction that he needs. Sam can feel the skin of Dean’s forehead furrowing against his own, as little punched-out noises are poured into Sam’s mouth. Sam pulls back as he feels Dean’s body tensing against his own, desperate to see Dean’s face as—

Dean comes apart in Sam’s arms, mouth snapping open around a noiseless cry and body going taught. His eyes—so green and familiar and beloved—are watery and fuzzy, pupils swallowing his irises. Sam feels the hot spill of Dean’s come in his hand, cock jerking and never-ending. Sam works him through it, hand slowing as Dean starts making little overstimulated noises. Sam chases his own release, grabbing Dean’s hips with both hands as he slams into him. “C’mon, Sammy,” Dean rasps, making small movements of his hips to meet Sam’s thrusts. Sam is getting close, so close he can taste it, the blinding crest of agony-ecstasy-Dean, and he moves to pull out. Dean’s hands snap out, grabbing Sam’s hips and pulling him back into the hot cradle of his body. “No, in. In me, Sammy, c’mon give it to me.” Dean’s babbling as he tightens his grip on his waist, eyes wide and watery and adoring. “I want to feel you—as far in as you can go.” It’s the last push, and with two, three, four pumps in, he’s coming.

His whole world explodes, and he buries his cock into Dean as far as it will go, feeling Dean clench around him, pulling him impossibly farther, hot and perfect and Sam’s. The crest of his pleasure threatens to undo him, and every fiber in his body slots into place, hums in perfect key. Sam collapses forward against Dean, as every muscle in his body goes limp. When he finally manages to blink his eyes open again, he can feel Dean squirming against him as he tries to breathe. Shit, Sam probably weighs a ton. Sam pulls himself out of Dean’s body, Dean making a little dazed noise. He just has the presence of mind to grab the nearest piece of clothing (Dean’s shirt that had fallen off the bed) to wipe them off. He rubs Dean’s cock, to a noise of sleepy protest/pleasure, and over his ass, still leaking come onto his thigh. When he’s satisfied, Sam turns over to turn the lamp off, wrangling Dean under the covers, and pressing him close. Dean rubs his face into the space between Sam’s face and the pillow like a cat, making a snort-grumbling noise. He pulls Sam’s leg over his waist, and Sam bends his knee so he can press against Dean’s calf. Dean pulls Sam against his chest, tucking his head over Sam’s. It’s so familiar, Sam pressed to Dean’s chest, legs sliding down until they’re intertwined. It makes tears press against Sam’s sleepy eyes, thinking about how many times he’d fallen asleep in the comforting nest of Dean’s body, too young to know that this love was damning. Too adoring and warm to resist. Dean presses his nose into Sam’s hair and inhales deeply. Sam would like to think that Dean’s thinking the same thing, that this familiar embrace means even a fraction as much as it means to Sam. But Dean’s slow breath betrays the fact that he’s already far away in sleep. And as Sam always does, he follows Dean.

It’s the fastest Sam had fallen asleep since Stanford.

~~~

When Sam wakes up, he’s surprised by how bright it is outside. He’s always up at the crack of dawn, rising with the sun. It drives—drove—Jess crazy, but his nightmares would wake him up more often than not.

Sometimes they were of the fire, of Jess on the ceiling, but some of them were snatches of Sam’s childhood. Hot vinyl sticking to Sam’s legs in a diner. Jeans three sizes too big. Dean holding Sam’s face in place as he taught him how to shave. Girls laughing behind Sam in geometry. Sam being pushed into a motel pool, mucky with algae, by a laughing Dean, sun-spotted with freckles and wearing paper-thin swim trunks from a gas station. Dad’s eyes in the Impala’s rear view mirror. Dad handing him his first knife, loving and hating the natural way it fit into his palm.

Sam rolls over, seeking warmth in a too-small bed, but there’s no one there.

A bone-deep knowledge, panic, shreds Sam’s insides like tissue paper. He sits up, looking around the room.

Dean’s gone. Dean is gone.

