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milla-frenchy · 1 year ago

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A summer with the Millers

4k2 | Joel Miller x fem reader x Tommy Miller | ao3 | Masterlist | series masterlist Summary: you come back to your father's house for summer vacation and want to get closer to your crush (your dad's best friend) and his brother Warnings: 18+ mdni. dubcon (alcohol), mfm, age gap (reader is 21, Tommy and Joel are in their late 30s, early 40s), virgin reader, eager reader, dirty talk, degradation, masturbation, oral (m/f), ball sucking

a/n: dividers @saradika-graphics 🙏❤️ @aurorawritestoescape thank you for beta-ing, love you 💕🫶

It was the beginning of summer, and you were coming back to Austin for vacation. Now you lived in the north of the country for your studies, not too far from your mother, since your parents had divorced several years ago. You hadn't been back in Texas since last summer, and you were delighted to see your father. You couldn't wait to enjoy the heat and the pool. You were about to spend several weeks here, and you had been looking forward to the holidays so much that you almost twirled around as you headed towards the airport parking lot to meet your father.

Your phone buzzed, and you saw the text message.

“Sorry, sweetie, I had a setback at work, I'm really sorry. Tommy is coming to pick you up from the airport. I'll see you home very soon. See you tonight, I can’t wait!"

You were a little disappointed not to see your father right away, but Tommy? He was your dad’s best friend, and you had known him for a long time. You’d had a big crush on him for a couple years, and your disappointment quickly gave way to a slight tightening in your heart.

You reached the parking lot where Tommy was already waiting for you, leaning against his car, smoking a cigarette. He threw it away as soon as he saw you and gave you a big smile before taking you in his arms.

“Hey, darlin’! It’s been so long since I’ve seen you!”

You pulled away from each other, and you weren't sure if your brain was playing tricks, but you felt like you caught his gaze quickly checking out your body.

“Damn, look at you all grown up!”

You smiled at his warm welcome, and your grin reached your ears when he opened the passenger door as a perfect gentleman to let you settle in. When he got behind the wheel and started off, that time you were sure, his eyes lingered for a second or two on your bare legs, which your short skirt barely covered. You smiled. It was going to be a good summer, you were sure of it.

The radio was playing a cool 70s rock song, and you leaned your head against the headrest.

“How old are you now, darlin’? I feel like I haven’t seen you in forever.”

"I'm 21. And it hasn’t been that long, I was here last summer,” you replied, laughing.

“Wow, really? Well… you seem like a whole different person now. How are your studies going?”

"Alright! I love studying classic literature. I feel good at my uni but I’m happy to be back in Texas.”

“I bet you do! How’s your mother?”

“She’s fine too. She has a new boyfriend. Well, it's been almost a year now.”

“Alright. I hope he’s not a pain in the ass to ya?”

“No, he’s ok”, you replied.

The trip continued with a really smooth conversation between the two of you. A few times, your eyes dared to linger on his hands placed on the steering wheel. His veins were prominent and his forearms muscular, and you couldn't help but wonder what his hands would feel like on you. “They’d make a perfect collar around my neck…” you giggled softly at the thought. Apparently your crush was stronger than ever. And you were hornier than ever.

You realized Tommy was talking to you and you hadn’t paid attention.

“Mmm, excuse me?” you asked.

“What was your pretty head thinking about?” he asked, looking at you a little longer than usual.

“Oh, nothing special…I’m just glad to be back.”

“I’m glad too, darlin’.” He checked out your legs when you were looking out of the window and couldn't catch him staring, before pulling into your father's driveway and wishing you a good afternoon.

You watched his car back out of the driveway, then he parked in front of his house. The house next to your dad’s. You waved Tommy goodbye when he looked at you before entering his house. You definitely didn't regret that he came to get you instead of your father.

The sun was flooding the dining room. Photos of you and your father adorned the walls. You missed him terribly every year. You called each other often, but of course it wasn't the same as seeing him every day. Like before.

Your bedroom was as you had left it. Everything in its place, every book, every photo, every memory. You lay down on your bed and stroked the soft blanket with your fingertips. For a few moments, your childhood memories came back to you. A bittersweet melancholy of a bygone time.

Quickly you thought about Tommy, and how he had checked you out in the car. It hadn’t been that long since you’d seen each other, but he seemed to like you. Differently. At least you hoped so, and you would soon check if that was indeed the case. As usual, he would often come over to your dad’s house to watch a football game, have a beer, or enjoy the pool. On Sunday, there would be the usual early summer barbecue. You couldn't wait to go through your closet and pick a dress that would make him salivate.

But first you needed to get off. Your fingers slid down your body. Running them from your neck, where you imagined Tommy’s fingers lightly gripping your skin. The warmth of his hand on you. You went down to the hollow between your breasts, brushing them very lightly, before grabbing one of them and twitching the nipple between your fingers until you felt it harden. Your other hand traveled from your navel to your skirt. You brushed against the elastic, then the fabric, until you reached the hem. Pulling your skirt up to your waist, then brushing against your sensitive folds under your panties. For a few minutes, you played with your pleasure. Brushing against your swollen clit with feather light touches. Until impatience gripped you, and you finally slip your hand into your panties. Imagining Tommy’s feverish fingers working their way to reach your soaking pussy. You ran your digits along your soaked folds to wet them, and moved up to your twitching clit, already sensitive. You moaned, softly whispering “Tommy.” Your index finger gently swirled over your little bud of nerves, applying the perfect pressure to make your orgasm build. Your other hand squeezed your breast, and you arched your back as your gasps filled the room. But you needed more. Needed to feel something in your core. Your hand left your breast and slipped into your panties, pushing your middle finger between your folds. Just in time for your pussy to clench on it, a wave hit your trembling body. Imagining Tommy inside you, his face above yours, balls deep in your cunt. His name escaped your lips one last time, with final twitches of your walls against your finger. All you could think about was Tommy, and the sensations he would give you. Sensations you could only imagine, because you were still a virgin.

Your father came back home early in the evening, and you had dinner together, chatted and laughed. You two always had a great relationship. When your parents had divorced, you all had agreed that you would live with your mother, since your father had often been away for work. But you missed him a lot, and summers with him were definitely your favorite time of the year.

Tommy came by your house a few times in the days that followed. But not once did you see his gaze on you like it had happened in his car on the way back from the airport. You were disappointed, but since your father was home every time he visited, you figured that maybe Tommy didn't want to risk something in his presence.

The barbecue day arrived, finally. You had chosen a short summer dress with white and yellow pattern, thin straps, no bra underneath. Black lace panties completed the ensemble.

You were impatiently waiting for Tommy to arrive, and you knew he would be among the first guests. You were busy setting the table when you heard your name. Tommy was approaching you and he wasn't alone. Joel, his brother, was with him. He was slightly older than Tommy, and you hadn't seen him in several years. You didn't remember him being so hot and you lost your breath when you saw him. They hugged you, and If Tommy kept a friendly attitude, Joel looked at you from head to toe and smirked, while your dad was busy with the other guests. Arousal instantly burned you from the inside out.

So you decided to go a little further. You seeped your beer while staring and smiling at Tommy or Joel, played with a lollipop redder than your lips while looking at them, or talking to them. You saw Joel readjust himself twice, and Tommy looked away a few times. But his bulge left no doubt about the effect your little game had on him.

The last guests were leaving, and you wished everyone a good evening. Saving your warmest, playful smile for the Millers. Your father had drunk a little too much, and told you he was going to bed. You walked him to his bedroom, helped him take off his shoes, and covered him with his blanket. Then you went into the garden and sat in one of the deckchairs, a beer in hand. You had drunk more than usual but you felt good, a little dizzy but not too much, and you wanted to end the evening like that, looking at the stars.

“You haven’t gone to bed, darlin’?”, you heard from the aisle. Tommy and Joel were heading back towards you.

“No, not yet, I’m still enjoying the evening,” you added, raising your beer bottle at them. “Did you forget something?”

“Yeah, my phone. There it is,” Tommy added.

“Wanna join me for another beer?”

“Yeah, sure”, said Joel. They took beers from the cooler, then brought two deck chairs closer to yours. Conversation was easy with them. Both were quite talkative.

As for you, you laughed even more than usual, thanks to the beers you had drunk. The effect of the alcohol seemed much less stronger on Tommy and Joel.

“It’s getting late, I'm gonna put away the leftovers”, you said, getting up.

“Let us help you, sweetheart,” offered Joel.

You took the salad bowls and went down to the basement to put them in the fridge. You found yourself really close to Joel as you walked through the door, and he clung to you wholeheartedly.

“So, baby... what was that little game all evening?”

“You liked it?” you asked, shamelessly.

“Oh, sweetheart, are you sure you know what you’re gettin’ into?”

“What are you doin’, Joel?” asked Tommy.

“Just what she wants. Come on, she’s been hitting on us all day.”

“Her father’s here, Joel. He’s… He’s my best friend.”

“Drank way too much. We heard him snoring from the dining room. And she can fuck whoever she wants, it’s not her father’s problem. She’s 21.”

“I… I don’t know man.. I’ve known her since… forever.”

"Jesus. She's an adult. You wanna have fun, baby?”

“Yes! Yes, please. Come on, Tommy, I wanna play with you too”, you added, flirting openly.

Tommy's remorse quickly dissipated, you weren’t sure if you had to thank the beers for that or not. The two brothers' bodies pressed against yours two seconds later. Tommy's lips sought yours, while Joel's covered your neck with kisses. The four hands caressed your waist and breasts, and you felt their hard cocks pushing against you. Virility and masculinity emanated from them. Strength, too. They were men, not boys or young men, and had a totally different energy than the guys you had dated so far. And even though your desire for the two brothers was soaking your panties, you started to fear that maybe you wouldn’t be able to manage what was going to happen next.

“Wait, wait”, you breathed out suddenly, while your hands were lost in Tommy’s wavy hair. They pulled away from you slightly at the same time, respecting your uncertainty.

“What is it, darlin’?” Tommy asked you gently.

“I… uh. Fuck.” You looked at him with a mixture of different emotions in the eyes. Joel stood in front of you, side by side with his brother.

“I…damn. I’m a virgin”, you finally confessed, looking down at the ground.

“What the…” Joel said with raised eyebrows, pulling away from you and taking a few steps into the basement, hands on hips.

“Well… I played with dildos but… not real dicks.”

“Christ, darlin’ we can't… We can’t do that” said Tommy, shaking his head.

“You’re a virgin? How is it even possible? I mean… You’re screaming for our cocks and you never took one?” added Joel.

“I just… I dated guys but they were jerks. I never wanted to fuck one of them. Plus…”

“Plus what?” asked Joel.

Alcohol gave you some courage, or unconsciousness, and you murmured “I couldn’t get Tommy out of my head.”

“No shit”, chuckled Joel, “my little bro is a crush of his best friend's daughter…”

“Shut up, Joel. Darlin’, what are you talking-”

“Oh come on, Tommy. You saw how I looked at you. And I saw how you looked at me. I’m an adult. And… you’re hot. Both of you. We can have fun, right? I guess you don't fuck virgins every day. I just need you to go slow."

“No. No way. We can’t do that. Not here, not now… we can’t do that Joel. It was one thing to fuck her. But having her first time with us here? With her father upstairs? No way.”

“Alright, alright. What if… We’d do other things?”

“What things?”

“Using our hands and mouths. We could play with her mouth too.”

“I don’t fuckin’ know, man. And she drank too much to think clearly”, said Tommy.

“She wasn’t drunk when she was teasing us as soon as we arrived. You want this, baby?” Joel asked, looking at you.

“Yes”, you answered firmly.

“Both of us?”

“Yes.”

Joel moved closer to you, took off your dress, and whistled before looking at his brother.

“We have fun. But we don’t fuck her. Not with our cocks, at least.”

“That’s twisted, Joel”, Tommy murmured, but without being able to take his eyes off your body.

“That’s hot as fuck.”

“Fuck… Ok. Ok...”

A few seconds later, you found yourself on the couch in that basement with Tommy’s shoulders between your thighs.

“Your panties’re soaked, baby, jesus…” he said.

“Told you I wanted it…” you flirted.

“Fuck”, he said, caressing your folds through the fabric, before removing them and spreading your thighs slightly to reveal your pussy. “Damn, look at that, Joel…”

Joel moved closer and Tommy spread you further, so his brother had a perfect view of your bare, dripping pussy.

“What a juicy cunt… Already all swollen up. Can’t wait to taste it. But you go first, man.”

“Yeah”, Tommy breathed out just before he licked a long stripe from your folds to your clit.

You were already moaning at this new sensation. So different from the one you felt when you were making yourself come with your fingers, or even a sex toy. Tommy's tongue ran through your folds, his mustache and beard tickled your fine skin. Then danced at your core, and swirled over your clit, and you didn't know whether to hold on to his hair or his shoulders. Sometimes you would open your eyes and watch Joel, staring where his brother was eating you out, his hand squeezing his crotch to relieve the tension. Tommy pushed one finger in your cunt, and you stared at Joel as you came on Tommy’s finger, his tongue resting on your clit.

“Fuck, that’s hot baby, seeing you all spread like that for my brother…”

Tommy was so pussy drunk from being the first one to lick you that he almost came in his boxers when you clenched on his finger and moaned. He pulled away and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and you felt slightly embarrassed seeing how his mustache and beard glistened from your wetness. Then he got up and slowly pulled his cock out of his pants, and you saw the red, dripping tip of his thick length.

“You wanna suck my cock, darlin’?”

You nodded enthusiastically, but Joel firmly told you “words, baby.”

“Yes. Yes, I wanna suck your cock, Tommy.”

“You’ve never sucked a cock before either?” Joel asked as he in turn knelt between your thighs.

“No… uh Joel? Are you gonna…?”

“Eat ya? Yeah. Fuck yeah. Ya want it?”

“Yeah…Yeah, I want it.”

“You got it, then.”

He spat on your cunt and you gasped, then he spread it with his thumb, careful not to overstimulate you.

“How many times did you get off thinking about my brother, baby?” he asked before licking your soaking pussy.

“A… a lot”, you whimpered, your hands tightening his curls, as you spread your legs as wide as possible to give him full access.

“Yeah, you got off, thinking of my brother’s tongue in your cunt? His fingers? His cock?”

“Yeah”, you breathed out.

“Damn, little brother. What a good little toy we got here...”

The way he was talking about you made you moan, and he buried his tongue between your folds.

Thinking that his brother was eating your pussy a few minutes before was turning you on like never before.

Thinking that the first time someone went down on you, he did it in front of his brother, before he took his place. And you were already wondering if you could convince Tommy to make them take your virginity, and if Joel would lie down between your thighs after his brother. Filling you both with their cum. The thought, coupled with Joel's tongue, made you cum a second time so quickly that you didn’t feel it coming.

“She’s so sensitive…I wonder how many times we’re gonna make her cum, Tommy.”

Tommy was lazily jerking off while watching his brother eat you out. When your shaking stopped, his eyes darkened and he said “sit down, sweetheart. Will be easier to blow me.”

You obeyed, blushing slightly under their gaze on your bare body, but eager to taste his thick cock.

You had watched tons of porn and knew how to do it. But you wanted to hear Tommy tell you what to do, to be in charge. You let him grab your chin between his fingers, and lift it towards him. Applying a light pressure to it.

“Open up for me, darlin’.”

You parted your lips, and he bent over, dropping his saliva in your mouth, which you swallowed right away.

“Gonna be sloppy for me?”

You nodded, eyes fixed on him.

“Stick out your tongue and lick my slit, baby. Wanna see your pretty throat swallow what I’m givin’ you.”

You darted your tongue out and twirled it around his tip, then swallowed his precum. Tasting it for the first time. He held his cock tightly in his hand while the other was holding the back of your head as he pushed his tip between your lips.

Joel had just finished another beer and was watching you suck his brother while palming his crotch.

“How is she?”, he asked.

“Good. Fuckin’ good. A little shy and unsure. It's fuckin’ hot.”

“Can you imagine, her first time playing naughty for real, she wants not one, but two cocks? What kinda slut does that?”

If Joel thought he was embarrassing you by talking about you like that, he was wrong. You pulled back and your eyes fixed on his brother, as you asked feigning shy tone “you like being sucked by your best friend’s daughter, Tommy?” Batting your long eyelashes at him, making Joel chuckle “well, damn…”

“Fuck… You’re a naughty thing, darlin’, aren’t ya? Naughty things like you don’t keep their mouths empty. Keep suckin’.”

You smiled and took him back in your mouth, applying yourself, attentive to his moans and sucking him according to his sensitivity.

Joel opened two beers and offered one to his brother who took sips regularly, his other hand resting on the back of your head while fucking your mouth and throat. Joel sat on the couch next to you, and took out his cock, wanking slowly while drinking his beer too.

“I think my brother needs some relief, baby. Be a good girl and lie down.”

Once laid down, Joel spread your thighs indecently, exposing your soaking wet pussy.

“Gonna let me play with that little cunt, sweetheart?”

You nodded, just before Tommy slipped his cock back in your mouth. Drinking his beer at the same time. Being used like this was turning you on more and more. Both of them still had their clothes on, and you found it so hot. Making you feel even more used.

“Imagine how tight she must be. How she’d squeeze our cocks, if we fucked her like she begs to be. One day, don’t freak out little brother.”

“I know, fuck, stop talking about that or I’m gonna nut.”

Joel smirked and spread your glistening folds with his thumbs and you felt your wetness flowing down to your asshole. He spat on your cunt and you moaned.

“She just loves that,” Tommy smirked, thrusting deeper in your throat.

Joel hummed, and brushed his beer bottle between your folds, and you tensed noticeably.

“Come on, Joel, don’t be a jerk.”

Joel chuckled again, and said “you know I won’t do that. I’m not gonna split her open with a bottle. At least not for her first time. Just wanted to spice up my beer.”

He took a sip of his beer, covered with your wetness.

“Way better, now.”

“Fuck”, said Tommy, watching him.

Joel rubbed his shaft along your folds, making you moan, mouth full of Tommy’s cock. Feeling his cock against your pussy was an overwhelming sensation. So different from feeling a cold dildo. Your hips rolled against Joel’s shaft and he growled.

“Don’t fuck her, Joel”, Tommy warned.

“Yeah. I know. Fuck, I know, I know. Her cunt is trying to swallow me, man, you see that?”

“Yeah… Our little whore. When did you become such a cockslut, baby? Your father raised you as a good, proper girl, and look at you playing with our fat cocks…not that I'm complaining, takin’ such good care of us, damn.”

Joel’s precum was mixing with your wetness and he rubbed his tip against your clit.

“ ‘m gonna come soon… gonna shoot my load on that pretty pussy, cover her in white, fuck…”

“Suck my balls, baby… gonna come soon too.”

Tommy grabbed his big balls and let them cover your mouth and chin as he started to jerk off. You licked, sucked his balls eagerly, like you've seen dozens of times in porns.

“Look at that Joel, holy shit. Better than your lollipop, uh darlin’?”

“See brother, who gives a shit she’s your best friend's daughter? We could rail her all summer, ruin her pretty holes every fucking day. Teach her how to be a perfect fuck.”

Their dirty talk, the way they were talking about you as if you weren’t even here, made you melt and despite your sore jaw, you couldn’t stop licking Tommy’s balls, still jerking off.

“Fuck, darlin’, yeah just like that. Keep suckin’ my balls. Oh god. Fuck!”

His cum spurted out, white pearls falling onto your hair and face as his hand held your mouth pressed against his balls.

You heard Joel growl and he grabbed your hand, holding it against his shaft sliding along your folds, until he came too, his cum covering your pussy and fingers. His jerks against your clit made you cum one last time, your pussy desperately empty, and you only wished to squeeze their shafts soon enough.

“Jesus… you dried our balls so good, baby.”

They tucked their cocks into their jeans, looking at you still lying on the couch covered in their cum, breathing heavily. Tommy brought you a towel and they helped you up.

“You liked it baby? You liked being a good slut for us?

“Never felt better, actually”, you smiled.

The next morning when you came down for breakfast, your father had already made you coffee and toasts.

“Did you have a good evening, sweetie? I think I passed out… Did you help me in to my bedroom? I can’t remember a thing, I'm sorry sweetie.”

“I did, don’t worry ‘bout that, dad, it’s totally ok!”

“I wasn't a very good host or proper father last night. Wasn't it too much work to put everything back together?”

“No, don’t worry. Tommy and Joel helped me.”

“Oh great. I’m glad they helped you, can’t say I’m surprised they did. They’re good Texans, with proper manners.”

“They really are”, you smiled warmly.

That evening, you knocked on Tommy's door. Joel's figure appeared behind him when he opened it.

“I want more,” you murmured.

Part 2

***********

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sorryitsmyfirstdayonearth · 3 months ago

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Marked (MOC Dean x female reader)

Chapter 2 - Bubbles

CWs Explicit sexual content. Some graphic violence. Dubious consent. Unhealthy relationships. Age gap. Sad ending. 18+. 9.8k words.

Mark of Dean series master list ⏐ SPN masterlist

You hum along to the music while you look out the window as the landscape roars past. It's flat land out there, farmland, not particularly pretty. Not young and open and fertile like you.

Dean clears his throat, shifts in his seat as he tears his eyes away from your reflection in the rearview mirror, back to the road. Fertile? Jesus Christ, where the fuck did that come from?

Sam has his head lowered in the passenger seat, laptop on his legs. Dean has half a mind to tell him to stop looking at it or he'll get car sick, an old instinct from when Sammy used to get nauseous when it was still John in the driver's seat, Dean in the passenger and his little brother in the back, usually his nose in a book. A long time ago.

Instead, now it's you and Castiel sitting back there. Castiel is looking out the other window, not helping the family on a road trip energy floating around the car. No road trip’s complete without some underlying tension.

Let's see. There's Cas and Sam, who can't get out of Dean's ass for even a second about the Mark and its consequences and their but are you really sure you're okay, Dean? Deep down he knows they are genuinely worried, but when they talk to him that way it makes hot, tantrum-inducing irritation shoot up Dean's spine.

Adding to that, Sam and Cas have, through their shared worry about Dean, formed some kind of best-friends-forever bond. It used to be that Castiel was Dean's buddy, his guardian angel, and while he didn't like that he and Sam never found that kind of closeness, now that they have, he feels awfully on the outside.

He doesn't like it. He hates it actually. Being on the outside of anything makes him feel desperate, lonely, almost immediately. Angry, too, and that might be the Mark, but it's difficult to tell. More difficult than Dean would like to admit, than he has admitted.

And then there's you, of course. Because every friend group needs a couple of dirty secrets, and apparently, you're his. Or he's yours. Something like that.

You seem to be doing absolutely fine, though, because you are, as previously observed, humming. You broke things off with Dean earlier today, as much as there was something to break off, and you said it could never happen again.

And you're fucking humming.

Dean's hand on the steering wheel tightens. He's not mad at you, not really. Well, he is, but there's more that he feels. He still can't look at you without immediately being very aware of what his cock is doing. He cares for you, he really does, always has. He used to be your friend. Can he still be that?

Fuck no, he thinks, shifting again. Never mind whether he can be, he doesn't want to be that. Not that he never appreciated it, he really did. Always thought you were a cute little thing, caught himself feeling almost regretful that you weren't ten years older when he met you, at least halving the difference in years between you, making him feel like not quite such a dirty, old man.

So friend it was, but not because that's who he wanted to be, but because that was the only option. He doesn't want it to sound like he doesn't appreciate you, he doesn't want something else, just something on top of that, him on top of you, soft thighs pressed high on his side, tight pussy taking h–

No, this is exactly the kind of shit he needs to stop. He feels tension low in his stomach. He has half a mind to pull Baby over, drag you out and fuck you right on the hood of the car. You'd like that, he's sure. Would try to find something to hold on to while his thrusts shove you back and forth. Maybe you'd make that sound you made that night. The one that sounds like you're in ecstasy.

Jesus, Dean thinks, runs his hand over his face. Jesus goddamn fucking Christ, he needs to focus. He has a plan after all. It's gonna take a few things to put in place, but he can manage that. He throws you another look in the rearview mirror. And you catch him. Smile at him. The sweetest, loveliest smile he's ever seen.

Maybe he shouldn't do it. It's not a nice plan. But he doesn't know what else to do. He wants what he wants, and he doesn't see why he should deny himself. It's the only fucking thing he ever does, is deny himself. Sure, he has the impulse control of a toddler, but all those things, food, booze, women, they're all just gun powder poured into an open wound, set alight to shut the gash, but never to close it, heal it. He's never wanted anything as much as you.

He looks out the front, and when he glances back, you're looking out the window again. Is this love? he wonders. He's not sure. He loves you, definitely, but is he in love with you? He wants you, he knows that. But is that enough?

