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Bed

Bed had always been yours and Morgan’s most common place. It had started when you were teenagers, stealing time wherever you could - praying one of you remembered to remove the pillow from the head board before someone commented on it… again. Somehow nothing had changed now you were grown just less sneaking and far less restraint.

Late at night, when the house finally fell quiet, Morgan would drift closer like it was instinct. His hands found home on your chest, lips trailing across any exposed skin he could reach, slow at first, almost affectionate.

“Missed you so much today, darlin’.”

Your reply was stolen by a moan as his expert fingers squeezed and rubbed your sensitive nipples. Alternating between each breast so neither one felt left out.

Your answer dissolved into a breathy sound as his touch grew more deliberate, confident. His touch alternated between each breast always making sure you felt exactly how much he’d been thinking about you, didn’t want any part of you feeling neglected.

His hard length pressed against your back as he pulled you closer, unable to stay still, his movements restless with need. A soft bite landed at the curve of your neck, followed immediately by the soothing sweep of his tongue, the contrast sending a shiver straight through you.

It didn’t take long before he rolled you onto your back, settling over you completely, arms braced on either side of your head, locking your attention solely on him. He ignored your lips entirely, choosing instead to map familiar territory along your throat and collarbone, each kiss growing more distracted, more urgent.

Any hint of patience disappeared. Morgan moved like being close still wasn’t enough, like he needed proof you were really there beneath him. The rhythm of his body never slowed, only deepened, quiet sounds slipping from him whenever you reacted.

The moment your hands found his shoulders, pulling him closer instead of away, something in him snapped.

His hands slid along your sides, drawing reactions from you that only seemed to spur him on, every movement guided by instinct rather than thought. The world narrowed to shared breath and tangled limbs, the quiet room filled with soft sounds neither of you bothered to hide anymore.

Morgan was quick to pull himself free from his boxers, rubbing his tip through your slick soaked folds before he thrusts himself fully inside of you.

“Always feel so good for me, every time.” He grunts into your shoulder, fingers tightening on your waist.

Your own nails claw into his back as he starts to build up momentum between your legs.

“Mmm, fuck- Morgan.” your head is tilted, back arched into him as he has you seeing stars.

Gaming chair

He was meant to be working. Infact he was working, he was actively in a discord call with Chazza, Mikey, Jakey and Beano recording rocket league for the gaming channel.

You wandered in halfway through a match, lingering just behind him for a moment before settling yourself beneath the desk, ensuring you were out of camera shot. Morgan barely registered it at first, too busy insulting Jakey.

“Jake stop hitting it towards your own fucking goal! Fucking hell.”

You didn’t hear a reply, nor did you care for one as you eased Morgan’s cock free from his shorts and took him into your mouth.

A pause stretched just a little too long, on screen his car drifted uselessly across the pitch while the boys shouted over comms.

“…Ginge?” Mikey laughed, “You lagging or what?”

Morgan cleared his throat, posture suddenly rigid, eyes locked forward like sheer concentration alone might save him.

“Yeah. Yeah, I’m here.”

He definitely was not. One hand tightened around the controller while the other dropped instinctively to the edge of the desk, fingers curling like he needed something to ground himself.

His reactions slowed, missing an easy save that immediately earned a chorus of abuse through his headset.

“Mate, you’ve fully checked out,” Beano laughed after getting another shot past him “What are you doing?”

Morgan huffed out a breath that sounded suspiciously uneven.

“Just… focus on your own game.”

The next few minutes were torture for him forced normality layered over obvious distraction, clipped responses replacing his usual loud commentary.

By the end of the round he was barely playing, jaw tight, fighting a losing battle to stay composed while the boys argued over strategy.

Meanwhile you were happily bobbing your head up and down his length. Swirling your tongue around his leaky tip, making sure to swallow down all his pre-cum.

You payed extra attention to the thick vein that ran along the length of him - knowing how quickly he became unravelled when you did.

The chair rolled back sharply as he looked down at you, half exasperated, half completely ruined.

You only smiled, pressing a finger to your lips in warning and pulling the chair towards you again before taking him back into your mouth once he’d continued the recording.

Kitchen

It started off innocently. Morgan was making you a cup of tea, you were sat on the counter wearing one of Morgan’s football tops as a nightie.

Naturally Morgan had to stand between your thighs when he handed you your tea, and he’d been so nice to make it so he deserved a kiss.

One kiss turned into two, your hand curling into his shirt to keep him close while he laughed softly against your mouth, already distracted. The mug was abandoned somewhere beside you as his attention shifted completely.

Your back pressed against the cool kitchen tiles, fingers threaded tight in his hair as he buried his face back into you with a quiet, pleased hum.

His hands slid higher under the football shirt, gripping your arse properly now, hauling you closer every time your hips tried to move away from the intensity.

You gasped, one hand flying to cover your mouth.

“Shhh.” he murmured against you, not slowing in the slightest. “They’ll hear you.”

Which was rich coming from the man actively ruining you before nine in the morning.

Your legs tightened instinctively around his shoulders and he loved it actually groaned at the feeling, nose brushing your clit just to watch your reaction.

Floorboards started creaking upstairs, the sounds of someone moving, doors opening.

That dangerous little grin appeared the one that meant he absolutely knew what he was doing.

“You’re alright.” he whispered, voice low and rough “Too early for them to come socialise.”

Then he went back to it with renewed focus, tongue dragging slow and deliberate until your thighs trembled around his head.

Your hand smacked lightly against his shoulder in warning, breath hitching hard.

“Morgan!”

He looked up at you, smug, devoted, completely gone for you.

“Yeah?” he asked softly, like he wasn’t currently responsible for the way your legs were shaking already pulling another helpless sound from you.

When more signs of life were heard from upstairs Morgan couldn’t find it in him to care especially when your fingers tightened in his hair and your head fell back against the cabinets.

“Good girl,” he muttered, voice warm and wrecked with affection “That’s it always so good f’me.”

Shower

The cold tiles were a sharp contrast to the steam curling thick around you both, water cascading over tangled limbs.

Your legs stayed locked around Morgan’s waist as he pressed closer, movement restless, impatient, possessive.

The spray did little to hide the sounds he dragged from you. Every half-hearted warning to be quiet dissolved the moment you reacted, your head tipping back against the tiles as a broken sound slipped out anyway.

“I told you,” he started, voice already wrecked, cutting himself off when your nails dragged down his shoulders.

His grip tightened immediately, hands sliding under your thighs to keep you lifted when your balance faltered against the slick tiles. Water ran into his eyes but he didn’t even blink, too focused on you, on the way you clung to him.

The room filled with steam and uneven breathing, the sound of water hammering down doing absolutely nothing to disguise how far gone you both were.

“Was just trying to have a shower,” he muttered, forehead dropping briefly to yours before he kissed you again, distracted and hungry.

Somewhere behind you a bottle hit the floor with a loud clatter, completely ignored. Neither of you even looked.

Car

Ever since passing his driving test if you were in his passenger seat Morgan’s hand was going to be on your thigh.

It started the same way it always did casual, absent-minded strokes over bare skin while he drove, fingers tracing slow patterns like he wasn’t even aware he was doing it. The engine hummed steadily beneath you, streetlights flashing across his face as evening traffic rolled by. You shifted slightly in your seat, already feeling warm.

“Morgan,” you warned softly, watching his hand creep higher beneath the hem of your skirt “You need to focus on driving.”

His mouth twitched, eyes never leaving the road.

“I am focused, sweetheart,” he said easily, indicator clicking as he changed lanes. “Multitasking.”

His thumb pressed deliberately higher and your breath hitched despite yourself. Outside, headlights passed in streaks of white and gold, completely unaware of what was happening inside the car.

Your hand found his wrist instinctively, not really stopping him, just holding on.

“Morgan…”

He only hummed in response, far too calm for someone actively distracting you out of your mind. One hand stayed steady on the wheel while the other moved with slow, deliberate confidence, like he had nowhere else to be.

The car slowed at a red light. You thought briefly that he might stop, he didn’t.

Your head fell back against the seat as a shaky breath escaped you, hips shifting before you could stop yourself. The soft tick of the indicator and the low rumble of the engine felt unbearably loud compared to the uneven rhythm of your breathing.

“Relax.” he murmured, almost amused. “I’ve got you.”

The light turned green. He drove on like nothing was happening, adjusting the wheel one-handed, completely composed while his fingers curled into that sensitive bundle of nerves inside of you.

Every small movement of his hand pulled another reaction from you, your fingers tightening helplessly around his forearm. Passing cars illuminated the interior in flashes brief moments where anyone could have looked over and seen exactly how wrecked you were.

“How long until we’re home?” you managed, voice unsteady.

He shrugged slightly, accelerating smoothly onto an open stretch of road.

“No rush,” he said “We’re just driving.”

The implication hit you instantly. Your breath stuttered as his hand moved again, unhurried, deliberate, like he was testing exactly how long you could last. The leather seat creaked softly beneath you as you shifted, completely unable to stay still.

“Morgan…”

He glanced at you then, just for a second. Smug. Fond. Completely gone for you.

And then his eyes were back on the road, hand tightening slightly as your composure finally slipped.

The world outside blurred into passing lights and empty streets while tension coiled tighter and tighter in your chest. You barely registered the turn he took, or the way he adjusted the mirror with casual precision, like this was the most normal drive of his life.

Your nails dug into his skin as the pressure finally tipped too far, a broken sound escaping before you could stop it.

Morgan exhaled softly, satisfied, still steering smoothly with one hand.

“Yeah,” he murmured, voice low and warm. “That’s my girl.”

The car kept moving, engine steady, streetlights flashing overhead and he didn’t slow down for a second - he continued to thrust his fingers inside of you forcing uncontrollable sounds to escape.

You barely noticed him taking a wrong turn, barely noticed anything at all, as the tension he’d built so patiently snapped again and pulled you under a second time. And Morgan just kept driving.

Julie’s house

Sunday dinner was meant to be innocent, you and Tasha ganging up on Morgan, nana Julie clipping someone round the ear every five minutes and Michelle making more food than necessary to feed a family of Five (and three dogs).

