sweet as sugar

half-curse roommate!choso who's like a godsend as he's so helpful and considerate of you and the baby. he doesn't mind the all the crying. or that you are too exhausted at times to clean up properly. and that 9 times out of 10 you look a general hot ass mess while at home. if that weren't enough, choso would even play with your baby girl, letting you get in a much needed nap in. you tell him every time you’d only need 20 mins and he can wake you up but choso will sit with her on the sofa until you wake up. possibly hours later, but choso claimed he was happy to get to act like a big brother again. a natural born 'big brother type', choso will watch cocomelon for hours and let her cute chubby fingers tug on his pigtails. all while he makes funny faces that without fail guarantees a burst of tiny giggles, even if she'd previously been crying.

half-curse roommate!choso who also doesn't seem to mind when toji, said actual baby daddy shows up unannounced, usually at some ungodly hour to 'see his girls'. although you suspect that by 'his girls' instead of you and the baby, toji means your milk swollen tits and your creamy mommy pussy, as toji spends more time interacting with them than you or the baby. it's only a 2 bedroom apt too, so as not to wake the baby, you are usually fucking in the living room. not very subtly either. it's not like you’re the one lacking in decency though. you always full-on deny toji sex in favor of heavy petting under a blanket. yet after toji's made you lather his fingers in your squirt for the third time that night, your mommy brain, still trying to balance your hormones, goes completely smooth. its easy then for toji's minor requests for you to return the favor by 'just warming his cock up a lil' bit' always lead to major backshots off the edge of the couch. those deadly backshots, were how you got pregnant in the first place, mind you. thankfully, while you're face-down-ass up, you’re blissfully unaware. otherwise you’d be mortified that the sounds of your cushion-muffled moans and wet flesh slapping together drown out the shuffling scurry of feet and carefully shut doors when your roommate has to cross the living room to use the bathroom in the middle of the night.

half-curse roommate!choso who although you think is super sweet, being half curse makes him a bit naive. still, his endearing boyish charm is much welcomed when you are so used to toji's gruff and blunt personality. you also love choso's reactions when you flatter him with compliments like: 'you're the best choso!' or 'what would i do without you?' choso's ears will always redden he becomes bashful and quiet. you really mean every word tho! although you always get the biggest reaction, widening eyes and a blush that extends past his ears to his cheerful cheeks when you adoringly profess 'choso, you'll make such a good daddy one day ~♡ ' if he's even choked on his own spit a few times and you have to hide your giggles as you pat his back until he can swallow properly again.

half-curse roommate!choso who deliberately takes night shifts now. not just to give you your privacy for when toji comes over, but he tells you it's so he could watch the baby in case your nanny, who has bailed on you a few times before, doesn't show up. when you protest, telling choso he doesn't need to rearrange his whole life for you, he won't hear anything else about it. he's half curse he reasons, he's more suited to patrolling the night shifts anyway. you honestly don't even know how to thank choso who is honestly more of a co-parent then toji at this point.

half-curse roommate!choso who practically has a heart attack when he comes into the kitchen on his way to work, to find you with your bare breasts out feeding your baby girl on one boob and a pump machine on the other. you quickly have to calm him down and let him know that it's a perfectly natural thing to breastfeed in the open and is nothing him nor you need to be ashamed about. although it's true you usually pumped at night when choso was already at work so your baby could have fresh bottles for the morning, today your breasts were extra sore from being so full and your baby girl much too fussy. so that's what had you in the kitchen for an impromptu feed n' pump session.

half-curse roommate!choso who apologizes for his reaction as he didn't mean to offend you (he didn't, but he's soooo cute for thinking he did). opening up to you, choso divulges he never knew any of this as he didn't grow up with a mom. you knew choso was half-curse but you're shocked to discover he's a literal test tube baby and thereby completely unaware of most healthy parent-child dynamics. choso was definitely never breastfed. you smile at his genuine curiosity when he asks you to tell him more. so you explain that this impromptu feeding is more to pacify the baby. other than nourishment, nursing was one important way a mother could bond with a child so young. it provided the baby comfort and was one of the best ways to get them to settle down. and just like magic before choso's eyes your baby girl had been soothed in a matter of minutes, her anxious gurgles calming into soft coos as she sleeps.

half-curse roommate!choso whose desperately tries to retain eye contact as he converses with you at the kitchen table. your totally clonked-out baby girl had unlatched and you proceeded to have a normal conversation with him like your whole swollen n' leaky tit wasn't so casually exposed. choso berates himself to focus and 'act normal'. he knows its normal, you told him as much yourself and you're being normal. so why does choso feel everything but normal right now? choso panics. It’s way too hot in here! he had to get out, like now —what time was it again? standing up abruptly, choso sudden motion startles you when he announces he would be late to work, if he didn't leave right now. choso immediately regrets it though once he sees your furrowed brow and plump lil pout as you had been enjoying your conversation. choso knows because of the baby and toji that you don't get out much. frantic to make amends, choso can't help but to pay you a compliment on his way out the door. now it was your turn to blush wildly when he sincerely looked you in the eye and says—

“heh, i wish i grew up with a mommy, especially one as lovely as you.”

half-curse roommate!choso who comes back home earlier than usual that night, around 3 am but looks like he's worked a whole weeks worth of night shifts from his worn down appearance. his robes are tattered in various places, the bags under his eyes are more pronounced than usual, and wait... is that blood!? it took him a while to snap out of his dissociative melancholy, to notice you were even awake at this hour. trying to keep it together, choso gives you a smile that doesn't quite reach his own gaze. he honestly expected you to be asleep, as your baby girl usually slept well throughout the night. but you told him she had woken up an hour ago hungry and now you couldn't fall back asleep. truly though, you are a sight for sore eyes to choso. yet choso still cant help but feel more like a burden and failure when you begin to worry over if he had any injuries. the blood on him isn't his though, its civilians. so many, he hadn't been able to save everyone when a special grade curse had attacked a large apartment complex. 'its not your fault choso!' you along with everyone else had told him but it doesn't make it hurt any less. seeing people cry out for their fallen loved ones, he knew that pain all too well. no one else should have to suffer it while he had the power to prevent it.

half-curse roommate!choso who you make it your mission to comfort. he's always doing everything to help you, it's the least you can do in his time of need! gently you drag choso by one of his muscular arms to the sofa. you motion for him him lay his head on your shoulder and once he is settled, your arm cradles his head with delicate pats. however, it’s when you feel choso’s silent, wet tears hit your skin and he can no longer hold back his trembling, maternal instincts kick in. You immediately guide him to lie on his side, pulling him against your plush, buoyant chest so you can cradle him close, slipping effortlessly into full "mommy-mode." you coo lovingly for him to 'let it all out' as he sobs. you figure grown man or not choso is unlikely to ever have been given the grace just to unload on someone. he certainly wouldn't with his only remaining brother, yuji, who choso would never dream of burdening with his own problems. yet, like an angel, your warm hushes and gentle rocking soothes choso, wrapping him in a comforting embrace like a much needed security blanket. With soft caresses, you brush his wispy bangs away from his handsome face, keeping them from sticking to his tear stained skin. choso in turn pushes his face deeper into your bosom, clutching onto you like a lifeline.

half-curse roommate!choso who you'd been holding for quite a while when it finally dawns on you the increasing puddle of moisture you feel on your chest isn't the result of his teary sobs but your leaky tits. omg owww! and no sooner did you notice that fact then the familiar ache of them being too full confirms it. its clear to you now choso's crying had triggered your milk production as it if he had been your own child! although speaking of baby girls, choso looked so sweet and content with face buried into your plush curves, his own tears now dried. you absolutely hate to have to move him. but you knew you needed to because while you weren't ashamed of your completely natural bodily reactions —you also had enough couth not to drip your breast milk all over someone's face!

half-curse roommate!choso whose cheek you swipe feather like touches over as you tell him you have to get up. choso's response of course though is to hold on to you that much tighter. his croaky whispers plead to you, proclaiming how this 'feels so nice' —outright begging to stay like this for just a bit longer. and while his sappy puppy dog pout is activating something in you, and you want to give-in, the increasing swell of your tits is becoming unbearable. you need to go pump, like asap. so you try to bargin with choso that you can hold him more in a bit but right now you are soiling yourself and him.

half-curse roommate!choso who curiously enough, had been oblivious that the soaked wetness gathering between the both of you is no longer coming from him. daring to lick his lips, choso whimpers as he can taste the creamy, and mildly sugary, secretions that settled on them. you're so mortified to see choso's face covered in a sheen of your breastmilk you fail to notice just how intensely he’s been staring at your nipples. your pert lil' buds, practically greeting him, beckoning to him, centimeters from his face through your now soaked, transparent white pj top.

half-curse roommate!choso who upon zeroing in on the small pearly beads of milk pebbling through the fabric of your shirt, instinctively leans in to lap it up with a tentative lick. the action shocks you as you gasp, swallowing hard. your breasts feel so heavy with milk and are positively aching to release even the tiniest bit of it. unfortunately, choso's continuous microlicks only tease the idea of relief, the texture of his tongue chafing your soppy tee against your sore nips which had begun to tighten even harder— it was pure torture.

"c-choso!"

half-curse roommate!choso who when hearing his name squeaked out in such a pitchy cry immediately stops. instantly realizing what he's doing a stream of "s-shit shit, m'sorry, m'sorry!!" appologies slur out of him. choso looks up at you sheepishly, face burning in shame as he continues. "i-it's just that you're so soft n' warm... n' i've never felt so safe anywhere before, well ever! i swear it! i-i know that's no excuse but it tasted s'gud..." not being able to look you in the eyes anymore you can tell choso is about to pull away and instantly your fingers tangle up around one of his pigtails, holding him in place. you shake your head. "mm n-no, cho if you want to have some more, you can... if it's not too weird for you." all your good sensibilities are screaming at you, this isn't a good idea. never in a million years did you expect to be in this situation with choso. however such is life, and the facts are now: its late, your tiddies ache miserably and choso is giving very much eager baby girl ready to be nursed. how could you be expected to have the willpower to disengage??

"ya know, you'd actually be doing me a favor cho... pumps can be so uncomfortable and a mouth always feels so much better… um, is that okay?"

half-curse roommate!choso who thinks its more than okay and from then on gleefully volunteers to become your living, breathing, personal breast pump. you had to dump so much of what you would normally pump anyway, your body working overtime to produce milk as your baby girl definitely had the appetite of her often absentee daddy who at least would send money for bills and diapers consistently. sweet baby jesus, toji would most certainly go slap the fuck off if he found out about these breast pump!choso sessions. but tbh? fuck toji because he isn't here to drain your overactive milk ducts, choso is. and choso is so eager to do it too! its toji's own damn fault you decide. just like you decided to rationalize to yourself that choso latching onto your milk bloated tiddies is strictly quid pro quo. choso's simply helping you drain your tits and you're giving him the intimacy he so desperately craves. this is a friendly thing… you’re healing his inner-child and fears of abandonment —if anything you're like his mom, right? perfectly platonic.

half-curse roommate!choso who forces you to confront the fact there's nothing platonic to you about him so lewdly moaning out 'mommy' as he swirls his tongue around the plump fat of your puffy areolas. you can barely see his face now as choso isn't content unless he's practically suffocating himself under your heavy mammaries while he nurses on them. you swear choso would swallow your whole boob completely if he could get it all in his mouth. not leaving the other ignored, Choso’s hand gently bounces and massages the one he isn’t sucking, stimulating milk flow to be ready for when her turn comes. you suppose this was also around the same time he started calling you 'mommy' and that you'd end your pump sessions with your thong wet, sticky and practically glued onto your twitching cunny.

half-curse roommate!choso who causes your thoughts wander to more debased and salacious fantasies the longer he's latched onto you. would choso latch on just as well to your clit? would he smother himself just as deeply into yout cunt? and most importanly...would he enjoy suckling out the savory umami flavor of your pussy juices just as much as your sweet creamy tits? you imagine choso would do just as good of a job coaxing your cunt to spill its nectar as he did with your lactating breasts. these lewd ponderings ensure that by the end of every one of choso's feedings your pussy would be aching far more deeply than your tits ever were. but there was one BIG problem preventing this from becoming your reality...

half-curse roommate!choso who you aren't getting any sexual vibes from. at all. you think, like a lot of things, choso is clueless. so of course he doesn't know how often your clit pokes out between your pussy lips to throb to the flick of his tongue on your stiffened peaks. nor how your actual tummy would flutter, abs sucking in aggressively when he'd accidentally rake his teeth over your pert flesh... how could he? he wasn't even hard! your 'baby girl' choso would even doze off at times, all the while languidly slurping your soggy nipples raw. although it's not like you could really tell for certain... choso is always in baggy sweats or robes. you'd convinced yourself though that even if choso was a little slow on the uptake, he was still a man. and you knew exactly how men could be, thanks to toji. there's no way he could have contained his urges over a half dozen times if he was felt anything erotic about the way he’s so viciously slurping up the suds of his spit and your milk. choso is so sloppy with it, there’s rarely a moment where milk isn’t dribbling down from the corners of his lips.

half-curse roommate!choso who you are able to confirm definitely gets hard when after a nursing session, you spy him in the bathroom through the crack of the door. choso failed to shut it all the way. this gives you the perfect silver of a view to see him hunched over and resting his forearm on the wall, as he frantically jerks himself over the toilet. much of choso's black undershirt is currently stuffed into his mouth, giving him chipmunk cheeks as he attempts to silence his needy whimpers. the entirety of his sculpted abs and pecs are on display and your eyes can’t stop their journey to drift lower and lower. your own legs rub together as you notice how much choso is actually shaking, ferally chasing his nirvana as he thrusts his—rather large n' hefty cock —into his pre soaked palm. holy shit he had to be as big as toji! you're openly gawking, the crack in the door opening a little wider with your face pressing against it but choso isn't even in this reality anymore to be interrupted. his eyes squeeze shut as he envisions his thick cock between your bouncing tits, your sweet nourishing milk oozing over his balls. safe to say, choso had been extremely hard up this entire time. you find out just how hard up too when after immediately cumming his dick is still twitching as he starts stroking himself once more, you’d stand there while he would do it do twice more too.

half-curse roommate!choso whose eyes fly open during your very next feeding session when not 5 minutes in your delicate hand cups his dick over his sweats outta nowhere. oh he's VERY hard. choso is a hair away from bussin right then when he feels your silky smooth hands sneak beneath his sweats grasp his hefty cock. his breath hitches around your breast as he chokes on your milk from you running your thumb over his wet slit. choso's fat round cockhead already dampened his swampy shorts with pre. you can't even fit your hand all the way around him but that didn't stop choso's eyes from rolling back into his head when you give him those first few pumps. soft grip twisting using the liquid already running out of his tip as lubricant.