His free hand goes to his arm, absent-mindedly, and scratches there. It makes him flinch and he looks down.

He was scratching at the Mark. He can't see it because of the jacket he's wearing, but he knows exactly where it is. Dragging his fingernails along the fabric resting over it. Sweet relief of a constant pain.

That's what fucking you felt like. Like reaching that spot that has been bothering you for an hour and raking your fingers over it. Something so good it makes you close your eyes. His brain was quiet, afterwards. And during it, well…

He was concentrated on you. Mesmerized, more like it. He's never felt that kind of arousal, of lust, that kind of relief. It nearly made him go cross-eyed, that's how good it was. It was the kind of fucking that you hope to find once in your life, and then compare every single encounter ever against. It was like his first blowjob and that time he fucked those twins and washing down the best burger in the world with a long sip of cold beer and when Baby kicks a little when he accelerates and the soft way a knife goes into a bad guy's neck and a hot shower on a cold day, but all rolled into one.

Surely it was the same for you? You were there with him, right?

Surely that must mean something?

You arrive at the motel, check in, one room - it used to be one for Sam and Dean, practiced in sharing, one for you, because, well, Sam and Dean could be a little old fashioned and boys and girls don’t go in the same room seems to be something they have picked up and run with.

You used to say it’s a waste of money, since all you would do is sleep. You always hung out together until just before getting ready for bed anyway, and you repeatedly told them you didn’t mind if they farted at night. Dean laughed at that, and eventually, they agreed to share one room with you. You’d insist on sleeping on the couch, being the shortest out of the bunch, would roll up, always wait until they were asleep, which with both of them could take a long time. But it was always worth it, to hear their slow breathing in the room with you. It lulled you in like nothing else could.

But right now, you’re not sure if sharing is such a good idea.

Dean’s been strange since you told him that you’re not gonna sleep with him again. Which is fair. Are you kind of relieved that he does care? That he didn’t take it in stride? Yes, of course. You’re only human. The fact that he seems hurt, is quiet… You don’t want him to feel even a second of pain, but of course it tugs at your heart. Dean wants you. He really wants you. Not that it matters, now. But it makes it all deliciously harder.

Still, you feel strangely fresh and optimistic. Not at the choice itself, but at least at the fact that a choice has been made. It was in your hands, all of it, and now it is out of them. You can’t help but feel a little lighter.

Plus maybe, just maybe, things will go back to the way they were. With you pining for Dean in secret, and him treating you like a kid, or a little sister. All flirting platonic and meaningless to him, just kindness, but driving you so wild you could have screamed. Needing to play the adult feels good right now, but you wish to go back to that status of the one that needs protecting, the one that needs looking after. It’s not an easy wish to accept, sometimes, but you’ve learned not to shame yourself for it. You’ve been strong so often. It’s okay to want to be cared for.

Dean stretches when he gets out of the car, eyes narrowed, slightly frowning. You catch yourself staring at him, marveling at him. It’s like everything before this was just a fever dream, the chasing, the wanting, the not knowing. Now you see him. You had sex with this man. He wants you. This man. Pride swells your chest, just a touch of shame at the pride following right after.

You drop your bag near the couch, then move to the table, where Sam is already spreading out. You lean on it just as Dean and Cas walk in with the rest of the luggage.

“Should I get us some coffee?” you ask and Sam looks up, smiles, is about to open his mouth but Dean interjects.

“Cas and I are gonna head out and interview some witnesses,” he says, kneeling down to open his own duffel. “You two should focus on research.” You nod. It’s strangely reasonable. You look towards Cas.

“Remember to tell them you work for the FBI this time,” you say with a smile, “not the FCA again.” Castiel gives an embarrassed huff.

“It’s a lot of letters,” he says, then frowns. “I find acronyms confusing.”

But you’re already not listening. After your comment, you looked at Dean, hoping he’d laugh with you. You love Cas, but teasing him together with Dean, lovingly, is one of your favorite past times. You miss it. You miss Dean. In so many ways, even though he’s right there.

But he’s not smiling. He’s not even listening, you’re pretty sure. He’s just straightening, shoving a hand into the back pocket of his jeans, looking down at the table you’ve all gathered around. He looks sad. Distracted, deep in thought, and sad. Could it be? Could it be because of you? Do you have this kind of power? You're sure Dean doesn't have a lot of practice being rejected, at least not by women he sees as sexual conquests. By everyone else? Maybe.

“Sheriff’s office is only twenty minutes away,” Dean now says, completely ignoring the previous exchange. “Let’s go.”

You drop into one of the chairs once the other two men have left, reach for the nearest book, open it at a random page. Try to ignore the lump in your throat.

Focus. It’s what Dean needs. It’s a good distraction. He just needs to keep it up. A few more hours. A few more hours, and you should be back in his arms.

And it’s not like he isn’t gonna have fun in the meantime.

It’s the fifth door he and Cas are knocking on. Dean gets out of the car, hand going to his wrist, tugging at his shirt, then straightening the jacket of his suit. He feels the Mark rub against the fabric of his shirt.

Sometimes, it’s so quiet. Sometimes, it’s just there, humming away, kind of like you were in the car. But sometimes it irritates him, itches. Feels like arm hair caught on a zipper. And sometimes it screams.

More importantly, sometimes he knows it’s the Mark revving him up. He understands that the things he feels are amplified by it. But the thing is, it’s still just him. Still all the stuff he’s just buried in himself. That’s what Sam and Cas don’t understand. The Mark isn’t changing him. It has made him louder. Clearer. Like a radio finally tuned to the right frequency.

The door is opened by the witness, an attractive woman in her late thirties - Dean’s age, he has to keep reminding himself. He doesn’t feel it. It always surprises him.

He flirts with her a little, playfully rolls his eyes at Castiel being awkward, rather than play over it. She gives him a suggestive smile. Cute, but not what he’s looking for. She’d make him take her out, dinner, maybe a movie. A second date before she’d even allow him to push his hand under her shirt. That’s not what he needs.

He needs quick, he needs dirty, he needs immediate. He’s simple like that.

When they leave the house, walk down the front steps, Dean looks at his watch. The gesture is for show, since he already saw the time inside, on some ugly grandfather clock that he hopes to hell was an heirloom. Seven in the evening. Perfect. He slaps his hands together, rubs them against each other.

“Maybe we should start thinking about dinner,” he says, turning to Cas. He pushes his hands into the pockets of his pants and grins. “Don’t tell me you’re not starving.”

Castiel gives him what for the angel passes as a sarcastic look. Hardy fucking har har. He sighs, which is the one human habit Cas seems to have perfected.

“It looks like none of the witnesses have seen anything that could help us,” Cas muses, “so I suppose this is a good time to take a break.” Dean nods for extra emphasis, rolls his shoulders.

“Could use a drink,” he mumbles, looking down the street.

It lands. It lands so perfectly it’s almost ridiculous. Just goes to show he knows Cas. Maybe better than he knows himself.

“Yes,” Cas says, his face changing into a friendly expression even as he says the word. “We should grab a beer. I can’t technically get drunk anymore, but I enjoy the camaraderie of it.”

Dean turns to his friend. For just a second, he feels guilty. Cas wants to get a drink with him. Yeah, he probably wants to talk about his feelings - Dean’s, not Castiel’s - and ask him if he’s really, truthfully, pinkie promise can’t tell a lie honest to God okay. But the point still stands. Luckily, Dean shakes himself out of the guilt immediately. He’s good at that. So he throws the angel a smile.

“I consider that a personal challenge,” he says and Cas now smiles genuinely, his entire face lighting up.

So Dean will get Cas a drink. And then he will take care of everything else.

You’re pulling on your jacket while Sam explains his salad order to you.

“Samuel,” you say, suppressing a grin, “I have bought food for us about a million trajillion times. I know what you like.” Sam drops his hands on the table, then chuckles. God, it feels good, this lightness. Joking with Sam. You know it’s only been less than two weeks since things have changed so drastically, but it feels like an eternity.

“Alright,” he says, admitting defeat, “but to be fair, I need to explain it to Cas and Dean every time, so it’s just kind of a habit.” You shrug.

“Guess I’m the best of all of us,” you say with a heavy sarcastic inflection, making Sam grin, lay his hand over his heart.

“I can neither confirm nor deny that,” he says and you laugh, grab your phone off the table and then walk outside.

You don’t have a second car, and the fast food place is a little bit away, but you don’t mind. The evening is mild, even though darkness has fallen a while ago, and you’ve been cooped up all afternoon in the motel room. You take a deep breath. It’s mostly exhaust fumes, but still, it’s nice. It’s a good walk. You swear to yourself to try to go on more of them.

When you get to the restaurant, you study the menu while you stand in line. The chain’s mascot - a beaver in overalls, for some reason - is screaming at you to get a Chippy Choc Chocolate Shake. It’s cute, but not what you’re in the mood for. You make it to the front of the line and order.

Chicken sandwich for you. Salad shaker with a light dressing for Sam. Cas doesn’t need nutrients, but you get him a small Coke, cause you know he likes the bubbles. For Dean, you go all out: double bacon burger, extra pickles, extra onion, and at the last second, you get him an order of the Dam’ Good Fries. You chuckle at the name.

Your arms are full as you walk back. The food will probably be cold by the time you get back, but it’s not like any of you have the highest culinary standards.

You’re halfway back when your phone vibrates. Balancing some of the food against your body, you pull it out of your pocket. It’s a message from Sam.

Dean and Cas found another witness to interview, just down the road. Just got there but will be back before dinner, oh Queen of the Salads.

The emojis he picked are random, but you think they’re salad-inspired, and then a crown at the end. What an absolute doofus, you think as you push the phone back into your pocket with a smile.

When you reach the motel, you need to balance the food again to grab your key. You push it into the lock and then shoulder your way in.

Your first thought is that Sam must have left the TV on, and your second thought is that that’s very unlikely, since Sam rarely watches anything but the news, and he never watches them on regular TV, because the ads annoy him. He’s also not the type to leave the TV on. So it’s all around weird.

You need to turn when you enter the room since due to the stuff you’re carrying you walked in sideways. When you do, you freeze on the spot.

It’s not the TV. It’s Dean. It’s Dean and he’s not alone.

He’s standing behind the second bed, facing you. You see the anti-possession tattoo on his chest, and then your brain catches up that he needs to be shirtless for that to work. Except he’s not just shirtless, he’s naked.

There’s a woman on the bed. You’ve never seen her before. Later, all you’ll remember about her is that she has dark hair, that her head is hanging off the side of the bed and that her legs are pulled up so that Dean can fuck her the way he’s fucking her.

She’s gasping and moaning and grunting deep in her throat. You’re not sure if she registers that someone has come in. But Dean does. He does immediately.

He looks up. He’s panting and his hips are snapping forwards and backwards while he fucks the woman under him. You can see his cock gliding in and out of her, but only the root, because of the angle. You realize all of this as abstractly as if it isn’t happening to you but to someone else.

When you look away from Dean’s magically disappearing and reappearing cock, you look up at his face. He’s looking straight at you. His lips are parted and you think a smile is tugging at one corner of his mouth.

“Sorry,” he says, then groans, briefly looking down at the woman’s breasts, then up again. “Had to get somewhere fast, was kind of an emergen– oh fuck, that’s it, baby.” His head drops down again, as he keeps fucking. The woman still hasn’t really reacted, but just then, she opens her eyes, focuses on you, though she seems to have a hard time with it.

“Who the fuck are you?” she slurs, making no attempt to stop Dean or get him off her.

Indeed. Who the fuck are you?

The food and drink drops from your arms without you meaning to. The strength to hold them simply leaves you. The lid on the Coke opens, the liquid inside going everywhere. It might as well be happening on a different planet.

You turn around, rush outside. You just have the wherewithal to pull the door shut behind you, and immediately you curse yourself for it. Still being so fucking considerate.

The pain is so immediate, it shocks you. It’s crawling into your throat, like panic, as you rush across the parking lot, without a goal, except for away. Away from Dean, from what you saw.

Your breath is coming fast, but the tears are faster. Without meaning to, a sound leaves you just as you turn the corner off the lot. You’re just there enough still to realize you’re walking back into the direction of the fast food place, so you turn around, because that way are people. The other way is better, even though you have no idea what that way is.

It doesn’t matter. Your arms go around you, your face scrunches up, and a deep sob leaves you.

How stupid you are. How absolutely dumb. Horrendously, endlessly, disgustingly stupid. You thought you were being the adult.

Dean never cared about you. How could he? How could he ever? His biggest worry is probably making sure he comes and then hustling that woman out the door before Sam is back, and Cas, wherever he is. His worry wasn’t you. It never was.

Like someone changing the channel in your head, you see Dean again. Torso glistening, and those noises, skin on skin and grunting and panting, like goddamn animals. Like you and him did. Oh God. He doesn’t give a shit about you.

You actually thought you were on top of this, this whole situation. That you had done something right and good and reasonable, and that things would be alright. How fucking stupid are you?

Dean never cared. He slept with you, had sex with you, because you threw yourself at him. Came to his room with a bottle of his favorite whiskey, asking him about a boy you liked, what to do with him to make him like you. You might as well have walked in naked.

And then, when Dean thought you maybe wanted more than just one night, you avoided him, and then shut him down. All while telling him that he wasn’t in his right mind. Pathetic.

And now you’re hurt? You dare to be hurt? Because you’re not his number one?

Another sob leaves you. God, it hurts. It hurts so much. It’s not like you’ve never seen Dean just before or right after he hooked up with someone. It always made you jealous, distantly, because you were reasonable enough to know that you could never have him like this. So you teased him, acted shocked and, if you’re being honest, a little uppity about his behavior. Like a little girl that knows everything. He must have thought you were ridiculous.

And still, and still. There’s a part of you, no matter how much you beat it down, no matter how much you know you are the bad guy here, I mean, wake up, there’s a part of you that really thought he liked you. That Dean Winchester maybe liked you. The sweetest, strongest, most beautiful person you’ve ever met. Liked you. What an absolute joke.

You don’t know how long you walk, but it’s a while. It’s dark, the streets empty. You have no idea what time it is, because you’d need to unlatch your arms from your body to look at your phone.

You’d recognize the sound anywhere, of course. In your sleep, probably. Still, right then, you are so deep in your thoughts and fantasies, that the Impala is already pulling up next to you when you notice it.

Dean’s in the driver’s seat, of course. His arm is over the back of the bench and he’s leaning his head forward to look at you through the window. You stop walking, look at him. Swallow, but your mouth is dry.

He’s leaning over now, rolls down the window on the passenger side, the one you’re on, a little bit.

“Get in,” he says. His voice is softer than you expect it to be. You sniff.

“Just get in,” he says.

There’s probably no one in the world that would describe Dean as some sort of mastermind. But after today, that just might change.

It’s a matter of timing, and he almost messes up a few times. He’s been calculating all afternoon, thinking about how to do it. It’s a lot of things that need to go right. Not least of all his own seduction skills.

He and Castiel walk into a bar - there’s a joke in there somewhere. Dean picks just about the shabbiest one he can find, as close to the motel as possible.

They sit down, order their drinks. Cas immediately starts on the probing, hiding it very badly by pretending he’s talking about the case. Dean just nods along as he looks around and takes stock.

The one he settles on wouldn’t be his type, if he had one. He likes to drink, but she’s sloppy drunk, standing near the bar, one heel already tilted. She’s cute, but it’s not even eight PM on a Wednesday, and she’s sloshed. Not that he’s one to judge.

He grabs his drink and walks over to her without saying a single word to Cas. Let him figure out what Dean is doing. He’s a big boy.

He gets to chatting to the woman, forgets her name immediately. There’s a brief moment where he wonders if she’s too drunk for him to take home. She’s kinda unsure on her legs, laughs too loudly at everything he says. She’s also eye-fucking him something fierce. Still, this chick needs a cab, not some creep trying to hook up with her. Dean only distantly remembers that he’s that creep.

Luckily Castiel leaves him alone, maybe happy that Dean isn’t sulking or murdering or whatever he thinks Dean likes to do these days. He briefly winks at the angel when he asks the woman if she wants to get out of here. She steps close to him in an attempt at being seductive, runs her hand down his chest. She’ll do.

As they’re walking out, Dean looks at his phone. It’s still on the messages from Sam, the ones he made sure he got a few minutes ago when he was about to leave with his special guest. There’s Dean complaining that he’s hungry, Sam agreeing that they should eat, then saying that you just left and that Dean and Cas should start making their way back.

Dean’s sure Sam suggested that he go and get the food, but that you fought him tooth and nail, knowing that for him tearing himself away from his books is much harder. Plus Dean knows you like to walk. It was a gamble, but one he knew the odds on.

He smiles as he pockets the phone. It’s a race against time now, but at least it'll be a fun one.

He calls Sam as he’s pulling off the bar’s parking lot. Luckily the drunk chick is quiet. Dean hopes she won’t throw up. That would put an end to his plans very quickly.

“Sammy, it’s me,” he opens the conversation. “Listen, we need your help to finish some stuff up…”

The address is a fake, of course. Still, it’ll take Sam long enough to get there and when he calls to confirm the address, Dean simply won’t answer. So maybe he’ll call Cas instead. Everything should already be done by then.

When he hangs up, the woman turns to him with a suggestive grin.

“Who’s Sammy?” she asks. “Is he gonna join us?” Dean just huffs. Yeah, that’ll be the day.

Once they’re inside the room, it’s quick. Dean helps undress her. Usually he’d take his time with a woman, but now he doesn’t. He hopes she’s too drunk to care, as he pulls a condom from his wallet, then maneuvers her over to the bed. He looks at the door briefly. He’ll be facing you when you come in. That’s hoping he didn’t miscalculate somewhere and it is you walking in. If it’s Sam or Cas, he’ll survive that too. Not like it hasn’t happened before.

Luckily, the woman’s pretty wet. Not that it surprises Dean - he tends to have that effect - it’s just that he wasn’t under the impression her brain and pussy were still that much in sync. But it’s good. One less thing he has to worry about. He takes his cock in his hand and strokes himself to hardness.

He thinks about you, of course, and he doesn’t question that even for a single second. The tug and pull inside him is immediate. You’re there, under him, open and waiting, shifting around a little, just moving your body cause you already feel so damn good. Well, he’s about to take you to the next level.

You grin at him, bite your lip, let your legs drop open, breathing hard. Lower lips glistening, some of it having transferred to the inside of your thighs, that’s how bad you want him.

Come here, baby, you say, your tone only a little ironic. He raises his eyebrows at the cheekiness of your tone, grabs your waist with one hand and guides himself into you with the other.

You make the most pornographic noises. Every little push and pull a whimper or gasp or this wonderful sound he can’t really describe, it’s throaty but not. He’s not sure. Perfect, perky tits bouncing a little. Fuck, you want him so much.

You squeeze him inside of you, roll your hips, and even though you shouldn’t technically have any control in this position, you make the most of it. Your sounds get louder, as you’re basically jerking him off with your pussy. Goddamn, he’s gonna—

Dean takes a sharp breath. Focus, he thinks, and his good for nothing brain replies: you were focusing. What the fuck else would you call this? He looks down at the woman. She’s attractive, it’s not that, and she seems to be enjoying herself, but it’s almost turning him off, how much she’s not you. Goddamn it.

He pulls out, briefly, strokes his cock again. She’s mumbling, something about how she wants him to keep going and how good that was, whatever, so Dean closes his eyes, to focus.

It’s you, hand flying to your clit to keep you high, or– no, no, he told you not to touch yourself, that he’s taking care of you, so you don’t, just lie there waiting for him, no, begging for him to keep going. Please, Dean, put it in, I’m so close, I need you. Yeah, that’s right. The reaction is immediate.

He plunges back in, makes the woman drop back her head, off the side of the bed. Good, he doesn’t have to see her face.

You walk in a few minutes later. It actually takes you longer than Dean was expecting, made him almost worried if something changed, if you weren’t going to show. Maybe Cas called from the bar and Sam pulled a car out of his ass, somehow, and picked you up, and then drove to the bar and now you’re all sitting there, talking about how strange and wrong and weird Dean has become.

But that’s not what happens. You walk in, and your reaction is a million times better than Dean even dared to imagine. You care. You do care.

It turns him on to see you like this. To see you care. He was terrified you wouldn't. Any moment now you're gonna walk up to him, grab him and fuck his brains out. He needs to drop his head forward cause he's about to come from the thought alone.

But then you drop all the food and run out. Dean's surprised, it's not the reaction he was expecting, and then he flinches when his arm suddenly twitches. He looks down at the Mark.

He's dressed and in the car fifteen minutes later. He pulled out, didn't even come, unable to imagine the drunk woman as you for even another second. Why would he, when the real deal is out there?

He comes up with some story on the spot, about you being his niece that he's looking after. The drunk chick nods, hair disheveled, then belches when she's pulling up her tights. Dean's pushing her out of the door before she's put her second shoe on.

He drives off the parking lot, hangs a left, heads towards the town center. You're not there, or at least he doesn't find you. He turns the car around, does another lap. Still no sign of you.

He finds you in the other direction. He was just about to get worried - it's not like it's safe out here necessarily, for someone as young and pretty as you. So it's a relief when he pulls up.

It's an even bigger relief when, after staring at him for a moment with eyes whose redness Dean doesn't miss - you've been crying, because of him, goddamn this worked perfectly - you get in the car. In the back, not the front, but it still feels like a win.

He doesn't say anything as he drives back to the motel, and neither do you. It's dark by now, and he parks the car at the opposite end to the lot, far away from the room. Just in case Sam or Cas decide to show up.

He turns off the engine and looks up, into the rearview mirror, at you

“Sorry about that,” he says, not sounding sorry, talking as if you're in the middle of a conversation. You don't react, so Dean adds: “About what you walked in on there, earlier. I didn't think you would be back so soon.” Still you don't reply.

“Kinda had to be fast,” he continues, distantly wondering if he’s trying to fill the silence. “Just… just had to get somewhere fast, you know?”

Dean’s still looking into the rearview mirror, studying your face. You’re looking off to the side, out the window, avoiding him. Your arms are wrapped tightly around your body, like you need to protect yourself.

And all of a sudden, it doesn’t feel good. The high Dean was riding of not just getting his dick wet but of seeing you react with shock and jealousy dies down, drops him with no warning, and he needs to swallow.

“Hey,” he says into the rearview mirror, trying to get your attention, but instead, your arms around you tighten and then he can see your bottom lip begin to tremble. It’s the sweetest, prettiest thing he’s ever seen and it breaks his heart in two.

You squeeze your eyes shut and then your shoulders are shaking and before Dean can do anything, a tear, and then another, drop from your closed eyes. You sniff, and Dean feels frozen for a moment.

He was hoping you’d throw yourself at him, fuck him stupid to show him who he belongs to. Who you belong to. He didn’t expect this.

“Hey,” he says again, shifting in his seat, quieter this time, inclining his head in utter discomfort and shame, a feeling he should be used to by now but still it burns violently in him. “Don’t– it’s okay.” Your lips are pressed together, but you release them with a sob. You don’t look at him when you speak.

“Did you do that on p–purpose?” you ask, and your voice is so shaky it’s like someone grabs Dean’s heart and presses it between their hands. “How could you– Why would you do that?”

He opens the door before he even plans to do it. Gets out, lets it shut, and then opens the backdoor. He scoots in and you don’t move away. Dean sits, leans over to pull the door closed behind him. It’s probably a good sign, he thinks, just as he turns to you, that you’re allowing him to sit next to you. And then in the next moment he thinks: good sign for what?

He turns to you, and you’re avoiding his gaze, staring at the nothing. Dean needs to bring his arm to the back of the bench so that he can turn to you, and while he watches, you try to control yourself, every part of you tense, under pressure. His fingers land on your shoulder.

“I’m sorry,” he says, and that seems to break your levee.

You pull your shoulders up, and you’re shaking the next second. Thick, loud sobs leave you and the tears spilling down your face are endless. Dean hesitates for a second, but the sadness caused by seeing you like this, even if he is the cause of your pain, propels him forward. He scoots closer, the arm already on the back of the bench touching your shoulder now going around you, while with the other he reaches for your face, cups it gently in the hope to get you to focus on him, maybe to bring you out of this.

“I’m sorry,” he says again, and he really, truly is. This isn’t how he imagined it. This isn’t how he wanted it. He’s completely failed to consider that this might be an option, that for you to do anything about what he did, even jump his bones, you would have to be upset. Shame rears its head inside of him again. How could he be so stupid?

He turns you towards him, but the gentleness he hopes will calm you only seems to make things worse, because you open your mouth, lips puffy from crying, lips he wants nothing more than to feel right now, but he can’t, he shouldn’t, and address him without looking at him.

“Who would do something like that?” you say, hiccuping. “How could you– Why did you do that?”