Dean rarely wakes up before Sam, if ever. Ever since Sam completed his growth-spurt, age fifteen, his anger and anxiety would propel him up at ungodly hours. He would lace up his worn-flat sneakers and run a mile or three before the sun finished rising. The thump of his heartbeat and the rush of adrenaline calmed him a way hunting never did. But Dean was never a morning person. He had to be cajoled out of bed with promises of coffee and whatever breakfast Sam had brought back.

All warmth from seconds ago has been leeched from the room, and Sam throws the blanket off. He rushes to the bathroom, but the door is open wide and Dean isn’t there. Sam stumbles back into the room, his head-rush finally catching up with him as he wilts against the wall. He can feel a curl of white-hot panic wedge itself between his ribs. Did Dean leave-leave? Sam, eyes wide, looks down at their bags. Their. Plural. Dean’s duffel is still next to his on the table, contents splayed open. Sam tries to breathe around the knife in his chest, but the bag does little to calm his racing heart.

He grabs a pair of jeans at random and pulls them up over his hips, only realizing they’re Dean’s when the hems brush the bottoms of his calves. He jerks open the door, blinking away the blinding morning light. Dew has sprinkled the forest beyond, and the air is fresh and bracing, but the Impala is gone. Gone.

Sam steps out, shivering a little in the cool morning breeze. He realizes, somewhere under the chorus of He’s gone, He’s gone, He’s gone, that he should have grabbed a shirt. He wanders, barefoot and dazed, forward into the parking lot. Maybe Dean moved the car away from the road? Sam follows the bank of rooms until the end, turning the corner to find an empty lot, with scattered Doritos bags and plastic wrappers and more forest beyond.

Sam must have gotten back in the room, but doesn’t register anything again until he��s staring at the wall, hands clenched in his lap. Sam runs last night over and over again in his brain. It’s a full rush of Dean, naked, pressed against tile and sheets and eyes wide, watering, as Sam pressed in, in.

Did…Did he pressure Dean into anything last night? Dean had a problem saying no to Sam. It was incredibly helpful when they were younger—it was funny when Dean let Sam have the other Hot Pocket, it was cool when Dean let Sam stay up past his bedtime, it was cool when Sam woke up one day in the fifth grade and a pair of new running shoes was sitting in his duffel like they had been there the whole time. Sam had a sway over his brother—phrase anything with a touch of that little-brother whine—and it came in handy before Sam really realized what that meant.

It stopped being funny when Sam told Dean he wanted a skateboard and Dean had been locked up overnight in Billings, Montana for shoplifting. It wasn’t funny when Sam asked Dean for an extra helping of dinner and Dean handed over his own portion, lying and saying he was already full. It wasn’t funny if…if. If Dean had said yes because Sam had asked him to.

Dean’s not an idiot, Sam tries to reason. And he’s not a pushover. If it was serious, he would say no.

But it doesn’t ease the tight cramp in his stomach, it doesn’t make the flare of panic recede. Sam is still sitting in an empty motel room, hours after having sex with Dean. Dean couldn’t stand to look at you. Couldn’t stand to sleep in the same bed as you.

And then, a noise as familiar to Sam as his own breathing. More, even. A sound as familiar as the rumble of Deans’ voice, as familiar as the crackle of electricity, as rain. The Impala’s door. Opening. And then closing. Sam sits up straight, heartbeat rising in his throat as he shoots to his feet. He’s stumbling up the door, fingertips on the doorknob when it swings open.

Dean is there—jolting back as Sam presses forward into his space. Eyes wide, dazed. Dad’s coat and ratty Metallica shirt and scuffed boots and bruises dotted across the length of his neck, a fresh pink. His fingers wrapped around the handle of a plastic bag, a carton in his other hand supporting two cups of—Sam inhales—coffee.

Sam manages to tear his eyes away from Dean to see the Impala parked over his shoulder, where it should be.

“Woah, Sam, what the fuck?” Dean continues to step back, and Sam starts to reach for him—No—when he realizes it’s because the cups perched precariously on the take-out container are wobbling. Dean’s arm moves, trying to stabilize the tower, but Sam reaches out and grabs it from him.

