Jelly’s Fish Tank

Barbarian King!Simon Riley who paid no attention to the fact that his men wanted to invade your kingdom. It doesn’t matter to him anymore that he would be missing out on a lot of crops and land. It didn’t even cross his mind that if he had invaded your kingdom, he could’ve kidnapped you of his own volition. For some reason, he was content to let your kingdom go if he just had you snug in front of him

Barbarian King!Simon Riley was so much bigger than you. While you sat huddled in front of him, you couldn’t help but look up at the man who had taken you from your home. He sat right behind you, all big warrior mass and wearing a skull mask. He clearly was powerful, but you could feel a bit of pudginess and fat beneath his cloaks and furs

Barbarian King!Simon Riley who glanced down at you and you couldn’t see any mercy or compassion in his dead eyes. Meanwhile, Simon was internally thanking every deity that he had his mask on which was hiding his reddening cheeks. Geez, you were so pretty. He would’ve invaded your kingdom so much sooner if he had known you would be his prize

Barbarian King!Simon Riley knew it was a long ride back to his kingdom and didn’t want any of his men to try to take advantage of you, so he kept a very close eye on you while camping. The war camp was huge, but Simon kept you right by his side, even through political meetings that were no place for a woman. You were going to be his wife, after all, and he didn’t keep any secrets from his wife

Barbarian King!Simon Riley who found it almost humorous when, the first night you spent at his castle, you threw nothing less of a tantrum. He had offered you the most extravagant room right next to his own with a full wardrobe that was better than yours back home, but you still didn’t want it. You threw pillows and bottles of perfume at him, ripping up dresses and throwing ink bottles onto the ground

Barbarian King!Simon Riley who tried to be understanding as you came at him, beating your fists against his chest. He simply smirked a bit and grabbed your wrists before you could hurt yourself. You called him all sorts of names, but instantly went quiet when he took his mask off

Barbarian King!Simon Riley wondered what was going through your mind as you stared up at him. Your eyes were huge and you looked like you wanted to say something, but couldn’t find the words. “Everything alright?” he muttered out gruffly. You only nodded

Barbarian King!Simon Riley who was very pleasantly surprised when, the next day, you began to demand things. You reasoned that if you were stuck here, you might as well make his existence a living hell. You asked for expensive jewels and elaborate gowns. You wanted control over some of his land and hired new maids. You demanded to do the wedding just perfectly and once you realised he intended to have you move into his bedroom, you redecorated it all. However, you were shocked when he actually granted you every request

Barbarian King!Simon Riley had never thought of his castle as a home before you came around. He was lighter on his feet now, with a crack of a smile on his lips, showcasing his dimples. All of your spite, trying to make him as frustrated as possible, only made Simon happier. Of course he would spoil his wife. Go ahead and commission all the jewellery and dresses you want. Please hire whomever makes you comfortable. He was practically on his knees, wanting you to redecorate your shared bedroom because that meant that you were staying in his bed with him

Barbarian King!Simon Riley was very pleased to marry you. He wore his best furs and offered you his arm after he kissed you at the altar. Yes, you were unwilling, but you were still now his Queen

Barbarian King!Simon Riley leaned over to you during the wedding feast and whispered, “you know, I don’t trust stairs.” He paused for a moment and you saw a little twitch by his lips. “They’re always up to something.” You stared at him for a moment before letting out a quiet snort. Simon looked very proud of himself as he settled back into his chair

Barbarian King!Simon Riley who told you a new joke every morning during breakfast

Barbarian King!Simon Riley who didn’t once force himself onto you. You were a lady, after all, and his wife. Ironically, that made you slowly warm up to him even more, thinking that perhaps this wasn’t as bad as it could’ve been

Barbarian King!Simon Riley who was one for possessiveness. He didn’t like any of his advisors or generals speaking to you, especially if it was derogatory or offensive. In fact, if the comment wasn't a compliment or a question about the good of the kingdom, Simon let out a low grumble

Barbarian King!Simon Riley who had a habit of staring at you. During dinner, during a meeting, or as you were getting ready for bed — it really didn’t matter — he would catch himself just staring at you. He had a resting bitch face and so the first couple of times you were terrified, but after a couple of weeks of being married to him, you got used to it

Barbarian King!Simon Riley felt a warmth spread through his chest when one evening, you admitted that you were glad to have married him. You didn’t say anything else, surely grappling with the change of your mind and heart, but Simon didn't need you to say anything else. After that, things began to feel more normal and relaxed

Barbarian King!Simon Riley who patted his lap whenever he wanted you close. You would sit down, a bit tentatively at first, but would always relax back into him after a while. Simon would have an arm around your stomach, holding you to him