But lingering touches as you passed in the corridor, the way he handed you a drink in the same mug you’d used when you first started dating, even the familiar sound of Julie telling him off dragged you straight back to being reckless teenagers sneaking moments in this very house.

“Morgan!” Julie called “Would you mind running upstairs and grabbing my charger please?”

“Yeah, ‘course Nana.”

You followed him up the stairs almost without thinking. He noticed halfway up, a quiet laugh slipping out.

“What you doing, trouble?” he murmured, hands settling automatically on your hips.

The hallway felt smaller than you remembered, warmer, too quiet compared to the chaos downstairs.

“You started it.” you whispered, though you’d absolutely followed him on purpose.

He shook his head, smiling like he knew exactly how this was going to end.

“You’re the one who chased me upstairs!”

The charger was forgotten the second the bedroom door clicked shut behind you.

For a moment neither of you moved just stood there grinning like idiots, the same nervous excitement from years ago settling between you.

Voices drifted up from downstairs, cutlery clattered, someone laughed loudly. Morgan stepped closer anyway.

“Remember when my mum nearly caught us in here?” he said softly.

“Never moved so fast in your life.” You laughed under your breath.

“Worth it.”

His forehead rested against yours, the joke dissolving into something heavier, familiar. His hands tightened slightly at your waist, thumbs tracing absent circles like muscle memory had taken over.

“You know we shouldn’t.” you murmured, not moving away.

“Yeah.” He nodded immediately although he didn’t step back.

Instead his hands slid higher, familiar and certain, pulling you closer until your bodies fit together like they always had in this room. The same room where whispered laughs had turned into hurried kisses, where you’d learned exactly how little self-control either of you actually possessed.

A floorboard creaked somewhere below, you both froze then laughed quietly at yourselves.

“This house is dangerous!” you whispered.

“Was back then too.” Morgan grinned, already leaning in again.

“Morgan! Did you find it?” Floated from upstairs, he didn’t even look toward the door.

“…Still looking!” he called back, voice suspiciously steady.

Your laughter dissolved the second he kissed you, familiar and hungry, years of history collapsing into one reckless moment.

“Okay,” he breathed into your mouth, already pulling you closer, “gonna have to be very quick and very quiet.”

“Mhm I can do that” you nodded, lifting your leg up onto his hip as his own hands pushed his boxers to his mid-thigh.

He swallowed your moan as he slipped inside of you, building straight into a brutal pace. Urgent, efficient, brutal.

“You’ve got to be quiet baby.” Morgan grunted into your mouth between kisses, the hand that wasn’t holding your thigh up coming down to rub quick circles on your clit.

“I’m fuck trying,” you whined, dropping your head into his shoulder and biting down.

He was biting on his lip to keep his own noises from spilling out, the sound of his hips slamming into yours and your laboured breathing being the only thing that filled the room.

Within minutes Morgan’s expert fingers had your body trembling as your orgasm crashed through you. You had to physically bite down onto his neck to stop yourself from screaming.

The way your slick walls convulsed around his throbbing length had him emptying his load deep inside of you. His head buried deep into your shoulder as his high took over.

A few minutes later Morgan came downstairs first, far too casual like he hadn’t just disappeared upstairs with you and returned suspiciously out of breath and glowing.

He wandered straight back into the kitchen. Tasha clocked him instantly.

“Where’s reader?”

“Still upstairs.” he said, opening the fridge like nothing in the world had happened.

“Why are you smiling like that?” Nana Julie narrowed her eyes from the dining table.

“I’m not smiling like anything.” He absolutely was.

A minute later you appeared, smoothing your top down, hair slightly too neat in that way that made it worse, not better. You made it exactly two steps into the room before Michelle looked up.

“Right,” she said slowly, pointing between you and the stairs “What have you two done?”

“Nothing!” you both said immediately, too fast, too in sync.

“Pass the charger, son.” Michelle held her hand out towards him.

“What charger?” Morgan, leaning casually against the counter now, blinked back confused. Tasha snorted into her drink.

“Oh my God!” Tasha laughed.

“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!

TAGS: @mostlymarvelgirl @pink-ghost666 @rafeskitty @otteropera @xoswiftieprincess @tinas111 @iloveeveryoneyoureamazing @plasticflowersinahistorycemetery @losers-clvb @pieandflannel @southernimpala @jays-bonnie-on-the-side @that-stanford-girlie @immodestly-marina @angellust333 @cupidzbunny @scatorcciosbabe @angrydragon90 @urblondiebaby @fertilise-me @angelicjackles @fratbrochrisgf @deerplaygroundpoetsflowers13 @mfstargrll @stars4birdie @cccayliexx @madslxz @spaghettiwoes @crumpledroses @madyyyslovs @swanofjade @chromiumz @k4renp4ge <3

He’s apologized fifty times. He apologized when you left that old, moldy house and he started staring at you and palming himself in the car. Apologized when you’d been walking inside, and he’d doubled over in pain on the side walk. He’d grabbed your hip for support, and while you’d been trying to figure out if he was okay, his hand had slipped up to your inner thigh. Apologized when you went to get him some ice—he’d said he was warm, you’ d been worrying about a fever—and you had to come back to find him lying in your bed, head thrown back, eyes squeezed shut and groans slipping from his lips.

At least he hadn’t been touching himself. He’s managed not to do that at all, which you’d be impressed by if you weren’t so worried.

Sam says it’s a pretty basic sex curse. Maybe a pollen, from that mold. Nothing you need to worry about finding a magical cure for.

“We’ve seen these before.” Sam had said. “It’s run-of-the-mill. Dean knows what to do.”

Run of the mill.

Simple.

Sam had said it like you’d be clear in an hour. Nothing fancy required.

Dean gets laid, the fever goes down, everyone’s good.

And it might’ve been simple. You might’ve been done an hour ago, if Dean just got it over with and left when he was clear. You would’ve sat in your bed, running the sheets between your fingers while you read. Trying desperately not to think about Dean only a door over, about the sounds creaking through the wall as he railed someone else into oblivion, about how he’d look.

Probably just like this. Wrecked and hungry, his eyes blown out and skin slick with sweat. Every muscle in his body straining, hair stuck to his brow, mouth hanging open as he’d hover over some lucky girl, showing her a heaven even angels didn’t get to experience.

Your heart would’ve silently ached, a wound you’ve been letting fester opening wider and wider. Your hands would’ve tugged nervously at the sheets, trying to gather whatever he’d left over like a twisted little souvenir for your perverse brain.

The brain that won’t stop being in love with him, no matter how much logic you offer to counter it. You’ve spent nights staring at the ceiling, acting like love was a debate. Like if you reasoned with yourself enough, all the blood in your body would simply stop flowing in a song of his name. Your heart would shift into a new rhythm, no longer a war drum trying to call for him. Your eyes would stop looking for tiny bits of evidence he loved you too, in just as much silence as you love him.

He’s about ten years older than you. He opens doors for you, and that can be a secret desire thing. He’s not emotionally available. He talks to you, about his dad and complicated fights with Sammy and his past, and that has to mean something. He’s got anger issues. He’s stubborn, he’s reserved. You have issues too, and you’re more stubborn. He’s fucked up- You’re fucked up, and he’s also sweet and loyal and handsome and the best kind of stupid a man can be, where he’s a dumbass that never pretends to be incompetent. He’d probably be possessive. You’d like to be possessed. There’s no future there. Yet.

You’ve always lost the debate. You stay in love with Dean, because your heart wasn’t even kind enough to give you a crush. A brief and intense high of adoration and lust would’ve been manageable. You would’ve recovered.

Instead, it’s love. Not even love with a half-life, weaning off with just a little time. Deep, long love.

The kind of love that has you looking at him now, and crudely thinking that he’s being a bit of a pussy. It’s not a fair thought. He’s cursed, has a fever of a hundred and two, and his body is probably trying to convince him to do things that he’s not on board with.

But you live like that every day, and you don’t whine about it. You’ve felt like if he didn’t touch you now you’d die, you’ve gone sick with your own perverse thoughts about what you’d let him do to you, you’ve been delirious with adoration until Sam clears his throat, and mutters that you’re staring again. Maybe the mold should’ve crawled into you, or however this works.

You wouldn’t have been such a massive bitch about it.

You would’ve had nasty motel sex with a stranger an hour ago.

You wouldn’t have made Dean sit in a room with you while you pillow humped, forcing him to look for a sex partner to break your back.

You would’ve been home by now.

But Dean wants to be a little fucking bitch.

“You’re being a bitch.” You say it plainly, because maybe it will snap him out of whatever the fuck this is.

Instead he just chuckles, twisting to give you an amused look. “Ouch, sweetheart- Shit-“

The movement looks like it made his dick brush against something, and now he’s back to cowering in the sheets. Jaw clenched and eyes squeezed shut, visibly pained, and what’s wrong with you that he’s never looked so hot-

“You’d be a bitch too.” He mutters, groaning as he rolls back onto his stomach. “I feel like I’m dying-“

“You’d stop feeling like that, if you’d just pick someone to fuck.”

“I’m tryin’-“

“Not hard enough.”

“Trust me, I’m plenty hard enough- Fuck-“

You throw one of his pillows at his face, and he makes a strangled noise like you hit him with a bullet.

“You’re gonna attack a dying man-“

“I can do whatever I want, when I’m helping you find a fuck buddy.” You stick your tongue out at his back, then return your attention to his phone. “How about Miranda? She’s thirty-six, she’s got really nice hair, and- Oo-“ You scroll a little further down the page. “She likes boats! Those are like water cars, you guys could bond over that.”

Dean laughs again, shaking his head. “Boats aren’t water cars.”

“They are. Think about it.“

“They don’t have a big engineering overlap, I don’t know shit about boats-“

“Then you can just fuck her stupid, you nerd.”

Dean’s silent for a long moment, and you hover your thumb over the screen, fully ready to subject yourself to the worst torture possible for Dean’s stupid, cursed sake.

“She looks nice.” You mumble, praying he doesn’t hear the exhausted, hopeless pain in your voice. “I think you’d like her.”

Dean grunts. “No. Next name.”

You sigh, and swipe left. Adding Miranda to the long, long pile of rejected applicants.