“Sorry,” He says, reflex. It’s a bizarrely mundane exchange, in the face of it all. Sam’s skin crawls. Dean pushes past him to put the food down, and Sam watches every movement hungrily.

It’s just food. Breakfast. Dean went out to get breakfast. Sam feels the tension in his stomach slowly loosen. Dean woke up early and went to get breakfast. It’s a dance as easy as breathing, it’s a routine so engrained its biological.

Sam finally leaves the doorway, closing the door behind him and shuffling to stand next to Dean. He puts the box and the cups on the table, shifting his weight slightly to press into Dean’s side. He tries to look into Dean’s face, but Dean keeps turning slightly, just out of sight as he unpacks the bag. Two bottles of orange juice. A bag of peanut M&Ms. A bag of Sam’s favorite trail mix. Two Slim Jims. A tube of toothpaste. He crumples the bag and crosses the room to his duffel bag, shoving it into the side pocket. Sam moves the coffee cups and opens the container to find a stack of four pancakes (two chocolate chip and two regular) and a handful of syrup containers.

(It’s bad if Dean got pancakes. Pancakes were a luxury when they were younger, eaten pretty routinely until Sam was eight, at which point Dean stopped buying them. I’m sick of ‘em, Dean had said, And I’m older so what I say goes. From then on it was bacon and egg sandwiches and soggy fruit cups. Sam later found a library book stolen from a library in Vermont in Dean’s duffel titled Feeding a Family: How to Raise a Healthy Child. The pages were dog-eared. It was one of those things that Sam would remember at Stanford that would punch the breath from his lungs. Twelve was too young to realize that your father didn’t care what you ate, that you had to ration your money on food that would provide sustenance for a child. Pancakes were a luxury food—when Sam was sick, when Sam got picked on at school, when Dad uprooted them suddenly from a school Sam really liked.)

Sam can feel his heartbeat in his ears but he tears the styrofoam container in two, lid separating from the base in a noise too loud for the silent room. He separates the food, chocolate chip for Dean and plain for him, dividing the syrup, coffee, orange juice, and plastic utensils evenly. By the time Dean turns around, Sam is shifting awkwardly in one of the chairs at the table, food ready.

Dean’s eyes flick up to his face, and he’s stopped by whatever he finds there.

“Stop lookin’ at me like that,” Dean says, but he sounds agonized, as if Sam is doing something supremely unfair. Sam wants to apologize—maybe, his head is pounding and his mouth is dry, he’s not sure what he wants—but is physically incapable of moving his eyes from Dean’s face.

If this is the end, Sam wants to see it coming with both eyes open.

Dean starts moving toward him, and Sam hears the chair creak. He must’ve leaned forward. Before Dean can make contact (hand reaching up, out, on reflex before falling back down his side), he stops. He clears his throat.

“Okay, we have to talk about it.”

Sam nods frantically, relieved. He thought he’d have to beat thoughts from Dean.

“Okay, I—“ “No, Sam.” Dean cuts him off, voice firm, and Sam falls immediately silent, feeling inexplicably chastised. “I’m going first.”

Dean moves to sit across from him, and Sam kind of wishes he had stayed away. His face is so close, the undeniable evidence of his anxiety on full display.

“This can never happen again.” Dean says, and Sam feels his entire world fall into one single pinprick of light. “It was a mistake. I don’t want this. I don’t want you. You’re my brother, Sammy. That’s it.” Darkness creeps in.

“Don’t do this,” Sam thinks he says, or he means to, but he can’t feel his tongue.

“I was desperate for some kinda connection or something. I don’t know.” Dean scrubs a hand through his hair. “Losing you made me all weird. But that’s all.” The worry of earlier comes back to Sam with a vengeance. Dean was vulnerable last night, and Sam had taken advantage.

Sam had.

Sam.