Barbarian King!Simon Riley who hated going on campaigns because it meant time away from you. He knew it was necessary to expand his kingdom and be prosperous, but that didn’t mean he had to like it. As both of you aged, he began to send out his top generals instead. He knew it was a selfish thing to do, but you consumed his every thought while he was away

Barbarian King!Simon Riley who unclasped his furs whenever you looked cold. Even if you already had furs on — something you had to learn to use due to the colder climate of his kingdom— he would drape his over your shoulders. He was quiet in his declarations of love, but it was little acts like this that made you assured in his love

Barbarian King!Simon Riley loved dogs. He had three massive ones, all at his beck and call. Two of the dogs took an instant liking to you, but the third was a little more wary. He had an owner to protect, after all, and after seeing you initially scream and try to hurt his owner, the poor doggo was a bit suspicious. So when the third dog suddenly became protective of you, it signalled only one thing: you were pregnant. The dogs hardly left you alone

Barbarian King!Simon Riley who said “I love you” for the first time when he found out

Barbarian King!Simon Riley who was getting iced out by his own dogs. As months passed and your belly grew, all three dogs became your own personal protectors. They would growl at anyone — especially a man — that they didn’t know. And sometimes they wouldn’t even let Simon close. One would have his head on your stomach and the other two were always close by. Simon started muttering curses under his breath at his own dogs. You were his wife, for goodness sake! He had a right to hold you and his awaited child close at night. The dogs, however, now slept on the bed

Barbarian King!Simon Riley who commissioned all new clothing for you and the unborn babe. The seamstresses were working diligently, and getting paid well for it

Barbarian King!Simon Riley has big babies. And you were not excited about it. There were times when you almost smothered him in his sleep because the baby was kicking and how dare Simon sleep so peacefully??

Barbarian King!Simon Riley who was actually a very sweet and loving husband, but your hormones had you convinced he had done this on purpose

Barbarian King!Simon Riley who had done this on purpose. He was frothing at the mouth whenever he saw you turn a corner towards him, belly round and protruding. It was the sign of life that you two had created together

Barbarian King!Simon Riley got incredibly horny whenever you, his little pregnant birdie, would get hormonal and feisty. You had interrupted one of his meetings one day, and instead of telling you off, he only kissed you firmly as a promise of what was to come

Barbarian King!Simon Riley who had never cried before. Not on the battlefield, not at any funerals, not at anything. He cried when his baby was born

Barbarian King!Simon Riley who almost wasn't let into the room with you when you were in labour, but goddamnit, he was the King! He marched right in there

Barbarian King!Simon Riley who wanted to apologise for doing this to you. Seeing you in pain was the worst torture he had ever gone through. You were his wife. His everything. He had tried to talk to the baby in the previous months, telling them to go easy on you, but the child was a Riley. They didn’t listen well

Barbarian King!Simon Riley who loved how close you two had grown throughout your pregnancy. It really brought you two together. You had told him that you loved him and that you were happy that your father had offered you up to be Simon’s bride. So many barriers had been broken…. So he kinda didn’t want the pregnancy to end. That thought left his mind the moment his newborn babe was swaddled and placed on your chest

Barbarian King!Simon Riley who crouched down next to the birthing bed, eyes uncharacteristically wide as he stared at his son. You were crying and maybe it was because he fuelled off your emotions, or because this was his son, or because he was so proud of you, but he began tearing up too

Barbarian King!Simon Riley was so ready to hold his son. It didn’t even cross his mind about all the horrors that he had inflicted onto others. He didn’t even bat an eye that he had blood and scars on his hands — sometimes literally. His palm was a perfect pillow for his babe’s head

Barbarian King!Simon Riley who leaned down and gave you a long kiss, thanking you a thousand times over for all you had done for him

Barbarian King!Simon Riley who never once put his skull mask on in front of his children yes, he almost immediately got you pregnant again

Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6

Was I picturing King Fergus from Brave? Yes

It gnaws at you through each layer of fabric, settling deep into bone, Fingers turn pale purple around the sniper.

You flex your fingers one at a time, trying to regain a peck of heat back but they only twitch and ache in protest. muscle spams underneath the weather as you settle behind the scope, shifting your weight every now and then before the numbness locks into your joints, and wins.

Nothing helps, not the clothes, not the thermals. Not even the calculated breathing.

Seeking warmth.. you press on the comms.

“Lt..” breath condenses into a cloud of tiny crystals.

“speak to me” shameless.

Silence follows.

“A joke” you plead, voice barely above a whisper.

Like a moth to a flame, he obliges.

“What do you call a sleeping bull..?” Static hisses through the cold as he awaits your voice again.

“..hmmm..”

“I don’t know Lt.” despite yourself, a smile tugs at the corners of your lips. Cheeks flush pink beneath the cold weather, and for the first time in days, the bitter bite of the wind doesn’t seem to relentless now.