It’s been like this for two fucking hours. Dean lying in your bed, you cross-legged in his, absolutely no progress on curing the curse. He barely even looks at you anymore. He’s been facing the opposite wall since you sat down, burying his face in your pillow every time he moans, trying to hide the roll of his hips under the sheets and failing miserably.

The tingling pain between your legs is almost unbearable now. You’d call Sam and ask if the pollen was transferable, if you weren’t terrified of the answer being no. There’s no way it’s not just Dean anyway. His thick arms stretching up to grip the pillow, his broad, muscled shoulders and back bare, the fact that sometimes when he humps fast and rough, the sheets ride up and you swear you see the tip of his cock. It’s wrong. So fucking wrong, to be getting off to him like this.

But it’s your own personal hell, to have this responsibility. To have him right there, and not be allowed to touch him.

You’ll deal with your shame later in the shower, where you can wash it off and maybe cry from a few different places over your body.

Later. When he’s not dying, and doing absolutely nothing to help you save him.

“Hannah.” You read out the next profile, pulling your knees to your chest. “She’s got curly hair, really nice brown eyes. Looks like she’s a nail artist. That could be nice.”

Dean snorts. “What, you think I’m gonna have her get me a manicure after?”

“No, I just-“ You take a long breath. You’d rather have a living Dean that doesn’t love you, than a dead Dean, who also doesn’t love you.

Dean starts to twist—he’s going to try and look at you again—and you clear your throat.

“It might be nice to look at. Aesthetically. Or- arousing.”

He mutters your name, but you push on.

“For a handjob. Nice nails, going- Up and down your- Um- Your dick-“

Dean lets out the loudest moan yet, and your jaw snaps shut. That sounded like your name. He was probably just trying to warn you to shut up, but that still sounded like your name-

“Sorry-“

“Stop talking.” He snaps, and you nod.

Without him asking, you swipe left on Hannah. He seems to have forgotten about her, and you have no desire to let her and her perfect nails anywhere near his dick.

It takes a while for Dean to request the next candidate. Long minutes of him just panting and grunting, burying his face in the pillow and thrashing in the sheets like he’s having a nightmare.

You see the head of his cock again. It’s thick looking and red and shining with pre-cum. Angry and hard and Jesus fucking Christ-

“Emma!” You shout to the room. You need this to be done. “She’s a nurse, that can be a kink thing-“

“Stop.”

You sigh, turning down the phone screen. “Dean-“

“No. Don’t want Ella-“

“Emma-“

“Don’t fuckin’ care. We’re not doing more of this- Shit.”

“Are you just swearing, or is that an adjective-“

“Sweetheart.” He’s almost growling, a hand slipping out from the sheets to fist the mattress. “Stop. Talking.”

You close your mouth, bowing your head as shame floods your body. You’re trying to help. You’ve given your whole night just to help the man you’re hopelessly in love with have sex with someone else, and you’re tired. Tired of doing this to yourself, tired of him shooting everyone down like suddenly he’s got the highest sexual standard in the world, tired of acting like it’s not killing you and tired of watching him like this.

He’s in so much pain. You can hear it straining in every word, tensed in every movement. You’re not allowed to touch him, but the last time you made him check his own temperature, it had gone up again. With how he’s looking, how he’s muttering to himself under his breath, you’re willing to bet it’s gone up another handful of degrees.

Dean’s going to die, if he doesn’t deal with this. And if he dies, you’re not going to deal with it.

You don’t want to think about what you’ll become, if he goes. You might be the one that turns into a ghost, haunting this goddamn hotel room and growing up the walls like that mold. A shell of a person, caught in a million what-ifs, her heart ash in the wind with his body.

Dean wants to be done with this.

You’re not done with him.

You swipe right on Emma.

For an hour, you let him keep moping and groaning. You flirt with Emma for him, because you’re the best friend in the world, and pretend you can’t see him trying to move a pillow between his legs to offer extra pressure.

“Dean.” You say softly, and he grunts.

“Baby, I need you not to talk-“

“You can take it out.” You mutter, keeping your focus on Emma’s texts. “If you need that. I’m a big girl, I- I won’t mind.”

That’s a lie through more than just your teeth. If he starts touching himself in front of you, all the poetic fawning about how your love is killing you won’t be dramatic anymore. Your heart will beat right out of your ribs, your head will get so light you’ll float away, your need for him will become so consuming you’ll either fall to your knees and open your mouth for him to use, or simply just explode.

But if it helps him. You’ll do anything to help him, even if it’s searing the most sinful, impossible image into your head for the rest of your life.

Dean with his cock in his hand, head thrown back, beating himself right next to you. Maybe moaning under his breath, thrusting up into his fist, accidentally looking at you as he cums, mouth hanging open and eyes hooded as thick white ropes paint the sheets-

“No.” He grunts, and you blink.

“It’s okay-“

“No. I‘m not doin’ that to you.”

You swallow, heated shame rushing through you. “I- I could leave the room-“

“No, don’t-“ He almost shouts your name, flipping over suddenly.

Looking at you.

His eyes are almost black with lust, his face red and slack, expression desperate. He hisses—the movement likely too much—but still reaches out a shaking hand, like he’s going to try and grab you.

“Don’t go, just- Fuckin’-“ His words trail off, eyes locked on your face, and another moan escapes his lips.

You push up on your knees, fear clenching at your heart. “Dean-“

“’m fine-“

“You’re not fine-“

“I’m- Son of a bitch-“ His eyes widen on yours then slam shut. His hand curls into a taut fist, face pulling in pain, and that’s enough.

“Fine. Don’t masturbate, see if I care.”

He says your name, low and rough, and you shake your head. 

“You’re not fine, you fucking idiot. You’re dying.” You push to your feet, grabbing his phone from the bed.

Emma’s very nice. Nice in the kind of way that’s going to make you hate her, and you feel sort of bad. She was doomed to your loathing from the moment she swiped right.

But she’s going to help. She’s going to save Dean, and you’ll offer her grace for that.

Dean’s eyes had opened, when he heard you moving. He’s looking at you like a lost street dog, opening his mouth to say something that only comes out in a panting groan of your name.

Whatever protests he has, you won’t hear them. He’s not allowed to die.

“Get up.” You snap, tossing his clothing onto his face. “Get dressed. I’m starting the car in ten minutes, and if you’re not there, I’m coming back and you’re having sex with me.”

You don’t look over your shoulder to see his reaction. The sounds of torment leaving his chest are bad enough.

It hurts. It cuts deeper than a blade, the idea that he detests the idea of sex with you that much. You’re good at sex. You’ve gotten raving reviews, you’re batting a hundred, flawless reports and a hundred percent customer satisfaction rate, even if you don’t really enjoy most of it yourself. Most people you have sex with don’t manage to make you cum, and when they do it’s a tiny little shudder through your body that you forget about in five minutes.

Dean witDean would be lucky to have sex with you. You’d worship him. You’d get on your knees and let him use you until he was leaking out of every hole. You’d let him fuck himself back into you, you’d let him throw you around, you’d do anything-

It’s probably a good thing your threat works. Dean stumbles out of the motel right at the nine-minute mark, pallid and flushed all at once, hunched in pain and wearing a massive raincoat over his jacket to hide the boner.

You never would’ve forgiven yourself, for taking advantage of him like that. It’s better like this, no matter how much it hurts.

You smile when he gets into the car. “Nice fashion statement-“

“Shut up.” He grumbles, glaring out at the road. “Where’re we goin’.”

“A bar.”

He makes a sour expression. “Why.”

“Because you have a date. With Emma the nurse.”

Dean goes dead quiet. He tenses next to you—your elbows brushing for a split second, before he recoils like your skin is coated in toxins—works his jaw, then shakes his head.

You sigh. ‘Dean-“

“No. I told you, I’m not doin’ that.“

“Yes, you are.”

“No-“

“Yes!” You slam the brakes harder than you mean to, as you approach a stop sign.

You expect Dean to snap about you being careful with his baby. Maybe try to make a joke about how maybe the frustration is rubbing off on you, or argue about how this is his dumb choice to make.

And it is. But he made the wrong choice, and you are not letting him die.

He mutters your name, and it’s the same way he said it earlier. Soft. Almost pleading.

You take a deep breath, and twist to look him in his pretty, glazed and dilated eyes.

“You’re going into that bar. You’re going to flirt with Emma. If she asks if you have a fever, you tell her you work construction or something, and you’d just been at a shift. You run hot. Nothing for her to worry about.” You drum your fingers on the wheel, forcing down the lump in your throat. “You’re going to tell her she’s pretty. You’re going to call a fake uber, and I’m going to drive you to the motel. You’re going to fuck Emma until you’re cured, and then we can go home. Understand?”

Dean’s throat bobs. He opens his mouth, a glint in his eyes like he’s going to argue. You don’t give him the chance.

“No. You’re doing this. If you don’t, you’ll-“ You cut yourself off, pressing your lips in a tight line. You won’t cry. You won’t.

Dean says your name, and he has to stop doing that. It’s too gentle. Too close to something real.

“You’re not allowed to- To go.” You look out at the empty road, praying the night is hiding the glossy tears, pricking at your eyes. “I can’t- I won’t- You’re not allowed to.”

You raise your chin, your breathing too shaky to speak for a moment. The silence hangs in the car, even the sound of Baby’s engine not enough to drown out your thoughts.

“Okay?” You snap, trying to sound stronger than you are.

Dean lets out a low sound, but nods. “Okay.” Then, under his breath. “For you.”

You pretend you don’t hear. There’s too much weight in those words, and you don’t have the time to pick them apart, don’t have the energy to ask him what the fuck that means.

Instead, you just give yourself the easiest out. Dean does love you as a friend. You’ve never doubted that for a second. He’s doing it for you because you’re the one demanding he go have sex.

What a horrible friend you are, making him get laid so he doesn’t die.

You huff a dry, pitiful, laugh to yourself. Your drink swirls in its glass, untouched and mocking. You ordered it when you got here, about thirty minutes ago. Made Dean take a possibly dangerous dose of Advil and Tylenol to make him lucid, then hidden yourself in a booth on the other side of the bar. Where you can see Dean and Emma, but only Dean can see you. He’s supposed to give you a thumbs up, when he’s about to call the ride. Right now, he seems so engrossed in her that you’re worried he’s going to forget.