It’s the same question you’ve already asked, but the unspoken answer remains the same. Dean did it because he could. Because he wanted something, saw a way to get it and didn’t care about the consequences. Because he feels justified in burning the house down to make himself warm, and he doesn’t give a shit about who’s asleep in bed upstairs.

“It was stupid,” he says, thumb tracing your skin in the same pattern over and over, to calm you, but honestly, also to calm himself. To reassure him that he fucked up like this and still gets to touch you. That things are gonna be fine, fine, and he can still be close to you. “I– I shouldn’t have done that. I don’t know why I did.” A lie. “I’m sorry.” Not a lie.

And then, and Dean could sing at that if he was the type, you lean against him. He raises his chin and your head slots under it so perfectly he thinks this must mean something. Your shoulders go slack, and Dean needs to close his eyes, because this, this, means you still trust him. He hasn't become someone unsafe for you.

He presses you against himself and you keep crying. Dean doesn't want to think about what it means that you are back in his arms despite what he did. He feels guilt at the act, and then more guilt at not pushing you away from him, at not stopping you from returning to him. He's a lucky son of a bitch, and he knows that luck won't hold, it can't, not forever. It's fine.

It's fine, because you lean against him, your smaller body shaking and the Mark rejoices. It wants Dean isolated and alone, but maybe you can be the exception. Maybe you won't question him all the time the way Sam does, make him feel bad about every single fucking decision he makes. Maybe you can be the one he shares all of this with. The one he can finally give himself up to.

He turns your face and looks down at you. Eyes half closed from the crying and there are those puffy lips again. He leans forward and kisses them, deeply, hungrily. He feels you tense for a moment. Then you return the kiss.

He kisses you harder. You seem tired, the way a good long cry makes everyone tired, but you're hurt, so you crave the closeness, the forgiving, the forgetting.

He'll make you forget. He’ll make you forgive.

He’s terrified you’re gonna stop him, any second now. He can’t have that, can’t have you turning from him, so he keeps kissing you, presses his tongue into your mouth and you accept it, press yours against his a moment later.

Heaven, he thinks. Pure and blissful heaven. But now that he’s had a taste, finally has had another taste, he wants all of it.

Without moving his lips away from yours, he begins maneuvering your body, pulling your hips forward, turning himself. His hands go to the button of your jeans, open it with the most delicious pop he’s ever heard, and you’re not telling him to stop, you’re not pushing him away.

It’s close quarters on that backseat. Not like Dean doesn’t know, not like he hasn’t done this. If you would ride him, that would work much better, or even if you got up on all fours. But he’s careful of moving you too much, of waking you from this trance you’re in, this trance that allows him to keep going.

So he awkwardly lays you on your back. Your jeans are around your knees already and getting them the rest of the way off isn’t easy. He manages, but needs to sit up, unlatch from you, and he’s terrified you’re gonna use that moment to tell him to stop.

But you don’t. Your arms are drawn up to your chest, and you’re not looking at him, avoiding his gaze, even. But Dean can’t think about that now. You want him. Maybe you just can’t admit it to yourself.

It’s too much work to do the whole spiel with your underwear too, so Dean simply pushes the fabric of it to the side. He sees your pussy and he wants to appreciate it, push his mouth against it, but he doesn’t have the time, doesn’t have the self control, not now, not right now. He’ll spend time on you next time, but right then, he just needs to have you.

He leans over you again, elbows holding him up. He’s not looking at your face, even though he misses the sight of it, but he’s pretty sure he’s not gonna like what he sees there. He wishes you were enthusiastic, would grab him, pull him in. But you’re not. He’s scared that if he looks at your face he’ll see you’re not really there in the car with him.

He’s pulled down his own suit pants, taken his cock out, hard and wanting without so much as being touched once - the new status quo he has simply accepted when it comes to you. He shuffles around a little, tugs one of your legs up on his side. He needs you that far open so your underwear doesn’t get in the way when he begins pushing into you. Still, he feels the fabric run along his dick. He doesn’t care.

He presses his open mouth against your temple, one hand going to the side of your head, taking a fistful of the hair there, not to pull, but only to steady himself. You make a sound in your throat that could be encouragement or disdain or just air leaving you, but Dean can’t focus, can’t hear it, he can’t concentrate on something like that when he’s finally, finally, inside of you again.

On the first push in - not a lot of resistance, he distantly notes, so maybe you do want him - his stomach twitches and his fist in your hair tightens. It’s almost painful, the muscle contractions, no, it is painful. But it’s also good. He thinks it’s an orgasm, but he doesn’t shoot into you, so he elects to ignore it, groans until it’s passed, then begins moving.

He moans immediately, mouth still pressed against you so you can hear him. Why has he been going out there, fucking hundreds of women, when something like this is possible? How did he have no idea what he was missing out on?

His sounds break the silence of the car, his loud breathing, along with the slight squelch of him going in and out of you. It’s why he hears the voices immediately.

“There’s food all over the floor, I don’t know what happened,” he hears Sam and freezes. A second voice joins him, and of course it’s fucking Cas. They’re a little bit away and Dean’s not immediately sure if they’re coming closer.

“His car’s here,” the angel points out, ever the observant one. “He must have just checked into another room with his… friend. ” Dean shifts just a little, and you whimper at it, so his hand flies to your mouth, presses over it and he looks down at you. Your eyes are glistening in the soft light of the parking lot. A sudden instinct strikes him, and he gives an experimental roll of his hips.

A few things happen at the same time: you make that sound in your throat again, lids fluttering and eyes rolling up for just a second. At the same time, your pussy clenches down on him, a quick, uncontrolled squeeze.

Interesting, Dean thinks. Very interesting.

He pushes forward again, and the same thing happens. His hand is still clasped over your mouth and he pushes a little harder, making your breathing pick up. You like this. You like needing to be quiet, the danger of getting caught. Sam and Cas standing out there, just a few feet away from finding out that you’re allowing Dean to fuck you in the backseat of his car.

He gives a hard thrust, your pussy grabbing him at the sudden stimulation.

“Ssh,” he goes, unable to hide the grin on his face. He says it quietly but it feels loud in the car’s interior. “Don’t want them to hear us, now do we?” It has the desired effect. You move under him, shift around as far as that’s possible. You want him to move, Dean realizes. Oh, that he will.

He starts fucking you again, slow and shallow. The slow part is mostly so that the car’s frame doesn’t squeak, give you two away. But he can’t deny the thrill of seeing your eyebrows pull together, your eyes shutting, trying to concentrate on the feeling. Oh, you love this.

“I’ll call her,” Dean can hear Sam say, barely registering, but then a second later he hears a buzzing in the car. He almost freezes, almost stops, but then he realizes it’s your phone. Your jeans are in the footwell next to him, and he sees it peaking out, the screen lighting up with Sam’s name on the display. He makes a quick decision.

Dean reaches down, grabs the phone, and shoves it between you two. He tilts it so the edge of it presses against your clit, or as close to it as he can find without looking.

He knows he’s hit the spot when you buck up under him, like a wild horse trying to throw him off. What he guesses are involuntary moans shatter against his hand and you’re twitching, squeezing him like crazy, moving around, like you’re trying to get away from the stimulation, but his larger, heavier body is pinning you down, stopping the movement from rocking the car. The phone buzzes, then briefly stops, the buzzes again, but the short breaks aren’t enough for you to recover. Dean grins, even though you’re making an awful ruckus.

“Ssh, ssh,” he presses out, despite your moving and clenching and twitching feeling absolutely amazing, “stop thrashing, they’re gonna find us.” You seem to just register what he’s saying, seemingly try to calm your body, still twitching here and there but giving yourself over to the feeling.

“No answer,” he hears distantly, “let’s wait inside.” He hears footsteps retreating.

Just in time too, because he can’t wait anymore. He pushes himself up, careful not to put too much weight on your head, but still pressing the back of it down into the leather. With the new angle, he can drive into you faster, harder. And he does.

The call is dropped a second later, and Dean tosses the phone somewhere on the ground, not caring. He’s looking down, at where he’s disappearing inside of you, but he can’t go faster, so he lets go of your mouth, grabs your hips, and begins slamming himself into you as quickly as he can.

He needs to come, and he needs to come now. He’s pretty sure his head is gonna explode otherwise. He’s pretty sure his heart is gonna stop if he doesn’t. It’s the only thing on his mind.

He looks up at your face, and it makes his cock twitch violently when he sees what he sees. You’re just pulling your legs up, so as to give Dean more room to move. Your face is flushed, probably both from his hand and from you trying to be quiet, and your lids are low. He looks into your eyes as he keeps thrusting, and you into his.

You moan loudly when your gazes connect. You’re crazy about him, Dean understands in that moment. Just as crazy as he is about you.

“D-Dean,” comes out of you suddenly, the first thing you’ve said since this all started. Dean only has it in him to raise his eyebrows. He’s too busy burying himself in you over and over.

“I– I shouldn’t be doing this to you,” you moan, stammering on the first word. Dean grins, gives an extra hard thrust. He wants you to know how hard he is, all of it for you, and you gasp, then whimper. He gives you another.

“Yeah, look what you do to me,” he grunts, picking up his rhythm again. He lowers his head, almost snarls up at you. “Look what you fucking do to me. Making me fuck you like this.”

You whine again and then, without him needing to do anything else, your hand wanders between your legs, fingertips finding your clit and rubbing quickly. Dean could scream from lust and joy. You want to come. And he’s gonna get you there.

He shuffles, brings his knees more under him. It raises your lower body up but it gives him the purchase he needs to set the pace he desires. He holds you fast in place at your hips as he fucks you, his cock now coming away glistening from your arousal.

You give a loud moan, Dean hitting something in you that makes you even wetter, makes your inner walls flutter like the embrace of a long lost lover or something different, something more alien. He wants to touch every other part of you, but he can feel it building now, feel the tension rising in him.

He comes, groaning loudly, and while he empties himself into you he simply keeps fucking you, his cock twitching like crazy. You throw your head back, making noises that almost sound like pain, and then he feels you come around him, twitching and vibrating. Perfection. Absolute perfection.

He keeps fucking you, making you whine, but still he doesn’t stop. Thank the Mark for what he is able to pull out of his body, or maybe it’s just you, the chemicals of your bodies mixing, undoing all natural laws, because a minute later he feels his balls pull up again, and one arm shoots forward, grabs your jaw, your chin resting in the valley between his thumb and index finger, and he comes again, grinding himself deep into you while he holds you in place.

He’s not sure if he blacks out for a second with the intensity of it, but then he’s blinking, his surroundings coming back into focus. You’re not looking at him, your own eyes closed, Dean’s hand still attached to you. He lets go and pulls it back, before slowly pulling out of you.

“Are you okay?” he asks. You open your eyes, stare at the ceiling of the car. Both of you are still breathing hard, your chest rising and falling, the movement absolutely mesmerizing to Dean.

“Yes,” you say, quietly. Dean sniffs.

“Let’s get some dinner,” he says.

Dean and you walk into the motel room and Sam drops the phone he’s holding in both hands on the table in front of him.

“There you are,” he says, voice tense. “Is everything okay?”

Dean walks over to the table, past Castiel, and puts the two armfuls of food he’s carrying down. You walk in too, close the door behind you, then stand there while Sam and Cas both look at you.

“I came back and I thought something happened,” Sam says, standing up, looking at you with a worried expression on his face. “I tried calling.”

“Yeah,” you say, voice coming out a little cracked, “sorry, phone died. I got in and I…” You look down at where the rug of the room is still slightly darker because of the spilled drink.

“Sorry,” you say again, still looking down. “I was embarrassed and I just wanted to get the food, because I knew you’d be hungry when you came back. And Dean too.”

The story has more holes than a sinking ship. It’s ridiculous, actually, and it feels nearly offensive to be telling it, to assume that anyone would believe it. Still, your brain feels pinned, frozen, and it’s all you can come up with.

“Who cares?” Dean says in the general direction of his brother as he sits down in one of the chairs, drags one of the styrofoam containers towards him and opens it. “Everyone’s alive. We got food. Can we eat?” Cas turns to you, takes an extra step towards you and lays his hand on your shoulder.

“So long as you’re okay,” he says and you force a smile onto your face, nod. Try to ignore the tackiness between your legs, the one you were violently aware of standing in the glaring light of the fast food restaurant, waiting in line, again, now next to Dean. It made you shudder and he turned to you, but you pretended you didn’t notice. You’re gonna have to take a shower later, even though you already took one at the bunker earlier.

Dean is already chomping down and Cas moves away from you, looking over the banquet and with a small smile reaches for the new Coke you got him. Only Sam isn’t moving. He’s watching the scene, a slight frown on his face. Dean notices, raises his eyebrows at his brother.

“Come on, man,” he says after swallowing, “your rabbit food’s gonna get cold or whatever.” But Sam still doesn’t sit, instead crosses his arms in front of his chest.

“So did you two get the food together?” he asks, trying to make his voice lighter than it actually is, you think. “Cause we saw your car in the parking lot, Dean. After you left Cas at the bar.” There’s accusation in the last part, and it bubbles to the surface as Dean slows his chewing and a cold shiver goes through you.

“I went for a little post-coital drive,” Dean says, not taking his eyes off his brother. The lie comes to him so shockingly easy. Dean reaches for a napkin, dabs at his mouth before he straightens in his seat.

“You know the ones, Sammy?” he asks, a slight challenge in his voice. “Oh right, you don’t. You don’t get laid.”

It’s just a joke. It’s just the kind of joke Dean makes and Sam rolls his eyes at and that’s it, harmless. But of course it’s not. It’s heavy with meaning. You’re reminded of the stickiness between your legs. You should just excuse yourself to the bathroom but you feel like you can’t move, like that would be so obvious. Why would you go to the bathroom other than to clean Dean’s come off yourself?

Sam huffs, much too late. It’s forced, not genuine, but, to your utmost relief, he finally sits down. Dean begins chewing again while Castiel briefly looks between you two and Sam stares at the mountain of food for a few seconds before reaching for what is clearly his.

You move, finally, stepping forward as if you’ve never stepped forward before. Every single movement feels mechanical, and after what feels like an eternity, you reach the table, sit down, once more reminded of the mess in your underwear. Dean pulled the seat of it over your crotch once he’d pulled out. Keep that in there, he said, and you only nodded.

You’re looking down at the table, too nervous to make another move when suddenly a wrapped sandwich is held before you. You look up. It’s Dean, reaching across the table, holding it out to you. He’s looking at your face, his expression completely neutral. For a moment, it might as well just be the two of you in this room.

Your hand goes up, and you take the sandwich from him. Dean pulls his hand back, keeps looking at you for another second. There’s a thousand things you could interpret into that stare, but you don’t know what you actually see there. So you look down at the food in front of you. It twists your stomach to think about it. But it’s not the only thing you think about.

You think about Dean, above you there in the backseat of his car. About how it felt like he couldn’t stop himself. You didn’t want him to, you think, although you’re not sure. You’re not sure what you want at all. This feeling afterwards, this dread in your stomach - it shouldn’t be like that, right? It shouldn’t feel this way.

You think about him, moving inside you. About him pressing his hand over your mouth. You liked it, because it felt like you didn’t need to make a choice. It wasn’t like pushing him off you and alerting Sam and Cas to your presence was an option. So you might as well enjoy it.

You don’t know what to think. Shame burns hot in your chest, but not as hot as in your core, or the rest of your body, all of it screaming for Dean.

#supernatural #spn #fanfic #spn fanfic #dean winchester #dean winchester x you #dean winchester x reader #moc dean #sorry's fics

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w1w2 · 26 days ago

Text

Messy

Previous part | Part 3

Rosé x Fem!Reader

Word Count: ca. 9k

English isn’t my first language so I apologize in advance for any mistakes.

♡ Enjoy! ♡

It dropped just after noon, not with fireworks, not with hype, but with the kind of quiet certainty that made the internet stop anyway.

The cover and tracklist of F1 The Album.

A clean graphic, the kind of aesthetic precision F1 was known for. Seventeen tracks, global artists, big names, slick execution.

Doja Cat, Ed Sheeran, Tate McRae, Raye and many more. And near the center, like it had always belonged there?

ROSÉ

The post didn’t need promotion, it moved on its own, copied, reposted, and quoted. Within fifteen minutes, it was climbing the trending lists, and fan accounts lost their minds. Someone pulled old videos from Vegas, others began syncing them with rumored lyrics, piecing together speculation like it was evidence. They didn’t have the song, not yet. But they knew its shape now, they knew her name was on it.

Across the ocean, in a Miami hotel room still humming with afternoon light, Y/N stood barefoot on the carpet with one foot up on the edge of the bed, trying to lace her training shoes while not dripping water onto her suit. Her hair was wet, still pulled back from a quick rinse after drills, and the room smelled like eucalyptus from the muscle balm she hadn’t fully rubbed in. The air conditioner clicked, then settled into a low hum. Outside, the sound of a distant engine whined through the open window, swallowed quickly by palm trees and wind.

Her phone buzzed twice on the bedside table.

She didn’t check it right away, she was still twisting the laces too tight, distracted, but then another buzz came, and another.

By the time she picked it up, the group chat was already on fire. Her race engineer had sent a screenshot of the tracklist with three flame emojis and a casual bombshell of a message.

“So your new friend’s on the soundtrack, huh?”

Y/N didn’t reply, not to that one. Instead, she opened Instagram, thumbed through to the post, and stared at the screen for a beat too long.

There it was, truck 5. Her number, her lucky one.

Messy – ROSÉ

A photo from Vegas was already recirculating, Rosé in that bomber jacket, floodlights cutting her in half, that gaze like steel and surrender. Y/N had seen the footage. Every syllable Rosé hadn’t spoken since Coachella was laced into the corners of that image.

And now it was real, official, not just a rumor or a blurry night.

Y/N leaned against the headboard, letting her body drop with the kind of exhale that came only after you’d been holding something in too long. Her phone stayed in her hand, thumb hovering over their thread, the one that had gone quiet after Coachella, then sparked back to life with timing that never stopped feeling almost.

She took a screenshot of the album tracklist, no edits, no comments, just the raw drop.

She typed slowly. “So… Miss Lead Vocal. That bomber jacket’s making sense now.”

The read receipt appeared instantly, the little grey “Seen” stinging more than she wanted to admit.

And then, a moment later, the reply. “You promised you’ll wait and ignore it.”

The words were sharp, but not cold, not distant. It was the kind of push someone gave when they were scared the door was opening too soon.

Y/N stared at them for a second, then typed again, fingers steadier than she felt.

“I’m ignoring. Just proud of you.”

And she meant it. Even through the static, even through the timeline mess and the barely there conversations, even through the ache she didn’t have time to name.

She was proud.

And even if they weren’t saying it, even if neither of them dared to call it what it was, she felt it still. Right there in her chest, quiet and anchored, like the moment before a green light.

The heat wrapped around her like fabric the second she stepped out of the black SUV. Not an oppressive kind of heat, not quite, but the kind that shimmered off asphalt and settled against skin like a dare. It was loud too, not just the noise, but the life of it. Engines somewhere in the distance revved like thunder behind glass, music spilled out from a pop up DJ booth near the hospitality gates, security radios crackled and people moved like they had places to be, even if half of them didn’t.

Rosé paused at the paddock entrance, letting it wash over her. The clamor, the scale, the thick scent of heat, rubber, new leather, sunscreen. This was her first Grand Prix, and she already understood that nothing about it was built to feel small, the energy hit from all sides, fast, hot, relentless, and she found herself standing just still enough to feel it wrap around her.

Cameras caught her within seconds. Flash, snap, voice calling her name in three different accents, her pass swung gently around her neck, and someone was already asking for a statement, a smile, a photo.

She gave them the smile. The slow, practiced one, chin tilted, lips parted just enough to look effortless, her stylist had picked the outfit that matched the vibe just perfectly. Black dress and oversized letter jacket. Her handler leaned in with a murmured reminder. "Ferrari first."

Ferrari, right.

That was where she was supposed to be. The path there was narrow but polished, bordered on either side by security checkpoints and branded barricades. VIPs wandered in curated clusters, influencers filming intro shots, someone in a pastel linen suit asking where the bar tent was.

But Rosé kept her pace even, slow, but with intent.

The Ferrari garage loomed ahead in red and black, gleaming under layers of polish and sponsorship. She’d barely stepped under the shaded entrance when she heard it.

"About time you made it to the right kind of track."

Lewis Hamilton, leaning against a workbench like it was a fashion show riser, arms folded, grin wide, and she smiled back, genuinely this time.

"I thought I'd see how the other half lives."

"You look well," he said, gesturing at her outfit with a nod of approval.

"So do you," she offered back, stepping in for a light hug, not too long, not too staged, just enough.

They chatted easily, something about travel chaos and luggage that never quite made it through Heathrow. There was laughter, a few quick photos, a flash of comfort.

But beneath it, her attention tugged sideways.

Red Bull was next, she was escorted there in a blink, swept away on a polite current of assistants and camera flashes. The garage was sleek, sharp, less intimate, more flash. There was a photo op waiting before she even got through the entrance.

She obliged, of course she did. Smile here, chin up, step to the left, but her mind had already gone quiet in a way she couldn’t explain. Because somewhere behind all this, somewhere across this maze of hot concrete and humming cables and suits the color of summer fruit was her.

She hadn’t seen Y/N yet, not even a glimpse. But she could feel it, like the weather changing in her chest.

Every time a crew member passed in papaya orange, her eyes followed, every time a voice nearby dropped into that clipped cadence that sounded too close to her, she turned just slightly. Not obviously, but enough.

Y/N was here.

That much she knew, racing, focused, probably already in her suit, half-zipped and annoyed at whoever was fussing with her earpiece.

Rosé adjusted her jacket, said something kind to a reporter she didn’t really hear. She smiled again for the camera, let them think it was for them.

But it wasn’t.

She hadn’t seen her yet, not yet.

But soon.

The McLaren garage pulsed with that specific kind of tension only the minutes before a race could conjure, not frantic, not chaotic, but compressed. It was a machine running at full power beneath a perfectly still surface. Technicians weaved around tables and tires with the kind of silent choreography that came from repetition, engineers crouched beside consoles, murmuring over readings with clipped urgency, radios clicked and hissed, the background hum of voices overlapping in different frequencies. The smell of fuel lingered beneath the sharper tang of rubber and steel, and every surface gleamed under the clinical wash of overhead lighting.

Y/N stood just off to the side of her car, one glove half on, the other hanging from her fingers, her suit rolled down to the waist. The base layer clung to her frame, dark and sleek against her skin, the heat of the garage settling on her like weight. She shifted her stance slightly, adjusting the arch of one foot, her head tilted in concentration as her engineer rattled off a final list of variables. Tire pressure, wind speed, track temperature, the kind of information she usually absorbed with ease.

But today, her attention tugged elsewhere.

She didn’t let it show, her posture stayed calm, her face unreadable. Still, her fingers flexed just slightly against the edge of her glove, and her jaw clenched with a rhythm she couldn’t quite shake. There was static behind her thoughts, not loud, not intrusive, but constant, like something unfinished waiting just outside her line of sight.

“Oi, Y/N! Your friend’s here.”

Lando’s voice rang across the garage with zero subtlety, carrying over drills and engine checks and whatever fragile grip she had on her pre-race routine.

Her shoulders stiffened immediately, she didn’t even need to turn around.

“Shut up, Lando,” she muttered, yanking her glove tighter than necessary.

He leaned against a nearby tire stack with a grin that could only be described as wicked, clearly savoring every second of this.

“Oh, come on,” he said, smirking. “You blushed, that’s practically a confession.”

Y/N shot him a glare, but the bite behind it was soft, already crumbling at the edges. “Keep talking and I’ll put you into a wall on Turn 2.”

But the threat was barely there, her voice losing tension the moment something shifted behind her, the air catching, the background noise dulling for just a second too long.

She turned, even before she registered why she was turning.

Rosé had stepped inside the garage, escorted by one of the PR reps, credentials swinging lightly around her neck as she moved, unhurried, composed, but unmistakably present. Her eyes scanned the space quickly, then landed exactly where they were supposed to.

She caught the tail end of the exchange, Lando’s teasing and Y/N’s flustered deflection. The awkward shift of someone trying to look unfazed when every cell in her body was suddenly alert. She didn’t say anything, she didn’t make a joke, didn’t acknowledge the blush still warming the tips of Y/N’s ears. She just smiled, a small, calm thing, almost imperceptible, but so knowing it made Y/N’s lungs stutter in response.

And for a second, everything around them slowed.

No one else noticed, or maybe they did, but chose not to look too closely. The crew continued moving, voices low and focused, the background blur of motion doing its best to swallow the moment whole. But Y/N stood still, eyes locked on the only person in the room who wasn’t supposed to make her feel anything at all, and yet did, effortlessly.