“Bulldozer.” The punchline is followed by silence, then shortly the unmistakable sound of your breathless giggles.

“Want another luv?” Hopeful and pleased with himself.

“Got nowhere else to be Lt..”

The mission was never what made him feel accomplished. It was the rare notes of your laughter carried by the wind and static. Proving once again he managed to steal a smile, he can make you laugh. That little by little, he can get you addicted just like he is to you.

"That wisnae funny." the Scot breaths back to life through his comms.

Your mouth moves before your brain catches up. “Simon—”

He stops, buried balls deep inside you. His eyes lift to yours from beneath the black smear of his paint. Brown eyes gone flat and dangerous.

“What?”

Your fingers swipe at his throat, and then pull back to show him your now candied fingertips. “You’re bleeding.”

For a second, he just stares at you.

Then his mouth shifts beneath the mask. “S’not mine.”

The room seems to go airless around you. For a moment, your brain does not know what to do with the words.

Not mine.

They land somewhere distant - muffled by euphoria and the heat of him still seated inside you. They should mean something immediately - they should send you upright, sober you, sharpen you. But you’re too gone beneath him, too pliant and overheated and pinned, your thighs trembling around his waist while he stays buried deep enough that every breath you take has to move around him.

So you just stare at him.

At the dark paint around his eyes, at the blood smear, at the shape of his shoulders above you. You stare long enough that the unusual details begin arranging themselves in whatever clear space you’ve got left in your mind.

His gloves, first.

They’re clean. Fresh black tactical gloves, one of them still gripping your hip as he stares down at you in pause. You can’t shake the feeling that they’re different - you know his kit. You know the worn seams, the scuffs, the little frays on the knuckles from use. These aren’t the pair he wore earlier.

Your gaze flicks lower.

His shirt, too.

Not the one from briefing. Not the one with the faded shoulder seam and the dust at the collar. This one is clean, dark, newly pulled on in a hurry. You catch a faint whiff of barracks detergent and bathroom soap with every move he makes.

He cleaned up.

The thought comes through the haze in pieces.

Simon cleaned himself up before he came here but somehow, he missed this. One dark smear beneath his jaw.

You swallow. Your voice comes out thin. “What happened?”

Simon watches your mouth form the words.

Your breathing sounds too loud now, while his somehow stays perfectly even - like he isn’t pressed into you to the hilt - like he isn’t the reason your thighs are shaking around his waist. Like he didn’t come to your room with another persons blood still drying in the place he forgot to wash. He lowers himself closer and the mattress dips beneath the weight of him.

His masked mouth brushes the corner of yours, not quite kissing you but just hovering there - dragging the rough fabric against your skin as he speaks.

“What happened was,” he pauses. “Graves opened his fuckin’ mouth.”

A cold thread winds through the heat in your stomach.

You go still beneath him, even though your cunt is still fluttering helplessly around the thick of him. The name alone does something ugly to the room. Sours the air. Pulls the world back in around the two of you.

“What—” you have to stop to breathe. Your nails dig into his shoulder. “What did he say?”

Simon’s hand slides slowly from your hip.

His palm moves over your waist, up your ribs, dragging goosebumps in its wake. He maps you like he already knows every reaction he is about to get - like he can feel the exact second your pulse jumps. His gloved fingers skim the base of your throat and settle there.

Thumb resting over your pulse. Counting it.

“He said he’d wondered what you sounded like when you begged.”

Your breath locks. You blink at him, stupidly.

For a second, you can’t reconcile the sentence with the room you’re in. With Simon above you. With Graves’s name in Simon’s mouth and blood under Simon’s jaw and your own pulse hammering against his thumb like it wants to betray you.

But Simon says it like he has had the words sitting behind his teeth for hours. Like he has been waiting to put them somewhere. Like he needs you to understand exactly what happened to the man who said them.

“He said,” Simon continues, each word dragged low through his teeth, “that a mouth like yours would be wasted on 141.”

Your nails bite into his shoulder.

“I-I—“ you whimper. “Si—“

His hips move before you can say anything else.

A slow, devastating thrust that punches the air out of you and leaves the rest of his name caught uselessly in your throat. He watches you take it. Watches your face twist. Watches the thought you were trying to form scatter completely.

“That Price needs to put you in your place,” he hisses through his teeth. “That he’d have had you on your knees by now.”

Your stomach twists.

You shake your head, but you don’t even know what you’re denying. Graves. Simon. The heat blooming under your skin. The fact that the words should disgust you cleanly, but Simon’s voice saying them like a death sentence makes something dark and shameful coil inside you.

He pulls out just to thrust in again.