Emma’s pretty. Just as pretty as her pictures. She lit up, when she spotted Dean, and you’d felt a sickening, loud hatred take root in your chest.

Everyone should be happy to see Dean, but none of them are happy like you’re happy. You know him. He’s the love of your life, and your joy is born of that, not just seeing a pretty man. You love seeing him because you know you’re going to be safe. Because he’s going to smile and the world is going to be alright, you’re going to talk and he’ll listen and look at you like there’s no one else in the world, he’s going to make jokes and you’re going to laugh.

But he’s making Emma laugh right now. She’s got one of those high, insufferable giggles, and you’re being needlessly mean but you hate her. You have a giggle like that. It comes out for Dean all the time, and it has a little snort on the end that you hated until Dean casually mentioned that he liked it, and you’ve felt like the most beautiful thing in the world.

It doesn’t really matter though, whose laugh Dean likes more.

Emma’s the one going home with him. You’re being left here.

You focus on ignoring their laughter and voices from the bar. You can’t drink, but you sulk and focus on the music floating through the bar. Your fingers drum on the table, pull at your sleeves, shred three napkins before gripping the cold of the glass like a lifeline. Your vision is going unfocused with envy. Every second you feel the wound in your heart tearing open, an infection of jealousy taking root, and you might actually be about to throw up-

Dean grunts your name, and your eyes shoot up.

He’s standing outside your both, hands in his pockets and a deep scowl on his face. Emma’s not with him. Or at the bar.  

“Where-“

“She left.”

Your mouth falls open. “She left? I- What the fuck happened-“

“I told her to. Wasn’t gonna work out.”

“Dean, you-“ Your voice cracks, every thought in your head getting louder. He’s dying, he’s dying, he’s dying. “You promised-“

“I know.” He’s jaw tics, eyes darting away from yours. “Just couldn’t.”

“Couldn’t what? Couldn’t fuck her? What the hell was wrong with her that somehow doesn’t meet Dean Winchester’s if it’s got a hole standards?”

Dean flinches, and it was a low blow, but right now you don’t care. He’s going to die. Why doesn’t he fucking care that he’s going to die and leave you.

“Come on.” You snap, slamming a few bills on the table and shooting up. “We’re chasing her. You’re apologizing.”

He frowns. “No, I’m not-“

“Then we’re going back on the dating app, and finding someone else.”

“I don’t want someone else.”

You roll your eyes, shoving the bar door open and marching to the car. You have Emma’s number. You’ll do the apology yourself if you have to.

Dean’s stumbling after you into the parking lot, and you can’t stop yourself from looking over your shoulder every few seconds. Just to be sure he hasn’t hurt himself. He calls your name, voice pained, and you freeze. Turn slowly, your arms crossed over your chest.

“I’m not doin’ this.” He snaps, stalking towards you in uneven steps. “You can bitch and whine about it all you want, sweetheart, I’m not fucking that girl.”

“I’m bitching and whining?” You laugh, the sound crude even to your ears. “I’m not the one who decided the best time to become a fucking celibate was when he got hit with a sex curse. You’re the one acting like a fucking child here-“

“I’m not acting like a child-“

“Then you’re acting like an idiot!” You scream, taking a large step forward.

Dean goes rigid. Takes a long step back, like you’re poisonous. It just fuels the burning, exhausted fire, kindled by every bit of fear, of love, of fury that he’s putting you through this with almost no remorse.

“It’s not like you have to marry her!” You shout, barbed wire tightening around your throat. “It’s just sex! Fuck, you don’t even have to look at her, it’s- I don’t understand why this is so fucking hard for you all of a sudden, it’s not like you’re some virgin fucking pussy-“

He mutters your name, a low warning, and you ignore it.

“I’ve spent all day trying to save you, Dean! I was going to be your- Your fucking sex chauffer, and I haven’t been complaining, but you can’t do me one fucking favor and have sex with a pretty girl?”

You take another step forward, and this time he isn’t fast enough. You jab his chest, and he stumbles back like you shot him, eyes panicked and wide on yours.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?!” You shriek, shoving him again. “Do you want to die? Are you trying to fucking kill me? Do you hate me, Dean? Is that what this is?”

He rasps your name, and you shake your head.

“I’ve been trying so- So hard to save you. I- I told you that I can’t- If you-“ Your words are getting choked, and the pain is too heavy to just shake off. “You’re not allowed to go! I told you, I won’t let you, but you- You fucking hate me-“

You try to shove him again, hot tears burning down your face, but this time Dean’s ready. He catches your wrist, and you try to pull back but he’s got more strength left than you thought.

He squeezes his hold on you, stalking forward. A fire lights in your core, at the intensity of his gaze. Unyielding and hot, searing into you as your back hits the Impala. He towers over you, jaw clenched, nostrils flaring as he takes in your open mouth and slack expression. You don’t know how you expected him to react, but it wasn’t this. This makes your knees weak, your heart hitting a dangerous pace at the top of your chest.

You can smell his cologne, smell his. A salt, deep musk that’s just Dean, that might as well be a drug for how it’s making you freeze. Your free hand moves to press flat against his chest, but you don’t push.

He grunts, his muscles rippling like you just threw a rock into water. He seizes up, head bowing, and there’s nowhere for you to hide from him.

Dean’s tongue darts over his lips, and your breath hitches.

“Don’t do that.” He grunts, and you just nod.

Lean a little closer, until the heat of your breath is fanning over your cheeks. Your eyes flutter, and when you risk meeting his gaze he looks almost predatory. The hunger in his eyes sends a pleasant shiver down your spine, your thighs pressing together, and it’s hot, so hot-

“I don’t hate you.”

You blink at him. You’d forgotten about that. “Dean-“

“I don’t.” He snaps. “Don’t fuckin’- Never think that, alright? I don’t hate you.”

“Then why are you doing this to me?” You whisper desperately. “Why couldn’t you just go have sex with Emma-“

He shakes his head. “I don’t want Emma.”

“Then let me find you someone you want, please-“

“No.”

“Why-“

“Cause I don’t want any of them.” He hisses, your foreheads bumping as he leans further down. “I don’t want some random fuckin’ chick you pull for me, I don’t want to fuck her, don’t wanna touch her, hell, I don’t even want to goddamn look at her.”

You take a shaking breath, a haze overtaking your head. “Dean, you need someone-“

“You think I don’t know that?” He pushes his hips forward, and you can feel it.

His cock, straining through his jeans, pressing against your thigh. You bite down a moan, completely still in his arms, trying to make him understand with just your eyes. It’s not fair for him to do this to you. He doesn’t understand, this is all you’ve ever wanted and he’s just taunting you with it-

“I can feel it, sweetheart.” He mutters, rolling slightly against you, making that fire in your core threaten to sweep you away. “I feel myself dyin’. My muscles are hurting like I ran a mile, I’m sweating through ten damn layers, think the fever is getting me so bad I might be about to go fucking crazy. But I didn’t even notice ‘till you started getting all worried. You know why?”

It takes you a second to realize you’re supposed to answer. You barely shake your head, before he’s squeezing your wrist, leaning down to whisper in your ear.

“’Cause of you.” He breathes, voice soft and dangerous. “I always feel like an animal when I see you. Spent the whole car ride back from that damn house wanting to hump your leg and didn’t think twice. You just do that to me, and you got no fuckin’ idea.”

You gasp slightly, turning your head to look him in the eyes. They’re hooded, almost feral on yours. You’re so dizzy, you’re worried you might be walking through a dream.

“De- Dean-“

“You can keep looking for some random girl for me, if it’s gonna make you feel better. But I won’t fuck ‘em. I can’t.” His lips ghost over yours, and you lean forward.

“Dean-“

“Sex barely even works for me anymore, baby.” He mutters, tongue flicking over his lips. “Nothin’ does. I get kicked out of bed ‘cause I call your name. So just fuckin’-“ He squeezes your wrist again, drawing slowly back. “Stop. If you wanna give me a dying wish, cut it out and let me go in some damn peace.”

You gape at him as he pulls away, his grip going slack on your wrist.

Dying wish.

He still thinks he’s allowed to die.

“What- What if you fuck me?” You say, so quiet you barely even hear yourself.

Dean’s head jerks up, and he says your name with a harsh, unforgiving snap. “No. I’m not askin’ you to do that just because I’m some perv who can’t get it up-“

“You’ve got it up.” You smile at up, pressing your knee up into his crotch.

He groans, doubling back down so you’re caged against the Impala again. “Baby, don’t fuckin’- I’m not bending on this shit, alright. I’m not gonna be some pity fuck-“

“It’s not a pity fuck, I’m saving your life-“

“I told you, no-“

“Do you not want to have sex with me?” You challenge, and Dean gives you a pleading, wrathfully frustrated look.

“Don’t ask stupid questions, course I wanna have- Fuck-“ He groans, eyes fluttering as his brow presses against yours. “Yeah. Yeah I want to. But- I won’t ask you to. So no.”

You swallow. It’s probably the fever making his tongue so loose. He’s so hot it almost burns to be this close, but that might just be Dean.

It’s always just Dean. And he has to know that.

“What if I want to have sex with you?”

Dean grunts, shaking his head. “Don’t say that if you don’t mean it-“

“I mean it.” You fist your hand in his shirt, dragging him a little closer. “Do you?”

He stares at you again. Scans over your face like he’s looking for one clue that you’re just indulging him, that there’s a single doubt running through your head.

There isn’t. Your breathing is uneven, but your heart is going too fast for it to be anything else. You’re flushed with an unending, arduous hunger to just have him, however he needs you.

Slowly, testing the waters, Dean slides a hand onto your neck. You raise your chin, holding his gaze. He squeezes slightly, and you lean into him, tugging on his shirt for more.

His thumb moves up, dragging over your lower lip. You part your lips, and his nostrils flare.

Dean pushes his thumb slowly between your lips, and you close them obediently around him. Your eyes flutter as you suck, letting your tongue circle around the thick finger, tilting your head and letting your eyes flutter. He pushes a little deeper and you moan. Your hand flies up to grab his wrist, holding him against you, and Dean groans. His eyes are clearer than they’ve been all night, shining with something like awe.