"ungh, whaa...?"

half-curse roommate!choso who can't even succinctly question what's going on because the fact you actually have your pretty palm around his cock is melting his mind and destroying any sense he has of space and time. this had to be a wonderful dream? had he somehow fallen asleep, drowned and or smothered himself in your breasts and this was heaven? it felt like it. shit, his own rough hand could never compare. you sweetly blow a kiss down at him, your movements only increasing in speed and friction.

"you earned this, cho. it's only fair mommy milks you after you've done such a good job for mommy being her pump baby..."

half-curse roommate!choso who hisses when you fully tug his engorged length out of his shorts. his cock pulses angrily, still inflamed even as the cool air hits it. fresh hot tears run down choso’s cheeks and spill on your chest as the pleasure is almost unbearable for him. choso won't last long the way his red tip is sobbing, soaking on to his quivering belly and you know it. "

c'mon baby. be a good boy and cum for mommy, yeah?"

you moan as choso nips and sucks ferally at your tits, other hand twisting and pinching your wet n puffy nipples enough to make you whine for even more. god, you’d never been this sensitive??would you finally cum just from your tits? watching choso fall to pieces in your lap and on your breast is something you didn't know how much you needed until this very moment.

"mommy m'c-c-cumming!"

lifting his hips to thrust up into your hand, choso spurts his frothy load like a supersoaker. it’s like a geyser, so much more than you'd ever seen a man cum before —and by your hand alone! your fingers attempts to contain his vicious cum but it spurts out everywhere. syrupy semen coats him, the sofa, and especially your forearm. a deviously sweet smile plays on your lips when your hand doesn't stop its twisting and pumping motions. getting every last bit of milk out, like choso had always done for you.

"mmm' nah cho-cho, i think you can give mommy more right?"

sniffling around your breast choso blissfully pleas for your to wait but his greedy little hips never stop, chasing even more ecstasy despite his over sensitive cock making his head swim.

"m-mommy m'pweaseeee..."

"mommy? huh? the fuck is all this bullshit!?"

oh whoops, when did toji get here?

half-curse roommate!choso who you have to shield from the wrath of babydaddy!toji who is totally crashing tf out over you catching you in such a compromising with choso. toji is roaring for you to get out of the way so he can 'handle' this. you refuse, telling toji he’d never see you again, your pussy or your tits... not to mention never see his daughter, if he harmed a single hair on choso's pigtailed head. your voice, elevated to a yelling to match toji’s, is what sets your daughter off and you demand toji go get her. you’re putting papa bear on time out. besides he needs to go cool off and spend time with his baby girl, who rarely sees him when she’s actually awake. you weren't in any kind of relationship with toji so he had no right to be angry. surprisingly, toji just grumbles, and obeys. glaring death at choso on the way to your bedroom. he's barating himself for even thinking that dweeby loser was harmless. although toji coulda swore choso was a eunuch at first glance.

babydaddy!toji who honestly, isn't even livid over seeing your freshly manicured nails, that he'd cash app'd you the money for, overflowing with choso's cum. your grip, still stroking the last spurts from his spent cock. a sympathy hand job wasn't too surprising really. especially since toji knew fapping is exactly what the lil' emo cuck did in the bathroom the nights toji actually spent over. choso would pathetically beat his meat to the squelchy sounds of your stretched, wet pussy, farting around toji's girth, ripping through your guts.

babydaddy!toji isn't even particularly upset with choso's pathetic display of tears, cumming like a whiny bitch boy while calling you his 'mommy'. disgusting. no frankly, what's really got toji hot and wanting to spill choso's blood is the massive messy milk ring pooling around choso's mouth and running down his chin. rage seethes through toji at the revelation: it's choso's fault toji hadn't been getting as much milk lately when he'd come over to play with his favorite girls (your tits).

half-curse roommate!choso who doesn't know how bad toji is plotting to get him out of the picture for good. somehow without harming him and pissing you off. toji wouldn't stand for this much longer though, that milk was meant for just for toji (and his daughter ofc, he supposes).

tsk, fuck! —suckin’ on those jumbo mommy milkers was the only reason why babydaddy!toji had worked so hard to get you fucking pregnant in the first place. >:(

♡ blkkizzat ©2023-2025 ♡

♡ strictly prohibited: ai, copy, plagiarism, redistribution, translations. ♡

𝓪𝓷: i'm ovulating and i need one of these men to put a baby in me. choso and toji with lactating kinks make my brain go crazy. one day ill write the gojo x nanami x milf!reader lactation fic based off one of my fav h-animes lol bet. also no one yell at me i wrote these at work and school when i was bored and my actual full fics i need like my entire focused brain to write lol

♡ funny meme i made for this fic ♡

“I swear I’m gonna throw up.”

“Come on, Dean. It’s not that bad.” You roll your eyes, softly kicking an angel Christmas ornament out of the way, being careful not to break it. 

“I’m choking, sweetheart.” Dean grasps his throat dramatically, clawing at his skin and making his voice thinner. “I can’t breathe. Oh no, there’s the light at the end of the tunnel. I leave everything to Baby.”

“You literally have nothing to leave. You don’t even have a will! You’ve been legally dead like—five times.”

Sam snorts somewhere behind you, still making his way through the giant pile of heart-shaped chocolate boxes by the door of the warehouse. 

Calling it a warehouse is a dishonor, though, considering all the walls are pure white marble and every corinthian column holding up the insanely tall ceiling is made of rose quartz. There’s no windows, lamps, or candles, and still the room glows in a golden-pink hue. The whole place buzzes with magic, like you’re walking into a giant ancient altar. You wonder what kind of cherub has enough money or power to build a place like this. 

You’d gotten a heads up from Castiel a few days ago about what Dean relayed as “a disturbance in the force” around Stockbridge, Massachusetts. You’d driven here last night, stopping a few towns over so Dean could get some sleep before making your way into town. 

You’d spat all kinds of speculations about what the disturbance could be—another horseman, Lucifer himself, maybe even God—just to find a glowing, castle-like building on a field just out of town instead. 

Deciding that walking in without any idea of what you’d be facing was a terrible idea, you decided to do some research first.

But somehow, none of the locals are able to see the warehouse even though the thing looms over the town, glinting bright pink under the sun, blinding and imposing even from the town square. 

You tried talking to some hipster girl outside an artsy cybercafé, the small hill where the shop was located giving you a perfect view of the building between all the valentine’s day decorations hanging from the light posts.

When she claimed to have never heard of such a place, you stood right next to her and pointed directly to the marble cathedral, forcing her gaze away from Dean and toward the horizon. Suddenly the owlish heart-eyes she was making disappeared, and fog settled over her irises. Her mouth opened and closed like a fish out of water, her whole body tensing. Then she blinked, like she was just waking up from a heavy nap, and turned back to Dean as if nothing happened. 

“Nah, the only church in town is down the street. Baptist, I think, but the nuns are pretty chill.” All three of you gaped as she twirled a strand of carrot-dyed hair with her finger, not even acknowledging you or Sam or the fucking magical castle right in front of her eyes. “Maybe I can show you the way? I know the perfect scenery route.”

You wanted to suffocate her with her woolen beanie, maybe scoop her eyes out with those stupid, huge non-prescription glasses. Instead, you gave her a polite goodbye and stomped your way down back to the town square, dodging inflatable cupids and heart balloons. Sam and Dean followed suit a few seconds after. 

You continued asking around, but every time you directed someone’s gaze to the warehouse, they got the same hazy look in their eyes. Some of them continued to talk after like Hipster Girl, some of them scurried away as soon as they snapped out of whatever spell they were under, one poor high school boy ended up throwing up into the pink rose bushes of the local park.

“So, are we thinking witch?” 

You were back in the Impala, officially declaring interviews useless around noon. Sam and Dean were in the front seat, munching on some hotdogs while you picked at your pink-dyed cheese fries in the backseat, chewing on heart-cut pieces of bacon as you thought back on Hipster Girl’s eyes, the opaque fog, the slight tremble of her lower lip. 

Her biting down on said lip when Dean used some cheap line, the twirl of her orange hair, the way Dean’s grin turned sharp at the sight of it—

You needed to focus. 

“Probs. There’s definitely some kind of incantation over the building, but I don’t know any witch powerful enough to cast magic over a whole town.”

Your voice was dragged, low and dull. Sam threw you a concerned look over his shoulder, you didn’t meet his eyes. “Deity, then?”

You shrugged without a word. The brothers shared one of their looks, and you knew it wouldn’t be too long until one of them—most likely Sam, because Dean is allergic to any kind of emotional talk—cornered you about what’s been going on. 

The truth is as embarrassing as it is hilarious, if you were anyone else and not the one living it.

Valentine’s day is tomorrow, and it’s been driving you insane.

All Dean seems to talk about is the festivity, and how eager he is to dive into the first bar he finds and “comfort all those poor, heartbroken, smokin’ girls.” You threatened him with your knife, “shut up or I’ll gut you open and feed you to some poor street dog.” He only got louder. 

Evading the man you’re in love with while he talks about fucking other women doesn’t work very well. Every tune in the radio is a love song, every movie in the staticky motel TVs is a rom-com, every diner you enter has a new Valentine’s milkshake. Everything is a reminder of the day of love, and while you’re usually indifferent to dumb capitalistic holidays, this year it feels like salt in an old, festered wound. 

Dean doesn’t love you, not like you love him. 

It’s the end of the fucking world, you’re hunting down the Devil, and still Dean can’t find it in himself to see you as anything other than the poor hunter girl they had to aid years ago and who they’re now stuck with. The man who’d sleep with anything that moves and has good tits, can’t fathom to look at you twice. 

Sam brought you back Valentine’s themed gummies when you stopped at a gas station this morning instead of your usual ones. You sneaked off to the restroom and flushed them down the toilet. 

You’re being petty. It’s Armageddon time, you’re entitled to some pettiness. 

You continued your research after lunch, but the whole town turned out to be incompetent. No records of the building or its construction, no local folklore or legends, no precedents of supernatural activity. 

Feeling restless and ready to break some skulls, you proposed to just walk in and see it for yourselves. Dean was all for it, but Sam forced all of you to grab some witch-killing bullets and a few extra guns first. By mid-afternoon, you were walking through the rose-tinted glass door of the place. 

You were expecting an evil lair, a palace of some kind, maybe an actual place of worship, but what you found instead was a storage room. 

“What the—” Sam cursed when he ran into the mountain of chocolate boxes he’s still trying to put back in place, sprawling them all over the ground. 

There were similar piles all around the shiny bronze flooring. Teddy bears, cheap costume angel wings, more Valentine’s decor. The place was flooded with pink, red, and white knick knacks. Some objects were propped up on pedestals—an expensive-looking vase, many marble statues of little angel babies and naked torsos, a half-eaten apple for some reason. Ballet music was playing from somewhere, there were romantic and erotic paintings everywhere but none were actually mounted on the walls, and the air was thick with the smell of rose petals and peaches. 

Which brings you back to the present, with Dean pretending to die from sweet, stuffy air while you all sort through the mess in search for something that gives away your cupid’s identity. After the fiftieth baby angel scented soap you’d accidentally stepped on, you’d just assumed it’s a cherub.

“Can’t wait to get out of this place. If any chick tomorrow smells like roses I might throw up all over her.”

The little glass swan you’re holding cracks under your fingers, you leave it on top of a velvet box before it breaks. 

“Have we ever heard of any angels that can bewitch a whole town?” You ask Sam, desperate to change the topic. 

You move to the back right corner of the warehouse, where a bunch of books are arranged in a neat pyramid. Maybe this cupid keeps a diary, who knows?

“I don’t think so, and cherubs are supposed to be pretty low-ranking. I’m not sure one of them would be able to manage something like this, but we should ask Cas.”

You nod, glancing up at Sam as he finishes with the heart boxes and moves to look through a stack of what looks like discarded love letters, judging by the glittery ink and tearstains on the old paper. 

Your eyes sweep the room and find Dean, who’s searching a honey-colored vanity in the far left corner. There’s a bunch of beauty products already laying carelessly on top, expensive blushes and mascaras and a million lipsticks. Dean keeps going through the cabinets, pulling out everything he finds. He picks up a perfume bottle and sniffles it, immediately grimacing. So much for feeling dizzy. 

He glares down at the bottle like it personally offended him, looking goddamned adorable under the pinkish glow, the golden flecks of his eyes sparkling. 

You focus back on the book pyramid and grab one at random, flipping it open with your chest heavy and your throat dry. Dean fits right in with the collection of beauty surrounding you, always the prettiest thing in the room. You, on the other hand, are more like a dark cloud in a perfect blue sky. 

The stupid flutter of your heart is immediately halted as it stops completely.

You picked up a porn book. Not a magazine, it has a hardcover and there’s text all down the right page, but the left page is pure porn. Three pictures, like a collage, all featuring the same couple. A girl on her knees, sucking some guy’s dick. The same dick now between her tits, a hint of a smile on her lips. The guy now with his head buried under her skirt, her head thrown back in ecstasy.