Harder this time - hard enough to break the breath right out of you. Enough to make the headboard creak traitorously behind you. Enough to make your thighs tighten around his waist before you can stop them.

Simon feels it.

“Then he looked at me,” he says, voice dropping into something ruined and vicious, “and asked if I’d taught you to take orders.”

Your heart slams so hard you feel it in your throat, pulsing viscously under his palm. The room narrows to three things - Simon’s eyes, the blood on his neck, and the place where he is still holding you down.

There is blood on him.

Someone else’s blood.

Graves’s blood.

The realization comes slowly at first, then all at once.

You see it too clearly: Simon standing there silent while Graves ran his mouth. Simon listening. The moment the Ghost stops being a man in a room and becomes a consequence. You see the gloves he must have taken off. The blood on the old pair. The careful cleanup after. The way he must have washed his hands, changed, checked himself in the mirror, decided he was clean enough to come to you.

Clean enough. Except for the one place he missed.

Simon watches the realization move across your face.

“Oh God.” You force the words out. “What did you do?”

Your voice is barely a whisper.

His answer is immediate. “I hit him.”

The answer is too simple, too small for the blood under his jaw and the hell in his eyes and that is only because you know Simon.

You know the careful economy of him - the terrifying restraint. The discipline carved into his bones so deep it has become part of his breathing. Simon does not hit men because he is angry. He does not waste movement. He does not lose control unless something in him has already decided the consequence is worth it.

He ends things because he has weighed the cost and found it acceptable.

Your fingers curl tighter in his shirt. “How bad?”

For the first time, something almost like satisfaction passes through his eyes.

His hips roll in one slow, merciless stroke and your back arches before you can stop it. You spread your legs and take him deeper; helplessly, embarrassingly, betraying every sensible thought trying to form in your head.

“How—“ you try to ask again, but the question fractures halfway through another thrust.

Simon lowers his mouth to your ear. “Bad enough Price had to pull me off him.”

Your stomach flips in something stupid. Fear should come first.

It doesn’t.

It should be horror. Concern. Anger. Maybe all three. You should shove at his chest. Demand to know if he’s lost his fucking mind. Tell him he can’t do that, can’t put his hands on Graves over his disgusting mouth and a half-formed threat. Can’t turn command into a blood sport. Can’t risk his place, his rank, Price’s trust, your trust, just because another man said something deserving yet ultimately meaningless.

But what blooms under your ribs is not sensible enough to be outrage - it is hot. It is fucking shameful.

It is dark and possessive and awful in the exact shape of him.

Because he heard another man talk about you. Heard Graves put his hands on you in theory. Heard him degrade you, heard him imagine you on your knees, your mouth, your begging, and decided violence was the only answer he trusted.

Your body betrays you before your pride can stop it - a tight little clench around him.

Simon feels it. Of course he does.

He stills above you, and somehow that is worse than movement. He’s pressed to the hilt again, the pressure of him so intense now it leaves your breath caught uselessly behind your teeth. His eyes narrow in something that sees the betrayal before you can hide it.

Your face burns.

“No,” you whisper, before he even says anything.

His mouth shifts beneath the mask. “Oh.”

The sound is low. Cruel in its understanding.

Your pulse kicks under his thumb. “Simon—”

“There she is.”

Your breath stutters, caught somewhere between a moan and a denial, and you hate that he hears both. Hate that he can read you so easily. Hate that your body has already answered him before your pride can even get its feet under it.

Simon looks down at the place where your legs have tightened, then slowly back up to your face. It’s a deliberate act; he is taking inventory of every betrayal.

“You liked that.” He croons.

You shake your head, but it’s weak. Useless. Barely more than the brush of your hair against the pillow.

“N-no.”

His thumb presses against your throat, not hard, just enough to feel the wild little flutter of your pulse.

“Liar.”

Your mouth opens but nothing comes out. You can’t find a single defence, a single outrage. No clever thing you can throw between you and the truth and it is all because he is still inside you. Still wearing fresh gloves like he thought that would be enough to keep you from knowing. Still carrying that one missed smear of Graves’s blood under his jaw like a secret he failed to bury properly.

And now he has caught you reacting to it.

Caught the hitch in your breath. The clench of your cunt. The heat climbing up your neck. The way your whole body went soft and greedy around him the second you understood what he had done.

Simon’s eyes go darker. Hungry in a way that feels worse than anger.

“You should be pissed at me,” he murmurs.

His hips pull back an inch - just enough to make you feel the loss before he sinks back in, slow and devastating, until your hands shift to grab at his shoulders because there is no dignity left in you. No clean line of thought. No clever answer.

“You should be callin’ me reckless.”

Another thrust. Your eyes squeeze shut.

His hand leaves your throat and for half a second, you think he is letting you breathe. That is until both of his hands find your own wrists and pin them firmly above your head.