You smile, grinding up into his torso and humming with pleasure.

Dean mouth hangs slack.

“Jesus fuckin’-“

He cuts himself off, pulling his thumb out with a pop and grabbing your jaw. You giggle happily for a second, and Dean swallows the sound, crashing his mouth against yours.

You’ve pictured this kiss a million times, a million ways, almost every night since you met him. Somehow, this is better than any slow, fairytale kiss with swelling music and sunlight hitting both your faces like a spotlight.

Dean’s not taking his time. He’s kissing you like you’re the last thing he knows, the only thing he’s ever wanted. Like a man who’s been starving himself, finally allowed a feast and wasting no precious seconds on manners. It’s urgent and forceful, words he can’t say being pushed down your throat with his tongue and spit. You kiss him back with everything you have, your fingers digging into his chest through his shirts, your head spinning as you neglect breath just to taste a little bit more whiskey and salt on his tongue. But nothing you throw at him Dean can’t seem to double.

You yank at his shirt, and he pulls your hair back. You try to grind up again, and he grabs your leg, hiking it over his hip. You grab his face, trying to kiss harsher, give more, and Dean slams down like a tidal wave, dominating your mouth with unforgiving need.

A moan escapes your throat, your body going limp in his arms, and he grunts. Ruts up into your core once, making your legs spread in a shameless invitation.

Dean grunts, yanking back like someone pulled him on a leash.

He stares at you for a long moment, his thumb finding its way back to your cheek. He smears a bit of spit over your cheek, and you tilt your head into the touch.

“You’re sure-“

“Yes.”

He nods tightly, takes a heavy breath, and leans away. “Get in the car.”

It’s a short, curt order. You don’t think twice before you obey.

You scramble into the driver’s seat, fumbling with the keys and slamming them into the port like you’re about to enter a car chase. Dean’s barely in the car before the engine is rumbling and you’re reversing out of the spot, gripping the wheel with white knuckles. It’s happening. It’s happening.

“Easy, baby.” He chuckles, the sound raspy and sending more shivers through your body. “You that eager-“

“Yes.” You snap, and Dean hums.

A light, almost taunting hand lands on your thigh. You glance over and find him palming at his crotch, his eyes wholly black and mouth hanging open. It’s an animalistic expression, his chest rising and falling at a rapid pace, and when you murmur his name he barely seems to hear.

His fingers dance up the inside of your leg, and you take an unsteady breath, spreading your legs wider. A deep, rumbling sound leaves Dean’s chest, those infernal fingers curling on the sensitive spot where your leg meets your core. Little electric shock rush through your body, and that’s just through the jeans.

“Dean.” You whisper, not even managing to make your voice firm. “I- I’m driving-“

“So look at the road.” He growls, knuckles brushing against your groin.

You bite your lower lip, and nod. It’s not worth arguing with him, and if you don’t think you can focus, you’ll just pull over. You told him you were sure. Told yourself that whatever he gave you, you’d be happy.

You just didn’t expect him to be borderline feral. The palming you could deal with. You expected.

This is different.

Dean scoots further, and you’re about to mumble something about a seatbelt when his lips brush the curve of your neck. You inhale sharply, gripping the wheel for dear life. Dean hums, his tongue flicking over a pulse point. His fingers start to crawl up to your abdomen, his mouth getting more insistent on your neck.

He nips at a pulse point before sucking on his, his tongue flat on your skin and a low sound leaving his chest when you lean back to grant him further access. He kisses a sloppy line up your throat as his fingers dance on your stomach, and you’re starting to get a little dizzy.

“De, be- Be careful-“

You cut yourself off with a breathy gasp, as his mouth latches behind your ear and he pulls down your zipper. He bites softly before sucking another bruise, popping the button open and slipping his hand into your pants.

“I- Fuck-” You tip your head back, hopelessly trying to keep your eyes on the road, and this is not a safe way to drive. You really should be shoving him away, but there’s no one on the road.

And with how he’s barely even speaking—just touching—you’re a little worried it might take extra effort to drag him out of the haze of the curse and push him away. He seems to be blinded to anything that isn’t you. His mouth drags back down your jaw as his fingers brush over your clothed pussy, and your whole body shakes.

He hums, leaving open kisses on your cheek and hairline. “Sensitive, sweetheart. Been a long time?”

You flush, and Dean starts to gather the fabric of your panties best he can through your pants. He drags it up, bunching it around your pussy, and another moan slips out from the pressure.

“Answer me-“

“Maybe.” You mumble, forcing yourself not to grind into his hand. “You- You know I don’t do that-“

“Do what?” He presses the fabric deeper between your pussy lips. “Don’t fuck?”

“Dean-“

“How long’s it been.” His words are hot against your neck, demanding and possessive. “Who touched you last, baby, who shoved their fingers in this pussy-“

“I- I don’t remember-“

“That’s fuckin’ right.” He pulls your panties tighter against your clit. “’Cause they don’t’ fuckin’ matter, sweet girl. No one else is ever gonna touch you like this. I’m gonna make you soak my fingers, my face, my cock, and it’s gonna feel so good in that smart, pretty mouth,” he kisses the corner of your lips, and only the wheel in your hands stops you from turning and claiming his mouth again. “That’s always fucking teasing me, it ain’t gonna remember a single word but my name. You want that, baby? Wanna be my perfect fuckin’ slut?”

Jesus Christ, this is worse than the not speaking. If this is a dream—because you’ve had them like this before—you never want to wake up.

He yanks his hand away, leaving your underwear bunched up in your cunt, and slaps your pussy over the jeans. Your mouth falls open and you lean forward, lightning surging through your whole body.

“Oh my- Dean-“

“I told you, answer-“

“Yes, I- Yes, please-“ Your words fall off into a moan, as Dean shoves his hand back against you, this time dragging the panties away and plunging two fingers deep into your pussy. “Dean-“

“That’s right.” He mutters, crooking them deep against a sensitive spot. “That’s my girl, you’re so fuckin’ wet- This all for me?”

“Mmm- Mhm-“

“Fuck yeah it is.” He starts his attack on your neck again, only speaking between kisses, his fingers scissoring inside your pussy. “So damn tight, know you’re gonna take my cock so good, bet you taste like heaven- Fuck, I wanna taste this pussy, wanted to taste it for years-“

His own words fall into a moan, and for a second you think he’s just out of dirty talk, but he’s still mumbling incoherently against your skin.

Then you risk another look at his body, and the hand that isn’t in your pants has pulled out his cock.

And fuck, if it isn’t the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen. Thick and long, but not painful looking. Throbbing and twitching as he jerks himself, the tip leaking and slick with pre-cum. It takes effort to look at the road and not just stare at the rock-hard, veiny marvel of a specimen between his legs.

You don’t know why you’re surprised. Dean’s a specimen himself.

He’s somehow already figured out how to finger you in such a confining position. His wrist has twisted, letting his thumb drag lazy circles around your clit, his fingers giving shallow, rough thrusts that make his fingers taunt your g-spot. Never really fully touching it, but sending shivers through your whole body.

“Oh- Oh-“ You have to take deep breaths to keep your head clear, your whole body winding tight with the arousal he’s pulling out of you, more and more every second. “Dean-“

“Shh.” He grunts, biting right under your jaw, and you squeak. “Just feel it. Sweet fuckin’ pussy, gushing around my fingers-“

You moan, loud and lewd, his deep voice not doing anything to help you keep it together.

It’s a miracle you make it to the motel. It’s a shit parking job—you’re definitely over the lines—but you’re both alive.

You barely shift the gears before Dean’s pouncing on you like an animal. Whatever the ride was, he still seemed to be showing restraint. Now that you’re safe, all bets are off. 

A squeal leaves you, as he flips your body. Pressing your back to the window and prowling over your body, slamming his mouth over yours and kissing until you’re slumping against the glass. Your hand flies up to grab the back of his neck, your hips rolling up to where his knee is pressed between your thighs. Your eyes dart down when you pull apart for a single, ragged breath—Dean pulling your lip between his teeth, and kissing your nose and cheek like breathing is really no longer his concern—and you whimper at the sight of him, still erect and hanging out of his pants.

Dean drags your chin back up, searing his lips over yours, and you melt. He’s a good kisser. And you knew that, but it’s not like anything you’ve felt before. It’s like you’re trading souls, like he’s trying to brand you with wandering hands and lips.

When you pull away again, your dizzy from the pleasure and force of him. You whine at the loss as he leans away, but Dean just squeezes your waist and smirks.

You hear a rip, as he claws your pants and underwear down your legs. You don’t get a chance to adjust before he’s shoving your knee up against the bench, dragging the other one over his shoulder as he ducks between your legs.

“Dean- Shit-“ Your breathing gets shallow as his breath fans over your pussy. “We- We’re supposed to be doing things that are- Like blowjobs-“

It’s so hard to argue with him when he’s between your legs. The sight alone is almost enough to tip you into a frenzy. His shining eyes looking up at you, his full lips grazing your inner thigh, leaving teasing kisses everywhere but where you’re aching for him. You run your fingers through his short, soft hair, trying to get his attention. He just makes a low sound like a purr, and presses his mouth over your clit.

You almost fly out of your skin. He’s making out with the sensitive nerve like they’re your mouth, his tongue dragging and pressing, his hands on your thighs kneading with every suck and graze of his teeth. All you can do is cover your mouth and try to stifle your moan.

Dean withdraws, and you make a strangled sound of frustration. He can’t just do that, it’s not fair-

“No doin’ that.” He grunts, dragging your hand from your mouth. “Wanna hear it.”

You nod weakly, but still try one more time to remind him who this is about. “Dean, it- it’s supposed to be stuff that’s good for you-“

“This is good for me.” He mutters, letting go of your thigh over his shoulder to let his fingers drag back over your fluttering pussy. “Look at you.” He mutters with pure awe. “Responsive, wet little pussy. Bet you’d like it when I do this.”

He pushes one finger knuckle-deep inside you, and you yank on his hair with delight.

“Yeah, you do. How about,” he drags it out, then shoves it back in, and your head tips back against the window, eyes screwing shut.