Sam’s probably breathing hard, somewhere, can hear someone raggedly breathing. Is it him? Dean’s still looking at him with hard eyes, as if he’s practiced this speech a hundred times before, as if he eats Sam alive for breakfast on days that end with ‘y.’

You sick freak, you freak. This was always going to happen, this was always—

“But you—“ told me you loved me, Sam wants to say, as petulant and desperate as a child for it not to be true. But…no he didn’t. Sam tries to run everything Dean said back in his head. I want you. First times are supposed to be special. Mine. Not love. Sam had filled in the blanks.

“You said you wanted me.” Sam has to finally settle on.

Dean’s face twists uncomfortably.

“Listen…uh. It’s not too late for you, ya know?”

Sam’s insides settle comically fast. Oh. This isn’t Dean not wanting him, this is Dean being a fucking dick about it. Relief, sharp and bitter, floods Sam’s mouth. He had started to think he had coerced Dean into something—violated Dean, in a real and unforgivable way. He thought Dean was just as desperate as he was, but for a different reason. But, no. The asshole was trying to be fucking noble. Sam still hears his heartbeat in his head, but can finally catch his breath. “Fuck you,” He says. Dean reacts as if Sam had lobbed a grenade on the table, pin mysteriously absent. He bristles. “Excuse me?”

Sam has to stand, nervous energy built and built and built with no release. He starts to walk to the door with the intention to pace, but Dean jumps up, snagging Sam by the bicep.

“Woah, wait a second here, man. Don’t—“

Sam shakes the arm off. “You’re going to ‘man’ me right now?” Sam asks. “And what the fuck is wrong with you? I thought I had assaulted you, asshole.” Dean blanches, backing up a step. “I never said—“ “But you’re just being a dick, like usual. And I’m not leaving—I’m not pulling what you pulled this morning.”

Dean blinks hard, and Sam can see him process what Sam waking up in an empty room probably signified to him. Dean’s face settles into a hard, dead look. It’s his Dad-face: no emotion, no twitch of expression, just solider. It makes Sam fucking infuriated to see it on Dean now.

“You wanna talk about leaving, Sammy?” Dean’s face is so flushed that Sam can’t see the spatter of freckles across his nose. “You wanna fucking talk about leaving?”

Sam’s body lights up in a white-hot pulse of anger-hurt-shock so acute that his face goes numb.

“That’s not fair.” He finally manages to say. “‘Cause leaving is all you know how to do.” Dean plows on, shoulders lifting like he’s expecting Sam to reel back and deck him. “I was seventeen!” Sam knows his voice is way too loud, even in his own ears, but can’t stop the trembling sick rolling up his body in waves. They’re too good at hurting each other—they know every single pressure point to target. “And you’re my kid brother!” Dean shouts. He pales, stumbling back. He sits down, hard, in the chair behind him. The room is deafeningly quiet, only Sam’s breaths and the sound of Dean scrubbing a hand over his face, the shush of skin on skin.

“Fuck, Sammy.” Dean’s voice is choked. “You’re my little brother.” Sam knows that getting in Dean’s space is the wrong move now, but it doesn’t stop the urge to go and press his face into Dean’s chest and keep it there.

He manages to curb the instinct, barely, but sits down on the edge of the bed facing the table. Dean sits with the weight of what he’s feeling, and Sam tries to give him time to process. Dad was a ticking time bomb, and Sam’s no better. Dean has a long fuse, and sits in his hurt before he lets anyone see it. Sam has gotten familiar with sitting in Dean’s tense silences. It always makes him feel like clawing his skin off—he’s not comfortable with sitting in the weight it. Dean inhales shakily. “I’ve been so good about it, you were never supposed to know.” He says finally, hand coming to wipe across his mouth. He looks up at Sam through red-rimmed eyes. “I’ve been working on it. I’ve been really damn good about it.”

“About wanting me?” Sam asks, hoping that Dean will say no. He’s talking about it like an addiction—like a habit he can’t break. Sam doesn’t want to be that. Dean keeps going, like he’s not listening. “The second I realized, I told myself I’d never do anything that…But you realized anyway? Shit, Sam. I’m so sorry.”