Regrettably but almost unconsciously, you flip to the next page. A guy, bright eyes hooded and pretty mouth parted, desperately humping a pillow. The book slips from your hands, landing wide open on the ground. You scramble to pick it up and snap it closed. 

Ignoring the brothers’ questioning looks, you leave the book back on the pile and grab another one. 

One by one, you open at least ten different erotic books. There’s one with a skinny blond guy being impaled in a dick way too big to feel good. There’s one with two girls making out in the mud. There’s one with a girl in a cowboy outfit riding a tied-up guy. Your cheeks flush at that one. 

You’re not a prude, nothing close. Inside you, there’s this thing. It writhes and snarls and wants. It makes you feel sick, it makes you feel high, it makes you want to explode. Sometimes, you let it out—muzzled and on a leash, but peaking its head through the bars of its cage. Most of the time, though, you keep it locked away. 

It feels too dangerous, perverse. It’s scary, just how feral it can be. 

It cannot be healthy. You’ve grown used to nothing in your life being healthy. 

You sort through the pile, no longer taking the risk of picking at random. Anything with the words “sexy,” “steamy,” or “adult” gets thrown away right away. Any slightly suggestive title gets turned around so you can inspect the information in the back cover. The books that look innocent enough get inspected further. Some of them are in other languages—some Italian and French, many of them in Greek. Anything you can’t read gets discarded.

Even then, most of the ones you open are explicit. Some are supposed to be clever little “hidden” books, some simply take whatever innocuous topic they name on the front page and turn it unnecessarily sexual. You read through half a cooking book before finding a recipe for cum cupcake frosting (ew), you find a porn version of The Wizard of Oz that makes you giggle, you find a mechanic’s guidebook that soon turns into a playboy mag.

You’ve started to open the books halfway through, just to skip any buildup bullshit, and quickly regret it. Because there, spread across both pages, is a black Chevy Impala. Not a ‘67, but a similar model. And on top, laying across the hood in a too-cliche pose, is a guy. He’s completely naked, lean muscles glinting in the sun of whatever arid place they shot this in, fucking up into a girl whose face has been cut out of frame.

The guy has dirty blond hair, a little too dark. His eyes are a shade closer to lime than forest, and his skin is paler than the gold that haunts your dreams. Still, there are freckles all over the bridge of his nose and shoulders. His nose is straight, his lips are full, and his jaw is sharp. It’s too fucking close. 

His eyebrows are drawn together, his mouth almost pouty as he grips the faceless girl’s thighs desperately. His feet are propped up on the front bumper, and he looks almost in pain as he thrusts inside the girl’s pussy. His chest is lined with scratches—deep, angry red that he sure seems to enjoy. It might be just you, but his lips seem to be holding the shape of a plea, his eyes teary and his whole body taut. 

His cheeks are red, the left one more than the right one. There’s bruises on his neck and down his chest. He looks hurt, he looks blissed, he looks so fucking horny. 

He looks like Dean. 

The beast wails, your thighs press together, you feel so violent that you could spontaneously combust. It terrifies you every time—how hot your blood burns, how feverish it makes you, how wrong it feels. 

Not pretty, not delicate, not sensual. Just ugly, destructive, all-consuming hunger.

“Hey,” Dean says your name, way too close. “Look!”

You shut the book closed so hard that the smack echoes through the warehouse, the blow making your bones shake. You turn around to face Dean like he caught you with your hands inside a corpse’s innards. You almost wish he had, you’d feel less dirty. 

“Hi.” Your voice is too high, your eyes too wide. Dean frowns. 

“You okay?” You nod, bobbleheaded, hiding the book behind your back. Dean’s eyes shift down to it, forest green that’d look beautiful all teary. You squirm. “You sure? What’s that thing?”

“Just a true crime book about ‘crimes of passion.’ It’s a little graphic, so I got a little shaken up. I’m fine now.” You wave your hand dismissively, Dean still looks suspicious. You clear your throat, kicking the beast until it whimpers and hides, and you smile. “You wanted to show me something?”

“Right.” Dean shakes his head, his mouth still twisted as he pulls something from the pocket of his jacket. “I found this, and I thought you’d like it.”

He extends his hand toward you, holding up some kind of bronze arm cuff. Three thin copper wires swirl in pretty spirals, braided carefully and embedded with pearls and crystal charms. Two flowers rest at the ends, rose quartz petals and iridescent centers. The whole thing sparkles like it’s covered in fairy dust. 

“It’s gorgeous, Dean.” You delicately pick it up from Dean’s hand, thumbing at the smooth pearls and cold metal. There's something engraved behind each petal, you can vaguely make out a few Greek letters. “Where did this angel get all this stuff?”

“Dunno, but I guess they won’t miss one thing.”

You blink up at Dean. He’s glowering down at his dirty biker boots, a hand scratching behind his ear. “You want me to keep it?”

Dean shrugs, and the question seems to grab Sam’s attention, the younger boy shuffling closer through the lovey mess. 

“We don’t come across beautiful things too often. You deserve beautiful.” The words seem sour in his own mouth, like they’re spilling out without his permission. Your heartbeat is loud in your ears. 

No, I don’t. Not really. 

You’re glad when Sam chimes in. 

“I don’t think it's a good idea to take stuff, guys. We’re still not sure it’s a cherub, and we don’t wanna upset anything.”

Dean glares at his brother, and you sigh dejectedly. Sam is right, and so is Dean. You don’t get many beautiful things. You don’t get quartz bracelets or Dean Winchester under you. That’s just your life. 

“There’s nothing in these books,” you murmur, none of this helping your already bad mood. “We should keep looking, find some kind of sigil or rune so we can confirm what we’re actually dealing with.”

With your shoulders hunched and your soul weary, you start to walk toward the vanity to put the arm cuff back. You’ve only taken three steps when Dean stops you, his fingers wrapping around your wrist firmly.

When you face him, his eyes are downturned and a little pleading. Too close, too fucking close. 

“At least try it on.” It takes you a second to figure out what he’s talking about, too lost in visions that make you want to take a dive into Hell.

“De—”

“Come on.” You don’t understand why he cares so much, but his grip on your wrist tightens. “When will I—any of us get enough money to buy something like that?”

You hold your breath, Dean’s fingertips, so callused from his pistol, gently tracing circles over your pulse. You deserve beautiful.

You nod, barely-there jerk of your head. Just this once. “Fine. But I’m taking it off before we leave.”

Dean seems satisfied enough, letting go of your arm before shoving his hands on his pockets, feigning nonchalance. You can see the mask slipping on, the armor he’s built from scar tissue and barbed wire through the years wrapping around him. You don’t understand how you were so fooled by his facade before, it’s so obvious now. 

Dean pretends to be cool, you pretend to be sane. Neither of you call the other out.

Slowly, you slide your right hand inside the cuff, being mindful not to break it or damage it somehow. It feels like something you’d break, too lovely for your reverse Midas touch. The bronze is cold against your skin, and the wires feel too loose all the way until they reach your mid arm. Like magic, the bracelet seems to resize itself, wrapping around you just tight enough not to fall, but not digging into your skin. Your whole body tingles.

“What do you think?” You extend your arm toward Dean, giving him a bright beam. 

He stays silent, something flashing on his face right before he grabs your shoulders, spinning you in place. 

You end up facing a giant mirror, gentle swoops and little doves engraved in the golden frame. Your eyes latch onto the jewelry on your arm, and it looks indeed beautiful. The flowers are delicate against your flesh, soft and too pretty to be yours. The sentiment appears to have extended to the rest of you.

Because when you find your own face in the reflection, you look… cute. Hard edges eroded by the soft lighting, fairy dust shimmering in your eyes and lips. It’s not a physical change, it’s still just you, but glowy. Every sweet feature enhanced, every detail you hate washed in a new light. 

It feels nice. It’s been too damn long since you felt anything other than contempt towards yourself.

Dean is behind you, looming over your shoulder, and he looks even more gorgeous than the arm cuff. He looks like an angel—not the real, douchy ones. Cartoon movie angel. He looks divine.

Almost instinctively, you lean back, craving the contact more than usual. Dean’s chest is there to hold you up, like it always is, and both of you exhale loudly. As if the same weight had been lifted off your shoulders. 

You can’t help but shiver when his breath brushes the side of your neck. You need to get a grip.

“Guys, I think I found something.”

Sam stands just behind the vanity, throwing you a double look over his shoulder when he finds you pressed together. Your cheeks flush harder than before, and you clear your throat at the exact same time Dean takes a step back. The distance hurts, but everything always seems to ache with Dean. You both walk over to Sam without looking at each other. 

There’s another pile of miscellaneous things at Sam’s feet, and for a moment you wonder if he only wanted to separate you from Dean in an attempt to save you from later heartache. But then you take a look closer. 

The first thing you see is a deck of tarot cards. Next to it is a baby blue crystal ball, a few boxes of incense, a bunch more candles. But then you see the sword, shadows swimming along the blade like lost souls. And the Book of Shadows, and the glowing bow, and the suitcase full of little vials. 

And the hexbags. 

“Shit, you think it’s actually a witch?”

“Not quite.” A voice comes from behind you, sweet like the summer breeze and pitchy like the song of birds. “But you’re getting warmer.”

All three of you turn around at the exact same time, Sam and Dean with their guns in hand. You tug your knife out from your belt, your fingers brushing your lower back. Your skin feels more sensitive than usual, you ignore it in favor of surveying your new companion. 

Your white-knuckled grip goes slack around the handle of your blade.

Sitting on top of a nearby pedestal, smooth as the statues around him and dazzling as everything else in the room, there’s a kid. 

He looks around eighteen or nineteen, his eyes big and angelic. His lips are pouty, bright pink and glossy. His whole body is glossy, that after-sex glow that makes people look holy. His hair is light blond and messy around his face, but in a deliberately sensual way, and he’s wearing an oversized white button up that barely covers his chest, hanging off a shoulder and showing his delicate collarbones. 

He’s blinking at the three of you naively, but the curl of his lips show a hint of provocativeness.

“Who the fuck are you?” Dean steps forward, still pointing his gun at the boy, but even he sounds breathless. 

The boy laughs, low and velvety, and it really is a sight to behold. Perfect teeth, pink tongue peaking out, smooth bare thighs dangling from the black plinth. He’s not the kind of man you’re usually into, you like them pretty but a little damaged. Still, because your whole body is tender and your stomach feels weird, you can’t help but ogle a bit.

It’s only fair, you’re almost certain the brothers are doing the exact same thing.

“Put that down before you hurt yourself, big boy.” The kid lands on the bronze floor gracefully, giving Dean an up-and-down look that drags you out of your enchantment slightly. He bites his lower lip, picking up a little dove figurine from a nearby table, spinning it between his fingers.

You’re always highly suspicious that anyone who sees Dean wants him. This time there’s not an ounce of doubt. 

Suddenly he locks his eyes on yours, and a fuchsia glows on his irises. 

Of course, someone like that could not be human. 

His lips grow into a mocking sneer, and he takes an animated step toward you. 

“Don’t get any fucking closer.” Dean blocks his way to you, his broad shoulders shielding you. It’s always hot when he gets protective, today is a little overwhelming. “What the hell are you?”

You turn to Sam, and you find him already staring at you. Silently, the two of you try to put it together while Dean distracts your Adonis. 

Clearly not a cherub. You can almost hear Sam’s voice in your head, easily reading the subtle twitches of his face. 

That’s certain, I don’t think angels can look like—that. Sam looks like he wants to snort, but he keeps his face perfectly still. Not a witch, either. 

You gnaw on the inside of your cheek. Porn books, pagan artifacts, every romantic thing to ever exist. 

“No wonder you kids are famous, look at you!” At some point, the boy had glided closer. The barrel of Dean’s gun is pressed to his sternum, he doesn’t seem concerned. Dean looks agonizingly unable to pull the trigger. “Those pretty faces, those eyes!” He cups Dean’s cheek with his free hand, tilting his face down even as Dean flinches but finds himself unable to move away. “I’m surprised Zeus hasn’t given you the Ganymede treatment.”

Greek smut. Greek letters in the back of petals. Greek gods.

“Holy fuck.” You gasp, dragging the god’s glowing pink eyes away from Dean. Only then is he able to scamper backwards, stumbling against your side. Roses, Valentine’s day, erotic overload. “Lord Eros.”

The boy giggles, absolutely delighted. Shit. 

Sam slumps at your side, finally recognizing who you’re up against. This isn’t good. This can’t be good.

“I see you’re the smart one! Such beauty as well.” Eros purrs, licking his lips slowly. It makes you squirm, both uncomfortably and for a different reason that makes you want to vomit. You must be worked up from the books. Your whole body feels swollen and vulnerable. “If anyone was to find my little vault, I’m glad it’s you.”

“All of this is yours?” Sam asks, lowering his gun. 

“I’m bad at throwing things away.” The god shrugs, twirling a blond curl on his delicate finger. “What can I say, I’m sentimental. I like to keep mementos from every mortal I meet.”

He says the word with such lascivity that it sounds like a slur. 

“Eros. Which one is that again?” Dean seems to have shaken off the god’s enchantment, sharp eyes now squinted and focused. He’s given up on his gun, though. You tuck your knife into your waistband.

It’s not like any simple weapon will kill the ancient god of desire. 

“Cupid, for the Romans.” Eros groans loudly at Sam’s words.

“Romans, they were so fucking boring.” The boy huffs, lips setting on a deeper pout, looking more like a bratty twink than a god. “Had such a hard-on for bloodshed and war, ugh. The Greeks knew how to have fun, they had hard-ons for each other.” He sighs, looking off into space, reminiscing of better times. 

You hope he’s not getting a hard-on. 

“Okay, so you’re like—a supercharged cherub?” You send Dean a shut up look, but he ignores you.