“Dean, Dean, please-“

He groans, adding a second finger and repeating the slamming motion. Once, twice, a third time. His tongue flicks against your clit on that last one, and your eyes roll back in your head.

“Dean-“

Another deep sound, another flick, and you’re seconds from begging like a whore when he snaps.

Dean wraps his mouth back around your clit, resuming his ministrations from before with twice the fervor. His fingers pick up their pace, wet sounds filling the car as he finger-fucks you into oblivion.

The curse seems to have it’s full hold on him. He’s borderline feral. You’ve never had a man who eats pussy like he’s having a five-star meal, like it really is good for him. Sometimes he just pulls his fingers out and drags his tongue down your cunt, angling his head to press his tongue deep inside you and working his jaw until your toes are curling. His nose bumps your clit and his stubble scrapes your thighs, his free hand squeezing your thigh as he devours.

“Oh- Oh fuck-“ You let out a vulgar, lustful sound as he drags you further forward against his mouth, the pleasure rushing through your body. “Dean- God, just like that-“

He drags his mouth back up to your swollen, neglected clit, and those two fingers pump back into your hole. It’s somehow better and worse, and a shriek rips from your mouth as he spanks your pussy, then resumes his rhythm.

“Dean, please- Please, fuck- please-“

You’re already babbling, the tension in your lower abdomen so tight it’s almost painful. Your body is shaking with the stimulation, and Dean’s working you like an instrument. He finds every hyper-needy spot that makes you moan his name and playing it like a professional. You’re kept right on the edge for what feels like a million years, his fingers and mouth switching in and out, begging and begging as he turns you into an empty-headed, drooling wound-up mess.

Then he finally lets you over the edge.

Dean pushes his fingers right against your g-spot, and rubs. Your body seizes up, eyes crossing as his tongue flicks against your clit, and the heat built up in your gut explodes.

You shake as your orgasm rips through your pussy, your spine, every nerve in your body glowing with a deep, sex-addled bliss. Your clit is swollen between Dean’s lip as he drags you through it, your pussy gushing around his fingers and fingers yanking at his hair.

“Fuck, yes- Yes-“ You moan, legs locking around Dean’s head, and he groans against your pussy.

When it pulls another lewd sound from your chest, he does it again, slowly easing his fingers out and starting to clean up the mess between your thighs. He licks and hums, the sensation making your oversensitive body spasm every time he finds one of those spots.

It’s not certain you’re going to be able to walk to the motel room, when he finally pulls away.

But there’s a gleaming light in his eyes, that makes you think it’s really not going to matter.

Dean’s a wreck. His face is flushed, chest heaving, cock still hard but coated in a white stain that tells you he’s not close to working off the curse.

“Oh, you’re gonna be so mad about that when you’re better.” You mumble, seeing the stains on his precious bench, and Dean chuckles.

“I’ll get over it.”

You giggle, and Dean leans over you again, kissing you slow and deep. One orgasm seems to have cleared his head for a seconds, enough that he’s gently rubbing your bare, tender pussy, a soothing touch that’s really only working you up more.

“Love that sound.” He mutters, and you frown against his lips.

“Wha-“

“Your laugh.” He sucks on your upper lip, wrapping an arm around your waist. “Love it so much. Don’t think I’ve told you that before.”

He hasn’t. It somehow makes you flush more than any of the dirty things he’d been hissing in your ear before.

“You’re telling me a lot of new things.” You manage to mumble, and he huffs in amusement.

“Blame it on the curse.”

You giggle again, and his face shines like he won a prize.

“Son of a bitch,” his eyes are already darkening again, voice getting thick with the curse-driven hunger. “I love you, you know that?”

You can only gape at him. He must not have said what you thought  he said. “What?”

“You heard me.” He presses his brow against yours, reaching up to cup your cheek. “I love you.”

He rasps your name, and you blink away tears.

“Dean, if it’s just the curse-“

“It’s not. It’s-“

He slides his mouth against yours and this is the romantic kiss you always pictured. Slow and devoted as he takes the time to memorize you, to bask in the glow of your heart as you shine with love beneath him.

“You know it, right?” His voice is gravelly, his body pressing firmer over yours. He’s going back under. He can probably feel it. “That I mean it?”

He’s still asking—almost begging—you to tell him that you know.

“I know.” You mumble. “I- I love you too.”

Dean goes rigid over your body, and you blink up at him, as nervous as a doe in headlights. Just like the kiss, you’ve dreamed of saying it. Pictured it somewhere romantic, your makeup perfect and the breeze running through your hair. Dean falling to his knees after, kissing your hands before sweeping you off your feet.

Instead you’re lying in the car, cum staining your tangled legs, everything in you ruined from being eaten out by the sinful mouth that haunts your dreams. Dean’s hovering over you, tongue darting over those same lips—shining with your arousal, making your thighs rub together under him—and your holding onto his flannel, both your clothing stuck to your skin from sweat.

He doesn’t fall to his knees. He just looks at you like he’s not sure it’s a dream either.

At least he still sweeps you off your feet.

Dean moves like a machine. You’re not even sure what’s happening until you’re being hit by the wind, dragged down the bench by your ankles and wrapped in one of his jackets to preserve your modesty. His dick has been hastily shoved back into his pants—the fly still fucking down—and you’re about to tell him you’d at least like your underwear before he’s picking it up and shoving it into his pocket.

“Dean!” You gasp, and he just grunts, sweeping you fully into his arms.

“Mine.” He mutters under his breath, looking around the parking lot like he’s still trying to orient himself. “I- I gotta, fuck-“

Gently, you reach up and turn his chin in the direction of your motel room. “Over there, De.” You mumble, and he nods tightly.

He’s fully back under. You don’t bother to struggle or try and convince him that you can walk, because you’re not even sure you could. It’s not worth distressing Dean over anyway.

Despite his fever soaring and gaze being fogged by the curse, he manages you gently. When you get into the room you’re tossed on the bed and pinned back down for his mouth to work you open again, but the brusing grip is full of care, his mouth worshipful on your pussy. After that he’s rising over your body, ripping clothing like it’s a personal offense on his sensibilities and descending over you with another feral growl.

Your legs are shoved apart, but he rubs a hand over your calves almost reverently. Staring at your glistening, abused pussy with a look of pride and affection, gaze slowly dragging up your flushed breasts and thoroughly marked neck to meet yours.

You give him a honeyed, coaxing smile. You’re his to take, if he wants it.

He makes a low sound from his chest, and starts to kiss up your body. You gasp when his lips wrap around one of your peaked nipples, sucking gently until your grinding up into him. His hand splays over your stomach, gently guiding you back down, and you whine desperately.

“Patience.” He hums, kissing over your breast before switching to the other nipple. “Gonna take care of you. Fuck- You’re so beautiful, so fuckin’-“

Dean moans to himself, and you whimper his name, yanking on his hair.

But there’s no rushing him. He plays with your tits until he’s had his fill—when they’re swollen and you’re arching into every touch—then works back down to your pussy. Tasting your arousal, soaked and messy and almost shamefully dripping down his hand when he touches you.

He doesn’t seem to mind it at all though. 

“Messy girl.” He grunts, twisting one finger inside of you. “Think you’re ready for some cock, aren’t you. Gonna take me, princess? Show me how much you love me?”

You blink at him through tears, on the brink of screaming his he doesn’t let you cum again soon. When you nod it’s like a bobblehead, and you only remember his orders from before at the last second.

“Yes.” You gasp. “Yes, Dean, please-“

Again, he moves.

You’re almost a ragdoll in his arms. A ragdoll that he moves like you’re threaded from gold, tossing you around and gripping your hips so hard you’ll have a handprint in the morning, but kissing over every hickey on your neck and muttering words of low, tender praise every second.

“Good girl.” He mutters as he drags his cock between your pussy lips. “Good fuckin’ girl, already cockdrunk and stupid for me, aren’t you. Love taking you like this, looking at you all pretty and dumb-“

You whine, head lolling to the side. Dean slides two fingers into your mouth and you suck on them like candy, taking anything he’ll offer.

He growls, dick catching on your entrance, and you shiver, looking up at him under fluttering eyes.

Dean drags you up like you weigh nothing, slowly sitting you down on his massive cock, and every thought but his name is driven from your head.

He’s thick. So think you almost don’t think you can take it, but your whine of protest is only met by cooing, filthy praise in your ears and careful circles around your clit. You don’t know how he can still be so far into the curse and able to restrain himself from rutting you like a beast.

Probably because it’s Dean. That feels like explanation enough.

It takes a moment for him to bottom out, and when he does you’re sure you’ve never been this full. He’s hitting places inside of you that you hadn’t known existed, dropping you into a pool of pleasure that makes your breathing stuttered, your nails scratching over his shoulders as you try to keep yourself from floating away.

Dean kisses you, hot and deep. You moan against him and he grabs your hips, starting to roll you up and down on his cock. You can tell he’s experimenting again, trying to figure out where he hits the deepest, working you open until you’re riding his cock smoothly your head falling back as pants of his name leave your mouth.

It’s paradise. Your toes are curling with every twitch of his cock inside you, every rush of heat when he slams extra hard and hits your cervix. It takes him takes him some time to decide how he wants you , and you’d laugh at what he settles on if the air wasn’t being fucked from your lungs.

Dean cums while holding you in his lap, his thrusts getting short and a groan of your name falling from his mouth when he ruts up, his cock pumping hot release inside of you and your own orgasm rolling through your body like an electrical storm. But then you’re being picked up and flipped around so your back is pressed to his chest, his arm locking around your neck and his hand returning to your clit as his fucks up into you. Then you’re moved forward onto the mattress, Dean turning your face so he can hear your moans and keeping your ass into the air as he slams from behind, his balls slapping against your clit and bringing you back up to the edge.

You’re in his lap again, folded under him with your knees to your chest, rolled on top of him so he can play with your tits and watch you ride.

Every time he cums, you’re thrown into a new position and held there until you both fall back over the edge. You’ve never been wrecked like this before, your head empty, pussy drenching his cock as he spills and claims every spot on your body.