She leaned in, just slightly, not enough for anyone else to see it as significant, just enough that her words wouldn’t carry beyond Rosé’s ears.

“If you’re here,” she said, voice low and steady, “I’m winning.”

It wasn’t confidence, it was something else entirely, a quiet, rooted truth that didn’t need to be challenged. And Rosé didn’t reply, she didn’t have to.

She stepped forward by an inch, maybe two, and reached out with one hand, her fingers brushing against Y/N’s arm, light, deliberate, warm. The touch landed just above the wrist, where the pulse sat close to the surface, and held for the briefest moment, not possessive, not staged. Just present, acknowledging and real.

Then it was gone.

She let her hand fall, her body drifting back just as the garage surged back to life, someone calling for helmet checks, the buzz of a camera flash flaring nearby, the noise returning like a tide.

Y/N blinked, slowly, her eyes lingering on the place where Rosé had just been.

She didn’t move, she didn’t speak. But something shifted inside her, something loose and electric and impossibly steady all at once. The moment had passed, but its weight lingered, quiet and impossible to ignore.

Still humming, still alive.

The noise was almost unbearable by the final lap, not in volume, but in weight, in pressure. It pressed against the skin, settled in the chest, vibrated along the track surface like a living thing. Engines screamed through the corners, tires spat dust into the air, and the grandstands throbbed with thousands of bodies moving in unison, their collective tension rising with every fraction of a second shaved off the lap.

Rosé stood just beyond the barrier, tucked into the designated zone reserved for VIPs and officials, a crisp laminate badge against her chest and the chequered flag coiled tightly in her grip. Her hand felt stiff, her knuckles white around the pole, not from fear, but from trying to keep herself anchored in the exact moment she was standing in. Everything around her blurred at the edges, the officials murmured calls over radios, the heat radiating off the asphalt, the flicker of sponsor banners whipping in the breeze, all of it dulled to a hum beneath the thundering focus in her chest.

She hadn’t known it would feel like this.

She’d expected the adrenaline, yes. The spectacle, the beauty of the race and the sharpness of the machines and the choreography of it all. But she hadn’t expected the silence inside herself, the kind that came when anticipation gave way to something closer to reverence.

Her eyes were on the final corner, she barely registered the screen above her flashing live feed. She didn’t need it, the sound of the crowd said enough, a rising crescendo rippling through the stands like a match had been lit and passed through every seat.

And then, through the blur of speed, through the roar of power and dust and fire, she saw it. That unmistakable flash of orange cutting through the curve like it wasn’t a corner at all, but a promise fulfilled.

Y/N’s car emerged from the turn with clinical precision, no overcorrection, no hesitation. Just complete command.

Rosé didn’t breathe.

The way the car held to the track, fast, fluid, impossible, felt like watching instinct turned into art. It wasn’t just skill, it was intention, it was everything Y/N had said without saying it.

"If you’re here, I’m winning."

And now she was.

The blur of her car surged forward, engine climbing to its final scream, and in that last stretch seconds compressed into heartbeats, Rosé saw more than motion. She saw fire, she saw defiance, she saw a kind of beauty that didn’t try to be beautiful, just was.

The moment before the tires crossed the finish line cracked something open in Rosé’s chest. Not pride, not even awe. It was something more elemental than that, something she hadn’t quite prepared for, it was the visceral realization that this girl, this impossibly magnetic, quietly defiant, stubborn and stunning force of nature, was not just extraordinary.

She was hers.

She waved the flag with more force than she meant to, the fabric catching the sunlight in a blur of black and white. It wasn’t graceful, not the way the briefing had demonstrated earlier that morning, it wasn’t ceremonial, it was a release.

The crowd erupted as if the air itself had torn open, a full throated scream of noise and joy and disbelief rising into the sky. Her name lit up the screen, the crew behind the barricades roared and collided in celebration, and somewhere in the distance, champagne was already being cracked open.

But Rosé didn’t flinch, didn’t turn, didn’t look away.

Her eyes followed the car on the screen for a moment, just long enough to track its deceleration, the controlled chaos of slowing down after flight.

And then her gaze fixed again, steady, searching for the shape of the driver beneath it all.

She wasn’t watching the car anymore, she was watching her.

Y/N, still strapped in, still hurtling through the moment, still wearing the helmet that hid everything, except what Rosé already knew.

She watched her with eyes that burned, not from sun or heat, but from the sudden, overwhelming gravity of everything unsaid between them.

The pride, yes, the admiration. But also the ache, the need, the truth that had lived in silence for too long and now stood screaming on the finish line.

Rosé had seen Y/N in hotel lobbies and hidden rehearsal rooms, in dark cars and low lit corners, curled beneath sheets and curled beneath questions neither of them had answered, but she had never seen her like this.

Unapologetic, alive and untouchable.

And yet, still looking for something, still reaching for something beyond the track. Rosé didn’t move, didn’t smile, not yet.

She just breathed her in, and let the sound of the stadium break over her. Because if this was what love looked like at 200 miles an hour, then maybe it was always going to be messy.

And maybe that was the point.

The noise didn’t end all at once. It fractured slowly, the way thunder fades, not disappears. First came the interviews, clipped and rushed, with too many voices shouting questions at once. Then the camera flashes, strobing across helmets and sweat slicked cheeks, catching moments that would be stitched into highlight reels before the champagne had time to dry. The hugs, the whoops of laughter, the back pounding congratulations, everyone wanted a piece of the win, everyone wanted their frame of the moment.

Rosé didn’t try to be part of it.

She watched from the edge of it all, her VIP lanyard still around her neck, though no one checked it anymore. Her flag duties were over, the press photos taken, the team’s thank you's extended, she had every excuse to leave, a car waiting, a time stamped itinerary, the kind of exit most people would have taken without question.

But she didn’t.

Instead, she found a quiet corner, a stretch of wall near the back corridor of the McLaren garage, half lit by fluorescents that flickered like they were trying to remember how to rest. From where she stood, she could see the tail end of the celebration, crew members with radios still clipped to their belts, scattered fans craning for glimpses, and confetti underfoot that stuck to everything.

And she waited.

It wasn’t dramatic, it wasn’t even deliberate. She just didn’t leave, because something in her wasn’t done yet. And then?

Y/N appeared.

She slipped through a side entrance, hair damp with sweat, cheeks flushed and eyes bright in a way Rosé hadn’t seen before, not like this. There was no mask on her face, no practiced calm, just joy, pure and sharp, unfiltered and unguarded. She was practically glowing, suit unzipped, gloves hanging from one hand, the other tugging at the collar of her fireproofs like she hadn’t quite remembered how to be still yet.

Rosé didn’t move right away.

She let herself look.

Y/N was speaking to someone, one of the engineers, probably, but her head turned slightly as she walked, as if pulled toward something just out of frame. Her steps slowed, her mouth stilled, and then her eyes found her.

It didn’t need to be said.

The chaos softened, just for a moment, as Rosé pushed off the wall and stepped forward, not fast, not with purpose, but with something quieter, something sure.

No one noticed, there were no flashes, no microphones swinging overhead. It was just the two of them, the space between them still electric, but no longer loud.

“You did it,” Rosé said, voice low, barely above the hum of the cooling units and far off voices.

Y/N looked at her, really looked, and for a breath, everything else fell away. Then she smiled, the kind of smile that didn’t pose or perform or ask for anything. It was a smile meant for one person only.

“Told you I would.”

There was no touch, no kiss, not here. But the moment between them said everything. They had both waited for this, not the win, not the race, but the after, the quiet, the exhale.

And here it was.

Finally.

The noise never fully died, not even this far from the track, but it dimmed enough to feel like something else. The air inside the VIP tent was cooler, calmer, heavy with the scent of something herbal, eucalyptus, maybe, and whatever perfume had been sprayed too generously near the guest list tables. It was a different kind of chaos here, curated and soft edged, full of champagne glasses and whispered debriefs and media teams pretending to relax.

Rosé didn’t belong here either, not really. But for once, she wasn’t thinking about how she looked, or who was watching.

Y/N’s hand brushed hers lightly as they walked side by side, not holding, not clinging, just enough contact to remind them both they hadn’t imagined what happened outside. The race was behind them now, the world, for a few stolen minutes, could wait.

They slipped behind a partitioned wall where the crowd thinned and the lighting dropped, and there it was.

The booth.

Sleek, minimal, lit from within by a soft ambient glow and a pulsing digital screen. No big display, just a set of headphones suspended like something sacred, and a list of songs hovering in electric white text.

Track 5

Messy – ROSÉ

It was the first thing Y/N saw.

She stopped just outside the entrance, hands in the pockets of her fire suit, posture relaxed but eyes fixed on the screen like it was asking a question she hadn’t prepared to answer. She let the silence hang for a beat, then turned her head toward Rosé with a smirk, one brow lifted.

“So this is it?”

Rosé was already shaking her head.

“Don’t,” she said, sharp at first, quicker than she meant to be. Then her voice dropped, almost unsure. “Not yet. Please.”

The pause that followed wasn’t awkward, it was weighted.

Y/N looked back at the booth. Her fingers hovered above the console, inches from the headphones. She could’ve pressed play, could’ve listened right then and there, surrounded by everyone and no one, she could’ve heard what Rosé hadn’t said, what she’d recorded instead.

But she didn’t.

Her eyes flicked sideways, settling on Rosé again.

And then, without saying anything more, she stepped back from the booth, hands lowering to her sides.

“Okay,” she said quietly, “I’ll wait.”

She meant it.

Not just about the song, about all of it.

Rosé didn’t respond right away. Her throat tightened, not with fear, but with the sudden ache of being seen, fully, by the one person she wasn’t sure would still be standing here at the end of all this.

And yet she was.

Still here, still waiting.

Rosé didn’t say thank you, she didn’t need to. Y/N’s choice to wait, to trust, to not press play just because she could, was more than enough.

They didn’t stay in the booth long after that.

Someone called for Y/N over comms, another interview, another round of congratulations. A McLaren staffer hovered politely in the distance. Rosé tucked her hands into the pockets of her jacket, and Y/N gave her one last glance before walking off, not lingering, not dramatic, just a subtle meeting of eyes. A promise held in silence.

Later, after the chaos and the cameras had started to fade, someone took a picture.

Neither of them posed.

They didn’t know it was being taken.

It wasn’t even a good photo.

Grainy, oversaturated, taken from a bad angle behind one of the garages where the light bent strange and the air shimmered with engine heat. It was the kind of photo that would normally be buried, background noise on a tagged fan account, maybe tossed into a story that faded after twenty-four hours.

But this one didn’t disappear, because it didn’t need clarity.

It had feeling.

It was the way Rosé was looking at her, the softness, the tilt of her head, the smile caught mid breath, not performative, not fixed for the camera, but real. Her body was angled slightly, as if pulled toward Y/N without even thinking, like her center of gravity had shifted. And Y/N? Flushed, suit unzipped to the waist, her hand half lifted like she was about to reach out, wasn’t looking at anyone else, just at her.

No filters, no distance, just an unguarded second that slipped through before either of them realized someone had been watching.

But someone had, the photo hit Twitter first, posted by a fan who hadn’t even noticed what they’d caught until someone else zoomed in. Within minutes, it had thousands of retweets, a caption in all caps, a flurry of hearts and quote tweets and disbelief.

And then it spread.

TikToks were posted dissecting the frame, zoomed in and slowed down, annotated like crime scene footage. Instagram edits came next, the same look, overlayed with romantic lyrics and soft light leaks. Side by side comparisons flooded timelines, Paris Fashion Week, Coachella, a blurry airport sighting, a glimpse from the McLaren garage.

Then came the evidence board energy.

A grainy screen recording surfaced from a livestream near the listening booth, someone had captured Rosé brushing past Y/N, hand hovering too long near her lower back. Another user dug into Rosé’s accessories, the gold bracelet she'd worn during her Las Vegas shoot, the same one on Y/N’s wrist in a training photo days later. Someone else lined up timestamps, airport sightings within twelve hours of each other, studio locations, hotel lobbies. Nothing confirmed, but nothing denied.

The viral caption under the photo read simply “They’re not even hiding anymore.”

And maybe they weren’t, maybe that moment hadn’t been staged to hide, maybe they had just slipped, for a second, into something unguarded, something too natural to pull back from in time.

By the end of the hour, the headlines rolled in like a rising tide.

“ROSÉ & Y/N: Newest Power Couple?” “From Paris to Pit Lane, A Love Story We Didn’t See Coming?”

It was no longer a whisper, no longer a theory, it had entered orbit, into gossip columns, lifestyle mags, entertainment panels. Commentators with blue checkmarks weighed in, even race commentators made sly jokes on air. Everyone had an opinion, everyone had a take.

And through all of it, still, silence.

Y/N didn’t post.

Not a story, not a tweet, not even a reaction emoji on a teammate’s podium recap.

Rosé stayed quiet too.

No stories, no posts other than the ones posted by her manager on her HQ account. She didn’t even reply to Jennie’s comment, which she normally would have responded to in less than three minutes.

It wasn’t damage control, it wasn’t a plan, it was just the eye of the storm. But it didn’t stop the storm from coming, by early evening, the messages started, not from fans, no. Not from journalists either.

From Seoul.

Her screen lit up with a call from her manager first, then from an executive she didn’t usually hear from unless something major was happening. And then the message she had been dreading all day arrived, calm and clinical.

“YG and THE BLACK LABEL are requesting a meeting. We need to talk, people are asking questions. We need a statement.”

Rosé stared at the screen, phone heavy in her hand. The message blinked quietly back at her, nothing dramatic, no threats, no accusations. But the weight behind it was unmistakable.

She set the phone face down on the hotel table. The world thought they were in love now, and maybe the world wasn’t wrong. But the world didn’t know what it had taken to get there, didn’t know how fragile it still was, didn’t know that they hadn’t even said it yet.

And now it was out, now it was loud.

Everyone was watching, waiting for them to speak.

The city outside the window was impossibly still, lit like a promise that belonged to someone else. Its skyline shimmered in slow motion, gold and soft and detached, as if none of this, none of them, was happening in the same world.

But inside the room? Everything felt brittle, the kind of quiet that doesn’t soothe, the kind that chokes.

It wasn’t truly dark, a single bedside lamp glowed faintly in the corner, casting the entire space in amber, flickering like it couldn’t quite decide whether to stay lit. The shadows stretched long and loose across the floor, across the walls, over the pile of clothes left at the foot of the bed. The TV was still on, low and looping through the race footage again, a silent, endless loop of triumph, Y/N taking that last turn, crossing the line, lifting her helmet with the weight of a world on her shoulders and a grin that didn’t quite reach her eyes anymore.

Y/N hadn’t glanced at it in over an hour.

She sat rigid on the edge of the bed, legs parted slightly, elbows on her knees, her hands hanging between them like she didn’t know what to do with them anymore, her posture said calm, her clenched jaw said otherwise. Her molars were grinding so hard the tension rippled along her temple, one of her gloves was still on the nightstand, half turned inside out like she’d tossed it down in a hurry and forgotten it existed, like she hadn’t really landed yet, still half in the car, half in the chaos, and now caught in the fallout.

Across from her, Rosé paced.

Not urgently, not dramatically, just endlessly. Like walking was the only thing keeping her upright, her bare feet made soft, soundless passes over the edge of the rug, her arms wrapped tight across her chest, then dropped, then wrapped again. Her hair was messier than usual, like she'd run her hands through it too many times without realizing, and her shirt had a wrinkle from where she’d been gripping the hem too tightly for too long.

The phone sat silent on the table, it hadn’t rung again. But it didn’t need to, the last call from Seoul had done what it came to do. No instructions, no threats, just questions. Questions that didn’t wait for sleep or flights or explanations.

They needed a statement, they needed a clean answer to a messy truth.

“I just—”

Rosé stopped mid stride, hand lifting to her forehead like she could press the spiral of thoughts back into place. Her voice wasn’t loud, but it cracked along the edges like something fraying under too much pressure.

“What if this hurts your career?”

The words landed with more force than she’d intended. But now that they were out, they kept coming.

“What if this ruins mine?”

Y/N didn’t flinch, not visibly, but her fingers curled tighter around the edge of the mattress, like she was anchoring herself to something she could still control.

Rosé turned slowly, her voice quickening, not angry, but pulled taut by panic.

“What if I’m hurting the girls? My group? What if this spirals and takes them down too?” Her arms wrapped around her waist, tighter now. “They didn’t agree to be part of this, they didn’t ask for any of it. I’ve protected them for years, and now—”

She broke off, her breath hitching as the weight of it pushed harder, the kind of pressure that had nothing to do with cameras or rumors and everything to do with guilt.

“This isn’t just about me,” she whispered, like it was the only way she knew how to be honest, quietly, desperately.

Y/N still hadn’t moved.

Still staring past her, not cold, not distant, just trying to keep from cracking under the weight of what she wasn’t allowed to say. Her eyes didn’t leave the floor, but her pulse thudded visibly at the base of her throat, she looked like she’d taken a punch and refused to fall.

And then Rosé exhaled, long and broken.

“They need a statement,” she said again, softer this time, but no less heavy. “And I don’t know what to say.”

Another pause.

Her arms dropped to her sides, fingers limp, her voice nearly gone.

“Because we’re not even together.”

There it was, the words dropped like a stone between them, not sharp, not shouted, just honest and wrecking. Rosé closed her eyes, as if not seeing Y/N’s face might somehow soften the blow of saying what they both knew. The truth of it wasn’t cruel, but it didn’t have to be, it just had to be real.

The worst part? It was true.

They hadn’t defined it, hadn’t labeled it, hadn’t dared to ask what it was because naming it would make it real, and making it real meant risking it all. And now? Now the world had named it for them, and neither of them knew how to hold it.

The silence that followed wasn’t passive, it was full.

Full of everything they hadn’t let themselves say, full of the fear that maybe the moment was already gone. That maybe love, however loud it had been behind closed doors, couldn’t survive this kind of spotlight.

And in that stillness, something shifted. Not the anger, not yet, but the first sting of heartbreak, the kind that only ever comes from someone who doesn’t mean to hurt you, but does anyway.

Something in Y/N’s body changed.

She didn’t flinch, not really, her posture didn’t break, her head didn’t jerk. But the breath she took next was too shallow, and her eyes didn’t lift from the floor for a long moment, like she needed to choose the words carefully or risk shattering entirely.

And then, finally, she stood.

Not like she was preparing to fight, not like she wanted to walk away, just to stand. Because sitting still suddenly felt impossible. She moved slowly, the way you move when your body is trying to keep your heart from bleeding out too fast.

“So,” she said quietly, voice dry and even, but far too calm to be okay, “that’s what this was to you?”

She wasn’t looking at Rosé when she said it, her eyes lingered somewhere on the floor, just in front of her own feet, but then they lifted, steady and clear and far more wounded than she wanted to admit.

“Nothing?”

The silence that followed wasn’t the good kind, not the soft, thoughtful space they used to fill with glances and half-smiles and words unsaid. This one ached, this one scraped, this one felt like it was swallowing the air.

Rosé didn’t answer, she looked like she might, her lips parted, her body turned slightly like instinct was pulling her toward a defense. But whatever words she might’ve found, they didn’t come.

And that was enough.

Y/N stepped back a fraction, her voice didn’t rise, but her expression sharpened. Not cruel, not angry, just hurt.

“Because that’s what it sounds like. That all of it, the flights, the quiet nights, the rehearsals I waited outside of, the way you looked at me in that garage, that none of it counted because we never put a label on it.”

Rosé’s jaw shifted, eyes glassing just slightly, but she still didn’t speak. Y/N’s voice dipped lower, now shaking in the way anger does when it’s just fear dressed up.

“You think I don’t know what it means to protect something that matters? To carry pressure in silence? I’ve lived my whole life hearing I didn’t belong, in this sport, on this stage, in this body. And I fought for every inch of ground I stand on.”

She let the words hang, breath coming faster now, but she held her ground.

“And I would’ve protected you. I was protecting you.”

A pause, a shift.

“But if you’re this scared,” Her voice cracked for the first time. “Maybe it was never real for you.”

That broke the air.

Rosé moved before she meant to, a step back, one hand to the doorframe like she needed something solid to lean on. Her eyes wide, her shoulders coiled, like she’d just been punched with something heavier than the truth.

She turned, one foot moving instinctively toward the exit.

And Y/N saw it, the retreat.

The moment she was going to leave, not because she didn’t care, but because caring had become too loud, too messy, too real. Y/N didn’t speak again, she didn’t call out, but she didn’t move either.

That was when Rosé snapped.

Not in anger, not in malice, but in desperation, in grief. In love that had nowhere left to go but out.

“You think it wasn’t real for me?” she asked, the words shaking with disbelief. “You think I brought you into my world, my world, the one I’ve spent years keeping locked down and perfectly controlled, because it was convenient?”

Her voice wasn’t loud, but it was trembling.

“You think I let myself feel any of this, let myself fall into something I couldn’t control, couldn’t manage, couldn’t plan, because I was pretending?”

She turned now, fully facing Y/N, every inch of her frayed and wide open.

“I’ve spent my whole life hiding behind perfect smiles and half answered questions,” she whispered. “And then you showed up, and suddenly I didn’t want to hide anymore.”

Y/N’s breath caught, but she didn’t interrupt.

Rosé took one more step forward, every word now a confession she had let herself write into a song.

“I love you,” she said. “Okay? I am in love with you. Even when it’s confusing, even when we don’t say the right things, even when I’m afraid it’s all going to fall apart because the world is too loud and I don’t know how to protect you from it.”

Y/N blinked, barely, but Rosé kept going, because she had to.

“I want all of you,” she said, her voice catching. “All your complicated, all your fire. God, give me hell, give me silence, give me the version of you who gets scared and says the wrong thing and pushes me away when she needs someone closest.”

Her hand pressed to her chest now, as if she could steady herself.

“I’ll take all of it,” she said. “If it means I get to be yours at the end of the day.”

The silence that followed wasn’t empty, it was everything.

All the noise that had come before, the headlines, the fear, the anger, all of it had collapsed into this one moment, and there was no room for anything else.

No more pretending, no more protecting, just the truth. Now it was out.

Messy, unfiltered and honest.

The silence after Rosé’s words didn’t end things, it changed them. It folded the air into something softer, something quieter, but not light, not yet. The weight was still there, lingering like the ghost of a fight they hadn’t wanted to have but needed to. The kind of silence that comes when both people finally see the wreckage and choose, somehow, to step into it anyway.

Rosé stood frozen near the door, one hand still on the frame like she wasn’t sure if she’d been reaching for escape or for something to hold onto. Her chest lifted unevenly with each breath, every muscle in her shoulders tense, like she was bracing for impact that hadn’t come yet. Her voice had broken itself open, and now she didn’t know what to do with all the pieces she’d spilled.

But Y/N moved, not in a rush.

She stepped forward with the kind of careful intention that came from being burned before and still choosing to reach into the fire again, her hands were loose at her sides, her steps quiet over the rug, but her gaze? Her gaze didn’t waver, she stopped just close enough that their toes nearly touched, and for a moment, she didn’t speak, she just looked at her.

And that was what made Rosé finally look back.

Because there was no anger in her face, no blame, just that wide, tired, impossibly open look, the kind that says You didn’t break me. I’m still here.

And then, Y/N’s voice came low. Unsteady, not from fear, but from truth.

“I love you too.”

Rosé blinked, slowly, as if those words hadn’t registered yet, as if she couldn’t trust that they were meant for her.

But Y/N wasn’t finished.

“God, I do, I didn’t plan for this, and I didn’t see it coming, but it’s not going anywhere, it’s not going away. I love you,” she repeated, this time firmer, like she needed Rosé to feel it in her chest.

A beat passed, then another.

“I love you when it’s hard, when you pull away, when I say too little and you say too much. I love you even when we don’t get it right.”

The words weren’t perfect, but they were full.

Rosé’s mouth opened, just slightly, and a sound escaped her, something between a breath and a laugh, something too close to crying. She shook her head like she couldn’t believe any of this was real, and then she stepped forward, closing what little space remained.

She lifted her hand first, tentative, fingers brushing just under Y/N’s jaw like she was checking if she could touch her now, Y/N leaned in, barely, and that was all the permission Rosé needed.

Their mouths met, soft, cautious, but not unsure.The kiss wasn’t a climax, it was a collapse. It was different than every kiss they ever shared, it was every unsaid word folded into a touch, it was the shaking breath Rosé had been holding for weeks, it was Y/N’s knuckles digging into the fabric of Rosé’s shirt as if to say, You’re not walking away now. It was mouths moving slow, then faster, like they couldn’t quite believe it was real and wanted to memorize the shape of it before the world came crashing in again.