Your eyes snap open to meet his, expecting full satisfaction, but what you see is worse.

It’s all of him - the width of his shoulders blotting out the dim light, the black of his mask, the hard set of his jaw beneath it, the blood under his neck, those steady eyes watching you like he has already decided exactly how much of you he is going to take apart before he is finished.

“You should be asking what the fuck I was thinkin’,” he says, and you can almost hear the grin in it.

You swallow. “You can’t—”

He moves again, and the words break apart in your mouth.

Your back arches and your fingers curl helplessly against his grip. Your knees shift higher around his ribs, dragging him closer instead of pushing him away, because apparently your body has no interest in helping you survive this with any pride intact.

Simon’s eyes drop to your mouth, then back up to the glass in yours.

“I can’t what?” He murmurs.

You try.

You really do.

You drag the sentence up through the wreckage of yourself, but he is too deep, too thick, too much. The stretch of him keeps interrupting every thought before it can become language.

“You can’t just—” your breath catches on a thrust. “You can’t hit him because he—”

“Because he talked about fucking you?” Your whole body jolts. His eyes burn into yours. “If that’s what you mean, say it proper. Like you fuckin’ believe it.”

You can’t.

Your mouth parts, but all that comes out is a broken little sound when he grinds deeper, cockhead bullying your walls slow enough to make you feel every inch of him, cruel enough to leave you trembling closer to the edge. Any sensible thought is drowned out by the wave of bliss washing over you.

Simon makes a low sound. A rough breath leaves him.

“Too far gone to scold me now?”

You glare at him, or try to. It doesn’t land.

And it didn’t stand a chance, either. Not like this - not with your lips parted and your eyes glassy and cunt stretched pathetically around him. Not with your wrists trapped above your head and your hips still trying to meet him every time he gives you another devastating inch.

“I’m, mmff—serious,” you whisper.

“So am I.”

“Simon—”

“No.” His voice cuts low through the room. “You don’t get to say my name like that while you’re grippin’ me tighter for it.”

Your breath leaves you in a gasp.

He feels the way you clench again, and you see it hit him. See the slight flare of his nostrils beneath the mask. The way his eyes flutter for just a second. The way something brutal and possessive moves through him before he can smooth it down.

“Mhm. Yeah.” His voice drops into something rougher. “Fuckin’ problem, you are.”

Your face burns hotter.

You want to deny it - you want to shove at his chest and tell him he’s wrong. Tell him it’s just your body. Just the position. Just the fact that he has you pinned and overstimulated and too cockdrunk to think straight.

But it’s useless because Simon would know it’s a lie.

He moves again, slow and deep, and the denial dies somewhere behind your teeth.

“That’s it,” he murmurs. “Nothing clever now?”

“Mmff.” Your nails dig into your own palms where he holds your wrists down. “Shut up.”

His eyes flash. “There she is.”

“I mean it.”

“No, you don’t.”

“I do.”

He gives you another measured thrust, and your voice breaks around a gasp. Simon watches it happen with only the most intent focus.

“Try that again.”

You hate him a little. You want him too much for it to matter.

“You’re—” you inhale sharply when he pulls out almost all the way and then back presses in hard enough to make the mattress shift beneath you. “You’re going to get yourself benched.”

“Probably.”

“Price is going to—”

“Already did.”

You blink up at him, breathless and stupid. “What?”

His thumb drags once along the inside of your wrist.

“Read me the riot act.”

Your nerves jump at that. “And you came here?”

“Yes.”

Something in your chest tightens. “Why?”

Simon looks at you for a long second and the room almost seems to shrink around his silence. Your head swims with all of it; the blood under his jaw, the fresh gloves, the heat of him still locked between your thighs.

When he finally speaks, his voice is quieter. “Because I had to see you.”

God. You think he’s lost his mind.

“Simon—“ your back arches and his mouth falls to your neck. “That’s not—this isn’t—“

He lowers himself closer to you, folding you deeper into the mattress.

“You think I lost it because he insulted you?” You don’t answer. His thumb strokes once over the pulse flying at your wrist. “No, sweet’eart.”

His hips move again, slow enough to be cruel, deep enough to make your eyes flutter.

“I lost it because he thought about touching what’s mine.”

The words hit you low and you make a sound you do not mean to make. Your cunt pulses at the word. Mine. A catastrophic vulnerability to a word you will never ever tire of hearing him say.

“That’s it,” he murmurs. “That’s what you like, yeah?”

You squirm under him, helpless. “Simon—”

“He said your name like he had a right to it.” His voice roughens. “Like he’d survive putting his hands on you.” The next thrust punches a feral moan out of you, and the pace turns to something almost vicious. “I had to let him know what mine felt like first.”