“Dirty fuckin’ girl,” he growls into your ear from below you, dragging his fingers down your inner thigh, gathering his release on his fingers. “So pretty, bouncing on this cock, my pretty fuckin’ baby-“

“Dean.” You whine, scraping at his chest. “Dean, feels so good, so fucking good-“

“I know.” He coos. “Made for me, getting so fucking stupid on my cock- Open.”

He slaps your cheek lightly, and your lips part. Dean feeds you his cum, other hand rubbing up and down your spine, and you grind down onto him with need.

“Good girl, fuckin’- Christ you’re so good-“ His thrusts get shorter, brutal and uneven. “You’re mine, this sweet pussy is mine, gonna- Gonna fuckin’ worship you, fuck-“

He drills up into you, taking his hand away to bounce you how he likes.

You both cum, Dean calling your name and throwing his head back, watching you under hooded, still hungry eyes.

There’s a second to catch your breath, as he palms your breast. Pinches a nipple, rolling it between his fingers, watching how you arch into his touch.

“You like that?” He grunts, and you hum.

“Feels good.”

“Damn right it does.” He grabs the other one, working them in tandem.

You whine his name, looking at him under pleading lashes.

Dean groans. “Fuck, baby…”

He’s hard again, and you’re being moved into another position.

By the time he finds one he wants to keep, you’re a disaster of a woman. Making sounds that are supposed to be his name, boneless below him and still trying to chase more, even as your body turns into a raw, live nerve.

Dean’s got you under him again, his body pressed over yours, cock plunging in and out of your pussy at a lazy, torturous pace. You’ve been like this for what must be an hour, maybe a day, maybe fifty years. Tears of pleasure are stained on your cheeks, there’s a wet sound with every thrust as his cum leaks out of your stuffed hole, and Dean’s praise is becoming more and more lucid.

“I love you.” He mutters, and you moan, turning your head to try and kiss him.

“Dean…”

“I know.” He mutters. “I know, baby, but you’re doin’ so good. Feeling better, almost done, just gotta-“

He kisses over your face, finally capturing your lips as he starts to rut, pounding into your swollen g-spot over and over.

You barely have the energy to arch up, when you cum. You breathe out his name, pussy clenching as you feel that last bit of his cum squirt into you, and a wet, hot feeling floods your pussy as your vision goes white.

“Love you.” Dean’s still muttering as you float through the haze, his lips pressed over yours. “Loved you forever, never- Never thought-“

His voice cracks, and you know the curse is over. He’s not getting hard again inside of you, not trying to chase more.

Just pressing his face into the crook of your neck and holding you tight, words muffled against your skin.

“Thank you.” He mutters. “Thank you for- For sayin’ it back, even if that wasn’t-“

“It was,” you breathe out. He needs to know. “I love you, Dean. Have for longer.”

He chuckles, squeezing your body, and you smile into the air.

You find the strength to thread your fingers through his hair, and he hums, pressing a sweet kiss to your sensitive skin. You shiver, whining softly, and he chuckles again. Both of you too fucked out to move. You’re not sure you’re going to be able to walk in a straight line for a month.

But it was worth it.

Holding Dean here, so peacefully, was more than worth it.

even when you’ve been on and off with him for years, at this point. even when you picked up the occasional boyfriend. even when you stop seeing him for a few months, only to return out of the blue as if no time had passed at all. even when you got angry or distant. never jealous, michael noted, no matter how hard he tried to get you to be. you only ever got upset with him when he tried to make things out to be more than they were. whenever the l-word got involved. or the g-word. or b-word. (love, girlfriend, boyfriend— it feels like a sin to say them in your presence).

no, there’s nothing you can do to change the fact that he’s deeply, madly, truly in love with you. and there seems to be nothing he can do to change the fact that you’re not, which really bothers him when you’re on one of your distant streaks, like you are now.

he last touched you about three weeks ago. it feels silly, keeping track of a thing like that, but it’s what michael does whenever you stop reaching out. boyfriends have never stopped you from calling him before, but your latest one managed to snag your attention for some time before the break up. now, you’re completely and publicly single. still, you haven’t called him.

“what must i do,” he jots down, “for you to open your heart to me? who must i be?” he can tell himself every morning that he is strong, that he is beautiful, that he is the greatest there ever was and will be, but what’s the point of being any of those things if they’re not enough to win you over? what’s the point of anything if you’re not in love?

after a light huff, he forces himself to set the pen down. god isn’t giving him much to work with outside of his own heartache, and he’d rather not focus on that tonight if he can help it. it would be best if he went to sleep. or, at the very least, if he stared at the ceiling and pretended not to think about you until his body forced him into slumber… the former is what michael tries to do, but the latter is what actually occurs, his eyes transfixed on the texture of the ceiling above him as he recalls the last time he’d been with you.

       it was cloudy outside, that day four weeks ago. you were fresh-faced and radiant, functioning off the high of yet another successful merger or acquisition, your third in a streak at the time. when you first called mid-day to ask michael about dinner, he was still in the studio, and although he’d returned your call ten minutes later, there was a hint of agitation in your voice due to the fact that you had to wait. regardless of right or wrong, he’d apologized. then, he’d accepted your invite.

whenever michael came over to the mansion you called home, a luxurious complex tucked away from most of the city, he always felt the urge to bring flowers. that day, like always, he’d opted not to. flowers were too romantic. a nice bottle of wine does the same thing but more subtly, one of the few semi-romantic gifts he could always get away with giving to you.

shortly after he knocked on the front door, he was greeted by a member of your staff.

“right this way, mr. jackson,” the young blonde had said before leading him through the initial foyer and down a well-lit hall.

framed pictures hung all around them, a sort of tribute to everything you’d ever cared for. pictures of your family were most prominent. pictures of your childhood, your parents… then came smaller pictures of achievements you’d managed for your company, as well as intimate photos with friends. following that came something unexpected: a few pictures of himself.

michael paused almost immediately at the sight of himself. it was a candid of him sometime after the release of off the wall. next to it was an actual record for the album signed (you must’ve bought it from someone— you hadn’t asked him personally for such a gift). a few other pictures of him from thriller and other eras hang around it, a tiny tribute tucked in neatly amongst other personal photos.

“is this new?” he’d asked the woman, gesturing to the wall.

“hm? no, i don’t believe so. she’s quite fond of that album, sir,” the blonde replied before guiding him further down. “this way, if you don’t mind.”

you were already at the dining table by the time he’d made it there, dressed beautifully in one of your favorite gowns. upon seeing him, your face lit up, and you’d stood before your mouth could get out a single word in greeting. a few steps forward were taken by both of you until you were pressed together in a hug, squeezing tight before letting go. after flattening out your dress, you sat back down; after adjusting his shirt, he sat down opposite you.

conversation started immediately following that.

“i’m glad you could make it. this is as much a reunion as it is a celebration,” you’d said, grinning, “i feel like i haven’t seen you in weeks.”

….it’d been six days.

“i know,” he agreed, nodding as if you’d been apart for a lifetime. “but i’m so happy to see you again. i wouldn’t have missed this for anything, you know.” that, at least, was true.

“for dinner, i decided to try making one of your favorites,” you started, your hands moving as you spoke. michael’s always found it charming, how animated you could be when you were relaxed. “then, when it burnt in the oven, i decided to let my chef try making it instead. so, i hope you’re able to enjoy it.”

your staff, ever attuned to your verbal cues, swooped into the kitchen seconds after the last word had left your lips, setting down plates of food, a generous amount of cloth napkins, two glasses for the wine, and some silver cutlery to eat with. michael offered the wine to the nearest server, who popped it open and poured each of you an ample amount before returning to the kitchen. it was a quick, trained affair, like a choreographed dance, every member of your staff knowing exactly what to do and how to do it.

michael shifted in his seat, picking up his fork. “you’re too considerate. really, you didn’t have to make anything special for me. it’s your dinner.”

“when you’re here, it’s our dinner,” you replied casually, sipping from your glass of wine before starting to eat.

the food was delicious, although michael’s mind didn’t linger on the taste. it remained instead fixated through every bite on your presence at the dinner table. how proud and pleased you were. how your dress fit perfectly against your figure and how your eyes shined with a mischief that was almost immature, meaning that, at least in that moment, you’d dropped the business persona that took over during the day.

“i noticed,” he began, pausing afterwards before deciding to be brave and push the topic forward, “i noticed that you had some photos of me hanging up, on my way to the kitchen. by the family photos.” michael’s head dipped low as he took in another bite of food, purposefully avoiding eye contact. “i think it’s nice you chose all the flattering pictures of me,” he added, hoping it would keep things casual.

“oh, that?” you murmured in between bites, swallowing and then shrugging. “covers a few cracks in the wall. don’t worry too much about it.”

“i just meant to say that i like it.”

“really, it’s nothing special.”

“…right.”

(nothing special, he thinks now. maybe he is nothing special to you. how else can a woman keep photos of a man by her family pictures and still claim not to love him?).

the topic of conversation was switched shortly afterwards, and though the mood never changed and your spirit never fell, michael sat through the rest of dinner feeling as though he’d almost trespassed into your heart. that strange, pit-like feeling stuck with him even after dinner concluded. even as he followed you, his hand in yours, up a flight of stairs towards your bedroom, it persisted.

it only went away when he began to undress you.

not all time spent with you ends in sex, but he’d needed it then. that night, he’d rushed through all the foreplay. clothes were taken off quickly and discarded to the side, ignored in favor of his lips meeting yours and his hands groping whatever he could. the anxious pit in his stomach was gone, replaced by a sudden lust that demanded he make you his, at least for the time being. the thought of your public romantic endeavors flooded his mind, adding fuel to the fire.

ever the tease, you’d gasped, moaned, and even chuckled beneath him, letting him bite and kiss and suck along as much skin as he wanted. “relax, michael, i’m not going anywhere,” you crooned, your hair splayed around your head like a halo as you laid on your back. “i’m— michael!”

“you’re soaked,” he remarked dumbly, eyes wide as he slides his finger out of you, staring at the slick substance that suddenly coated it.

“you excited me,” you’d shot back, pressing your thighs together for a second or so before willingly spreading them again for him. “i get like this every time.”