“Don’t you ever compare me to those guys!” Eros’ voice is still saccharine and melodical, but now he sounds all whiney as he squeezes the little dove in his hand until his whole hand is white. Dean’s shoulders relax. Oh no. “They’re disgusting little things who can’t tell love from lust! Them and their Christian puritanism, ugh!”

You can see Dean choosing his retort carefully, you try to give him another warning. Your breath stutters at the way the corner of his mouth tilts up, and you end up choking on the words. The arm cuff feels warm against your skin. Every inch of your being feels hot.

“Careful there, princess, you’re gonna break a nail.”

Eros goes perfectly still, Sam and you close your eyes in defeat at the same time. 

“I would be really careful, Dean Winchester.” His voice has changed, now thick like melted candy. And poison, definitely poison. “I may like you, but you are still simply a mortal. Do not mess with forces you are too feeble-minded to comprehend.”

“Dean,” you finally whisper, your hand moving to grasp his wrist. A piercing chill washes down your spine. What the fuck is wrong with you? 

“Am I supposed to be afraid?” He continues to mock, even when Sam is throwing daggers at him over your head. “What, you’re gonna shoot me with your little heart arrows?”

“Dean.” This time it’s Sam who speaks. Your throat feels too dry to do so, goosebumps rising all over your skin. “He’s not just any god. His father is quite literally the god of war.” Eros scoffs, rolling his now magenta eyes. He moves closer, until he’s just a step away from the three of you. You can’t handle the smell of peaches and cream coming from him, overwhelming and dizzying from up close. 

“Yeah, Daddy always scares people. Him and his big spear.” The god smacks his lips, staring at Sam until he recoils in his place. “But it’s not him who you should fear. Daddy likes to play tough, but he’s simple-minded. Unambiguous, methodical, and so fucking boring. Now, Mommy… that’s who you should be afraid of.”

His eyes scan you one by one, staying on you for just a moment too long before moving to Dean. Then, he grins, leaning so close that his little button nose brushes Dean’s crooked one. 

“But you already are, aren’t you?”

You’re not sure Dean knows who Eros is talking about, but he still winces. 

“We're not here to antagonize you.” Sam intervenes. You’re still too busy fighting your own body to do anything. “We just wanted to make sure everything was in order.”

“And it’s not.” Dean raises his chin, his obstinacy and stupidity implacable. Eros takes a little hop back, his grin only growing. “You have all of those people in town under a spell. We can’t have that just because you wanna be a little bitch about souvenirs.”

Dean and his fucking bravado. It’ll get him killed one day. Maybe today, while you’re too damn defective to act. 

You try to talk to Eros, take back Dean’s words, but another weird lightning strike flashes in your gut, and all that comes out is a faraway babble. Eros’ eyes flare.

“You’re more incompetent than I expected, Dean Winchester. But you’re also more… complex.” He looks from Dean to you a few times before settling on you. More specifically, on your arm. “Nice bling you have there.”

Shit.

Panic claws at your throat. Of course, your luck can’t get any worse. 

Immediately, your hands fly to the scorching cuff, trying to rip it off. It doesn’t budge, only getting tighter and hotter around your flesh the harder you tug, charring your fingers.

“What did you do?” Dean snarls. 

When the sharp metal starts to dig on your skin deep enough to break it, you give up. The bronze wires go back to resting gently around your arm as soon as you let go, reverting to warm and delicate. 

“I didn’t do anything.” Eros’ sing-songs, you fight to keep your breath even. “You did. It’s not nice to take what’s not yours, you know?”

Dean and you stare at each other, terrified. Hot flashes, ache between your thighs, wet.

You double over, hands holding your lower stomach. Every cell in your body howls, your mouth waters, your legs tremble, and you can’t hear anything. For a moment, you’re sure you’re dying. 

“—me! I took it! Kill me!”

Dean’s voice sounds underwater. Sam is yelling your name. Eros’ cackle is piercing. It brings you back. 

“I’m not gonna kill her, silly! What a waste that’d be.” The air around you shifts. Suddenly, a finger is tapping on the quartz flowers. Your knees falter. “I’m the god of desire, baby. I’m here to make people feel good.”

“Wait, wait,” you cry, trying to straighten up. You only manage to take a step toward Eros before you fall to the floor, knees smashing against bronze. “Fuck!”

You remember when you were younger, around seven or eight, and you used to throw yourself to the floor. Letting your knees give up, at any given moment, giggling all the way through. The thud of bone against tile, the slight ache, the bruising. You did it, over and over again, until your skin turned all shades of purple. And then you’d run and proudly show your mother how pretty the marks bloomed. 

Disgusting, from the very start.

“Fuck!” You repeat, but this time it’s in the shape of a long, lewd moan. Sam and Dean freeze. You curl further into yourself, panting like a thirsty dog. “Stop, stop, please! It feels—” 

Your words are so breathy that you’re not sure anyone can understand you. Your eyes are glassy as you crawl back from the amused god, the world turning technicolor as the pressure builds. Your back hits something, a wall or pedestal or table, and you pull your knees up to your chest.

“I’m gonna—ah.” You bite down on your tongue to try and swallow any more humiliating noises, screwing your eyes shut. Your head drops back, slamming against whatever’s behind you. The dull, less sparkly pain is enough to return some clarity to you. “It hurts, please. Please, stop.”

“You think it hurts now?” Eros kneels by your side, and you’re able to half-open your eyes. Slowly, the wave retreats, like it’s melting back into the ocean. Not a release, but a promise. Your body ends up achy with the frustration of dropping so suddenly, boneless and exhausted. “The flashes only get stronger and more frequent, child. And you just wait until you’re in your fifth orgasm.”

“You son of a bitch!” Dean charges for Eros, but the god dodges him with the swiftness of a small and lean body against Dean’s broad shoulders and heavy feet. “Take that shit off of her, or I’ll cut your fucking dick off.”

Eros giggles, pinning Dean in place with glowing pink eyes. Once again, the god invades his personal space, and the sight of them so close—Dean’s muddy jacket against the pristine white of Eros’ shirt—makes you buzz all over. 

“That’ll just hurt you more than me, handsome.” The god winks, salacious. “Oh, in another life, in another life.”

It’s a furious, voyeuristic kind of prickle. Jealousy mixed with allure. 

The stupid cuff is making you horny for shit you’ve never found hot before. 

“How about I make you boys a deal?” Only then you notice Sam standing right beside you, teeth bared like a guard dog. You’ll have to buy him a new book as soon as this is all over, maybe one of those protein bars he likes so much. “You help her survive this, I move back to rural France and let your little town free. How does that sound?”

“Survive this? So it is gonna kill her.” You don’t think you’ve heard Sam this furious before. 

Did the cuff affect your perception of reality? Or does the fairy dust glow affect others? Because the Winchesters would never be this concerned about you otherwise. Why are they so angry? 

They probably don’t want to deal with this when the apocalypse is around the corner. Once again, you’re dead weight on their already sinking ship.

“No, but it’s gonna get… nasty.” Eros cracks up like he just made the most hilarious joke.

A pause, the tide starts to go out. And then, “How do we help?”

Another wicked giggle, a migraine lingers in the back of your skull. 

“You’ll figure it out, eventually. At least I hope so.” The god is still glued to Dean’s chest, and he runs a sharp nail down the slope of his jaw. “You’re either gonna stop fearing Mommy, or you’re gonna despise her. Either way, I’m in for a fabulous show.”

With that, he vanishes in a cloud of glitter and peaches. 

Sam and Dean start to talk, but your bones are lead and your head is pounding. Everything’s sore, like you just ran a marathon or got your guts rearranged, so it’s easy to let your eyes flutter close when the needles on your skin melt down to a faint gooseflesh. 

“...we gonna do?”

“...ake her back…somewhere safe, so she…”

“...don’t know w…”

“...research in the car. Come on.”

Reality fades in and out, your mind a sluggish mess of tangled bodies and gory memories. 

Aphrodite and Ares. Love and war. Beauty and violence—Eros’ whole deal. 

“I’m gonna pick you up, okay?” Sam’s voice has gotten closer. At your lack of response, he repeats your name. “We need to get to the car, and you can’t walk, so I’ll carry you. Okay?”

You hum absentmindedly, a small part of you still present enough to feel hurt over the fact that Dean won’t carry you. 

It makes sense, you wouldn’t want to touch something as gross as you either.

Before your mind can slip again, arms slide under your knees and back. A second later, you’re airborne.

You gasp, holding onto Sam’s shoulders tightly. The sudden movement wakes you up completely, and you’re able to take in the brothers’ impassive expressions as they stomp out of the warehouse, leaving behind perfect marble and immaculate crystal. It’s a relief to see it all get smaller the farther you get. 

Dean’s shoulders are taut, his face hidden by the way he walks slightly ahead of you and Sam, but you’ve learned to recognize when he’s upset like a sixth sense. You must make a noise of some kind, because Sam is shushing you under his breath and murmuring gentle reassurances just for you. 

“We’re gonna find out how to get the cuff off. You’re fine, we won’t let anyone hurt you. You’re safe with us.”

“I know.” Sam relaxes a little at that, his touch on you growing more confident and less vacillating. And maybe—just maybe—you were wrong, and he actually cares. It would be nice to have a friend, you hang onto the idea. “I trust you.”

He gives you one of those beams that bring out his dimples, fringe falling onto his eyes as a gust of fresh air hits your face. The smell of soil and grass is comforting, no more roses or cream. You’re safe. 

For now, that evil part of your brain reminds you.

Shut the fuck up.

Of course, peace doesn’t last long. The path down the field to the road out of town is long, cobblestone surrounded by yellow grass, and it all starts again soon enough.

The bronze heats up, your skin grows sensitive, a weight on your chest grows. Your tongue feels too slick against your teeth, your thighs are pressed too close together, the necklace around your throat is pushing deliciously against your windpipe. The ocean roars, preparing.

“Sam.” 

Your voice is low and whiny. You’ve never sounded like that before. You squirm and Sam’s arms around you tighten, probably to stop you from moving so he doesn’t drop you. But his fingernails dig into the meat of your legs, and his chest is lean and warm against your side, and you can’t do this right now. 

Sam has never been more than a possible friend, a little brother that you love wholeheartedly. But your body is on fire and the pain feels good and he smells too much like Dean—

“Sammy,” you repeat. The nickname makes both brothers stop marching. “Sammy, I need—I need you to stop touching me. Right now.”

“What?” Sam sounds confused, but you can’t make out anything aside from the white fog clouding the edges of your vision. Sam’s hands spam, your back arches involuntarily, biting down on your cheek so hard you taste iron. It’s building. Up, up, up.

“Stop touching her.” Dean’s somber voice is faint through the rush of blood in your ears and the scream of your brain. “Sam, fucking let her go!”

“But—” 

Dean makes a guttural noise, it doesn’t help. “Stop touching her or I’m gonna fucking kill you!”

Just like that, you’re plummeting. 

The world spins, air roars all around you, there’s more screaming. Then, pain. 

Hard concrete under your hands and knees, stinging on your skin, warm crimson dripping. It should be awful, it should stop the heat between your thighs and uncoil your gut, but it only makes it worse.

Someone yells your name and you make a little agonizing noise, curling onto yourself on the dirty ground, arms wrapping around your middle like you can contain the blazing bomb ticking inside of you. The cuff rasps against the pavement, you want to cut off your arm.

“You told me to let her go!”

“I didn’t mean drop her, you fucking brute!”

The drag of tiny rocks against your flesh, the rush of adrenaline from falling, the metallic smell of blood—you gasp desperately. 

You’re sick. You’re so fucking sick, and now Sam and Dean can see it. The beast has been unleashed and you’re left begging it to please, don’t do it. You’re a monster that wants too much, that wants wrong. Perverted and broken and wrong.

You knew it. Apparently the gods did as well. 

Divinely, intrinsically sick.

Breath by breath, second by second, you claw your way back from the edge. The heat gets more bearable, the fuzz goes back under your skin, the fog dissipates. The space between your legs is still throbbing, dripping and scorching, but now you can shift your knees without feeling like you’re gonna fly off your body. 

Someone calls your name again, and you finally notice that you’re still lying on the pavement, rolled into a little ball. Slowly, you force yourself to seat up, heaving for air. 

The wave has passed. 

“I don’t think—” Your voice is hoarse, you hope you weren’t being too loud. “I don’t think you should touch me anymore.”

You feel like a kid again, tiny and weak on the floor while the two men stare down at you. You keep your eyes on your bloody hands, ashamed, just like you had when your mother had caught you looking at a Heath Ledger magazine cutout for too long. You can feel the judgement in her eyes, her ugly words of immorality, the shame. Shame, shame, shame. 

“Son of a—” Dean cuts himself off with a bark, your eyes gloss over, shrinking further into the curb. “Come on, sweetheart, get off the ground. Baby’s right there, you can do it.”

Your eyes flicker up to find the Impala, parked just a few feet to your right. You almost, almost made it. It only makes you feel worse. 

Taking a deep breath that makes the fabric of your sweater brush against your breasts—your stiff, oversensitive nipples feeling it even through the lace of your bra, fuck—you rise to your feet. The first step you take is shaky, and you stumble forward a little. 

Both brothers extend a hand, instinctively wanting to hold you up, but they stop themselves before they can graze your skin. It’s humiliating, being this fucking helpless. The spite helps you straighten up and make your way to the car. 

“That’s it, sweetheart, you’re okay.” Dean murmurs before closing your door, once you’re already laying down across the backseat. “You’re gonna be okay.”

You’re not sure if he’s trying to convince you or himself. Either way, you cling to the words and close your eyes. 

༘ 𓏲ּ𝄢⋆｡˚

The car ride is hellish.

You’d decided to rent a small house instead of a hotel, expecting to work this case for a couple of days. It has two rooms and a small kitchen, secluded enough that no one would catch you working spells or burning bones. 

It’s a blessing. You can’t imagine having to deal with this in a motel room. At least here you can scream your head off if you want to and no one will call the police. 