You moan, eyes shut. Helpless and needy as a whore.

He pauses again. One hand leaves your wrists and grips your jaw. “Look at me.”

You do.

“Another man touches you like this,” he whispers, a lethal rasp through his teeth, “and I’ll break every finger he owns.”

You shiver. His eyes flick down over your face, your mouth, the wrecked shape of you beneath him.

“And if he talks about you like that again?”

You barely manage the whisper. “What?”

Simon presses his forehead to yours. “I won’t stop at his face.”

For a long second, neither of you moves. Then he rolls his hips, and the whole world narrows back down to him - his body over yours, his hand at your jaw, Graves’s blood drying on his neck, and the awful, devastating tenderness in the way Simon kisses you like he is still trying not to become the worst version of himself.

One of your hands slip out from under his to touch the smear of blood again. Simon catches it and pins it back beside your head.

“Leave it.”

Your breath trembles. “Why?”

His eyes darken. “Because I want you to remember what happens when a man forgets who you belong to.”

And in the back of your mind, you think maybe you should argue. Maybe you should tell him you don’t belong to anyone or that this is crazy or that he’s going to get you both transferred - but then he does what he always does and starts fucking you deep and hard and mean - and your body reacts before your pride can save you.

Simon huffs a quiet, humorless breath. “That’s what I thought.”

Then he kisses you - filthy, possessive, furious, and fucks you like Graves is still in the room and Simon needs the whole world to understand it.

soft little clicks. muffled laughter. one time, an actual giggle, which makes dean open one eye in the dark and stare at the ceiling with the grim, hollow expression of a man realizing his baby sister has secrets.

at first, he tells himself it’s nothing. you’re sixteen. you have friends, technically, even if your childhood has been a rotating selection of stolen credit cards, motel pools, and learning how to load a shotgun before most people learn proper division. maybe you’re texting some girl from school. maybe you’re sending sam memes because, somehow, the two of you have an entire private language made of bad jokes and academic sarcasm. maybe you’re doing normal teenage stuff, and dean should be grateful for that.

then the phone buzzes while you’re in the shower. not once. no… the universe isn’t kind on dean’s nerves. it buzzes four times.

he doesn’t mean to look. that’s his story, and he’s sticking to it with both hands and a suspicious amount of guilt. the phone is right there on the bed, screen lighting up where you tossed it beside your hoodie, and dean glances over because he’s hardwired to notice sudden movement. hunter instinct. brother instinct. nosy bastard instinct. whatever.

𝚖𝚒𝚜𝚜 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚊𝚕𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚢

dean freezes.

another message drops in.

𝚠𝚒𝚜𝚑 𝚒 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍’𝚟𝚎 𝚔𝚒𝚜𝚜𝚎𝚍 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚕𝚘𝚗𝚐𝚎𝚛

his heart drops.

by the time you emerge from the bathroom, sam’s gone out for food and dean’s sitting on the edge of the bed with your phone face-down beside him, one knee bouncing so hard the mattress shakes. he looks pale. not blood-loss pale. emotionally ambushed pale. the kind of pale that means he’s seen the future, and the future is some teenage boy with hands.

you stop in the doorway, instantly alert. “what’s wrong?”

dean’s head snaps up. “what’s wrong?”

“yeah,” you say slowly, stepping inside. “did something happen?”

“you tell me.”

you blink at him, then at your phone, then back at his face.

everything inside you goes still. “dean—”

“don’t dean me.”

“did you go through my phone?”

“i didn’t go through it.”

“then why do you look constipated and guilty?”

his mouth opens. closes. he points at you, which is always where his arguments go when he is already losing them. “you are sixteen.”

“are you serious right now?!”

“sixteen!” he repeats, completely dismissing you. “—as in, not old enough for whatever the hell this is.”

your face heats—anger and embarrassment rushing up together so fast you can barely separate them. “oh my god.”

“nope. not god. me. your brother. the guy who keeps you alive.”

“you read my texts.”

“i saw enough.”

“you had no right!”

“i had every right when some little punk is texting my kid about kissing you longer.”

the words hang in the room, awful and protective and ridiculous all at once.

you stare at him. “first of all, i am not your kid.”

dean points harder. “yes, you are.”

“second, he’s not a punk.”

“they’re all punks.”

“you don’t even know him.”

“i don’t need to know him. i know guys.”

“he’s sixteen too.”

“even worse. sixteen-year-old guys are feral.”

that almost trips you into a laugh, and you hate him for it, so you fold your arms and lean into the anger instead. it fits better right now. “i’m dating him.”

dean goes completely still. you can practically see the sentence enter his body and start breaking furniture. “no.”

you let out a sharp, humorless little laugh. “no?”

“no.”