Rosé’s fingers curled into the back of Y/N’s neck, thumb sliding beneath the collar of her shirt, grounding herself in the heat of her skin. Y/N’s hand cupped Rosé’s face, firm and steady, like she was holding her there not to keep her still, but to remind her she was safe.

Between kisses, they whispered.

“I was so scared.”

“I know. Me too.”

“I didn’t want to lose you.”

“Then don’t.”

They laughed through tears, noses bumping, foreheads pressed together. Their smiles were cracked, raw around the edges, but real, not the kind built for audiences, no. The kind that came from relief so deep it felt like air after drowning.

Eventually, they found their way back to the bed, not to undress, not to escape, but to just be. Fully clothed, legs tangled, Rosé’s head tucked beneath Y/N’s chin, and one of Y/N’s arms looped around her waist, fingers moving in slow, absentminded circles over the curve of her back.

They stayed that way for a long time, the world outside didn’t stop. But in here? It paused.

“This isn’t going to be easy,” Rosé said quietly, words brushing the space between Y/N’s collarbones.

“I know,” Y/N whispered. “But I’d rather do messy with you than perfect with anyone else.”

And that was the truth, they didn’t fix everything, they didn’t figure it all out. But before the night could fold into sleep, Y/N shifted just enough to look at her, really look, and say the one thing that would change them.

“No more silence, even the scary stuff, say it.”

Rosé nodded against her chest, and for once, didn’t flinch from the promise.

“Say it anyway,” Y/N whispered again.

The next morning, Rosé called her label. Not to beg, not to explain, just to say that she would not be making a statement. She would speak in her own way, in her own voice.

But for now? The silence was hers to keep, theirs to share, and for the first time, it didn’t feel like hiding, it felt like something sacred.

The hotel room in New York was still.

Not quiet, not with the soft hum of traffic below and the faint buzz of the city that never stopped vibrating just outside their window, but still in the way that only rooms are after the chaos of something enormous. The Met Gala had come and gone like a storm wrapped in velvet and diamonds. Flashes, cameras, murmured questions and headlines about Rosé’s and Y/N’s YSL outfits. Photos of them on the carpet, not side by side, but near enough that fans caught it anyway.

The power couple energy was undeniable, but this moment wasn’t about that.

Y/N sat cross legged on the bed, bare faced now, hair damp from the shower, dressed down in a hoodie that wasn’t hers. She glanced across the room to where Rosé stood by the minibar, hands tucked into the pockets of her own oversized sweatshirt, barefoot, eyes flicking between the floor and her phone.

There was something tentative in her posture, something soft.

“Are you sure you want me to hear it now?” Y/N asked, voice low, just above the lull of the city outside.

Rosé nodded slowly.

“I should’ve played it for you weeks ago,” she said. “But I needed to wait until you’d hear it the way it was meant to be heard.”

Y/N tilted her head. “And how’s that?”

Rosé walked over, settled beside her on the bed, and handed her one of the earbuds, the old school kind, not sleek or wireless, but something comforting.

“With everything on the table,” she whispered.

Y/N took the bud, slid it in, and sat still, and then Rosé pressed play.

The opening notes were soft, layered with warmth and ache, and Y/N knew within the first fifteen seconds. She didn’t need the lyrics to confirm it, she didn’t need the bridge, she didn’t need Rosé’s whispered confession that would come halfway through.

She knew, because this was them.

Then the chorus hit, all those tangled emotions, all that unfiltered vulnerability.

“So, baby, let's get messy, let's get all the way undone Come over, undress me just like I've never been touched Baby, I'm obsessed with you and there's no replica Maybe if it's messy, if it's messy, if it's messy Then you know it's really love, love”

Y/N closed her eyes.

Rosé didn’t sing along, didn’t speak, she just watched. And when the final note faded, leaving nothing but the hum of the hotel AC and the thrum of a heart full of everything too big to say, Y/N turned to her, slowly, fully.

“You wrote this for me,” she said.

Not a question, a statement. And Rosé nodded, a small, quiet movement.

“I did.”

Y/N smiled, and it wasn’t that crooked, playful smirk she used for the cameras. It was the one Rosé had first seen in a Paris hotel room, sitting shoulder to shoulder on a bed with no label between them.

She reached for her hand, pulled it gently into her lap.

And said, “Thank you.”

Three days later arrived with only the gentlest of warning.

Not a full campaign, no interviews, no countdown clock. Just a single announcement, posted the night before, a flicker of Las Vegas streets, a short snippet and Rosé’s voice, “So, baby, let’s get messy…”

And then, silence.

Back in Italy, tucked into a quiet corner of the countryside, Rosé and Y/N were already off grid. No stories, no sightings, just the hush of early summer and the stillness that comes when two people finally stop running.

And then, at 12:00 PM sharp, with little to no warning, no press statement, and no comment.

MESSY — OUT NOW

Just that.

And within seconds, the internet felt it.

First it was the fans. The quiet ones, the watchers, the collectors of small moments, who caught it first. And then the rest of the world caught up.

Twitter ignited, threads spun themselves like constellations, each tweet another star connected by memory and speculation and feeling. Fan accounts raced to clip the video, frame by frame, TikToks exploded. Rosé in the Vegas shoot, drenched in night air, headlights flaring like a heartbeat, her voice cracked on the second chorus, and by then, the truth wasn’t just visible, it was undeniable.

“This is about someone, this is about her.” “She’s not performing, she’s confessing.”

People paused at the bridge, rewound it, and listened again. Her voice didn’t break for drama, it broke because it had to.

“You’re pulling back and I’m running for the door. You're sayin' those words and it just makes me want you more.”

She wasn’t singing to the camera, she was singing through it, past it. Straight into someone else’s chest.

And then? As if the world wasn’t already unraveling from the weight of it, Rosé posted. No tag, no rollout, just two photos, unfiltered, quiet and intimate.

Photo 1 was a sunlit track in Italy. Nothing flashy, just warm light pooling in golden ribbons across the gravel. Two figures sitting on the bleachers in the foreground, backs to the camera. One unmistakably Y/N, taller, posture easy, relaxed in a way that rarely existed off the circuit. The other, Rosé, head resting on Y/N’s shoulder, McLaren cap backwards on her head. Y/N’s arm around her, keeping her close.

Photo 2 was simple. Just their hands, no dramatic grip, no forced interlace. Just fingers resting into each other like they'd always belonged there, one with silver rings, the other with plain nails and the faint outline of a suit seam still pressed into the skin. Love made casual, honest.

The caption was only a line.

“Maybe if it’s messy… then you know it’s really love.”

No mention of names, no statements, or explanations.

But there didn’t need to be, because the world already knew.

And this time, Rosé didn’t care to control the narrative. There was nothing left to protect but the truth, and the truth was that she was in love with someone who met her in the chaos and chose her anyway.

Y/N didn’t post, she didn’t need to.

But somewhere in the haze of reposts and articles and edits soundtracked by the bridge of Messy, a photo surfaced, not new, not meant to be seen, but caught anyway. Y/N in the background of the Monza paddock, phone pressed to her ear, smiling so softly she didn’t notice the camera. And for once, no one tried to guess who was on the other end.

They already knew.

They didn’t do press, they didn’t announce a relationship, they didn’t tell the world how they first met, or how long they’d been holding hands off camera, or what it felt like to love someone in the gaps between time zones and red carpets and race tracks.

Instead, they made a choice to be quiet, but not hidden. To be known, but not defined by anyone else.

To be messy, and still, to be loved.

It wasn’t perfect, it never had been.

But it was real.

And finally it was theirs.

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anachronisims · 1 year ago

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How to EFFECTIVELY Use Empty Standby List to Reduce Flashing and Crashing

This tutorial is for TS2. Obviously. This is virtually the last "chapter" of advice for the Pink Flashing Survey Report (still forthcoming as a single readable thing but posted in bits and pieces over the last six months). PS it's a lonnnnnnng post. Ctrl+F "tldr" for the very short version once you open the cut.

"Part 1" of the Empty Standby List ("ESL") tutorial was already written comprehensively with screenshots by Digi at her wordpress. Following Digi's tutorial will get you set up with ESL as a routine automated background task your computer runs, typically every five minutes.

@gayars set up two instances of the routine, each running every five minutes, staggered two/three minutes apart. In other words, task 1 runs at 12:00, task 2 runs at 12:03, task 1 runs at 12:05, task 2 runs at 12:08, etc. However, I found that this negatively impacted the graphical performance of my game, notably by having the ESL task window flash over the game window, which I had never seen before, nor since reverting back to a single 5-minute task routine.

Anyway. Go do Digi's tutorial if you haven't already; I'll wait.

Background on Why this Matters

So, now your computer will be wiping the standby memory every five minutes. The thing is, this won't be able to have much impact on your game unless you wait to let it wipe before you do a major loading action.

Major loading actions are, in general order of strain (most to least strenuous):

Loading a full neighborhood.

Loading a large (3x4 or bigger) populated lot.

Loading a large unpopulated lot.

Loading actual CAS, if you have a lot of non-defaulted CC.

Loading a medium (3x3) populated lot.

Loading a medium unpopulated lot.

Loading a small (2x3 or smaller) populated lot.

Loading a small unpopulated lot.

Loading CAS catalogs from within a lot (e.g. using FFS clothing tool, "Change Appearance" on the mirror, shopping for clothes/trying on clothes on a community lot).

Turning up your lot view settings (generating other lots' lot imposters within your current lot)/panning the camera around.

You should already be doing at least all medium- and large-lot loading with the Lot View Settings Juggling Method, and “uint LotSkirtIncrease” removed from your userstartup.cheat - otherwise whenever you load a lot you are compounding the strain by also having the neighborhood load at the same time.

Using Resource Monitor Effectively

If you watched the Jessa Channel tutorial on flashing, she recommended downloading a third-party RAM usage monitoring software. This is unnecessary. For purposes of reducing your crashing, all you need is the native Windows program "Resource Monitor" that she also recommends.

To open it:

Click the Windows symbol/start menu.

Begin typing "Resource Monitor."

Click Resource Monitor when it shows up.

Once it is open, get to the useful information:

Click the "Memory" tab.

Make sure the "Processes" and "Physical Memory" subs are fully open, as above.

Sort by "Commit (KB)."

Each time you reopen Resource Monitor, it should restore your last view settings, so you won't have to repeat these steps.

While Resource Monitor is still open, "Pin" it to the taskbar so it will always be readily accessible.

Right-click the icon on the taskbar.

Click "Pin to taskbar."

If it says "Unpin from taskbar" you have already done this step :)

Now comes the monitoring part. You will focus on the dark-blue "Standby" block of the bar graph on Physical Memory.

Every fifth minute, when the ESL task runs, this will flash down to 0 and then pop up to about 30-75, depending on what you are doing. It will go higher faster if you are doing stuff, obviously, and hover pretty low if your computer is just sitting still. TLDR the remainder of this tutorial: only take stress actions when Standby is below 100.

As we all know too well, TS2 has a 4gb RAM limit. The problem is, TS2 seems to count the memory that is in standby, too, not just the committed/working set. Thus, before you take a major loading action (that is going to push up to 1.5gb into Standby), you need to wait for Standby to wipe so the game doesn't accidentally think it's using more memory than it is. Got it?

This is how much RAM my game is using when my neighborhood opens, pretty closely zoomed in on any particular lot. If it is zoomed out further - like a whole city block - both committed and working set are easily over 2.2gb. When I pan around the neighborhood, it continues going up. Portions of the hood that go back out of view seem to get relegated to standby, but yes, my game has crashed just from looking too much at my neighborhood from too wide an angle. Unless I slow down and let ESL run before moving on to the next section.

Six months of diligent Resource Manager monitoring has resulted in substantial reductions of crashing and flashing on my first hood view load and first lot view load. It is not 100% guaranteed, but it cuts it back to Very Playable Levels. And when I have tested the theory by purposefully not letting ESL run before a stress point, it always flashes and/or crashes within the next couple minutes.

SO! Here's what I do when I'm launching my game.

Because of overheating concerns, I always fully shut down my computer when I'm not using it for more than an hour. If I have been playing and experience a flash or crash, I will restart before trying again. @infinitesimblr, a survey Respondent who reported virtually no flashing or crashing despite a vast CC catalog, also recommends restarting between using Bodyshop or SimPE and the full game. I have found it may make a difference with Bodyshop (which I use too rarely to make a pseudoscientific claim) but that I have found basically no impact going from SimPE to the game. YMMV.

Immediately after Windows is done loading, I open Resource Monitor and wait a few minutes. Often background updates begin running and the Standby bar goes crazy - sometimes filling up the entire available RAM - and I just let it sit and do its thing. (Usually I start the computer right before my kid's bedtime so I am not actively waiting on it or anything. Go take a shower or make a sandwich or drink some water, like you did in the old days when the game itself took 20 minutes to load.)

Once the standby bar levels out and is consistently peaking no higher than about 250mb between ESL wipes, after the next ESL wipe, I will launch the game. (Usually between logging into Windowsat the beginning of storytime and checking Resource Monitor before we go do tuck-in, it is reliably hanging out below 100 unless a big TS4 or Windows update was downloading.)

Reminder: do not delete thumbnails anymore prior to launching the game. I also have turned off RPC's clear caches option and have observed faster loading times with minimal increases in crashing.

After the neighborhood selection screen comes up, wait for ESL to run again before opening your neighborhood.

If you have continue to have more than VERY sporadic hood load flashing after taking these steps, you should try launching into a subhood if you have one, then pivoting to the main hood if that's where you're playing that session after yet another ESL wipe. If that doesn't help you simply need to thin out your hood or accept the flashing. (I ended up deleting about 25% of my deco trees and 10-15 outer-lying lots that will be re-placed in a subhood.)

After the hood is loaded, navigate to the lot you want, but DO NOT actually load that lot until ESL runs yet again. Ditto for CAS - Do not select "Create New Family" until ESL has run again.

Play should be proceed as normal at this point. You probably don't need to alt-tab back to Resource Monitor again unless your sims are going traveling or you are changing play lots.

BONUS TIP #1: You can put a shortcut to the ESL routine on your desktop and push it manually (just double click the icon) if you don't feel like waiting once the game is loaded. I have had imperfect results with this vs. just waiting the five minutes, though, because the game wants to run through some stuff and flush it. But it's an option for you to experiment with.

BONUS TIP #2: If you have a really deep clothing/hair CC catalog, try to avoid using the FFS clothing tool option where you select every outfit for the sim, and their hair and makeup, at the same time. Instead, choose individual outfits by type and use the regular mirror option to change appearance (or SimBlender has it, I think, so they can do it where they already are).

#ts2 resources #pink flashing #ts2 pink soup #pink soup #ts2 tutorial

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pudding-parade · 4 months ago

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I was contemplating re-installing Reshade, but frankly I've never been able to get it to do what I want because I just don't understand what shaders do or how to manipulate them, and people who share presets tend to have vastly different preference than I have. It occurred to me, though, that maybe I could fiddle with lighting mods instead to get the job done. So, taking some inspiration from @rollo-rolls and her recent mashing-together of lighting mods, I decided to do some mashing of my own to see what I could come up with.

The above is what I've come up with, so far. No Reshade, no Photoshop (not even a contrast adjustment), just my "naked" game, which does involve NVIDIA profile settings for antialiasing and such as well as graphics rules for higher-def textures and shadows.

It's a mish-mash of:

1) My favorite lighting mod, Burntwaffles's Dream Dimension, which I (mostly) love in general, but it can be a little "shallow" and washed-out sometimes, and it does sometimes create harsh and overly-dark shadows, especially on covered porches and on sims in outdoor lighting.

2) Some adjusted values from @boringbones's lighting mod, which I generally like because it adds a very nice depth, but overall it's a little too contrast-y and the shadows are a bit too dark and hard-edged for my personal likings, while other things are too bright/saturated for my likings.

3) A half-assed lighting mod that I made for personal use years ago, which borrowed Dream Dimension's color ramps, but I desaturated them a little bit here and there. Those are the ramps in this mod.

Additionally, the clouds, sun halo, and stars in my game are provided by @wasset-aseskara's separate "Enchanted Environment" mod, the images of which I've also edited to my likings quite a bit over the years. I didn't do anything to CAS lighting because 1) I don't care enough, and 2) I'm very happy with @simbouquet's CAS lighting.

Anyway, I'm liking it so far. It's (mostly) gotten rid of the harsh shadows on sims, especially on their faces outdoors, and reduced (but alas not eliminated) the weird darkness in some places (like ceilings) with over-brightness in others (like some walls) that naturally-daylit interiors tend to have, even with edited/fixed window lighting. But, I've yet to look at it during anything but a sunny day, so we'll see what it looks like on cloudier days and at night. That's today's project.

I didn't take any "before" pictures because I really hadn't planned on spending hours messing around with this, but here is a couple of houses back when I put them in this world, with an untweaked Dream Dimension lighting mod in place, and then with my frankensteined thing:

(With the caveat that "before" was with my old video card, GTX1050Ti vs. the RTX4060 I have now. Otherwise, the only difference is the lighting mod and the addition of @asabinsims's "Project Renaissance" tree/plant defaults, which I highly recommend if you like a more-realistic look...though I admit that I have plans to desaturate some of the images in them because weird me likes more desaturated colors.)

Anyway, maybe I'll share it if the other weather environments and nighttime end up looking OK, in case there's anyone else out there who has similar weird preferences to mine.

#sims 3 #lighting mod wip

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studiogrimm810 · 4 months ago

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Speak of the Devil > Dreamwalk // part 8

pairings: (established) sam winchester x gn!reader, destiel is there :D

summary: you are taken by lucifer for over a week and sam damn near looses his head. when you are finally rescued, the trauma of what was inflicted on you has left it's mark and it's up to sam and dean to keep you put together. a stressful dreamwalk leads to unprompted answers to poorly worded questions and staining effects that take a toll on the whole gang

warnings: torture, ptsd, flashbacks, hallucinations, graphic depictions of said torture, allusions to SA, child neglect and parents die in traumatic way

word count: 4,768

A/N: this part has also undergone various rewrites and i'm quite pleased with how it turned out. tbh i'm thinking of doing one more (MAYBE two) parts of this series. tysm to all of my lovely supports who have joined me along this ride, ily <3<3

read other parts here

———————

It’s a dizzying swirl as Sam’s head spins and his vision blurs. The last thing he sees is your betraying peaceful form besides him as Rowena sprinkles him with the same powder she did you. All he can think about is how he’s allowed you to drift off into this sleep that only dooms you with a fate of the Devil’s torment. Now, it’s up to him to decide how long you must suffer until he finds you.

The first thing that hits him is summer rain, calming yet foreboding. Sam used to love the rain (still claims that he does) but to him, it only promises a sooner fate of stark lightning and booming thunder that remind him of his time with him.

The next thing that grounds him is the soft kisses of wind accompanied by the rain. It washes over him and alerts his senses- waking up each and every one of his nerves in a frenzy. Something doesn’t feel right to him.

Finally, when he opens his eyes, he surveys the room. A kitchen. Light blue cabinets lining the wall with a farm themed backsplash that’s cracked and stained with mildew. There's a kitchen table in the middle of the room, littered with mail- some opened, some not, most ripped- and a glass vase with a dead bouquet in the center of the table. The rainy weather looming outside cries over the cold and empty kitchen, windows open wide and curtains running through the room. There’s even a puddle forming at the bases of each window, the rain coming in at an angle that won’t make the fungus on the walls any better.

There’s some crooked picture frames but the faces are blurry- not like they were hung that way but almost like you hadn’t gotten a good enough look to stow it away- or maybe you wanted to forget.

The only picture in the room with its original detailed faces was a simple 4x6 developed picture on the fridge. It was you, Sam would recognize your face any day and any age, he assumed you to be 10 here. You smiled bright and wide, so young and so proud of the event you were at. You had won first place in your favorite recreational activity and the image was even held up by an accompanying magnet. Next to you stood two proud parents- one hugging you tight and the other with his arm draped around the other two. Sam’s lips lifted in a fond smile.

“Sam?” Cas’ voice startles Sam, he was confused at his presence at first but then he remembered where he was again. Sam turns to find Cas walking into the room. “Where are we?” Cas asks, knowing if anyone could guess it would be Sam.

Sam looks back to the fridge to get a closer look at the papers stuck to it with other kinda-matching magnets.

“I think this is their childhood home,” Sam looks out the window to find a rusted swing set with a broken seat and an unkempt yard with tall grass that drinks up the storming weather.

He tries the side door but it doesn’t budge. Looking back around the room, he finds the doorway that Cas emerged from and walks through it. A narrow hallway leads past a couple doors and accompanying the hall is a staircase. On the opposite side of the kitchen is the living room. He thinks of trying the living room first.

Sat in the middle of the windowless wall is a staticy TV and across from it is a sunken couch and coffee table littered with old cigarette packages, some tissues, and a few outdated magazines. There’s a couple of matching chairs off to the side that don’t look as worn but are still not ideal.

The front door opens and in comes you, probably a little older than the picture, using a notebook as an umbrella but it obviously didn’t work. You were drenched and shivering and if he could, Sam would offer you his jacket. But instead you walk right through him as if he were a ghost. You sling your book bag behind the couch and it prompts a ‘squelch’ as it lands.

You look beat. You go to head down the hallway and Sam and Cas silently follow out of pure curiosity.

There’s a scream from upstairs that makes Sam flinch and child-you freeze. There’s another scream followed by mumbling sobs and you dart up the stairs.

The stairs are creaky as he and Cas ascend them, following your trail. Once they get closer, they can make out voices.

“No, please,” a woman begs, sobbing. A low growl rubbles from the attacker as he towers over the woman who has been knocked to the floor.

“You- You came back?” Your soft and heartbroken voice slices through the room and the rumble stops. Sam peaks around the corner to find you pressed into the wall in fear, a few feet away from your father- the man from the photo- and your mother who lies on the floor, bloody.

“Bug-,” the growling voice cracks, muffled through his fresh set of teeth that overflow his mouth, bright yellow eyes indicating he’s a werewolf. “I-I’m sorry,” he snarls, attacking your mother and ripping her to shreds.

Child-you screams, falling along the wall since your feet have given out on you. Sam is frozen as he watches the scene before him. He knew your father abandoned you and your mother and turned into a werewolf that killed your mom- that’s what got you into hunting- but he never knew how graphic your introduction to The Life had been.

Your screams echo as the scene fades, dusting away particle by particle until Sam and Cas are left in an oily black hallway, lined with fluorescents.

Sam’s heart is racing and he struggles to get his dread contained. Seeing you so young and so scared gutted him and he doesn’t think his pieces will ever rest peacefully in his abdomen again.

Cas watches him, empathetic for what he saw and allowing Sam a moment to absorb it.

“Sam,” Cas pointed down the hallway, a warm light emitting from a room far down. Sam runs a hand down his face but meets Cas’ point. He looks around where they’re currently standing but decides that forward is their best bet.

He’s cautious now, though, taking slow steps but the urgency tingling his skin screaming for him to pick up some speed.

It’s a decent walk away, but they finally make it, turning into the doorway that leads to a familiar looking hotel room. He recognizes it immediately and the emotional whiplash makes him want to cry.

When you and Sam finally made things official, he took you up to Montana. He always loved the scenery and you had never been. He got you two a fancier than usual hotel and you two spent almost a week together.

Here you lay, splayed on the bed with blankets while Sam answers the door which greets them with previously ordered room service. He watches as memory-him rolls in the tray himself to protect your privacy from the worker. You laugh at him for how far he has to bend to push the cart.

He watches as you get up to your knees, crawling to the edge of the bed completely nude, and grabbing a piece of fruit from the cart. Memory-Sam goes to brew some espresso pods and memory-you continues to nibble on the assortment of fruit.

You start to speak but the conversation is muffled as the memory starts to fade just like the other.

Cas continues to watch Sam closely, aching for his friend's pain. He couldn’t imagine crawling through Dean’s brain- or ‘essence’- and seeing first hand his concoction of the memories seared into his being.

A piercing scream rattles the hallway and flickers the lights. Sam knows it’s you and he bolts. Cas is quick to follow, not questioning it for a second. The halls are winding and seemingly never ending, but eventually- finally- Sam skids to a stop as he looks into the memory with flashing lighting and echoing thunder.

Oh no.

It’s the cage. Suspended in the center of a void of stratus clouds is the cage. Sam’s lungs shrivel and he feels faint. The thought that Lucifer is keeping you in his cage is sickening- just when Sam couldn’t possibly think it would get worse.

No.

Sam shakes his head, breathing rapidly and thoughts frantic. He has to find a way to get over there.

Cas watches as Sam paces the ledge like a cat unsure of where it’s about to land and thinks of a solution. Cas places his hand on Sam’s shoulder and in a split second, they’re in the cage.