But it’s also a curse, because it meant you were trapped in the Impala for a while, with the roaring of the engine making your bones vibrate and everything smelling like earth and gunpowder and DeanDeanDean.

“I can’t find anything on, uhm, aphrodisiacal jewelry.” Sam’d said about ten minutes into the drive, already having gone through at least five articles in his laptop with miraculous wifi. “I’ll have to take a closer look at the cuff later, okay?”

You gave him a noncommittal grunt, an attempt at agreement. 

You hadn’t talked since the last wave. Either from exhaustion or shame, not even you were sure. But all you’d been able to do was hug yourself like a baby, eyebrows drawn with the effort of fighting the beast, who’s slowly waking up again. 

Still, you felt Sam’s gaze on you, firm and unyielding. Without another choice, you blinked your eyes open.

How’re you doing? He asked you with a wiggle of his eyebrows.

How do you think? You glared, Sam chuckled. Fucking fantastic.

I don’t know who’s gonna suffer more: you, Dean, or me having to witness it all.

The heat all over your body was momentarily replaced by confusion. Dean?

“I fucking hate when you two do that.” Dean grumbled, hitting the breaks at a red light a little too hard. You almost fell down into the footwell. “Fucking demonic, like the creepy twins from The Shining.”

Dean. Sam rolled his eyes before retorting something to his brother out loud, his eyes leaving yours.

Dean.

Your stomach flipped. You closed your eyes and didn’t open them again until you reached the house.

༘ 𓏲ּ𝄢⋆｡˚

You find it in yourself to be grateful that the tide only starts rising once you’re already out of the car. In the old colonial house everything smells like cockroaches and old lady, and Dean is far away from sight somewhere in the kitchen. It at least makes it easier to waddle into your room without collapsing.

Eros was right, it slowly starts getting worse. Your skin feels completely raw, like someone plucked all your feathers and left you to roast over a bonfire. You don’t understand how it is supposed to feel good. It’s just torture.

Your legs tremble as you crawl into bed, breath choppy and muscles on fire. Your clothes feel too coarse against your tender flesh, scratchy and heavy and wrong, so you rip them off with frenzied hands. 

It’s only once you slide your panties down your legs that you notice how ruined they are. The thin fabric completely soaked through, translucent and sticky with it, some even trickling down your thighs. 

The cold air of the room against your naked pussy feels like both a punishment and a relief. You break down in goosebumps, legs giving up as you fall face first on the mattress, completely bare except for Eros’ cuff and overpowered by the terrible ache seizing your body.

Suddenly, musk, coffee and motor oil hit your nose. With a strangled moan, you tilt back your head and find one of Dean’s shirts lying over your pillow, wrinkled and dirty and oh. 

He’d been late this morning, scrambling all over the house while you and Sam waited outside. This is his sleeping shirt, some old band merch that he barely washes. He probably just threw it over his shoulder when he came to check the salt lines in your window.

When you’re questioned in purgatory, once this stupid curse kills you, you’ll claim that you tried. You tried really, really hard to ignore the shirt. But the smell of Dean is so strong, the fabric so smooth unlike your clothes—and it might just be your overheated body, but it still feels warm and worn against your cheek.

The beast takes over once more, and you bury your face against the frayed neckline. 

Finally, you have your first orgasm. 

There’s barely any buildup, no warning or omen. One second you’re drowning in Dean’s shirt, the next one you’re drowning in pleasure. And oh, there it is. Pleasure at last.

All the pain transforms, shifts, blooms. Your hips jerk against the blankets, the fabric bunching up between your thighs and brushing over the puffy lips of your cunt, making you hiss at the overwhelming friction. Your hands fist the shirt, pulling it closer to your face, until you can taste it on your tongue and down your throat.

The wave becomes a tsunami, washing all over you and dragging away any resemblance of suffering. It’s all white-hot delight, long and infinite. You keep humping the mattress until your clit pangs with oversensitivity, and even then you can’t help but rut your hips in gentle circles as you make your way back from elysium. 

This time the fall isn’t as awful. The ocean settles, the wave retreats, and you’re left drained but blissed. The shirt is soaked with your spit and the blankets soaked with your arousal. The room smells like sweat and sex and madness. The beast is roaming free, your mind is empty of any shame, you’ve never felt more alive. 

Why have you been denying this to yourself for so long?

Someone calls your name from outside the door. You almost fly off the bed. “Can we come in?”

“No!” You yell before clearing your throat. “Wait—wait a second.”

“...We can come back later.”

“No, No.” 

You quickly bundle Dean’s shirt and the blankets up in a little ball, throwing them inside the closet before pulling on clean underwear and a big sweater, long enough to hit mid thigh. You chuck one of the extra comforters Dean had brought you last night “just in case you get cold,” onto the bed, being mindful to open a window before sliding under it.

“Come in, it’s okay.”

You brush your sweaty hair off your forehead as the door opens, finding some drool on your chin. You wipe it off before either Sam or Dean can see, still a little too high on the afterglow to care all that much.

The Winchesters stand very still by the door, an old book in Sam’s hands and some water bottles in Dean’s, both looking around the room like they're expecting to encounter a murder scene. They’re not too far off. 

“Hey, so—” Sam takes some steps closer to bed before he halts, finally glancing at you. Dean is still immobile on the doorway. “Oh. Oh, wow. Uhm—”

You frown, lucidity returning, worried that you’d missed some crucial evidence in the rush of it all. “What?”

Sam is speechless, gaping like the townies after you’d forced them to look at Eros’ warehouse. He blinks a few times before his eyes return to his book, rubbing a hand over his face. Dean makes a little noise in the back of his throat, like a gutted stag. 

The bliss starts to turn into tar.

“Nothing, just—wow.” Sam’s voice is high, because the kid is a great liar when it comes to the big stuff, but he can’t handle a white lie to save his life.

“What?” You repeat, harsher, squirming self-consciously. 

“Are you feeling better?” Dean interrupts roghly, pushing his brother aside to make his way toward the window. He looks mad, you can’t judge him. 

“Yeah. I mean, it’s still working.” You point to the arm cuff, scarlet prickling on your cheeks. “But the wave’s passed.”

“Another one?” You nod at Sam’s question. He scribbles something in the margin of his book. “That’s around five minutes earlier than the last one.”

“Great.” You huff, drawing your knees up to your chest under the thick comforter. “So Eros wasn’t bullshitting. They get more frequent and more intense the longer I wear it.”

“It was more intense?” Sam questions as if he’s conducting an experiment, you feel like you’re under his microscope. “How come?”

You splutter, the red of your cheeks worsening as you feel both brothers’ eyes on you. “I’m–I mean–I don’t–ugh.” You hide your face against your knees, your voice muffled. You wish you could just perish right now, but you also know that if you want Sam to find a cure, you need to tell him as much as you can. “It…toppled over. Like, all the way.”

“Huh?” One second, two more, and then: “Oh.”

Dean curses under his breath, sharp and angry. You lift your head just in time to watch him storm out of the room, your heart shattering all over the carpet as he slams the door behind him. 

Sam gives you his classic puppy-eyed look, it doesn’t make it better. You hate his pity, you hate that everyone knows how pathetically in love you are with Dean, you hate that they all feel sorry for you. You hate that Dean will never feel the same.

Sam whispers your name, you shake your head. 

“Just do whatever you need to do,” you murmur, sinking further into the bed. “Before I get sick again.” Because no matter how good it can feel, how high it can take you if you give into it, it doesn’t change the fact that it’s sick. 

Now you remember why you don’t let yourself have this, not in this way. Because it’s degenerate, nauseating and depraved. You shouldn’t desire like this,  for this. Blood shouldn’t taste good and sweat shouldn’t smell good and Dean shouldn’t feel good. 

He doesn’t deserve to be the victim of your obsession, not when it’s so clear it repulses him.

You allow Sam to take a closer look at the bracelet, answering all his questions with an emotionless tone and letting your mind wander far away, where neither pleasure nor pain exist and you’re free of this carnal torment.

By the time Sam shuffles out the door, you’re half asleep already. He doesn’t dare to touch you again, but you can feel him giving you one last comforting look before locking you up in your room, like the monster you were always destined to be.

Falling onto the waiting arms of Morpheus is easy when every bit of you is spent and fuzzy. The breeze comes through the window, soothing whispers of leaves and sunlight. But in the distance, you can faintly hear Eros’ cackles, haunting you.

༘ 𓏲ּ𝄢⋆｡˚

You haven’t seen Dean in a day. 

The rest of yesterday was spent drifting in and out of sleep, your body so unaccustomed to this amount of exertion that it could barely handle being awake for more than a few hours. 

Hours that were spent with you rolling around bed, riding wave after wave. At first you only dared to hump your pillows, ignoring the call of Dean’s shirt from the closet, a siren song begging you to falter. 

It was enough, for a while. It felt safe, instinctual, less depraved.

But then, when your thighs were sore and trembling, threatening to give up under you, you started to use your fingers. Rubbing small circles over your clit, sliding lower until your folds parted, dipping into the warmth of your entrance. You’d scarcely ever done this, always so afraid that someone was watching, that someone would condemn you for it—you forgot how good it could be.

You had to bite down on the sheets as your digits rammed inside of you, curving up to press against that gummy spot just as your thumb found your clit. Your other hand fondled with your breasts, pulling on the perks of your nipples and making you throw your head back. 

Still not quite what the curse wanted, but it got the job done.

Not too soon after that, the fantasies started. 

Dean, always Dean. Over you and under you and next to you. Between your legs or draped over your back or shoving you to the floor. Burying his face in your pussy or pushing your head down on his cock. Calling you pretty as he kissed all over you, calling you dirty as his hand wrapped around your neck, calling you both as he came so deep inside of you, you could feel him in your throat. 

You’ve wondered if you started hallucinating at some point, because his voice in your ear was so clear and real. His name was always on your tongue, whispered or stifled or bloody, canines biting down on your arm deep enough to draw blood just to keep it down. 

Baths were hard to get through, especially when you had to take so many. Around every three hours, you were disgusting enough that you couldn’t stand not jumping in the shower, sticky with sweat and spit and arousal. But your skin was too raw for the decent water pressure of the house, the tiles were too cold, the water too hot, and you couldn’t stand looking at yourself in the mirror.

But then you’d discovered the handheld shower head. 

It’d been a miracle. Your cunt was starting to get too sore from the direct friction, your fingers were cramping and your insides were bruised—every orgasm brought tears to your eyes, and not the good kind. 

But the water was perfect, gentle enough not to hurt, intense enough to satiate the beast. 

After a two hour “shower,” you were able to sleep through the night.

Sam had checked on you periodically, always knocking loudly on the door before coming in, leaving water and food on your bedside table before updating you on his research. Sadly, he hasn’t found much. 

He still looks shocked every time he sees you, having to take a second before walking into the room. You don’t ask, he doesn’t explain. There’s a reason you’ve been avoiding mirrors—you don’t want to see what your disease has done to your body. 

You must look like an obscene mess. Or maybe Sam is just being a little Victorian-Man about it.

You’d ask Dean, but Dean hadn’t shown his face at all. Not to say goodnight, not to nag you about salt lines and devil’s traps, not to make sure you’re not dead.

You knew that once he saw just how rotten you are, you’d lose him. It still hurts like a rusty nail to the brain.

Sleep wasn’t perfect, still plagued with dreams of debauchery and perversion, but it was replenishing. 

After your first orgasm of the morning, you were able to take an actual shower, brush your teeth, and get dressed up in something other than oversized cotton shirts, ready to be reintroduced into society. 

You’d learned a lot more in your confinement other than how many ways you can make yourself cum. You’d learned that the period between waves only gets shorter after a set of three or four, and that you have about five minutes after it starts before it gets unbearable. You learned that ignoring it only makes it more painful and more abrasive, and that trying to stop it is useless.

You also learned that you weren’t made to stay in one place only.

You’re already going stir-crazy, after one day of being locked up. If the curse is going to kill you, you want to see the sunlight at least one last time.

“I’m going out.” You announce to Sam, rushing into the kitchen and grabbing the first piece of food you can find. “I’ll be back in exactly—” You glance down at your watch, where you’re timing your next wave. “Twenty-five minutes.”

“You’re what?”

You almost spit out the piece of bread you’d jammed into your mouth, not expecting Dean to still be here. His voice brings back memories of phantom praises and degradation and naughty orders. You have to physically shake them off before the tide rises early.

You turn around, finding Sam sitting on the dinner table, eyebags under his eyes and a million books surrounding him. Next to him, Dean is sipping on a cup of coffee, looking tired and upset, still in his pajamas and looking like he hasn’t left the house at all. 

They both flinch a little when you face them. Your cheeks redden with embarrassment, you don’t let it deter your initiative.

“There’s a corner store less than a mile down the road,” you explain, munching on the rest of the bread before moving to grab your jacket. “I’m just gonna go buy some ice cream and I’ll be back.”

“The fuck you are!”

That makes you pause, just a few feet away from the door. Dean gets mad at you, sometimes. He gets irritated or grumpy or annoyed, but he never talks like that to you. With that much fury, with that much scorn.

“Excuse me?”

Dean is by your side in a second, arms crossed, wearing a scowl so deep that his face might just be stuck that way forever. “Go back to your room.”

You raise an eyebrow, and Sam winces somewhere behind you. 

“Is that an order?” Dean only shrugs, because he never knows when to back down. You’re seething. “Who the fuck do you think you are?”

Because how dare he. Talking about fucking other girls and abandoning you when you’re like this and not wanting you. How dare he, break your heart into pieces so small, you’ll spend the rest of your life trying to put it back together. How dare he, fusing your souls together in an everlasting way, just to take them both with him. 

How fucking dare he.

“I’m the guy who has to deal with your mess while you’re in there—whatever.” If you were less furious, you’d notice the flush creeping down his neck. “So go back to your room, and let us work.”