“that’s not how that works.”

“that’s absolutely how it works. i’m the adult.”

“sam’s the adult.”

“sam’s buying tacos.”

“sam would have a conversation!”

“sam would make that sad moose face and ask about emotions.”

“which would still be better than you invading my privacy!”

dean stands then, too full of worry to stay seated, pacing one short line between the beds with his hands on his hips. he looks so much like dad for half a second that it makes something cold touch the back of your neck. then he turns, and he’s just dean again. scared. angry because he’s scared. loud because quiet might make him admit it.

“you sneak around, you hide under the covers, you don’t tell me anything, and i’m supposed to be cool?”

“i hid it because of this,” you snap, hands gesturing vaguely in the air in his direction. “because you act like i’m five every time i try to have one normal thing.”

his face tightens. you hate that it hurts him. you hate that you still want him to understand more than you want to win.

“you think i don’t know what can happen?” you add, voice smaller but sharper somehow. “you think i don’t know the world is gross and dangerous and full of monsters? i know. you and sam made sure i know. but i can’t just be your little sister in the backseat forever, dean. i can’t.”

the room goes quiet except for the heater clicking under the window.

“i’m trying to protect you,” he says.

“i know.” your throat tightens, and it annoys you, because crying would ruin your whole terrifying teenage authority thing. “but sometimes you make it feel like protection means i don’t get to be a person.”

dean rubs both hands over his face, dragging them down slowly. “i shouldn’t have looked at your phone.”

you blink, thrown by the surrender. “no,” you clear your throat, chin tilting by the sudden change, still stubborn because you’re a winchester and apparently doomed. “you shouldn’t have.”

“i know.”

“and you can’t ground me for dating.”

his head lifts. “watch me.”

“i will run.”

“fine. i can strongly disapprove with consequences.”

“that’s grounding.”

the door opens before he can answer, and sam steps in with takeout bags balanced against his chest. he takes one look at you, one look at dean, and immediately stops.

“do i want to know?”

“she’s dating,” dean says, devastated.

sam’s eyebrows rise. “oh.”

“that’s all you have? oh?”

sam sets the food down very carefully. “i’m choosing peace until after dinner.”

you point at sam. “see? wise.”

dean turns on him. “don’t side with her.”

sam looks tired already. “i haven’t even taken my jacket off.”

you grab your phone from the bed and hold it to your chest. dean watches the movement, jaw clenched, still worried, still furious, still so painfully dean that your anger softens at the edges before you give it permission.

“you can meet him,” you decide.

dean’s eyes narrow. “i can interrogate him?”

“meet.”

“background check?”

“no.”

“holy water?”

“dean.”

“fine,” he mutters. “but i’m driving.”

“to where?”

“your first supervised date.”

you groan so loudly sam closes his eyes, but dean looks almost pleased with himself now, which means the battle is nowhere near over. and maybe that’s okay. not because he wins. he absolutely doesn’t. but because when you sit on the bed with your tacos and your phone tucked safely under your thigh, dean stays close enough to annoy you and far enough to let you breathe, and that’s probably the closest he can get to saying he’s trying.

Moving around the kitchen, completely unaware. A soft glow from the stovetop lights up your face as you hum to yourself, stirring something in a pot. Simon can almost hear your voice, that familiar melody you always hum when you’re cooking.

Ice settles in his chest.

"You see," the man continues, circling Simon like a predator, "an eye for an eye. You took our people from us. Now we take something from you."

The screen changes. Another angle. The front of the house now, where three men slip through the unlocked door like shadows. They move fast.

"Now, we could just kill her," the man muses, crouching beside Simon. "But where’s the fun in that? Maybe we start with a few fingers. Maybe a knife to that pretty face."

Simon jerks against the restraints, the chair creaking beneath him. His muscles coil with panic, and rage. His voice is muffled against the tape over his mouth, his heart hammering in his chest.

He watches as the men move closer—one creeping toward the kitchen doorway. He wants to scream, wants to warn you, to do something.

And then—

You turn.

And everything shifts.

The first man lunges.

You sidestep easily, grabbing a pan off the counter and slamming it into his face so hard he crumples instantly. The second man barely gets a hand on you before you spin, kneeing him hard in the gut before driving an elbow into his throat. He staggers, gasping, and you grab a knife from the counter, plunging it straight into his chest.

The third man hesitates.

Simon can see it—hesitation—as if he just realized this isn’t the easy job he thought it would be. He tries to pull a gun.

But you’re faster.

You twist his arm, forcing the gun toward his own leg before squeezing the trigger. He howls, dropping to his knees, and you grab the knife from the dead man’s chest, slashing the last attacker’s throat in one clean motion.

Silence.

The only sound is your heavy breathing.