Fuck.

Sam can’t think straight. This is where he wanted to be for your sake, but the walls are smaller than he remembers and he can barely fit in the cramped space. And it’s cold- holy fuck is it freezing.

Another scream rips from your throat, pulling the twos attention to where you’re suspended from the ceiling by frigid chains. The Devil is wielding a large icicle with frozen patches of blood on the tip.

“Sammy,” Lucifer gleams over his shoulder, sending a shiver up Sam’s spine. “Just in time,” he steps away, back to his lineup of weapons, and Sam can fully see you now. Your skin was frosted and marred with caves from the weapon. He ached to cover your bare skin from Lucifer’s eyes.

You shivered, not noticing Sam and Cas’ presence due to the mind-numbing cold.

“Brother, I see you’ve joined us too,” Lucifer rolls his eyes. “And I’m assuming Dean and Rowena are zeroing in on their objective,” Lucifer selects a serrated knife, running his finger along the pricks. “I’m hoping they find it, cause when they do, I’ll be able to retrieve what I need. Hell, I did so good at hiding it that I really thought it was lost forever,” he walks back over to you with a dry chuckle, running the blade down the center of your chest, sawing lightly and pulling a desperate cry from you.

“Stop-,” Sam tries to sound threatening, but he’s too damn scared so the word comes out in a pathetic warble.

“What do you need?” Cas inquiries, wondering what’s so damn important and why it was left with you. Lucifer flicks his head up to look at Cas, eyeing him as he removes the blade and walks behind you, placing it on your stomach. You whimper at the contact, trying to move back. Sam’s throat tickles with bile as the blood running from the wound on your chest starts to freeze.

“I think you know, brother,” Lucifer raises a brow and slashes deep in your stomach. The cage echoes with your screams but is drowned out by a roll of thunder that makes Sam flinch. His thumb instinctively goes to his palm.

Cas squints his eyes at Lucifer, unsure of what he’s ‘supposed’ to know.

“Don’t play dumb, you remember the Frontier Entrance,” Lucifer winks, placing his hand on the opposite side of your stomach. You flinch.

“Don’t fucking touch them,” Sam seethes, knuckles white. This time his anger backs up his demand.

“Feisty, hmm?” Lucifer tilts his head, moving in to whisper in your ear. “It’s a nice change of pace seeing him as himself in the cage, isn’t it, doll?” Lucifer fakes the whisper, looking right as Sam as he speaks it loud enough for him and Cas to hear.

“The hell are you talking about?” Sam’s gaze hardens, posture straightening in a protective stance. Lucifer walks back around you, placing the blade on the tray and grabbing your chin.

“Oh, just the times I’ve given my precious doll here a glimpse of our fun in the cage,” Lucifer giggles, dropping his hold on you and spinning to face the two. Sam’s head tilts, his eyes hardening in confusion or defense- he doesn’t have a care to place it. “Like…” he snaps and suddenly you’re gone, replaced by Sam curled in the corner. And as quickly as he switched the scene, he did it again. This time Sam is tied upside down by his feet, then he’s crucified, then pinned to the ceiling with a taunting caesarean scar and erupted flames that overwhelm the cage.

In a blink, the cage is rid of flames and Cas is gone.

———

He’s fixed you again. At first it’s always nice to have a moment- a moment- of peace. To remember your skin as it's supposed to be, unharmed and warm. But he’s quick to unleash his devious pain upon you again and it always feels quicker than last time.

You’re sitting. That’s new. In all of your time with the Devil, you couldn’t recall being strapped to a chair by leather restraints at your ankles and wrists. You pull up your head to look around you and get a feel for his tray of tools but your breath catches at the view before you. Sam with his wrists chained to the lining of the cage with his back flush against the surface. He’s unconscious and his head dips, strands of feathery hair laying across his face.

“No,” the words brushes past your lips, a desperate plea for this to be a dream. Well, you suppose it is.

“Yes,” the Devil snakes his hands around your shoulders, his lips pressed to your ears and you tense. “I think it’s about time for a live show,” he purrs, standing back up and walking over to Sam. You watch in confusion trying to piece together his words but then you remember- the dreamwalk.

This is… no. This is actually Sam.

“Don’t you fucking touch him,” you growl, watching the Devil with a snarl.

“But I’ve missed my boy so much,” Lucifer turns to look at you with feigned pleading. Sam starts to stir and your face melts, hoping to get his eyes first. “Ah, and there he is,” Lucifer grabs a fistful of Sam’s hair and yanks him up. Sam groans with a stiff jaw, eyes scrunched in ignorance for his pain- he doesn’t want to believe this is real.

“Look at me, sweet boy,” Lucifer coos with a finger tracing Sam’s jaw.

“I said don’t fucking touch him,” your anger bubbles confident words out of your chest. The sight of Lucifer’s gentle caress over Sam’s stiff features give you more reason to wring his fucking neck.

“And what’re you gonna do about it?” Lucifer snaps back at you, dropping his hold on Sam. You can now feel Sam’s eyes on you but you refuse to drop your glare on Lucifer. You don’t have an answer for him but you have enough rage to gather his attention long enough to maybe think of something.

“You're trapped. Helpless,” he spits, resting his hands on the arms of your chair. “You have nothing to wager against what you’ll see me do to sweet Sammy,” he pouts. “But you know the fun thing? No one is coming to help you. Dean and Rowena are gone, and so is my pitiful excuse for a brother,” he straightens back up. “I kicked them far into a corner of your mind that they’ll never find a way out of alone.”

You don’t believe him. You can’t.

“Oh but you know I’m right,” Lucifer stalks back over to Sam, a rope in hand. He forces open Sam’s jaw and wraps the rope a couple times around him, tying it behind his head. “Doesn’t he just look so pretty with something to bite on?” Lucifer looks back for your approval. You’re seeing red. Pure rage burns your skin to a charred husk. You have to do something.

The fear in Sam’s face ignites a flame so hot that you thrash against your holds. You know what Sam has been through at the hands of Lucifer- what he’s told you and what was shown to you- but you know enough to know exactly why Sam is struck with the terror that he is.

You think for a moment, trying to piece together what-means-what based on how you’re here. You aren’t asleep for some nap, you’re dreamwalking. Lucidity. That’s your advantage. You just have to pray that Rowena’s magic with your own being is enough to overpower Lucifer’s unwanted presence.

As Lucifer, dagger in hand, starts to unbutton Sam’s flannel, you give it a shot. You close your eyes, trying to ignore the soft cries of protest from Sam’s lips, and focus. As your eyes reopen, you look down in time to see the straps snap open and now you’re free. You bolt to your feet and Sam’s eyes meet yours first. You barely have time to give him a reassuring smile before Lucifer flings you against the walls of the cage, jagged indents causing a rocky landing.

“How the fuck did you-?” Lucifer starts but you’re able to push yourself to your feet and his face twists in anger. He tries to fling you again but you will yourself to stay in place- and you do.

You run over to grab an item off of his tray- the serrated bread knife, it was your most dreaded weapon upon his stash because of how tediously he would use it against your sensitive flesh- and swing at him, slicing the knife through the side of his neck. It’s more of an inconvenience to him rather than pain but it’ll do.

He charges at you, slamming you into the wall and your head hits hard- dizzying you instantly. You attempt to shake off the pain and manage to shove against him and he stumbles back. As he tries to charge you again, you screw your eyes tight and wish him to be somewhere else. When no impact hits your chest, you breathe a puff of relief at the granted wish.

You stumble over to Sam, pulling out the ropes from gagging him and removing the chains from his wrists. His tear stained cheeks rest shamefully in your palms and you kiss his lips softly, bringing him in for a comforting hug.

“You’re okay, you’re okay,” you assure, running a gentle hand through his hair. It’s odd to feel him so affected- he’s trembling and holding onto you in such a desperate manner.

After a few moments, you pull away to look at him. His eyes are dreadfully lined with unspoken apologies and aching regrets but you speak before he has a chance to accept blame that is not his to begin with.

“I’ve got this under control now, I can keep him at bay,” you run a thumb along his cheek, “I can find the others,” you nod, tilting your head and letting your eyes roam his face. “We can finish this. He won’t touch us again,” you vow, jaw tensing as you utter the last words.

“I’m sorry,” his voice breaks but you shush him.

“Don’t say that,” you shake your head. You’ve seen the switch in how guarded and protective Sam has become of you since he and Dean found you and it’s not lost on you that the reason he’s so like that is because he knows what the Devil is like. Sam knows what he's capable of and what his track record shows. But the thing that makes Sam so patient and understanding is the same thing that got in his way just a few moments ago- trauma.

This situation has no rule book and it has absolutely no guide to right or wrong behavior. You know that Sam is hellbent on being there for you and he fears not being ‘man’ enough for you, but you don’t blame him for his reactions to the actions the Devil laid upon him. He is just as a victim as you are and right now it’s time for you to give so he can take.

“You don’t need to apologize to me, just breathe,” you assure, looking around the cage. “Are you with me?” You ask, moving his chin up so he can look at you better.

He’s working on repairing the dam Lucifer chipped at- the same dam that was built to withstand the weight of Lucifer’s impact to begin with- that much you can tell. He only nods, not trusting his voice. You believe him, though, because he’s given you no other reason not to.

“We gotta go,” you hold his hands, “close your eyes.” It’s disorienting but you manage to transport you and Sam into an eerily inky hallway lined with buzzing lights you’d see in a school.

You look around to find virtually nothing but an extensive hallway that spans indefinitely. Confusion is obvious in your face.

“It’s the navigation through your consciousness,” Sam says, his words weak but you’re proud of him for making that step.

“Right,” you respond as if it’s supposed to make sense but oddly enough it does. You start to almost feel a pull through the winding halls and you begin to walk where the energy takes you.

Sam follows you, hand-in-hand, looking up and down passing halls, but your gaze stays straight. Sam almost wants to ask where they’re headed but he trusts you and honestly he’s still trying to steady himself after what almost was.

With one final turn, you stop in front of a shimmering obsidian door with an opal door knob. You twist it with a twinkling click and it unlatches, swaying in without a creek. Inside the room is a complete recreation of the first motel you stayed in with the brothers but something is different. Instead of a memory, the room is lively with the stowed away members of your family.

Dean is pacing the room but halts when he notices the open door, Rowena is sitting on the edge of the bed with her legs crossed and arms folded, and Cas is standing along the worn path of Dean’s restlessness.

“Sam?” Dean starts walking to you and Sam.

“Dear, how're we feelin’?” Rowena strides towards you with her arms outstretched. You take the opportunity and hug her tight, she returns with a firm embrace, her hand cradling the back of your head and the other over your shoulder.

“Exhausted,” you admit quietly, pulling away, “but I think I have a hold on this whole ‘dreamwalk’ thing. And I think I can keep Lucifer away while you do what you need to,” you say.

“Aren’t you quick,” she winks, turning back to Dean and Cas, “we’ll let’s get goin’, I know where we must go now that Lucifer isn’t keeping us in this damn cage,” she sighs with a slight eye roll. You and Sam feel an iron weight settle in your stomachs at her choice of words.

The group heads back into the oily hallway, you and Rowena leading the way.

“Cas, what’s the Frontier Entrance?” Sam asks after a few paces. He hadn’t had the opportunity to do so earlier and Cas really looked like he knew what Lucifer was talking about.

“The what?” Dean asks, annoyed that he’s left out of the loop.

“It’s what Lucifer is after- the location that he said he’s left with them,” Sam explains and you glance over your shoulder at the conversation. Rowena looks over at you, meeting your gaze as you turn back ahead.

“It’s a direct entrance to The Empty,” Cas sighs, “it’s how I was retrieved. When I got out- and no one was supposed to be able to escape- I was told it was a one time thing,” Cas looks down, dreading his next words. “If Lucifer gains access to The Empty then he can resurrect any creature who has been cast there- angels, demons, Horsemen, Eve- any creature that has died beyond the point of Heaven or Hell. That includes the monsters slaughtered in Purgatory.”

“The coordinates. He left me the location of the entrance.” You finally piece into words, stopping in your tracks.

“Why the hell would he leave that with you? He not remember or something?” Dean shakes his head lightly, his confusion only leading to anger.

“You think I know?” You snap, you don’t mean to, but it’s not like you know more than they do about all of this. Dean’s eyes soften and you can tell he’s apologetic but there’s no time for pleasantries.

“Let’s just go,” you spin on your heel and continue walking. Rowena quickly matches your pace while the men behind lag a bit- you’re thankful for her solidarity even in such a minor display.

You’re almost there, you can feel it. As the halls become shorter and significantly more narrow, the group funnels in a single file line with you insisting on going first despite Sam’s protests.

As you near the end of the final hall, you can feel it, a rush of magical energy that fogs up your surroundings like the humidity of an indoor pool. Before you, you see a pulsing blue bundle of energy wrapped around a pure white orb of light. It’s in the center of an inky black room, just like the rest of the halls in your mind, just minus the fluorescents.

Rowena stumbles out next, followed by Sam, Cas and then Dean. The group focuses on the object for a moment, completely entranced by its beauty.

“Is this it?” Dean asks, his voice calm as if affected by the Zen of the object.

“Yes,” Rowena smiles with a breath of relief. “This is it,” she steps forward, her hand braced in front of her to touch the object. You want to stop her but you’re kinda curious about what'll happen.

As soon as her fingers pass the aura of blue, you fall to your knees with a cry of pain, holding your head in your hands with a soft groan. Sam rushes by your side quickly, his arms resting on your back. The pain echoes in your skull like shattered glass and Sam’s worries are muffled but frantic.

A dampening presence causes your head to snap up, zeroing in on Lucifer on the far side of the room. He’s lit up gleefully, his hands clasped and giggles giddy as he steps closer to Rowena with his fingers ready to snap.

“No!” You desperately cry, lurching forward but landing on your palms. You funnel any energy left behind your pain stricken skull and fling it all his way, pinning him against the wall.

“Hurry,” you bite out, staring at the Devil who only scowls back.

“This won’t stop me,” he threatens, his words oddly quiet but they fill the room entirely. Rowena is chanting and the pulse of the object increases after each syllable. “I’ll find you, you can’t hide forever, doll,” his words send a shiver down your spine but Sam’s hand rubs soothingly against the Devil’s pricks, reminding you of the tomorrow to always come.

You know the fight doesn’t end today, but a victory will be won, and you refuse to let Lucifer come out on top.

You push your hands against the inky tile, standing like a skyscraper, unbalanced with no real threat of collapse under these harsh winds, as you shuffle closer to where he’s pinned. Sam gives you space, with as much as he wants to help you, he’s honestly a bit frightened to get too close.

“Then bring it the fuck on,” you hiss, “but your time traipsing through my brain ends today,” you bite, your vision starting to blur but you can feel that Rowena is close. The pulsing has quickened to a consistent flash and your skin is on fire but you stand strong.

A piercing blue hue assaults your senses with a sharp ‘ping’ throughout the room, cracking the obsidian tiles and shattering the core of the object. You shield your eyes, flying with the blast past where the wall used to be.

You land on your back with an unsatisfactory wave of air punched out of your lungs. You gulp back in what you can after the aching in your ribs subsides for you to do so. Rubble drips from the shattered structure, falling with an echo against the vast space of nothing around you.

Lonely. You can feel the lack of others around you. Not in the absence of something morbid but of something cleansing and fresh. It’s done. He’s gone.

You close your eyes for the first time in what feels like weeks without worry of what will be lurking beyond.

———————

thanks so much for reading!! <3

>pictures are not my own, i have the originals linked here (pinterest) >>check out my other works here

>tags: @internallysalad @blossomingorchids @bobbdylan @areswasneverhere @mostlymarvelgirl

#supernatural #sam winchester #fanfiction #fandom #dean winchester #supernatural fanfiction #sam winchester fanfiction #sam winchester x reader #sam winchester angst #sam winchester x you #supernatural angst #hallucifer #supernatural lucifer #lucifer supernatural #spn fanfic #spnfandom #spn

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lightdancingwords · 4 months ago

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Crossroads of the Heart - Part Thirteen of ?

Pairings: CJ Braxton x Y/N Female reader

Series Summary: Y/N is a psychology major assigned to shadow CJ at The Stand, unaware he's the one who basically saved her life four years before. CJ is unaware that she's the one who left a notable impact on him over the phone four years ago. As they navigate the work at The Stand, they develop a spark that demands revelation and connection.

Word Count: 3,976

Tags/Warnings: 18+ implied smut/smut, some fluff, light angst, mention of s*icide

A/N: Comments, Likes, Reblogs, Kind feedback are always highly appreciated. Please let me know if you want to be added to the tag list!

Dividers: credit to @saradika-graphics

Chapter Thirteen: When You Know

The apartment was bathed in the soft glow of evening, the golden hues of the setting sun filtering through the windows. The quiet hum of the city outside felt distant, leaving only the soft ticking of the clock and the rhythmic clinking of their spoons against ceramic as CJ and Y/N sat on the couch, finishing the last of their tea.

It had been a long day. A heavy day.

Y/N sighed, setting her empty cup down on the coffee table and curling her legs beneath her. CJ watched her carefully, knowing she was still lost in thought after the call at The Stand. The teenage boy she had spoken to had reminded her too much of herself—of a time when she had been the one dialing that number, hoping someone would pick up and convince her that life was still worth living.

CJ reached for her hand, intertwining their fingers. “You’re thinking about it again.”

Y/N nodded, her gaze distant. “I know I helped him, but… calls like that stay with you.”

CJ squeezed her hand. “Because you care. And that’s why you’re incredible at what you do.”

She exhaled, leaning her head against his shoulder. “It just brought back memories. Of my call. Of… you.”

CJ pressed a kiss to the top of her head. “Tell me?”

Y/N hesitated for a moment before sitting up slightly, her fingers absentmindedly toying with the chain around her neck. “There’s something I never told you. About the poem.”

CJ’s gaze flickered to the delicate snowflake pendant she wore every day, and his thumb brushed over it. “Snow on the Beach?”

She nodded, her lips curving slightly at the mention of it. “I wrote it because of you, CJ.”

His breath caught, his fingers stilling against her skin. “Me?”

Y/N let out a soft laugh, shaking her head as if in disbelief. “You, before I even knew it was you.” She turned her body toward him, holding his gaze. “I wrote Snow on the Beach in my freshman year, for the college newspaper’s poetry contest. And I wrote it about… you.”

CJ’s jaw tensed slightly, his mind racing to keep up. “You didn’t even know me then.”

“I did, though.” Y/N smiled faintly, her fingers tracing patterns on his palm. “I didn’t know who you were, but I knew you—your voice, your kindness. That night when I called The Stand, I told you about the poem. I told you how much it meant to me. How it was about something rare, something impossible but beautiful. And you listened. You got it.”

CJ’s breath came slower now. “And that was you.”

Y/N nodded. “And I had no idea that I was talking to the person I had written about.”

CJ exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair. “Y/N…”

She continued, her voice steadier now. “I remember sitting in English 203, two rows behind you, watching you make sarcastic comments under your breath during lectures, always ready with some smart but surprisingly insightful answer when the professor called on you.” She smiled softly at the memory. “I had this ridiculous crush on you before I even realized you were the same person who had helped me that night.”

CJ’s chest tightened. “And the poem…”

“It was about you,” she confirmed, her voice barely above a whisper. “I just didn’t know it at the time.”

He let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. “I loved that poem.”

Y/N’s eyes widened slightly. “You did?” She knew he kept it because of the call; not that he loved it.

CJ nodded, his throat tight. “I clipped it from the newspaper. Kept it on my desk at The Stand. It stayed with me, just like that call did.” He swallowed. “It was one of the most beautiful things I had ever read.”

Y/N’s breath hitched. “You kept it because you loved it?”

“I didn’t know why at the time,” CJ admitted. “It just… meant something to me.” He reached out, cupping her cheek. “Turns out, it was always you.”

Tears welled in Y/N’s eyes, her fingers tightening around his wrist. “You were my snow on the beach, CJ.”

CJ’s jaw clenched as emotion surged through him. He leaned in, pressing his forehead against hers. “And you were mine.”

For a moment, neither of them spoke. They just breathed, letting the weight of the realization settle between them.

Then CJ kissed her—slow and deep, like he was trying to rewrite time, trying to close the space between the past and the present. Y/N melted into him, her hands sliding up his chest, anchoring herself to him.

When they finally pulled apart, Y/N let out a shaky laugh. “So… fate, huh?”

CJ smirked, brushing his thumb along her jaw. “Yeah. I think we were always supposed to find each other.”

Y/N smiled against his lips. “I’m glad we did.”

CJ kissed her again, murmuring against her skin, “Me too.”

And as they sat there, wrapped in each other, they both knew—without a doubt—that some things in life were rare and special.

Like snow on the beach.

Like love that finds its way back to you.

Like this.

The weight of the moment settled between them, their breaths still mingling, their bodies close but not nearly close enough. Y/N felt something shift deep inside her—not just the overwhelming realization that fate had been pulling them together all along, but a need. A raw, undeniable need to feel him.

Her fingers curled around the fabric of CJ’s shirt, tugging him closer, her heart pounding as she whispered, “CJ…”

His green eyes searched hers, his gaze steady, waiting, always waiting for her to lead.

“I need you,” she murmured, her voice soft but sure.

CJ’s throat bobbed as he swallowed, his hands tightening where they rested on her waist. “I’m right here.”

“No,” Y/N whispered, shaking her head. “I need you. Now. Hold me. Love me.”

CJ’s eyes darkened, his restraint wavering as his fingers flexed against her hips. “Are you sure?”

Y/N nodded, reaching up to cradle his face in her hands. “I’ve never been more sure of anything.”

And that was all it took.

CJ surged forward, capturing her lips in a kiss that was different from all the others—deeper, more urgent. Y/N gasped softly as his hands slipped beneath her sweater, the heat of his touch against her bare skin sending shivers up her spine.

He pulled her into his lap, his arms wrapping tightly around her, holding her close as if he were afraid to let go. Y/N melted into him, her fingers threading through his hair, tugging lightly as their kiss deepened.

CJ groaned against her lips, the sound rumbling through his chest, vibrating against hers. “God, Y/N…” His hands roamed her back, memorizing every inch of her. “You’re everything.”

She felt the words in every cell of her body. “Then show me.”

CJ’s breath hitched, his grip tightening before he stood, lifting her effortlessly into his arms. Y/N wrapped her legs around his waist instinctively, gasping as he pressed her back against the wall, his lips trailing down her jaw, her neck, lower.

She let out a soft whimper, tilting her head back to give him more access. CJ took his time, worshiping her with every kiss, every brush of his hands, as if he were trying to memorize her all over again.

Somewhere between the soft murmurs and desperate touches, they made their way to the bedroom, their movements both frantic and reverent. CJ laid her down gently, hovering over her, his gaze drinking her in like she was something holy.

“I love you,” he whispered, his lips brushing against her collarbone, his hands mapping every curve of her body.

Y/N arched into him, her nails digging into his shoulders as she whispered, “Then take me, CJ.”

And he did.

Slowly. Deeply. Completely.

Every touch, every kiss, every breath was deliberate, as if he were carving himself into her soul, cementing something unbreakable between them. Y/N’s fingers traced the lines of his back, her body trembling beneath his, not from nerves, but from the sheer intensity of feeling him—of knowing him, inside and out.

They moved together in perfect rhythm, their bodies speaking a language only they understood. Soft sighs turned into whispered names, whispered names turned into moans, moans into breathless gasps as they unraveled together, their love solidified in the way they held onto each other long after the moment had passed.

CJ pressed his forehead against hers, his breath warm against her lips, their bodies still tangled. “You okay?” he murmured, brushing a damp strand of hair from her face.

Y/N let out a soft, contented laugh, her fingers tracing lazy circles on his back. “More than okay.”

CJ kissed her softly, slowly, like he had all the time in the world. “Good,” he murmured, pulling her impossibly closer. “Because I’m never letting you go.”

Y/N sighed happily, her lips brushing against his jaw. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

And as they drifted into a peaceful silence, wrapped in each other, Y/N realized something else.

Falling in love with CJ hadn’t just been fate. It had been inevitable.

The next morning, Y/N arrived at The Stand feeling lighter than she had in days. The warmth of CJ’s touch, the way he had held her so completely, lingered like an afterglow in her mind. He had anchored her, loved her, and reminded her that she never had to carry her burdens alone.

As she slipped into the break room to grab a coffee before her shift, she found Priya already there, leaning against the counter with her usual composed expression. But as soon as she noticed Y/N, her dark eyes softened with something that looked suspiciously like relief.

“Hey, you,” Priya greeted, tilting her head slightly. “How are you holding up?”

Y/N gave her a small smile, pouring herself a cup of coffee before leaning against the counter beside her. “I’m okay,” she said honestly. “Yesterday was… a lot. But I got through it.”