“You have to deal with my mess?!” you shout. Dean recoils, it sobers you up. Your voice lowers to a still livid but collected tone. “You were the one who insisted on me wearing it in the first place!”

Something akin to guilt crosses his face before it goes back to disdain, and he grumbles something unintelligible that you don’t care to dissect. Time is running out, and you need to go.

“Why are you even here, anyway? Shouldn’t you be out getting passed around like a blunt?”

It’s depressing, the way your own words make you ache. And Dean has the audacity to look offended.

“That’s got nothing to do with this.”

“It does if you’re getting in my way!” Your clock beeps. Twenty minutes. “So why don’t you go find a bar or some glory hole, and leave me alone.”

“Because I’m stuck here, reading about fucking hellistic magic shit, for you.”

“Hellenistic.” Sam corrects unhelpfully, both of you ignore him.

“No one’s asking you to!” You run a hand through your hair, tugging on the roots harshly. Because you’re just so, so tired. You close your eyes, taking a few slow breaths. “Go! You’re free, Winchester. Leave! I’m not getting in the way of your fun, so don’t get in the way of mine.”

The kitchen is completely silent as you stay still, eyes screwed shut and lips trembling, and for a second you’re almost sure that the brothers left. But then, “Is that what this is about?”

You’ve never heard Dean like this, voice bitter and broken. Your eyes flutter open, meeting his, and he looks like you just shot his puppy. At your attention, his mask hardens like concrete. 

But his facade is faltering, and so is yours.

“You want to go find someone? Have some fun?”

Oh. 

You’ve thought about it—someone else’s hands on your burning flesh, their fingers and tongue and cock, helping you ride the tide until you’re all placid sweet water. You could find some poor bastard too desperate or too foolish to notice the rabid foam in the corner of your lips, someone willing to take mercy on you, someone who can give you what you need.

Nonono. That’s all your mind could chant. Wrong. Thisiswrongsowrong. 

You feel nauseous, ready to vomit all of your insides. No.

“Maybe,” you answer instead, because you’re half delirious from Eros’ magic and the cuff is warming up again. Dean grimaces, gaze dropping to the floor, and the bomb that explodes inside of you is pure wrath. “What, Winchester? Is it so fucking impossible to imagine anyone could want me? Do I disgust you so much that you can’t handle the idea of someone fucking me?”

Now Dean looks like he’s about to hurl. 

“Guys—”

“That’s not—ugh, you can be so…” Dean covers his mouth with a hand, like he’s physically trying to swallow back his words.

“No, no. Say it.” You step closer, even when the proximity is like sulfuric acid in your brain. He still won’t look at you, so you shove him back, craving a fight almost as much as you crave his love. He stumbles, just a few inches, because he just has to be built like a freaking wall of bricks. “Say it, Dean.”

To his credit, Dean holds himself together way more than you expected. He doesn’t yell, doesn’t throw shit around, doesn’t even try to push you back. He simply exhales, loud and forced, and lifts his face with calculated resolve. 

“You’re going back to your room, and we’re gonna keep researching. That’s the end of it.”

Dean’s tone is demanding, your watch beeps, your pussy throbs. 

It doesn’t help how infuriated you are. 

“You’re not my dad, Dean, you can't just tell me what to do!” You shove him again, harder, and the way his muscles don’t budge under your palm does nothing for the twist of your gut. 

“I’m not letting you go outside right now,” he spits out your name, his faux tranquility shattering. His next words are spoken through clenched teeth. “Not when—when you look like that.”

A gunshot. Right to the right of your heart, blood oozing and lungs punctured. Fatal. 

It’s not a surprise that Dean isn’t attracted to you. Being faced with the excruciating reality of it is still cataclysmic.

“Fuck you, Dean.” It comes out in a half-choked sob. You attempt to push him again but your touch is weak, a barely-there brush of your hand before you take a few clumsy steps back, tears burning on your eyes and needles prickling your skin. “Fuck you! I fucking hate you, I—”

You spin on your heels, ready to lurch for the door. It’s too late for the store, and there’s nowhere else to go in this deserted little town. The next wave is too soon and it’ll last too long and it’s too cold outside to take a walk—

Dean calls your name, a desperate plea you’ve heard so many times before in midnight fantasies, and then his hand wraps around your wrist, yanking you back from the doorway.

But you’re burnt-out and woozy, so the firm tug makes you lose your balance. Once again, Dean’s chest is there to catch you, huge arms around your body and immovable frame holding you up. His breath is on your neck, and he’s so warm and firm behind you and you can’t—

White. For a long moment, everything goes white. Your whole body feels like an exposed nerve, as if you’re made of pure lighting. It’s better than Dean’s shirt, It’s better than the showerhead. 

It’s Dean, finally.

You enter another dimension, where everything is syrupy and glorious. There’s the faraway but familiar sound of knees against tile, the faint crawl of sickness, someone shouting your name. But it’s all filtered by the colossal ecstasy that Dean’s touch brought you.

It feels like it lasts hours, maybe days. An infinite spiral of gut-wrenching climax, a rollercoaster speeding up until you touch the sky, clouds on your fingertips and dew between your legs. 

When you come back to yourself, you’re once again on the ground. Your knees are sore, your throat is dry, your underwear is soaked. Spasms still travel through your body as you try to catch your breath, gasping violently and pawing at the legs in front of you for support. 

Worn fabric against your palms, scratchy and warm like the hand that just catapulted you out of the stratosphere. 

“Dean.” This time you say it outloud. Dean makes a wounded noise, you can’t help but cling to his legs. Begging, praying for forgiveness. Like a sinner bleeding on an altar, like a sacrifice watching the executioner sharpen his knife. “I’m sorry, Dean. I’m so sorry. Fuck, I’m—”

Tears, streaming down your face like a broken dam. Your words melt into a bundle of sobs and wails, your whole body shaking with the force of them. If Dean didn’t hate you before, he for sure hates you now. 

Now that you’ve dragged him into the mud with you, imposed your disease on him, forced him to be part of your depravity.

“Sweetheart…” Dean whispers, kneeling down and trying to reach for you. 

You slither back, kicking your legs and shaking your head so hard it makes you all dizzy. “No, No. Don’t touch me! I’m sick! I’m so sorry. I’m so fucking sick and I’m sorry.”

With a click of his tongue, Dean fists your ankle, dragging you across the floor and right into his body with just a yank of his arm. A loud moan escapes your lips. 

His arms are like iron around you, caging you against his chest and not letting go, no matter how hard you trash around. 

“Shhh. Shhh, sweetheart. I got you, you need to calm down. I got you.”

You want to keep fighting, to kick him in the gut and punch him in the eye and protect him from yourself. But you’ve been locked inside your room for a whole day, dealing with the rabid beast inside you all by yourself, yearning for the tiniest bit of comfort.

Comfort like Dean’s bare arms against yours, like his voice—his real voice—murmuring sweet nothings in your ear, like the vivid smell of him instead of the washed off remains on old fabric. It’s impossible not to take. 

Because you’re selfish and ugly and starved.

“I’m sorry,” you repeat. I’m sorry for clinging to you like this. I’m sorry for cumming just from your body pressed against mine. I’m sorry for wanting you. “I didn’t mean to, I swear.”

“I know, sweetheart. I know.” He sounds sad. Why does he sound fucking sad? “It’s the cuff, I know. I—I’m sorry.”

You can’t help but tug him closer, fingers gripping his shirt and digging onto his ribs, your nose buried on his sternum. Your legs are intertwined, his hands are rubbing up and down your back, he’s everywhere. 

“Why? I’m the one who’s fucked up.” You’re not even sure Dean can hear you, your voice so tiny and broken. A chair scraps against the floor somewhere behind you, you hide your face further into Dean’s chest. “Hell, you didn’t consent to that at all, I’m so sorry.”

A moment of silence. Sam, who you’d forgotten about entirely, clears his throat. “I’ll take the Impala and go get that ice cream. Text me when I can come back.”

Dean nods silently. You tilt your head back until you can see Sam over your shoulder, hazel eyes already searching for yours.

You’ll be okay?

Probably not. 

Sam chuckles, shaking his head. 

I’d beg to differ. A little sparkle in his irises tells you. Good luck.

With that, he leaves. You’re left staring at the door, wondering how this all would’ve gone if you had just left for good. This morning, yesterday, months ago. Maybe you should’ve never been here.

“You didn’t either.” You turn back to Dean, confused. He watches your face for a second before dropping his gaze to your hands on his shirt, a bitter laugh leaving his lips. “You didn’t consent to this, either.”

“What?”

“Sweetheart, I—goddamn it.” He huffs, one of his hands leaving your body to rub over his face, rough and angry. Without thinking, you pull it away from where his pretty skin was already turning red under the punishing touch. You hold his palm in yours, cradling it against your chest. “You’re cursed and in pain, and I’m just a selfish bastard taking advantage of it. I’m the one who should be sorry.”

You blink a few times, tears still wet on your cheeks and slick still sticky on your thighs, wondering if the last orgasm left you with severe brain damage. Because what the fuck is he talking about?

“Dean…” you murmur slowly, trying to search for his eyes. He avoids you like the plague. For some reason, it doesn’t hurt as much anymore. “All I’ve done is drag you and Sam into my—problem, over and over again. I’m the one infecting you with this, the one staining you. How on earth are you taking advantage of it?”

So many things flash on Dean’s face at the same time. Shame, loathing, mortification, resignation.

“You really have no idea what you do to me.” For the first time in ages, you feel cold. Frozen in time, only Dean’s words keeping you grounded. “I’ve got a handle on it most days, but when you’re right here, moaning so sweetly and writhing so prettily… shit, baby, even the strongest man would falter. And you have the audacity to look like that.”

It hits completely different now. 

“What are you saying, Dean?” You squeeze his hand, tight enough for his fingers to turn white. 

He utters your name, low and husky—an imprecation, a psalm. 

“You know damn well.”

“No,” you whisper, leaning closer to those beautiful green irises that’ve haunted you for so long. “I have no idea.”

“I want you, sweetheart.” He whispers back, almost inaudible. The beast starts to roar, maniacal. “I’ve been wanting you for years. I’m the one who’s truly sick.”

A million things pass through your mind. Why, how, when. If it wasn’t for the constant throbbing of your body, you’d pinch yourself to make sure it’s not just another vivid dream. 

“But you never look at me?”

“What?”

“You never look at me, Dean.” Your cheeks are stiff with dried tears, Dean’s hand cups one of them gently. You melt against the touch, shivering all over. “I’m always there, but you just see right through me.”

“Oh, baby.” Everything goes fuzzier every time he says it. Something in your face must show it, because Dean drops his hand and tries to pull back. You whimper, tugging harder on his shirt, practically crawling onto his lap. He groans. “You think I could look at you and still hold back? I had to look away. I ruin everything I touch, and I couldn’t risk—I couldn’t risk losing you. Not you.” He hesitates for a second before resting his forehead on yours. Your lips part at the contact. “Still, you are all I can see.”

With a desperate little whine, you dive down for Dean’s lips. 

But all your mouth finds is the stubbled skin of his cheek, his head jerked to the side and scrunched in agony. 

“Dean.” You mutter, because that’s all that's in your mind. “Dean, Dean, Dean.”

“Stop,” he pleads, but his hands latch onto your waist. You moan again, the prickling on your skin now a lot gentler, a lot less disgusting. Almost beautiful. “I can’t. It’s the cuff, baby. You don’t really want this.”

“I do. I want you, more than anything else.”

“Stop it. Now.”

You can’t.

“I’ve wanted you ever since I’ve known you, Dean.”

Your name, again, imploring.

“It’s not the stupid arm cuff, it’s not Eros’ magic, it’s not anything else. It’s just me. Me, wanting you so bad I can’t breathe when you’re not with me.” After so long holding back, it all spills out like a hurricane. “I’ve wanted you long before this, when Sammy lets me ride shotgun down the interstate and when I’m patching up your reckless wounds and when you put on that stupid little winning smile whenever things go your way.”

Dean tries to look away again, but you won’t let him anymore. You grab his face, nails digging into his jaw, pinning him under your gaze just like Eros did. 

“Look at me, Dean. Finally, really look at me.”

You’re not sure who leans in first, with the heat rising and clouding your mind, but suddenly Dean’s mouth is on you. 

It’s violent, teeth clashing and lips bruising. Dean’s tongue is so far down your throat it makes you gag a little. He tries to apologize, but you shut him up by grinding down against his crotch, a hard bulge already there to welcome you under thin fabric.

You’re basically eating each other, hands groping all they can find and hips rutting incessantly. Dean’s fingers tangle on your hair, pulling gently. You bite down on his tongue, sucking it into your mouth right after, and he tugs harder. 

“Fuck. Fuck, baby. I’m goin’ insane.” He grunts when you break the kiss, licking and nibbling down his throat, leaving angry red bruises everywhere you can. “You have no idea—lookin’ so gorgeous, like fuckin’ sex reincarnated. I’ve been losin’ my mind.”

He sounds deranged, it’s only gasoline to the wildfire inside of you. You snarl against his collarbone, scratching at his shirt like it personally offended you, lips collapsing with the high neckline. Dean chuckles, endeared.

“Calm down, baby girl.” He uses the hand on your hair to guide you away from where your teeth were abusing the space between his neck and shoulder. You pout at the loss, Dean licks it away. “You’re so desperate, darling.”

He yanks his shirt over his head, and you immediately get to work. Pushing him back until he’s lying down on the tiles, climbing over him until the outline of his cock is pressed right against your ass, gnawing on the hills of his pecs and down the ridges of his ribs.

“You have no idea, Winchester.” You make your way down his body, running your tongue through the faint trail of hair under his navel and chewing on his hip bone. Dean’s hips jerk up, your teeth sink into the flesh of his waist in reprimand. “I’ve been locked in that room for ages. I’m more than desperate.”