The room Simon is in is frozen. No one speaks. No one moves.

"What the fuck," one of the men behind the camera mutters.

Simon can’t tear his eyes away from the screen. His body is still tense, his pulse still erratic, but his mind is caught between disbelief and something close to admiration.

He didn’t know you could do that.

Hell, he didn’t even know you knew how to throw a punch properly, let alone take down three armed men like it was nothing.

On screen, you quickly search the bodies, taking one of their guns and their earpiece. Then, without missing a beat, you grab your jacket and bolt out the door.

The man next to Simon snarls, grabbing a radio. "Find her!" he shouts. "She couldn't have gone far!"

Simon lowers his head, exhaling through his nose, swallowing down the relieved laugh bubbling in his throat.

That’s his girl.

It takes hours for you to track Simon down. Hours of listening in on enemy radio chatter and moving with the precision you never thought you’d need outside of training. Your heart pounds, but your hands remain steady as you grip the stolen gun.

When you finally pick up on the radio chatter—"Move the prisoner to the safehouse outside the city"—you know exactly who to ask for help.

The moment you contacted Price, he didn’t even hesitate. "We’re on it," he had said, and that was that. Now, as you move through the safehouse with the Task Force, the sound of suppressed gunfire fills the air as they clear the rooms.

Your thoughts are simple. Find Simon. Get him out.

When you reach the back room, you kick the door open so hard it nearly flies off the hinges.

Simon lifts his head at the sound, and the sight of him knocks the air from your lungs.

He’s tied to a chair, his wrists raw from the rope digging into them. There’s blood at his temple and a bruise darkening along his cheekbone. His mask is gone, and his hair is damp with sweat. But it’s his eyes that stop you in your tracks—sharp despite the exhaustion, locked onto you like you’re the only thing in the room that matters.

"Jesus, Simon," you breathe, already moving.

You reach him in seconds, hands shaking as you rip the tape from his mouth.

"Fuckin’ hell, love," he rasps, his voice hoarse.

"You look like shit," you mutter, and his lips quirk up at that, just a little.

"Feel like it too."

But you’re already working, fingers fumbling at the knots around his wrists, trying to ignore the way they’re rubbed raw. "Are you okay? Did they hurt you? How bad is it—"

He cuts you off.

"Marry me, woman."

You freeze. "What?"

"Marry me." And there’s no hesitation in his voice.

You blink, mind struggling to process. "Simon, are you concussed?"

"Dead serious, love," he mutters. His head tilts slightly, eyes flicking to the doorway behind you. "Get me outta this chair first, then we’ll talk rings."

Behind you, a low chuckle sounds. "Well, that’s one way to propose," Price comments, stepping into the room.

"Should we give ‘em a minute?" Soap adds, grinning.

You don’t even look back. "No, because I’m gonna kill him."

Simon snorts, and somehow, despite everything, that tiny sound makes your chest ache.

Your fingers work faster, finally loosening the ropes enough for him to yank his arms free with a hiss of pain. The second he’s out of the chair, your hands are all over him—checking his bruises, pressing against his ribs to see if anything gives under your touch.

He catches your wrist. "I’m fine."

You glare up at him. "You’re not fine."

"M’fine now that you’re here."

And there it is again—that way he looks at you, like you just flipped his entire world upside down and he doesn’t quite know what to do with it.

You shake your head, pressing your forehead against his shoulder, exhaling hard. "You scared the hell out of me, Simon."

His hand slides up your back, fingers curling into the fabric of your jacket. "Didn’t know you could fight like that, love."

"Yeah, well, I don’t advertise it." You pull back just enough to meet his gaze. "Didn’t think I’d ever need to."

He huffs a quiet laugh. "Lucky me."

"Lucky you," you agree, voice softer now.

Simon’s thumb brushes against your cheek, and there’s something raw in his expression. "So, that’s a yes, then?"

"To what?"

"Marry me."

"Simon—"

"You literally just saved my ass. Killed three men in our kitchen. Lookin’ downright stunning doin’ it." He squeezes your waist. "Think I’d be an idiot not to put a ring on you."

You stare at him, pulse thudding in your ears. "Simon, you’re literally bleeding out right now."

"And?" He tilts his head slightly, looking at you like he’s already made up his mind. "Still waiting on an answer, love."

You groan, pressing your fingers to your temple. "Can we please get you out of here first?"

"So that’s a yes?"

"It’s a 'get moving before I knock you out myself.'"

His smirk is lazy, but there’s something warm in his eyes, something real. "Close enough."

Behind you, Soap snorts. "Bloody hell, that was the least romantic proposal I’ve ever heard."

Price sighs. "Sort it out later. We need to move."

You shake your head, but when Simon tugs you just a little closer before letting go—you know he already knows your answer.

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