Priya studied her for a moment before nodding. “I heard the call was tough.”

Y/N exhaled, wrapping her fingers around her mug for warmth. “It was. It hit close to home.”

Priya’s lips pressed together. “I thought it might.” She hesitated, then added, “I wanted to check in last night, but I figured CJ would be there for you.”

Y/N’s smile grew, softer this time. “He was.”

Priya’s eyes flickered with something knowing. “Good,” she said simply. “I was hoping he would be.”

Y/N took a sip of her coffee, gathering her thoughts before speaking. “It’s strange,” she admitted. “For so long, I never let myself need anyone. I thought I had to handle everything on my own. But CJ… he doesn’t let me do that. He knows when I’m struggling, even before I do.”

Priya smirked slightly. “Yeah, that man has a sixth sense when it comes to you.”

Y/N let out a soft laugh, shaking her head. “It’s kind of unfair, really. I can’t get away with anything.”

Priya chuckled before her expression turned serious again. “But in all honesty, Y/N… I’m glad you have him. We both know how easy it is to carry things alone, to bury them and pretend we’re fine. It’s dangerous. And it’s exhausting.”

Y/N nodded, her fingers tightening around her mug. “I didn’t even realize how much I was doing that until I met him.”

Priya’s voice softened. “That’s what love is supposed to be, you know? Not just passion and romance, but partnership. A safe place. Someone to lean on when it all feels too heavy.”

Y/N exhaled slowly, feeling those words settle deep inside her. “Yeah,” she murmured. “And for the first time… I feel like I really have that.”

Priya reached out, squeezing her arm gently. “Then hold onto it. Because that kind of love? It’s rare.”

Y/N smiled. “I know.”

Priya gave her a look, one that was filled with the warmth of someone who understood. “So, does CJ know?”

Y/N blinked. “Know what?”

Priya arched a brow, crossing her arms. “That you’re completely, utterly, hopelessly in love with him?”

Y/N’s face flushed, and she bit her lip. “I think so,” she admitted, glancing down. “I mean… we’ve said it, but last night felt like—like something even more.”

Priya smiled. “Oh, I bet it did.”

Y/N groaned, hiding her face behind her coffee cup. “I walked into that, didn’t I?”

Priya laughed, her teasing grin fading into something more genuine. “But seriously, I’m glad you have him. You deserve that kind of love, Y/N.”

Y/N met her gaze, warmth blooming in her chest. “Thank you, Priya. That means a lot.”

Priya nodded, finishing her coffee. “Alright, let’s get to work. Try not to daydream about your boyfriend too much while we’re on shift, okay?”

Y/N laughed, nudging her playfully as they walked out of the break room. But as they stepped into the office, she knew one thing for sure—she wasn’t carrying things alone anymore.

She had CJ.

And with him, she had everything.

CJ leaned back in his chair, pinching the bridge of his nose as he listened to the voice on the other end of the phone. The conversation had been dragging on for the past twenty minutes, and while he understood the necessity of the changes being proposed, the logistics of it all were giving him a headache.

"Look," CJ sighed, running a hand through his hair, "I get it, I really do. Better security is always a good thing. But installing a swipe-badge system means new keycards, retraining staff, updating protocols… it’s a lot."

The landlord chuckled, clearly unbothered by CJ’s growing frustration. "Change is always a process, Mr. Braxton. But considering the kind of work The Stand does, I’d think you’d appreciate tighter security. No more people wandering in off the street without clearance. And let’s be honest, some of your volunteers forget to lock the doors sometimes, don’t they?"

CJ exhaled sharply through his nose. He hated when other people made valid points against his complaints. "Fine," he muttered. "You’re right. Better security is worth it. Just… send me everything in writing so I can go over it, and we’ll set up a meeting to discuss the timeline."

"Good man," the landlord said cheerfully. "I’ll have the documents sent over this afternoon. We’ll talk soon."

CJ grunted a goodbye and hung up, groaning as he leaned forward onto his desk, rubbing his temples.

A soft chuckle from the doorway made him glance up.

Priya stood there, arms crossed, an amused smirk tugging at the corner of her lips. "You looked like you were having fun," she teased, stepping inside and closing the door behind her.

CJ groaned again, flopping back in his chair. "I don’t mind the work that comes with managing this place," he muttered. "But at the same time, I hate it because of all the managing."

Priya laughed, dropping into the chair across from his desk. "You do realize that’s literally what comes with being a manager, right?"

CJ shot her a dry look. "Yeah, thanks, Priya. Didn’t notice."

She grinned. "But seriously, a new security system? Sounds like a pain."

"Yeah," CJ muttered. "Swipe badges. Which means ordering a bunch of keycards, updating entry permissions, retraining everyone so Miles doesn’t somehow override the system to give himself 'supreme access'…"

Priya snorted. "You know he’d do it just to mess with you."

"Exactly," CJ said, rubbing his temples again. "And as much as I hate all the work it’ll take, I know it’s the right thing to do. Better security means a safer place for everyone here."

Priya nodded. "I get it. But you should take a break. Relax a little."

CJ scoffed. "Oh yeah? And how exactly am I supposed to do that?"

A slow smirk spread across Priya’s face. "Oh, I don’t know… maybe go spend some time with Y/N?"

CJ’s face warmed immediately, and Priya lit up at his reaction.

"Oh my God," she gasped, delighted. "Are you blushing?"

CJ grumbled something under his breath, but the heat creeping up his neck was undeniable.

Priya smiled, practically bouncing in her chair. "I love this," she teased. "The great and unshakable CJ Braxton, completely undone at the mere mention of his girlfriend."

CJ shot her a glare, but it lacked any real heat. "Can we not do this right now?"

Priya rested her chin in her hand, grinning like she had just discovered the secret to the universe. "Nope, we’re absolutely doing this."

CJ groaned again, rubbing his hands over his face. "Look, I just… I didn’t expect it to be this much."

Priya raised a brow. "Love?"

CJ hesitated, his fingers tapping against the desk. "Yeah."

Priya softened, watching him closely. "You’re really in deep, huh?"

CJ exhaled, shaking his head slightly. "So deep I don’t even know where the bottom is."

Priya smiled, this time without teasing. "Good. You deserve it, CJ."

CJ looked at her, something grateful in his eyes. "Thanks, Priya."

She stood, stretching her arms above her head. "Well, don’t just sit there drowning in manager stress. Go find your girl. I have a feeling she’d be happy to help you unwind."

CJ rolled his eyes, but the corners of his mouth twitched upward. "Yeah, yeah."

As Priya left, CJ leaned back in his chair, exhaling.

Maybe she was right. Maybe managing didn’t have to be so bad when he had Y/N to come home to.

CJ sat at his desk for a few minutes after Priya left, staring blankly at his laptop screen. His mind wasn’t on work anymore—not after that conversation.

Go find your girl.

Priya wasn’t wrong. He could feel the weight of the day pressing on him, the endless to-do list growing longer in his head. But Y/N… she had a way of making everything else fade into the background.

Pushing away from his desk, CJ stood and rolled his shoulders, stretching out the tension that had settled there. Then, without another thought, he stepped out of his office, scanning the room until his eyes landed on her.

Y/N sat at her station, just finishing a call. Her expression was calm, a soft smile playing on her lips as she jotted something down in her notes. That meant it had been a good call—a relief for him. He hated seeing the weight of difficult conversations lingering in her eyes.

He walked over, resting a hand lightly on the back of her chair and nudging her gently with his elbow. “Take a break with me?”

Y/N turned her head, her smile widening as she looked up at him. “Yeah, I’d like that.”

CJ stepped back, offering his hand. She took it without hesitation, letting him guide her across the room. His fingers brushed against hers as they walked, a small, grounding touch that sent warmth curling in his chest.

When they reached his office, CJ pushed the door shut behind them. And the second it clicked into place, he moved.

Before Y/N could even react, he pulled her into him, one hand sliding into her hair, the other wrapping around her waist. He caught the surprised gasp on her lips as he kissed her, deep and urgent, tilting her head back as he pressed her flush against his chest.

Y/N let out a muffled sound—half shock, half delight—before melting into him. Her hands gripped the fabric of his shirt, her body molding against his as she returned the kiss with just as much fire.

CJ poured everything into it—every unspoken word, every feeling he never quite knew how to put into sentences.

God, he loved her.

When he finally pulled back, Y/N was breathless, her eyes wide, her lips slightly swollen from the force of it. Her chest rose and fell rapidly as she stared up at him, completely dazed.

CJ smirked, brushing his thumb along the curve of her cheek. “What brought that on?” she asked, her voice a little breathless, her fingers still curled into his shirt.

He smiled, his forehead resting against hers. “You.” His voice was quiet but firm. “Always you.”

Y/N swallowed, her pulse still racing beneath his fingertips. Then, slowly, a smile stretched across her lips, her gaze softening in that way that always wrecked him.

“I like this kind of break,” she murmured, her hands sliding up to rest on his shoulders.

CJ chuckled, his grip on her tightening. “Yeah? Maybe I should pull you away from work more often.”

Y/N grinned. “I wouldn’t complain.”

CJ kissed her again, slower this time, savoring the way she sighed against his lips. He couldn’t get enough of her—the way she fit so perfectly against him, the way she looked at him like he was something worth holding onto.

And as they stood there, wrapped up in each other, CJ knew one thing for sure.

Y/N wasn’t just his break from the stress.

She was everything.

Priya lingered in the break room, cradling her tea as she watched CJ and Y/N step out of his office.

It was subtle—the way Y/N leaned just slightly into CJ’s space, the way his fingers brushed against hers as they walked. But to someone like Priya, someone who watched people for a living, it was obvious.

CJ Braxton, the man who carried the weight of The Stand, who never let anyone in too easily, was completely and utterly in love.

Priya smiled to herself before making her way toward CJ’s office.

CJ looked up from his desk, blinking in surprise. “You again,” he said dryly, setting his pen down.

Priya smiled but didn’t sit. Instead, she crossed her arms and leaned against the door. “I see you took my advice.”

CJ tilted his head. “Which advice was that?”

“The ‘go find your girl’ one,” she said, raising an eyebrow. “You definitely found her.”

CJ exhaled through his nose, shaking his head. “You’re too observant.”

“Please, I’m an expert in reading people,” Priya shot back. Then, after a pause, her expression sobered. “You just seem… happier lately. Since Y/N came around.”

CJ was quiet for a moment, his fingers idly drumming against his desk. Finally, he nodded. “I am.”

Priya studied him. “I figured as much.”

CJ shook his head. “No... She didn’t change me. She just… fit. Like a missing piece I didn’t even realize I needed.”

Priya hummed, tilting her head slightly. “That sounds a lot like a man who’s thinking about forever.”

CJ’s jaw twitched, but he didn’t deny it.

Instead, he let out a slow breath, rubbing the back of his neck. “Not now,” he admitted, voice quiet. “Not yet. But… yeah. I’m building toward it.”

Priya blinked, then let out a soft chuckle. “Wow. The great CJ Braxton, planning for something other than work. I’m impressed.”

CJ rolled his eyes but smirked. “Don’t make a big deal out of it.”

“Oh, I absolutely will,” Priya said, standing. She picked up her tea, giving him a long, knowing look. “But seriously… I think you’re right. She is your missing piece.”

CJ’s lips curved slightly, a rare softness in his expression. “Yeah. She is.”

Priya lingered a moment longer, watching the way his fingers tapped idly against his desk—thoughtful, restless, like he was already planning something he hadn’t spoken aloud yet.

“Whenever the time comes,” Priya said gently, “she’s going to say yes.”

CJ’s gaze flicked to her, something unreadable passing through his expression before he exhaled.

“Yeah,” he murmured, more to himself than to her.

Priya smiled. Hopeless. Absolutely hopeless for Y/N.

And for the first time in a long time, CJ Braxton wasn’t carrying his world alone.

He had someone to share it with.

And Priya had never been more sure that he had found exactly what he needed.

Tag List: @kmc1989

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anaheimsigncompanyca · 1 year ago

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How Can Businesses Utilize Blade Signage To Empower Brand Awareness

In tоdау'ѕ соmреtitivе mаrkеtрlасе, building аnd mаintаining brаnd awareness iѕ еѕѕеntiаl fоr the ѕuссеѕѕ оf any business. With consumers bоmbаrdеd by countless аdvеrtiѕеmеntѕ and messages every dау, it's сruсiаl fоr brands tо find innоvаtivе wауѕ tо stand оut frоm the crowd and сарturе the аttеntiоn of their tаrgеt audience. One highly effective ѕtrаtеgу fоr асhiеving this iѕ thrоugh thе uѕе of blаdе ѕignаgе.

Blade ѕignаgе, аlѕо knоwn аѕ projecting ѕignѕ, refers tо ѕignѕ that аrе mounted реrреndiсulаr tо thе building fасаdе, extending outward to grab аttеntiоn frоm раѕѕеrѕbу. These ѕignѕ аrе highly viѕiblе аnd саn bе сuѕtоmizеd to reflect thе uniԛuе idеntitу аnd реrѕоnаlitу of a brand. Whеn strategically designed and рlасеd, blade ѕignаgе саn serve аѕ a powerful tool fоr еmроwеring brаnd awareness аnd driving foot trаffiс tо buѕinеѕѕеѕ.

One of thе kеу bеnеfitѕ оf blade signage iѕ itѕ ability to inсrеаѕе brаnd visibility. Unlikе trаditiоnаl flаt ѕignѕ that may blend into thе background, blаdе ѕignѕ соmmаnd attention by ��rоtruding intо thе реdеѕtriаn'ѕ linе оf ѕight. Whеthеr positioned аbоvе a ѕtоrеfrоnt оr along a buѕу ѕtrееt, blade ѕignаgе еnѕurеѕ thаt your brаnd'ѕ message iѕ ѕееn bу a lаrgеr audience, thеrеbу inсrеаѕing аwаrеnеѕѕ аnd recognition.

Moreover, blаdе ѕignаgе оffеrѕ buѕinеѕѕеѕ thе орроrtunitу tо ѕhоwсаѕе their brаnd реrѕоnаlitу аnd vаluеѕ in a сrеаtivе аnd еngаging wау. From custom shapes аnd colors tо illuminаtеd dеѕignѕ, blаdе signs саn be tailored tо аlign with уоur brand identity аnd сrеаtе a mеmоrаblе imрrеѕѕiоn оn customers. Fоr example, a bоutiԛuе сlоthing store mау opt fоr a ѕlееk аnd mоdеrn blаdе ѕign tо соnvеу sophistication, while a cozy саfé might сhооѕе a ruѕtiс wooden design to еvоkе warmth and сhаrm.

Furthеrmоrе, blade ѕignаgе serves as a vаluаblе nаvigаtiоnаl tооl, hеlрing customers lосаtе аnd identify businesses mоrе easily. Bу рrоminеntlу displaying your brаnd name and logo on a blade sign, уоu mаkе it simpler fоr potential сuѕtоmеrѕ tо find уоu аmidѕt a sea оf соmреting еѕtаbliѕhmеntѕ. This not only increases fооt trаffiс but аlѕо fоѕtеrѕ a ѕеnѕе оf familiarity and truѕt with уоur tаrgеt audience.

In addition tо еnhаnсing brаnd аwаrеnеѕѕ, blade ѕignаgе саn аlѕо drivе imрulѕе рurсhаѕеѕ and ѕрur сuѕtоmеr еngаgеmеnt. By showcasing рrоmоtiоnѕ, nеw arrivals, оr special offers оn your blаdе ѕign, уоu can entice passersby tо ѕtер inѕidе your еѕtаbliѕhmеnt аnd mаkе a рurсhаѕе. Furthermore, intеrасtivе blаdе ѕignаgе, such аѕ digitаl diѕрlауѕ or QR соdе integration, can encourage сuѕtоmеrѕ tо intеrасt with your brаnd in rеаl-timе, furthеr ѕtrеngthеning thеir соnnесtiоn аnd lоуаltу.

It'ѕ imроrtаnt tо nоtе thаt thе еffесtivеnеѕѕ of blаdе signage rеliеѕ hеаvilу on ѕtrаtеgiс placement аnd design. Working with experienced ѕign рrоfеѕѕiоnаlѕ саn hеlр ensure thаt уоur blаdе ѕignаgе not оnlу captures attention but аlѕо аlignѕ with lосаl rеgulаtiоnѕ and аеѕthеtiс guidelines. Additiоnаllу, rеgulаrlу uрdаting and refreshing уоur blade ѕignаgе can hеlр mаintаin rеlеvаnсе аnd intеrеѕt among уоur target audience.

In соnсluѕiоn, blаdе ѕignаgе rерrеѕеntѕ a роwеrful аnd vеrѕаtilе tооl fоr еmроwеring brаnd аwаrеnеѕѕ аnd driving buѕinеѕѕ grоwth. Bу lеvеrаging thе visibility, creativity, and functionality оf blаdе ѕignаgе, businesses саn еffесtivеlу diffеrеntiаtе themselves in thе mаrkеtрlасе, аttrасt mоrе сuѕtоmеrѕ, аnd fоѕtеr lаѕting connections with thеir аudiеnсе. Sо, whether уоu'rе a small lосаl shop or a multinаtiоnаl соrроrаtiоn, соnѕidеr invеѕting in blade ѕignаgе as a vаluаblе аѕѕеt in your brаnd-building arsenal.

#blаdе ѕignаgе CA #business signs CA #custom signs CA #indoor signs CA #lobby signs CA #outdoor signs CA #sign company CA #vehicle wraps CA #wall graphics CA #window graphics CA

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captainnikki · 5 months ago

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I bought it because I like pain I guess

TS2:

Initial load up was fast

Intro video still loud as fuck

Shadows are permanently off

Graphics can be scaled up to highest screen resolution, smooth edges etc

Refresh rate 48 the only option available, animations smooth without stuttering

Seemed only fitting to start out with the Goths. A slight hang on the 4th column of icons like always when loading but otherwise fast

Tool tips, neighbourhood stories, sim bio etc all unchanged. Graphics and assets unchanged (except Ikea stuff is missing - RIP)

Zoom levels, camera, lighting no visible change

I have a migraine so may not be coherent

Uh oh, stuttering during a scripted event

Worth noting that my laptop is old and has been on for over 24 hours with another game loaded up - my other version of the game would 100% have not worked until I restarted my entire laptop

On that note my laptop is not searing me alive like it did previously

I can't seem to use the middle mouse button to rotate the camera. Was that a mod?

Shadows have automatically turned on now? And the option is no longer grayed out. Weird

Cassandra and Don just got married

I minimised the game from full screen and reopened the window, it took a couple of seconds to load but didn't crash

My husband has asked what snacks I want for our gaming night, this is very important

Stress testing minimise and reopen. This is hurting my head. The game hasn't crashed at all

My kids are watching in interest. "Good job" says the youngest. We shall see

Cheats still work and all of the same options seem to be there

I've chosen 'invite all neighbours'. It stuttered as they loaded in but did not freeze as my previous game would have

Darren is NOT amused that Cassandra is married

Sorry my husband came home and I had to rip myself away temporarily

Middle button rotate is back? Not sure why this stuff is kicking in as I play

My husband said "holy shit it's not crashed yet"

Could be because I don't have 50GB of CC... yet

Running smooth as butter with 20+ sims

Don set fire to the kitchen - no lag loading in the fire engine etc

The documents folder is called The Sims 2 Legacy

Layout inside the documents is the same

Programme files are categorised TS4 style but the contents seem similar? I'm not a modder but there's still neighbourhood templates etc

Loading the bin families up took 2 seconds

CAS loaded up quick

Swapping heads really fast and overloading it with clicks - it lagged but didn't crash

Hair and outfits loading notably faster, moving through catalogues quicker

Still not stutter or lag free though, definitely still waiting for those cache and thumbnail files to fill and load up

So far it does seem to run better vs my old vanilla game. There might genuinely have been some work done on it.

Store CAS stuff isn't included

Loaded in to a new lot quickly

I've filled a 64x64 lot with chairs as homage to LGR. It hasn't crashed

I've made a gigantic household using the tombstone of life and death - the frame rate has dropped a bit, but it's handling it pretty well. I definitely would have had pink soup by now usually. Lots of audio didn't play errors in the cheat console but I think that's because of how many sims there are.

Gun's camera mod is working, also it let me replace the files without closing down the game? And the new cameras worked instantly without restarting. Could you always do that?

My eye and skin defaults still work

Put a few hacks in and they didnt immediately crash everything

I've closed and reloaded the game several times in a row and no crashes, it loads into the neighbourhood faster now that it's gotten past the first load lag

CC required a restart to load in

Overall I played mostly vanilla for 5 hours with no crashes or pink soup. This was while the Sims 1 amd Dragon age installed in the background and I had a few web pages open. My previous game with no CC wouldn't have even loaded up under those conditions in the past so to play for so long was incredible.

I'm sure as I add CC back in it will slow down again and the pink soup will return but all in all I feel there is a definite improvement in this version on my setup specifically (beat up old gaming laptop with shit ram).

#ts2 re-release #ts2 #ts2 legacy collection #the sims 2 legacy collection

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breyito · 11 months ago

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Fear your sins, not your monsters: Part One: Severance

For @painlandweek Day 1: Language of Love: Acts of service (because killing a b*tch and plunging into obscurity to rescue your other half counts); and Sickfic (because Charles is not having a good time, poor boy).

You can read it here on AO3:

Part 2 Part 3 Chapters: 1/4 Fandom: Dead Boy Detectives (TV) Rating: Mature Warnings: Graphic depictions of violence Relationships: Edwin Paine | Edwin Payne/Charles Rowland, Edwin Paine | Edwin Payne & Charles Rowland, Edwin Paine | Edwin Payne & Crystal Palace Characters: Edwin Paine | Edwin Payne, Charles Rowland (DCU) Additional Tags: Protective Edwin Paine | Edwin PayneUnhinged Edwin Paine | Edwin Payne, Violence, Torture, Hurt Charles Rowland (DCU), Sickfic, love language: acts of service, painlandweek, BAMF Edwin Paine | Edwin Payne, Angst with a Happy Ending Summary:

“Crystal, you've seen him without me. You have never seen me without him.”

When Charles is taken by a powerful and mysterious entity, already hurt from protecting Edwin; Edwin loses his mind. He will stop at nothing to get his partner, the love of his life, back.

It's not like it's the first time he's had to do it. (He honestly thought that at least the European supernatural community had learnt their lesson about taking Charles away from him. It seems like a reminder is due.)

Part One: Severance

As soon as Charles was dragged through the glass’ surface with a cutoff scream and every mirror in the room shattered, Edwin felt his non-existent heart stop. Not again, not again, he thought, as he shifted throughout the shards for any kind of response to his magic. Nothing. Completely inert.

Ignoring Crystal’s sputtering questions, he ran outside the church to check the surrounding grounds. The day had already been gloomy, and now the dim grey light gave a sinister feeling to the whole place. The graveyard in which the old church was located did not help matters.

He checked every metre of the place, hoping, hoping, hoping that Charles had just been transported somewhere near. (His brain tried to tell him that, logically, Charles could only have gone to another mirror or reflective surface, and all the mirrors inside the building were broken and there was no body of water on the property. For once, Edwin ignored his brain with all his might).

He even cleaned the decades of filth from windows on the outside, because maybe then they’d be reflective enough that Charles could come back. But everything was useless, he was gone. He was gone, he was gone, Charles was gONE.

Ghosts didn’t have hearts that beat nor did their lungs need air, but Edwin kept taking more and more air in and he still couldn’t breathe. He was choking. He tugged desperately at his bowtie, finally opening it along with his shirt. His hands came away wet from his neck, and that’s when he realised that he was crying.

That last loss of control pushed him over the edge and he crashed to his knees on the leaf covered dirt. He pressed his muddied palms to his eye sockets and pressed until he saw colours burst behind his eyelids.

He needed to think. He had to use his brain. He had to come up with something. He was so useless, so stupid. Why couldn’t he fucking think?

Edwin began hitting his forehead with his hands, because his brain wasn’t working and he needed the panic to stop so he could think. Thud-thud-thud. Sob. Thudthudthudthudthudthud. Stupid, stupid, stupid-!

“Edwin! Edwin, stop!” That was Crystal. She was kneeling next to him, trying to tug his hands away from his face.

“H-he’s gone.” Edwin cried. He began grabbing and tugging at his hair, then digging his nails on the skin, leaving streaks of dirt to mix with the tears and drops of blood. “Charles’ gone, Crystal. I ca-can’t find him. I’ve looked everywhere!”

He curled into a little shivering ball, face between his knees and arms around his head, as he rocked back and forth. Still, Crystal could hear his heartbreaking sobs and had to sniff not to burst out crying too.