“It was less than a day.” Dean’s laughter is interrupted when you pull his pajama pants and underwear down his thighs with one swift movement. 

His cock springs up proudly against his stomach, flushed and shiny with precum already. He hisses as the cold air hits him, and your mouth waters so bad you have to swallow down a mouthful of it. 

“How are you pretty all over?” You whine, fisting the base of it furiously. He’s big, thick and veiny. Delicious. Dean cries out, but you ignore him. You want him to hurt a little. “Fucking unfair. Pretty eyes and pretty face and pretty cock. Maybe I do hate you.”

You pounce on him, taking him all the way down your throat in one go. Your gag reflex is completely gone, it has to be the arm cuff. The bronze burns against your skin, almost satisfied, and you hope Eros isn’t watching from somewhere.

But deep down, you don’t really care. He can enjoy the show.

All that matters is the veins of Dean’s dick pulsing on your tongue, his hand fisting your hair and his back arching off the floor. He keens, so loud you’re glad there aren’t any neighbors nearby, as you start bopping your head. Your throat contracts around his length, and the strain of his fingers on your locks have you humping his leg, dying for a little friction. 

“Shit, darlin’, warn a guy.” He pants, starting to thrust up into your mouth. You pin his hips down to the floor, letting the edge of your teeth brush right under the engorged head. Dean cries out the sweetest noise you’ve ever heard. “Yeah, fuck, taking me so deep. Sweet fuckin’ mouth, so warm and wet for me. You’re heaven, baby girl. Swallowing me down like an angel.”

You feel anything but angelical right now, sweat beading on your forehead as you pull back until just the tip is on your tongue, using your hand to stroke the rest of his shaft. Your tongue dips into his slit, savoring the bitter and musky taste of precum, the beast howling for more. 

“Shit, shit. Wait.” Dean tries to drag you up by the hair, but you claw at his hips and stay right where you belong, suckling on his cock while your other hand fondles his balls. “Stop, I’m gonna—Gonna cum, sweetheart. You need—”

You part your lips, letting him slide out your mouth but keeping him pressing against your face. You gaze up at him—green irises consumed by blown pupils, lips shiny and parted, hair mussed and wild. It’s better than the guy in Eros’ book, better than your wettest dreams. He’s perfect.

“I want you to cum.” You nuzzle your cheek against the sticky length of him, making him twitch, more precum spurting out. “I want to taste it, De.”

Dean whines, and it shoots through your bloodstream like heroin. You need more, now and tomorrow and forever.

“I’m not cursed like you, you little vixen. I can’t—” He shudders as you start to leave little kitten licks all over him, lowering your head until you can suck one of his balls into your mouth. “Motherfu—I can’t come twice so quickly, baby. And I wanna fuck you.”

A long, dragged moan vibrates in your chest at that, your hips rutting harder against his leg. You return to the head of his cock, leaving a saccharine open-mouthed kiss there. 

“It’s okay, I can wait.” You blink up at him in what you hope is an irresistible pout. It seems to work, because Dean’s fingers on your hair relent. You lick your teeth slowly. “Besides, I can think of about a million things to do in the meantime.”

“When did you—Ah!” The back of your throat must be bruised, aching as Dean bumps into it again, tender flesh holding the memory of his cock. The thought brings you closer to orgasm than you’d like to admit. “When did you get so filthy?”

Always. You want to say. I’ve always been like this. I’ve always been this perverse. 

Instead, you squeeze his balls in one hand and hollow your cheeks, tongue twirling around him before pushing against the pulsing vein on the underside. He growls hoarsely before going really still, spilling all over your mouth, head falling back on the floor with a thundering bang. 

The overly-familiar feeling of climax reaches you, wrapping around you like a soft blanket, no longer tearing you apart from the inside out. Your hips stutter against Dean’s thigh, moaning around his still quivering dick, swallowing down every bit of his sweet release. 

He’s coating your mouth and your throat and your insides. He’s all over you, on your lips and esophagus and guts. All yours. Only yours.

You straighten up, leaving one last smooch on Dean’s softening cock before climbing back on top of him. 

He looks almost dead. Breath ragged, eyes closed, skin glistening—absolutely drained. His hand slips from your hair, falling onto your thigh clumsily, neck and chest blooming with teeth marks and hickeys. You puff up with pride. 

“Come on.” You shake him slightly, hips already rutting in little circles against his stomach. The wave isn’t gone, but it’s not wrecking you either. You’re hot all over, still itchy and bothered, but you’re not hurting. Not anymore. You’re just eager. “Let’s get you hard again, I need you inside me. Now.”

Dean groans, curling into himself a little. “You’re a psycho, I should’ve known. You murdered me, you insatiable little thing.”

“You can thank Eros for that.” Anguish flashes on Dean’s face. You kiss him slowly, letting him taste himself on your tongue, licking behind his teeth until he’s a puddle under you. “Stop thinking so hard, we need all that blood downstairs."

“Jesus Christ.” His hands return to your body, kneading the fat of your ass and your upper thighs, making you roll your hips faster. Still, when his eyelashes flutter open, something troubled dances in his eyes. “You’re batshit crazy. I adore you.”

That makes you giggle, pecking his lips chastly as your body erupts in little satisfied goosebumps, heart swelling against your will. It’s just dirty talk, shit that he must say to every girl. It still makes you all soft inside. 

“Come on, big boy.” You smack his pec, watching it jiggle with glittering eyes. You lean down, taking a mouthful of it between your teeth. “Unless you don’t wanna fuck me?”

With an exasperated huff, Dean collects you in his arms and jumps to his feet. You yelp, legs wrapping around his waist, hands clutching his shoulders. 

“Dean! What are you—”

“You’re out of your mind if you think I’ll fuck you for the first time on the fucking floor.”

It’s not special, you have to remind yourself. You’re not special.

You end up in your room, your sheets crumpled and still holding the shape of you, the open window barely helping the smell of sweat and sex. 

“You really made a mess in here, huh?” Dean drops you on the mattress, draping himself over you immediately. “Left all alone, so fucking needy.”

“Yes,” you croak as Dean rips your clothes off, leaving you only in your underwear. “It was Hell, De. It hurt, so bad, and nothing I did was enough.”

“But you tried, hm?” He hovers over you, observing you carefully. Admiring, almost devoted. You repress the urge to hide. “Tried to take care of it? Give your body what it needs?”

You nod, a little fevered under Dean’s gaze. His hands start to roam all over, brushing your legs and squeezing your waist and cupping your tits over your bra. You arch against the touch, impatient. “Off. Dean, take it off.”

“Not until you tell me what you did,” he whispers in your ear, sucking the lobe between his lips. Your breath hitches, wondering if you could cum from his voice alone. Probably. Stupid Cupid magic. “Tell me, baby. How did you survive that awful day locked away.”

He’s being a condescending asshole. You want to kick him, you kiss him instead. 

All the shame suddenly vanishes, the beast gone missing inside of you, replaced by an irresistible hankering. Tomorrow you’ll vomit, and scrub your skin raw, and beg to be put down like a rabid animal. Today, you’re allowed to indulge. 

“I—I touched myself,” you mutter against his lips. Dean breaks the kiss and bites down on your neck, leaving little marks of his own. “I rode my pillow and fucked myself with my fingers, made myself cum over and over again until my legs stopped working. I played with my tits, like this.” You grab Dean's hands, guiding them under the cups of your bra. He squeezes, sucking harder on your jugular. “And I imagined it was—”

You cut yourself off, scared that such a confession will ruin everything, but Dean keeps making his way down your body. Kissing the valley of your breasts, finally taking off your bra, sucking each nipple into his mouth until they’re stiff and flushed, and then moving even lower, dipping his tongue on your navel. When he speaks, he sounds wrecked.

“What did you think about, baby girl? Come on, don’t get shy on me now.”

“You. I thought of you.” His spent dick makes a brave attempt at hardening again, twitching against your calf now that Dean’s head is between your legs. He licks a long strip up your slit over the translucent cotton of your panties, a reward. You keen, thighs hooking over his shoulders. “Ngh, Dean! I thought of your fingers inside me, of your tongue—” He laps at your cunt again, more profusely. You’re gushing, drenched panties and inner thighs. “Of your cock. Fuck, I wanted your cock so bad, De. C-came the hardest when I thought of you fucking me.”

“You’re so wet.” He sounds awed. Scarlet blooms across your cheeks, you try to push his head away. It's futile.

“It-it’s the cuff. I’m sorry—”

“You’re fuckin’ soaked, darling.” He doesn’t even seem to hear you, his voice dreamy like a kid in a candy store. “Drippin’ for me, such a good girl.” And then, shredding. Fabric tearing, cold air and hot breath. Dean just ripped your panties off. “Shit. Prettiest fuckin’ pussy I’ve ever seen.”

That’s enough for the curse, apparently. Fireworks burst inside your ribcage, your thighs squash Dean’s head—who doesn’t complain in the slightliest—and you’re cumming again.

“Son of a bitch.” You’d laugh at Dean’s astonishment if you weren’t so busy fighting the tears that burn in the back of your eyes. “Another one, just from that? How many times can you come, baby girl?”

“I’m not—” Dean starts to mouth at the mess on your thighs, lapping up your slick and sweat, humming contently. “I’m not sure. I think I counted ten, last night. But I–I kinda passed out, so.”

“Mhm.” Dean grins up at you, foxy and glistening with your arousal. You want to devour him whole. “Well, let’s find out.”

“Huh?” You’re a little dumb with it already. Three orgasms at the hands of the man you love more than life isn’t for the weak. But then Dean blows air over your pussy lips, leaving a sweet little kiss on your clit. “More?”

“Oh, darling.” His grin turns dangerous, you find it in yourself to be a little afraid. “I’m not anywhere near done with you.”

With that, he plunges face first into your cunt, fully making out with it. And as he promises, he doesn’t stop for a while.

He makes you come on his tongue two more times before he lets you rest, pressing kisses all down your legs and over your bruised knees, leaving matching ones on your hips and up your sternum. He peppers little pecks across your shoulders, dips down until he can suck on your tits again, his fingers circling your entrance before entering you.

Another orgasm finds you with three of his digits massaging your insides and his mouth suckling on your breasts. It feels oddly romantic. Dean’s a little ditzy after, licking his fingers and babbling about how good you taste, slumping against you like a giant teddy bear, impossibly broad shoulders and tiny waist bearing down on you. 

His dick is already hard, weeping and still pretty, somehow looking even more inviting after a million climaxes. 

“Dean.” He only mumbles against your skin, cock snugly pressed between your asscheeks, your legs encircling his waist. You try to tug him back by the hair, make him face you, but he refuses. He sounds sulky, almost spoiled. Pussydrunk. “Baby, c’mon. Let me see you.”

When you finally get a glimpse of his face, it leaves you breathless. Puffy lips, drool on his chin, blush making his freckles pop up. His eyes are glassy, his pupils so huge that almost no green is visible, his hair spiky and all over his forehead.

You brush it back with a gentle hand, revering. Your pretty boy, who isn’t yours at all.

“Look at you.” Deciding that you’re going to hell anyway, so might as well, you lick a long strip up his face. From chin to temple, collecting sweet spit and salty sweat on your tongue. Dean honest to god whimpers, so you repeat the action on the other side. “Such a pretty thing.”

“Not pretty.” He goes for macho, it comes out huffy. 

“No? You’re a big bad hunter?” He nods, scowling, the haze behind his eyes slowly fading. “Well, I think you’re pretty.” You lick into his mouth, the taste of both of you long mixed between your tongues. “The prettiest boy I’ve ever seen.”

“Shut up.” He sounds more present as he pushes you down onto the sheets, but the bridge of his nose flushes crimson and his eyes don’t quite meet yours. “You’re pretty.”

“Real mature, lover boy.” You poke his side, giggling against his teeth. “What’s next, you’re gonna accuse me with your mommy—?”

Suddenly, your legs are being pushed against your chest, bending you in half as Dean’s cock slides between the folds of your abused cunt, tip brushing your swollen clit, succulently painful. 

“I’m gonna cum inside you. That’s what’s next.” For a beat, everything is funeral-silent. Dean looks as shocked by the words as you, whatever daze had overcome him before completely gone. “I–I didn’t mean that. I’ll go get a condom, don’t worry—”

“No!” You claw at his shoulders when he tries to get up, yanking him down and making his dick catch on your entrance. You both moan, your legs already trembling. “I wanna feel you. Please, I need to feel you.”

“You sure?” His voice is tight, like he’s holding onto his last bit of resolution. You want him to let go.

“Yes, yes,” you say desperately, hips jerking under the unrelenting weight of Dean’s. “Please, I want you to mark me, inside and out. I want you to fill me up, baby, please.”

Dean lets out a broken noise, grabs your hips, and rams into you in one thrust. 

You’re so full, you feel like you’ll tear at the seams. It’s been years since you’ve had something other than fingers enter you, and Dean fits so right that you can’t fathom how you’ve lived this long without it.

“There you go, good girl.” His hands move to rest on each side of your head, bracing himself as he starts rolling his hips. His face is tucked against the side of your neck, and he almost sounds as destroyed as you. “Look at you, baby, taking my cock so well. Opening up for me, soaking wet, perfect sweet cunt. Just for me.”

Oh, he has no idea.

His whispers in your ear are so much better than anything your mind could’ve come up with. Dirty fucking mouth and sharp tongue, leaving you shaking in his arms. You tangle your body with his, arms around his shoulders and ankles crossed on his lower back, suddenly afraid that the gods will get jealous and try to take him from you.

They’ll have to rip him from your cold dead hands.

“Dean—” You gasp when he shifts, changing the angle and hitting depths you weren’t even aware existed. It’s like your body molds around him, making space for his huge cock, and you know you’ll hold the shape of him long after he’s gone. Maybe forever. “You’re–God—”

He pulls back until you can see his face, his hands circling your waist and pulling you down on his dick, the headboard banging against the wall with each rock of your bodies. He sucks on your upper lip, his voice a deep growl that rumbles through your whole body. 