Dean’s shaking his head, mouth pressed into a thin line.

“It’s wrong. It’s so fucked up. I should have never let you—“

“Let me?” Sam repeats incredulously. “You were a pretty willing participant, if I remember.”

Dean flushes up to his ears, the tips as pink as a sunburn.

“It’s wrong. You’ll never get your kids, your wife, and your picket-fence-apple-pie life you’ve always wanted. You want normal? Fucking your brother is kind of the opposite of normal.”

Sam can feel his mouth twist down. It’s so crass, the way Dean says it. Sam’s not a prude—hasn’t been since Dean gave him the safe sex talk when he was thirteen. But still. Sam watches Dean’s face. “If you never want to kiss me again, I’d still be here.” He needs Dean to know that—he’s not a stopover onto something better, he’s it. Dean’s face shutters in a way Sam knows means he hit a nail on the head. “Stop it.”

Sam’s on a roll now, though. “I want you, damn the consequences. We’ve never lived by ‘normal,’ and I don’t see why we should start now.”

“Morally, Sam—forget everyone else.” Dean’s as recalcitrant as a mule, as dutiful and contrite as a penitent. Sam wonders if he’s ever not feared punishment from a higher-up—a striking hand from an unforgiving father. Sam wants to tear his own hair out.

“You literally said it yourself: You plan on going to hell, so what—“ “You believe in Heaven,” Dean says, like a challenge. Like struggling with his religion and struggling with his feelings for Dean aren’t the two cornerstones of Sam’s life. “I don’t think God could make me like this,” Sam says, “And decide to damn me for it anyway.” Dean stops at that, eyes wide. “You think someone made me like this?”

“Made us like this.” Sam nudges his foot forward until it hits Dean’s. Whatever Sam and Dean are, they are made of the same fibre, the same fabric. “The way I love you doesn’t feel wrong at its core. It just feels like you.”

Dean looks away sharply, casting his eyes to the ceiling before falling back down to his hands. His hands are shaking where he’s clasped them together. His voice trembles, as he says,

“No one should be allowed to love anything as much as I love you.” Dean exhales, a laugh married to a sob.“People weren’t built to carry this shit inside ‘em. It isn’t right, it isn’t sane. I—“ Sam moves forward, falling to Dean’s feet. He breaks the grasp that Dean’s hands have on each other and move them to each side of his face. It’s so similar to last night that Sam’s throat closes with it.

“I don’t want to die.” Dean says, so close to Sam’s own mouth that Sam can feel each word unfurl on his lips. “I don’t want to leave you like this—now that I can—“ Dean’s mouth twitches, and he’s so damn close to crying that Sam can see the tears building on his lashes. Sam swallows around the lump in his own throat. He’ll do anything to keep him. Any damn thing. The world—hell—will have to claw Dean Winchester from his hands.

“I’m with you until the end, okay?” Sam says, voice breaking. Dean’s thumb moves over his lash line, stopping a tear before it can fall. Sam feels the liquid cool on his cheek. “Whether…whether it’s in four months or forty years. I’m in this.”

Sam watches the bob of Dean’s throat as he swallows. He looks young, so damn young in the light filtering through the window and Sam’s heart in his hands. Sam can feel the thrum of his blood (their blood, their shared blood, molecules unbreakable, down to the foundations, down to DNA) under his fingers on his wrist. His eyes flick between Sam’s own, searching for a falter, a break. He will find none. “Until the end?” Sam leans up, so Dean can feel Sam’s mouth form the words on his own, “The last possible second.”

~~~

Dean dies three months and twenty-nine days later, gasping blood between slick teeth, arm extended brokenly to where Sam is pinned to the wall. Sam wails into the open cavity of his chest. It’s worse than dying. It’s worse than living, too.

#supernatural #wincest fanfiction #samdean #wincest #cross posted on ao3 #fanfic #spn fanfic #sam and dean #sam winchester #dean winchester #supernatural season 3 #erotically codependent

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