“Hey.” she said. Edwin didn’t seem to notice. “Hey!” She yelled, grabbing his shoulders and making him look at her. “Stop. He’s not gone-gone, alright? We can still find him. He’s counting on us.” Those green eyes kept spilling tears, but at least she could hear him taking in more air than before. “Breathe with me, Ed, okay? C’mon.”

A few minutes later, Edwin was still shaking, but seemed more in control. He was trying to wipe off the dirt on his hands, at least, and his hair was slowly returning to its regular state. Finally, he took one last big breath in.

“Right.” he said, as he smoothed down his coat. “That’s enough of that.”

In a blink, the boy in front of her was back in his immaculate uniform. Crystal didn’t know why, but she felt a shiver go down her spine as she looked at him. The only difference from his usual spotless image is Charles’ bag-of-tricks, which he had retrieved from inside the decrepit church. He had a death grip on it, so she knew he wouldn't accept her carrying it.

“We need to get back to the office, right? To figure out who took him?” she said more than asked, as they began walking towards the gates of the cemetery.

“Yes, that is indeed the first step.”

“Do you wanna go ahead and I’ll meet you there?” Crystal didn’t particularly feel like riding the bus on her own back to the city, even more so when the skies were beginning to darken; but she figured she had to offer, at least.

“That won’t be necessary.” he answered, retrieving a pair of glasses from his coat pocket.

“Really?” she asked, surprised.

“Charles would never forgive me if something happened to you because I was careless of your safety. We can begin the investigation with my notes and some of the books inside Charles’ bag.” He cleaned the lenses of the spectacles, and put them on, “I’ll join you as a passenger, since it’s safer to travel in numbers at night.” ended the elegant lady in the dark blue pantsuit. Not a minute too soon, as the turn at the end of the road led directly to the bus stop, and there were people already boarding their vehicle.

“I thought there was the possibility of losing an arm to the bag?” she questioned, suspicious, as she paid for their tickets.

“As you can imagine, there’s an infinite number of levels. It’s true that Charles is the only one that can (mostly) navigate all of them safely; but I’ve had to learn too, for instances such as these. He usually leaves my books on Levels Three or Four, since I can reach those without much strain in an emergency, if he’s…not around.”

They choose to sit on the back, as to spread the books in the seats between them.

“Let’s get you started with Reflection Manipulation for the Souls” Crystal nodded as she accepted the book. “It might be useful to shed light on what creature could affect the mirrors and glasses in such a way.”

“And you?” she asked.

“I’ll search for a location spell. They don’t ordinarily work on ghosts, as we don’t have an actual physical presence.” As his hands began leafing through the book, she caught a glint of gold on his wrist. It felt familiar. Charles’ necklace. “It’s only a remote possibility, but I’d like to focus on that until we are safely back in the office.”

“Why didn’t you tell me you found his necklace!?” at the looks her loud tone of voice got, she got close enough to whisper. “I could have read that!”

“I doubt you could get anything substantial out of it, Crystal.”

“Why not?” she said back, before touching the metal and tapping into her powers.

She went still as her eyes clouded over. Edwin cursed under his breath as he waited for her. He smiled nervously at the man gawking at them, probably at ‘her’ vocabulary. (He rather thought this was one instance in which he could curse as much as he wanted and not feel any shame, in fact.)

“Fuck.” Crystal gave a full body shiver as she came back. “All I could feel was…cold. Wet, cold, dark…there was no end to it.” she murmured, tearing up a bit. “Do you think…?” Edwin cleared his throat.

“Let’s hope your reading was about his death and not his current predicament. He hates being cold.”

Both of them swallowed, thinking about the cheerful boy they loved plunged into an icy darkness by unfeeling hands. Without saying another word, they returned to their respective books, noting down anything that seemed useful. (Edwin didn’t even lecture Crystal for marking down the pages of the book. But then again, that edition wasn’t as old and therefore as delicate. Or so the ghost told himself, when he noticed and ignored it.)

—-- —-- —--

Many hours later, with dawn already about to rise, Edwin finally found what he needed. Crystal had fallen asleep a few hours ago, after compiling a list of possible beings that could have done such strong magic. To their dismay, witches had been at the top of the list, of course. Bloody witches. While Crystal cursed herself (and the universe) to sleep, the boy ghost kept going.

After revising every note he had taken for their latest case, and all the spells available to him; he’d reached the point where he had to admit he was not able to trace Charles. Even those incantations that should have worked didn’t. He felt he was at his wit's end.

So he took advantage of the relative solitude to look over their most obscure volumes. Those he and Charles had decided the living girl didn’t need to know about unless it was necessary, for the danger they represented. (Those texts resided inside a designated shelf, and were protected by powerful enchantments. Crystal knew not to touch them, but not much else.)

Danger was meaningless to Edwin now, though, without Charles by his side.

As he surveyed the contents, he felt in his core this magic was going to work for him. He may not be able to locate Charles, not even with this new magic…

But he could trace their latest ‘client’, the one that had led them to the old church, fought them and then vanished.

This man had a lot to answer for. And he would.

—-- —-- —--

Half a world (or just half a city, Charles certainly would not know) away, the other boy ghost broke the surface of freezing water, gasping. He dragged himself to the rocky shore, teeth clashing. The bloody witch’s magic had taken almost every single layer he had had on, leaving him only in his sodden jeans.

Never, not even while being attacked and then dying, had he felt more vulnerable. Nor as cold. He had to give her props, tho. He had frozen to death, and she had managed to beat that.

As he tried to prepare himself for another few hours in her dungeon, where he would be able to clothe himself and warm up only to be plunged back into the cold darkness, he wondered…

Was this what Edwin had felt, once he accepted the never ending cycle of his torture? This helplessness?

(Deep inside, he knew the answer was not. Because Edwin had escaped Hell on his own, with no one on his corner. He was the strongest person Charles knew. So he had to be strong now and not give up, because he knew Edwin and Crystal were out there, looking for him. He had no doubt.

(But it was so hard. So hard).)

#fear your sins not your monsters #painland week #dead boy detectives #dbda #painlandweek #payneland #edwin payne #charles rowland #fanfic #art #moodboard #day 1

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thing-you-do-with-that-thing · 10 months ago

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Ties That Bind - Part 10: Can't Lose You

Characters: (AU: first names are as in the show renaming a few last names to fit my story): Reader (Y/N Harvelle), Detective Dean Winchester, Krissy Chambers, Timmy Chambers, Ben Braeden, Random Kids at The Clouds, Castiel Novak (mentioned), Detective Benny Lafitte (Mentioned), Bela Lafitte (mentioned)

Pairing: Dean x Reader

Warnings: Chaotic work environment, fighting (verbal), smut (not implied but not overly graphic either in this one).

Word Count: 4100ish

A/N: Thanks to @blacktithe7 for betaing and helping me rework this series.

***My fics are not to be saved nor posted on any other sites without my express written permission.***

MASTERPOST

“Is it always this crazy here?” Dean quickly moved out of the way of a teenage girl chasing a younger one down the hall.

“It’s girls. Girls are always crazy.” Ben shrugged. “And I think Y/N is alone right now. Cas is at supervised visitation with Caleb and his parents. Patience and Kaia had soccer practice so the tem are with them.”

“Hmm,” Dean frowned as he quietly followed Ben into the kitchen to find Y/N at the stove with a young boy sitting at the counter. She was clearly trying to help him with some homework while simultaneously trying to make lunch and yelling at the girls to stop fighting.

She didn’t notice Dean or Ben before she swore and ran from the stove towards the window just as a football suddenly crashed into it, luckily without breaking it. She twirled around, almost running straight into Dean’s chest.

“Hi?” he tried, but he hardly got a response, just a quick nod before she was out the door, yelling at the 3 teenage boys to take their game elsewhere unless they wanted to spend their allowances paying for a broken window.

Dean quickly shrugged off his jacket and headed for the stove, sending Ben a quick nod and grin when the boy’s eyes opened wide in surprise.

“You’re staying?”

“It is my day off. Besides, it looks like you guys need a hand.” Dean smiled as he started assessing the damage Y/N had done to the food without really paying attention to it. It looked salvageable.

She returned from the garden half out of breath, and Dean smiled at her when he saw the clear surprise on her face at finding him in the kitchen.

She walked up behind the kid at the counter, who Dean just then noticed was staring at him, and ruffled his hair a little as she sat down next to the kid addressing Dean.

“What are you doing here, Winchester?” She had a teasing tone in her voice, but she looked exhausted. Dean wanted nothing more than to wrap her in his arms and kiss her until she relaxed, but he knew this wasn’t the place. He just had to save that for later.

“Helping you out,” Dean replied just as a loud bump sounded from down the hall, followed by the voices of teenage girls yelling from down the hall. Y/N jumped back onto her feet. “Go deal with the posse. Ben and I got this. Right?” Dean winked to the kid, stirring the pot next to him.

“Right.” Ben smiled brightly, clearly happy for the vote of confidence Dean was showing him.

“Okay… erhm,” Y/N shifted lightly on her feet, glaring at the kid next to her before bending down. She took his hand and gave it a gentle squeeze.

“Timmy, this is Dean. He is a friend of mine and Ben’s. He is gonna stay here in the kitchen with you guys, and maybe he can help you out.” she sent Dean a questioning look as she finished the sentence, and he sent her a reassuring smile.

“Of course. What are you working on buddy?” Dean addressed Timmy, but the kid just stared down into his book.

“Timmy doesn’t say much, but he can point. He understands everything,” Y/N quickly explained before running down the hall as the yelling started to increase.

After a few minutes, Dean let Ben take over in the kitchen so he could sit down next to Timmy and try to help the boy with his math. Eventually, he earned a few smiles and nods from the boy.

Ben roamed around the kitchen, glancing over at Dean every so often to make sure he was doing the right things. Dean sent him a few encouraging nods and smiles, making Ben beam with pride.

“Who are you?” Dean looked up to see a young girl with unruly dark brown hair standing before him. She had a hard look in her eyes, but she still seemed a little unsure of herself, broken somehow. Yet still defiant.

“Oh relax, Krissy. Why do you have to be like that all the time?” Ben snarled from the kitchen. Dean quickly interrupted before the girl had a chance to bite back at him.

“It’s okay. I would be wondering too if I found a stranger in my home,” Dean addressed Ben before smiling back at Krissy. “I’m Dean. I’m a friend of Y/N’s. I’m just here to help her out for a bit. Is that cool?”

“I guess.” Krissy moved around the table and took a seat on the other side of Timmy. He looked up at his her before looking back at Dean. “Krissy is my sister,” the boy spoke quietly but the pride in his voice was evident, and Dean smiled at him.

“You’re lucky. She seems very protective of you,” Dean replied before looking up to see Y/N standing in the hall with a choked expression on her face. “I’ll be right back buddy,” Dean promised before walking out to Y/N, who immediately took his hand and started dragging him into the office.

“He spoke to you.” Dean looked at her, confused by her sudden outburst.

“Timmy? Yeah. Just a sentence, but yeah. He did. Why?” A big smile slide across her face before she threw her arms around Dean’s neck. He immediately wrapped his arms around her almost by instinct, his heart skipping a beat with her sudden display of affection.

“He has only ever spoken to Krissy, or me, or Charlie the entire time he has been here. You walk through the door, and he speaks to you? Do you have any idea how amazing that is?” She was babbling, and Dean couldn’t help but laugh, feeling more than a little proud by the way she was looking at him.

“No, but you clearly do, sweetheart.” Dean grinned letting out a small surprised sound when her lips crashed against his. It didn’t take him long to respond to her, pulling her impossibly closer, kissing her back. He didn’t let her pull back before Ben’s voice sounded through the house.

“Lunch’s ready.”

Dean’s heart skipped a beat when he saw the genuinely happy smile on her face as she stayed in his arms, looking up at him.

“Stay? Cas will be home soon, but you helped cook, and I will be off in a few hours. We could drive home together?”

Dean smiled, loving how she thought she had to convince him, like it was a chore for him to be around her in an environment where she shined. Dean loved seeing her with those kids. He loved seeing how much she cared for them and how much they cared for her. He didn’t even hesitate for a second before answering her.

“I would love that, sweetheart.”

***

Dean took a deep breath as he watched her walk through the house to let her dog out of his kennel and into the yard. He had doubted whether or not he should have come in or not for the first time in a long time.

Everything had been fine between them before they left for Benny’s. She had been laughing and had laced her fingers through his as they walked out to his car. She had seemed so happy, but sometime during the evening that had changed. Dean wasn’t sure what had caused it, but he knew he wanted to fix it.

He watched her stand in the doorway to her garden, waiting for Santo to return and did the only thing he knew how to in the moment. He showed her he cared. Wrapping his arms around her waist from behind and pulling her against his chest, he pressed his lips against the side of her head and lingered a moment longer than he had too.

“Are you okay, Y/N/N?” he asked quietly as he finally felt her lean into him a little.

“Yeah. Just tired. I’m fine, Dean.” There was something in her voice that kept Dean from believing her, but he also didn’t want to push too far and make things worse.

“Do you want me to leave?” He hoped with everything in him that she wouldn’t want that and drew a small sigh of relief when she answered.

“No. Stay. I am just in a weird mood.” She tilted her head up to look at him. The look in her eyes was something Dean couldn’t quite read.

“Okay. I’m gonna take a shower.” He sent her a small smirk, hoping he could cheer her up. “Do you wanna join me?”

“Not tonight. Go ahead. I’ll be up soon.” Her smile looked forced, making Dean feel all the more hopeless.

“Okay.” He pressed his lips against hers in a chaste kiss before heading upstairs on his own.

Dean’s mind didn’t leave her as he showered, wondering and worrying about what he could have said or done wrong. He hated this. Seeing her unhappy. Her happiness meant more to him than anything else in the world. The thought that he may have done something to jeopardize that happiness left a pit in the bottom of his stomach.

When Dean returned to the bedroom wearing only his boxers, she was already under the covers with her back to the door. Dean closed his eyes for a moment, trying to decide his next move. He let out a deep sigh before wandering over to the bed and crawling under the covers. He pulled her tightly against him and breathed in her scent.

He felt her tighten up for a moment before relaxing in his arms.

“Are you sure we’re good?” Dean mumbled against her neck, worried about her initial reaction to him.

“We’re good.” She turned around in his arms to face him and pressed a kiss to his lips before he had a chance to think too much of the sadness in her eyes. Her kiss was passionate without pushing for anything more. She kissed him like she wanted to do nothing else for the rest of the night, and Dean was more than happy to oblige.

He couldn’t tell how long he had been kissing her for or even how she ended up almost on top of him. He just knew that she was. When they finally broke the kiss, he took a deep breath and looked down at her. He enjoyed the way her head rested against his chest while her fingers drew small patterns on his skin.

Her index finger circled the scar on his left side below his ribcage a few times, and Dean closed his eyes. He was starting to piece together what had happened. He remembered seeing her freeze up for a moment when Bela called out DJ’s full name, Dean Joseph Lafitte, after dinner when he almost knocked over a lamp in the living room. Y/N and Bela had disappeared into the kitchen while he and Benny were talking in the living room after DJ had been put to bed. Y/N had been quiet for the rest of the evening after that. He knew what was coming, but still he waited. It wasn’t that he didn’t want her to know, but still he worried. He worried that the dangers of his job would be to much on her. That she would leave.

She stayed still in his arms, the only thing moving was her fingers as they traced over his skin. Her voice was low but relaxed when she finally spoke.

“How did this happen? It’s a bullet wound right?” She tilted her head, resting her chin against his chest as she waiting for him to speak. Dean took a deep breath and tightened his grip around her slightly, almost afraid that she would disappear right before him if he didn’t hold on to her.

“It’s an old wound. The only time I’ve ever really been shot…” Dean started but immediately regretted his choice of words when he saw her eyes widen.

“Really been shot?”

“Yeah… I mean I’ve been grazed a few times, but…” Dean twisted his upper arm so she could see the scar. “See just burns. Nothing serious.”

Dean saw the tears starting to form behind her eyes, and he didn’t hesitate to wrap his arms back around her. He hated this. He loved his job, but the dangers of it… He didn’t want to burden her with those.

“I’m okay sweetheart. We don’t have to do this…” The stern look on her face stopped him, and he nodded as she spoke. “I need to hear this Dean.”

He closed his eyes for a second and took a deep breath before he started talking. “It was 5 years ago. I had been a detective for a little over 6 month, and Benny had been my partner since day one. He erhm.. He’s a few years older than me, so he taught me the ropes. We became friends quickly, and I was the first he told when Bela got pregnant. He was so excited…” Dean took a small pause. Remembering that day was not as easy as he thought it would have been, and Dean was grateful for the loving expression on Y/N’s face. The soothing touch of her hand drawing circles on his biceps helped keep him calm and allowed him to keep going.

“He was on an undercover assignment, and he got made. I was his backup, but I was never supposed to go in. So I wasn’t wearing my vest. When things went south… me and a few other guys ran in. One guy almost got away. So Benny chased him, and I took after a minute later. He had Benny on the ground aiming at him when I caught up. So I took a shot.. Only… It was the first time I fired my gun at someone. So I didn’t... He went down, and I was dumb. I didn’t check on him. I went to Benny. He was hurt pretty bad. I just didn’t pay attention. The guy got up and knocked me out of the way. Then he aimed at Benny again… So I jumped in front if it. Some of the other guys showed at that point. I don’t remember much… It would have been my fault if DJ had grown up without a father. If I had just done my job in the first place…” Dean’s voice sounded more strained now. The memory of that day combined with the knowledge of what could have happened was taking a toll on him.

“Sssh you don’t have to say anything else… It’s okay. I get it.” Her hands cupped his face, and she leaned up, pressing her lips against his. Dean closed his arms around her and held her close as he fought back the tears, tears of happiness that she was still here. She wasn’t running or screaming at him. She still wanted him.

Dean rested his forehead against hers, gently rubbing her nose with his. “You’re amazing you know that?”

“Yes.” She grinned, making Dean chuckle.

“I am not sure how you do it,” he added, more serious this time, giving her a small squeeze.

“Do what?” She looked so adorably confused. It made Dean smile.

“Accept this. My job… I… If I knew you were getting shot at... I’m not sure I would ever let you leave the house.” Dean watched her expression change slightly. She suddenly looked a little more pale, but she took a deep breath. Dean instinctively knew she was gonna tell him something he didn’t want to hear.

“There have been shootings at the Clouds. Kids being involved with gangs and stuff. Never at our house,” she quickly added since she must have felt Dean tense up beneath her. She took another deep breath before she sat up, leaving Dean more than a little confused. He pushed himself up onto his elbow, watching her as she lifted the hem of her tank top to just below her breasts before taking his hand and guiding it over her creamy soft skin. He instantly felt it. The scar he knew was there but had never really given much thought to until now, and he froze as he listened to her words.

“A mom came at me after a court date last year. I had testified saying I believed her to be violent and that I recommended that her two kids would be placed in permanent foster homes. She called my name, and I turned without thinking… She had a kitchen knife, and she almost pierced my lung.

Dean felt every ounce of color drain from his face. The thought of her in a situation like that chilled him to the bone. It scared him more than taking that bullet ever would. The thought that he… that she… It was something he couldn’t even fathom. His grip got a little tighter.

“Is that the only time that’s happened?” he asked.

She shook her head. “No.”

The fear he felt morphed into a near palpable rage.

“I don’t want you going back there.”

“Excuse me?” She pushed free of his hold and stared down at him. “Did you just tell me what to do? To not go to work?!”

Dean knew he should take the words back, but he couldn’t. His fear that something would happen to her overwhelmed him, making him restless. He pushed himself up off the bed and started pacing the room. He needed to make her understand. He needed her safe. He had to make sure that she was safe.

“Dean. Would you stop pacing like a caged lion and fucking talk to me.” Her voice was high pitched, and Dean turned around to look at her to see that she was now standing in front of the bed, staring him down in challenge. She misunderstood everything, and suddenly Dean felt as if he was back to square one with her. She was looking at him like she wanted to kill him and her temper only fueled his.

“You can’t go back there. I don’t want you to work in a place like that. You could get hurt.” His words came out a lot harsher and angrier than he intended them to. He saw the rage in her eyes, in her entire body by the way she tensed up.

“Then I don’t want you to go back to work either. You are in way more danger than I will ever be.” She was screaming at him now, and Dean fought the urge to kick the chair beside him.

“It is not the same thing dammit. Being a cop. It is who I am Y/N…” She interrupted him, throwing a pillow at his face before he could get out another word.

“Being a social worker is who I am. I never thought you would be like this. Controlling…”

Dean glared at her. She didn’t understand. This wasn’t what it was about. He didn’t want to control her. He loved how strong and independent she was. Hell as stunning as she was, her real beauty was in her strength and capacity to love. He needed to make her understand. This wasn’t about control. This was about keeping her safe.

“God Dammit Y/N. It is not about control. I can’t lose you. Why can’t you see that? I don’t know what I would do if I lost you. I love you.”

Dean froze as soon as he realized the slip, and she stopped. The anger on her face disappeared instantly, and he could see the tears build behind her eyes. Fuck. What had he done? He didn’t want to tell her like this. He had known for a while, and of course he was going to say it. He just hadn’t wanted it to be like this. Not screaming at her. Not when they were having their first real fight.

“What did you say?” Dean couldn’t read her expression. What if she didn’t feel it? Should he take it back? He couldn’t. Even if he could, he didn’t want to. He slowly stepped towards her, his eyes never leaving hers as he took her hand in his. “I love you, Y/N. So fucking much. And I am sorry for being an ass, but the thought of seeing you hurt… it scares the shit out of me.”

He saw her watery eyes, and he was sure she was going to kick him out. That this would be the end. He opened his mouth to make it easier for her. That was the least he could do after how he’d just behaved, but she spoke before the words could leave him.

“I love you too, Dean.” Her eyes found his, and he lost control. He needed her, needed to show her how he felt. His lips crashed against hers. He wrapped his arms around her, pulling her close. The kiss was passionate and heated, but soon the feeling of her in his arms was no longer enough. He needed to feel her. All of her. So he lifted her off her feet and gently lowering them both back onto the bed.

His lips and tongue began exploring her skin as he slowly undressed her, drawing soft moans from her. He soon had her gloriously naked before him. His eyes never left her perfect body as his fingers moved in and out of her wet heat, his tongue dancing over her clit, pushing her towards her high.

Fuck he loved watching her. Loved making her feel good. Loved that she let him. He wrung every last drop of pleasure he could from her before he was content. He watched her as he got up to remove his boxers. Her chest heaved, making her soft perfect breast sway a little. Her body glistened with sweat. Her hair mushed up and was almost curly from the perspiration on her forehead. Her eyes glazed over with lust and love as she reached out, calling out for him. Dean immediately obeyed her wish. He lowered himself down on top of her, kissing her deeply as he slowly pushed his cock inside her. Staying completely still for a minute, he was content to just feel her wrapped around him in every sense of the word. Her arms around his neck and her legs around his waist. Fuck he loved her.

Then he started moving. Slow, languid thrusts graced over her sweet spot, making her moan against his mouth. Dean had no idea how long he fucked her like that. Could have been a minute. Could have been hours. He didn’t care. He pulled back from their kiss to look her in the eye.

“I love you,” he repeated. He felt the effect his words had on her as she clenched down around him, clawing his back. “Dean, please…”

Then he let go. Fucking her into the mattress. Chasing both of their ends until she fell apart beneath him, screaming his name. Her walls squeezed down on him hard, pulling him with her over the edge.

“Jesus Christ…. Y/N/N.” Dean rested his head against her neck, letting her run her hands soothingly over his back.

“I love you, Dean.” His heart fluttered at her words, and he slowly pulled out of her before rolling them both over until she was resting back against his chest.

“I love you too.” He held her for a moment, letting his mind wander before speaking again.

“Sweetheart?” A contented sigh was his only response. “If things ever get dangerous like that again, promise me you won’t go alone. Take Cas with you. Promise me you’ll call me.”

She rested her chin on his chest and studied him for a moment. She didn’t seem angry this time, more like she was trying to read him. Make sure he was not trying to order her around, and when she seemed content that wasn’t the case, she spoke.

“I promise. If you promise me something?” Her voice was soft, but he felt the seriousness in her tone.

“Anything,” Dean gently ran his hands up and down her naked back, his eyes never leaving hers.

“Be careful. Don’t do anything stupid. Come home to me.” Dean could see the tears build behind her eyes, and he quickly leaned down to kiss her tenderly, pouring his every emotion into it.

“I’ll always come home to you.” Dean pulled her back against his chest, holding her tight, silently wishing he could keep that promise. He was going to do his damnedest to do so. No matter what happened, he would always fight to get back to her. She was his home now.

Dean Tag Team

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