“You like it, baby girl? Like it when I wreck your pretty pussy? Want me to fucking ruin it?”

“Yesyesyes.” You chant, going a little cross-eyed when he finally finds that gooey, needy spot inside of you. It’s so different from Eros’ magic, less glittery and more real. Carnal and brutal and real. “Feels so good, De. You’re so–you’re so fucking good. Need you to ruin me.”

Dean moans, guttural and a little demented.

“You’re gonna be the end of me.” His pace picks up, rabid. You clench around him, nails digging into his shoulders and tugging him down until his chest is glued to yours, needing every inch of him pressed against every inch of you. “So fucking tight, baby. Better than any other pussy I’ve ever fucked, fitting me like a glove, made for me.”

You throw your head back, tongue lolling out as Dean starts to gently pet at your clit, the bundle of nerves too sensitive for anything else. Still, it feels like you’re being engulfed by nectar. 

“I wanted to kill them.” You babble, your mind sluggish with Dean’s touch, the heat of him, the way you can feel precum leaking inside of you already. “All those other girls, all those ‘smokin’ singles.’ I wanted to murder them. I needed them dead, I needed you all to myself.”

Part of you knows you’ll regret all of that later, that evil side that never lets you have anything. But the way Dean’s cock twitches as he starts pounding harder against that sweet spot drives you to utterly ignore it.

“Fuck, why is that so hot.” He groans, hiking your legs higher up his body and enclosing you in his arms, his body covering yours completely. You can’t move an inch, absolutely at the mercy of his frantic thrusts and ponderous frame. “It’s only you now, baby. Just you.”

You know it’s not true. Not a single cell in your body even attempts to believe it—that you could be Dean’s best, Dean’s only one. It’s as delusional as the earth being flat or God being a mediocre fantasy author.

It doesn’t stop it from turning you all dopey. The room is filled with your obscene moans and the slap of skin against skin, your mouth parted wide open and eyes rolled back as Dean continues to murmur lewd nothings against your cheek.

“‘M gonna make you mine, pretty girl. Hell, look at that angel face, all fucked out, just for me.” He mirrors your previous actions, licking up the drool dribbling down your chin. “Stupid cuff, making you look like a fuckin’ goddess, all glowy and shit. And you don’t even know it. Goddamn doll face and dream body, even without the curse. Gonna fuckin’ fill you up, mark that perfect cunt all mine.”

It’s almost too good. Too much. The soft circles against your clit, the head of Dean’s cock slamming against your cervix, his warm mouth on your jaw, sucking more bruises that you’ll press down on later.

The cuff starts to smoke. You’d almost forgotten about it, until now. It feels like it’s charring your skin, burning so hot it almost goes back to cold. Dean gives you a specially deep thrust, your whole body seizing with it, and it all melts together in a rush of unbearable pleasure. 

You turn your head to the side, writhing under Dean’s unrelenting weight, but there’s nowhere to go. Your face ends up smushed against his bicep, flexed and chunky muscle against your lips, almost as big as your face. 

You bite down on it, hard. 

Metallic explodes in your mouth, thick and holy. Dean cries out, his hips stuttering. 

“You’re bleeding,” you mumble through a mouthful of flesh, deliriously. “Oh my god, you’re bleeding.”

You think you scream his name, you’re not really sure. Pleasure numbs your every other sense as your final orgasm hits, making all of the others seem like tiny ponds in comparison. This is a cyclone, and you’re in the eye of the storm. 

The next few moments are utter oblivion. Everything blurs together until you can’t tell them apart—Dean still grinding into you and the cuff on your arm and the mess of emotions buried so deep in your ribcage. 

For a second, they’re all one and the same.

You come back down like you’re resurfacing from a shipwreck, gasping as your vision clears, your mouth wrapping around words you can’t really make out. When the rush of blood and exhilaration start to fade, your own loopy voice reaches you.

“...love you, love you, love you, love you.” 

You’re repeating it over and over again, like a prayer. Through blood-stained lips and tar-coated teeth, like a violent wolf offering its neck to the hunter.

“What?” Dean’s stopped moving completely, his limbs rigid all around you. You whine at the interruption, grinding up against his—thankfully still hard—cock. Dean holds you down, both his hands cupping your face a little more forcefully than he intended, squeezing your cheeks until your lips are pursed and you have no choice but to look into his eyes. “What did you say?”

There’s no point in lying. You’ve shown all your cards, revealed every rotten and ugly bit of you, there was never a way back from here. 

“I love you, Dean. I really fucking lov—ah!”

He slams into you with refound vigor, dragging you up and down the bed until you're lightheaded, the whole world spinning as he whines like a puppy, cock twitching against your walls. 

“I love you too.” You’re sure you imagined it at first. But then he grabs a fistful of your hair, crashing his lips with yours hard enough to break them, spit and blood and desperation all mixing on your mouths. “I love you so much, holy shit. I’ve loved you forever, baby girl, I can’t believe—fuck.”

He’s feral, snaring and grunting and fucking crazy. 

It still takes you a bit to process the words, the way he’s moving like a madman, the pure devotion in his tone. He loves you. Dean Winchester freaking loves you.

It’s world-shattering, it’s epoch-making, it’s eye-opening.

You grab Dean by the shoulders and push him off of you, taking advantage of his wooziness to leave him flat on his back on the mattress. In less than a second you’re straddling his hips, staring down at his terrified wide eyes and holding his flushed, now almost purple dick in your fist.

“Repeat it.” 

Dean only blinks up at you, jaw dropped and hands hovering over your body like he doesn’t know what to do with them, astonished. You suck on your teeth slowly, savoring the ambrosia of his blood before a smirk takes over your face.

Slowly, your other hand makes its way up Dean’s chest, until it rests neatly against the base of his neck. With a shiver of raw excitement washing down your spine, you squeeze, hard enough to make him wheeze. 

“Repeat it, De. Say it again.”

His cock weeps, his eyes gloss over, his blush travels down to his freckled chest. 

“I love you, sweetheart.” 

You impale yourself all the way down his shaft. Dean keens shamelessly when he bottoms out, hips jerking up as his hands clench on your hips. You hope they leave even more marks, little half-moons and rouge fingerprints. 

You continue to hold his throat as you ride him, bouncing on his dick as your fingers spam just under his Adam’s apple—sometimes barely-there pressure, sometimes leaving him completely breathless. 

It’s like all the pain has transformed into empowerment, all the rot into gold and all the poison into amrita. You’re untouchable. You’re celestial. You’re Dean’s. 

“Again,” you order, a little too pleading to be demanding. But Dean only whimpers, erratically humping up into you as he worships you, tears clinging to his long eyelashes and hands trembling. “Look at you, just a little choking and you go all stupid with it. My pretty boy, big bad wolf melted into a dumb puppy.”

“What the fuck?” Dean rasps. You tsks softly, tightening your grip around his windpipe. 

“Say it again, baby. Be good for me, and you’ll get a reward.”

Dean stammers before croaking out: “I love you, more than you could ever imagine.”

Your chest heaves, something breaking and mending at the same time. Your free hand moves to Dean’s face, fingers slipping into his lax mouth, hooking over his lower teeth and tugging it open. 

“Good boy,” you whisper before spitting right into his tongue. Your digits slip out, pushing his jaw closed before slapping his cheek lightly. “Now swallow.”

With a wild moan, Dean obeys, his hips pistoning up into your throbbing cunt as he’s pushed over the edge. Warmth coats your pussy, painting your walls white and running down your legs, washing you clean and tainting you dirtier. It’s immaculate. 

You’re trying to catch your breath when you’re abruptly dragged down, tumbling against Dean’s chest as his dick softens inside of you and his arms hold you down, clinging to you like a comfort stuffed animal. 

You stay there for a couple of minutes, maybe years, maybe centuries. Your skin sticks together as you cool down, your mouth still tasting like his cum and blood, your fingers still loosely holding his neck. It’s truly out of your wildest dreams.

“What the fuck was that?” Dean eventually chokes out.

You giggle, nuzzling against his pecs. “That was me off the leash.”

“Holy shit.” His arms tighten around you, dick twitching against your swollen walls. “I might need to smite that leash, fuck that shit. That was—” He makes a little explosion sound. You laugh harder, languidly rising to peck his full lips.

“I love you, you fucking dork.”

Dean smiles, toothy and silly, kissing your forehead with so much adoration it makes you blush. “I love you too, sweetheart.”

You sigh, already expecting the post-wave exhaustion to come, but the tide is calm. Not retreating, not threatening. Just peaceful sweet water.

You slide off Dean, ignoring his little grumbling complaint. You hiss as he slips out, sore in the best way possible. Dean pounces on you, rolling onto his side so his gaze can rake down your body. “Did I hurt you?”

“No, you were perfect.” 

You look down on your own body—purple and maroon clouds all over, scraped knees and palms, tacky inner thighs. For the first time in your life, you think you’re perfect as well. 

Your eyes drift to the sheets under you, finding them wet, wetter than they should be. Clear and splashy and yours. 

“Did I—?”

“Yes. When you said you loved me, the first time.” Dean drapes an arm across your waist, the distance between you apparently hurting him as much as it does you. “It was the hottest fucking thing I’ve ever seen.”

“More than the singles you were going to comfort today?”

Dean huffs, leaning down to pepper kisses all over your face. “There’s no one else, darling, not anymore. Just you and me.”

You try to play grumpy, but it’s impossible with Dean’s soft lips all over your cheeks and nose and forehead. You end up giggling softly, pretending to fight him but basking in the attention.

“Besides, none of them compare to you.” He buries his face on your hair, breathing you in. You happily let him. “The spell, it gave you this—after-sex glow, all the time. You were freaking glittery, baby, like a goddamn pornstar.”

You chuckle, your fingers finding the mark of your teeth on his arm, tracing the little indents. You hope it scars, so everyone who ever looks at Dean knows he’s yours. Only yours. 

“So it was the cuff? What made you want this?”

“Nah, I’ve wanted you ever since I saw you that first day in Montana. I started loving you not too long after.” You can feel his grin against the top of your head. “Besides, you always look like a pornstar to me, no need for any damn magic bracelet.”

You snort, bumping his chin softly. “That’s not the compliment you think it is.”

But then, it dawns on you. 

“The cuff!”

You swiftly sit up, ignoring Dean’s little wounded whine. You stare down at your arm, the cuff still resting snuggly against your flesh. But the metal is freezing, and the fairy dust is faded and dull. 

With trembling fingers, you tug the thing down, just once. It slides right off, landing on the mattress with a little bounce. Relief floods you, strong enough to annihilate any hint of frustration. There’s no value in crying about it now, not when Dean presses up against your bare back and whispers against your neck. 

“See, I told you, you’d be okay. We survived another day.”

This time, when you lean back on him, there’s not an ounce of guilt or fear or disgust in you. The beast is gone, running free and wild, one with your soul. You might be sick, the punishing eyes of your mother forever engraved in your brain, but you’re not ashamed anymore. 

Not when Dean Winchester is just as sick as you.

You try to look for the cuff again, but it’s gone. In its place rests a French countryside postcard, a peach-scented pink mist evanescing around it. You pick it up, holding it so both Dean and you can read the sparkly gel pen scribbles.

“I know you might not believe me, but I’m truly glad that you two figured it out. Either outcome would’ve been entertaining, but you two gave me a real showdown. In repayment, I’ll make sure to leave you out of the way of my arrows for the rest of your mortal lives. I can’t promise anything for those pesky cherubs, though. Not my jurisdiction. 

As promised, your little old town has been freed. The villa where I am right now is at least four miles away from any civilization, so please don’t come bother me, or I might have to get mean again.

Unless you wanna play around, in which case my doors are always open. 

Enjoy the rest of the most important day of the year, and don’t forget to thank me in your prayers!”

“Fucking asshole.” Dean plucks out the postcard from your hands, ripping it in half. “Might have to go find him, blast his face off.”

“But then you’d have to get on a plane, pretty boy.”

Dean glares at you, and you just laugh softly before surging forward to hug him, both of you falling back onto the soiled blankets.

“Maybe if you’re with me, I can do it.” 

“Yeah?”

“Yeah, I could do anything with you by my side.”

Someone knocks on the door, loudly. 

“Guys!” Sam yells through the thick wood. “I’m back! It was getting late and this town is practically dead, so I couldn’t wait at the gas station any longer. Hope you—fixed things! I guess. I’ll go put my earbuds on, so don’t worry about me, just thought I’d let you know I’m here!”

Shuffling, prolonged and awkward. 

“There’s ice cream in the fridge, by the way. Anyway, Have fun! Or—whatever.”

Sam’s heavy steps disappear down the hallway. All it takes is one shared look for you and Dean to dissolve into laughter, limbs tangled together and souls comfortably merged into one, no longer teared apart. 

“Shower?” Dean hikes you up his body, sitting up on the edge of the bed. You give him a slow up-and-down look, licking your lips obscenely. “Don’t even think about it, Jesus Christ. What did I get myself into?”

You grin, because he doesn’t know half of it. The world is gonna wish you never lost your shame.

“Happy Valentine’s day, my love.”

“Happy Valentine’s, sweetheart.”

NOTES: okay, so. this is actually kind of special to me because tomorrow, feb 15, it'll be a year since i first started posting on this blog. And the first fic I posted was valentine's inspired (pls don't go look for it my writing was terrible) so i thought it was fitting to post a little tribute to the story that started it all.

it's been amazing to share my writing in here, and i couldn't be happier that i decided to take a chance after giving up on fanfiction so long ago. it's so heartwarming to see how much you've showered me and my silly stories with love, and i'll be forever grateful to all of you.

anyway, i don't wanna bore you out with my emo sobbing. happy valentine's day, i adore you, and see you again soon!

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