“i know… it’s just interesting, every time,” he half-mumbled while lining himself up. normally, he’d be more romantic about it. sensual, even. at the time, though, all he could think about was the mechanics: push in, pull out, fuck her, hear her moan, feel better— maybe even come inside, this time? you were on birth control, but michael had always pulled out anyways just to be safe. with a soft grunt, he urged himself in, slowly pushing deeper until he bottomed out. as always, you took him with a grace that amazed him, your eyes shining up at his own as you stretched around his length.

he didn’t move until he had your blessing. as soon as you gave that little nod, michael began to satisfy that spontaneous and lustful urge, rocking his pelvis against yours. it didn’t take long for him to speed up, his eyes focusing on your breasts (easier to look at than your eyes, sometimes) as he gripped your hips. it wasn’t gentle, but it wasn’t particularly rough, either. he didn’t have the heart to use any part of himself like a weapon; if he ever, even for a second, thought of it that way, he’d be put off by sex entirely.

(laying in bed, now, michael can feel himself grow harder the more he recalls how it felt to fuck you. so much for trying to sleep. his hand slides down, slowly, shamefully jerking as he continues to remember that night).

“s’good,” you’d moaned as his pace picked up in intensity, your words somewhat slurred.

the room seemed to increase in temperature with every thrust, causing a thin layer of sweat to break out along his skin. maybe that warmth was you, though, your body sharing its heat with his as he continued to push himself inside of you. michael groaned when your walls clenched around him, and whined when he felt you try to stop that clenching. “please, please, let me feel it.” you’re not his unless he gets to feel every bit of it, and please, please, please don’t be someone else’s right now.

as your eyes rolled back, a romantic feeling swelled within him, and he leaned down to kiss your neck while palming one of your boobs. his thrusts became sloppy as a result, but you didn’t seem to mind, moaning and mewling all the same. “needed this,” he admitted softly into your skin, his own eyes closing for a second or so as he felt an orgasm building up. “i needed to feel you like this.” michael’s thumb pressed against your nipple for a moment before he gently swirled the pad of his thumb around it. when your back began to arch, your entire body squirming, he simply cooed into your ear for you to relax. “easy, i got you, i got you…”

“more,” you demanded after some panting, “i’m so close, michael, i’m so close— more, more, please!”

with him, you always used your manners, even though michael had never asked you to. he knows for a fact you don’t do it with every guy, thanks to that one idiot who went to the tabloids after sleeping with you… it has to mean something. right? not the point. back to the memory.

he’d obliged rather quickly, sliding his hands back down to your hips so he could grip you once again, “yes, baby, yes, yes…” michael thrusted himself in deep enough for his now-weepy tip to lightly brush against your walls, his head twitching inside of you at the contact. over an over, he repeated the action, doing it until he felt as though he were on clouds rather than a bed, making love to an angel rather than fucking a woman who doesn’t even claim him. “oh, oh— oooh!” his voice rose, filling the entire room. when he whined again, it was completely melodic, a tune for your ears only. he was singing the song of sex with you, singing it to you. then, suddenly, mid-thrust, he came, and as he did so, he sang some of his last words to you: “i love you, oh, goodness, i love you!”

you came shortly afterwards, your hips stuttering, your toes twitching, and your body squirming all the way through your release. it was nothing short of amazing for a few seconds. then, the joy of the mutual orgasm was cut off by a single, breathless question from you. “what?”

“i’m sorry,” michael blurted immediately, panting. panic took over, and he audibly swallowed before forcing himself to speak some more, “i don’t know why i said that, it won’t happen again. i won’t ruin it next time. i won’t say any of that serious stuff, i promise— i was just— just overwhelmed by feeling, you have to believe me—” he stammered his way through his apology/promise/begging, sliding out of you carefully as embarrassment and shame filled his chest. he stood over you, as naked as the day he was born and just as vulnerable. “it won’t happen again,” michael repeated.

you were silent for a while, the air thick with tension as the businesswoman in you returned to think things over. then, you decided aloud, “it’s okay.” you took a moment to collect yourself, wiping your forehead and sitting up in bed as much as you could. “heat of the moment, right?”

“yes, exactly,” he nodded quickly, “nothing serious.”

“nothing serious,” you echoed. though the look in your eyes betrayed that you were having some serious thoughts, any fear michael still possessed was scared away by what you said next. “can we do that thing we did last time? you showered with me, and we went to bed together?”

enthusiastically, he replied, “of course.” he got off the bed and walked towards your bathroom, turning on the shower and letting it warm before aiding you in getting inside of it. it was so domestic, him helping you bathe. too domestic. michael should’ve known then that you were only letting him down gently, not letting him in further. by the time he woke up the next morning, you’d left the bed for work, leaving only the staff to take care of him. they responded vaguely whenever he asked about you, sharing knowing glances (pity glances) until he finally left your home…

       it's hard to tell if it's more awkward or just plain pathetic, the fact that michael can’t finish himself right now. his erection’s gone anyways, killed off by how the memory ends. since leaving your house, he hasn’t seen you unless it’s on tv or in an article. he’s called, but you’ve never been the type to come to him when called for. no, every part of the relationship had been on your terms, and he was just desperate enough to go with it. it’d be better if he could at least feel bitter about it, but all michael feels is heartbroken. it’s that feeling, that sense of anguish, that his body decides to force him to sleep with, his eyelids drooping slowly before shutting. all through the night, his heart aches in his chest, yearning for what was never his.

meanwhile, miles away in your own bedroom, “she’s out of my life” plays for the umpteenth time, michael’s voice on the record singing the tune to you like a lullaby as you lay down to sleep.

For as long as he could remember, Aemond Targaryen had pined after one person. You.

His entire childhood was filled with you. You, his only friend and only comfort. He worshipped the ground you walked on. And you loved it. Every second of it, of him following you around whenever your family visited Kings Landing, waiting for you to gift him your attention. And you gave it to him, you loved how he worshipped you. How he came to you after every insult his brother gave him, after every silly little prank his nephews pulled. 

He saw you as his friend, his saviour, his everything. Until he didn't. 

The day of your mother's funeral, everything changed. You had withdrawn from Aemond, stood with your sisters and avoided Aemond's longing gazes. And he, desperate to win your approval, sure that your recent claiming of Silverwing had caused you to move away from him, to not view him as worthy of your time, had decided to claim his own dragon. Vaghar, the very dragon your mother had taken you on countless times, and the dragon you had been trying to get your sister, Rhaena, to claim. 

You were awoken in the middle of the night, your sister and cousins shaking you awake, “Someone's trying to steal Vaghar!” 

“What?” you asked, rubbing your eyes as you tried to wake. “You can’t steal a dragon,”

“Someone has! Please!” Baela insisted, dragging you from your bed and through the halls of Driftmark. Vaghar landed before you, Aemonds form atop her and a proud smile on his face as he dismounted from her and was met with your face. “It's him!” Jace called out. 

“Aemond?” you spoke softly, approaching him slowly. “You claimed my mother's dragon?”

“Your mother's dead”, he replied, the smile he had on his face fading and a frown replacing it. “ Vhagar has a new rider now.” You should be proud of him, happy that he has claimed the biggest dragon, and yet your frown only deepened at his words. He had expected praise, joy even. But instead, he was met with disappointment.

“She was mine to claim!” Rhaena called, her hand reaching for yours. The frown on Aemond's face deepened at the action, “Then you should've claimed her!” his eyes flickering between Rhanea and Jace, “ Maybe your cousins can find you a pig to ride…It would suit you.” 

A scowl rose to your face at his words, your hand leaving Rhaenas, as Baela launched herself at him. After that, it was a blur of screams and hits, as your cousins launched themselves at Aemond. 

You had stayed out of it, watching from the sidelines, begging for them to stop. It wasnt until a rock was held to Luke's face that you intervened. A knife dropped to the floor amid the chaos, “Aemond,” you called, the knife in your hand, as you approached him, drop the rock…" Please,” His eyes locked on yours, the rock faltering at your voice, but the throw of sand in your and Aemond’s eyes had you drop the knife into Luke’s hand, causing Aemond to lose an eye. 

That night tore Aemond away from you, you were blamed, and Aemond decided to hate you. To push you aside and forget whatever friendship had been forged. He tried to hate you, to resent you entirely. But Aemond found it impossible. All he wanted was you, to have you by his side, helping him as his eye healed. To be a comfort and a friend. But no matter how hard he tried to hate you, it never happened. 

You, however, had no issue hating him. He grew from a dear friend to a man you pitied. A man you didn't deem worthy of your time or attention. Years spent on Dragonstone, ignoring his letters begging for forgiveness.  And the few visits you had throughout the years were spent ignoring him and detesting him entirely. 

The words said during the incident hurt you, but the words he spoke after, in anger, hurt you. Blaming you for everything, his eye, the secrets you had told him, hurt you had told him in confidence, twisted against you. Calling you names. After that, you resented the years you spent as his friend, the years you spent fighting your father and his hatred for the hightowers, the years of’ telling him he wasnt the pitiful prince Aegon said he was. But after that day, he became the annoying, pitiful prince you always insisted he wasn’t.

Every visit to Kingslanding, where he couldn’t resist staying away, were he followed you through the halls, begging for the company he insisted he no longer craved, begging for you to acknowledge him. But you ignored his company, and any words from his lips were met with cold disdain, the roll of your eyes and the turn of your head, dismissing him entirely. 

You spent years ignoring him, hating him and with him trying to hate you. But you, every time he tried to ignore him, chose to give him attention. A stare, not longing,  just a simple stare in his direction, causing him to falter in his faux cold demeanour. You played a game with him, each time he thought he was making efforts toward hating you, to losing the love he held for you, you turned around and sat next to him at dinner. Your hand would brush his at the table. Sometimes you were cruel in your games, coming to his chambers and throwing the endless letters he had written you into the fire. Saying no word say you turned and left him stewing. 

You hated him, deemed him unworthy of your time. Your friendship burned to ashes the day he insulted your sisters, cousins and you. 

But Aemond, whose crush and love for you had started small, had grown into an obsession as the years passed. He relished every glance you gave him, every brush of your finger against his. Every time you acknowledged his presence through a scowl and a scoff of disapproval, he grew more and more pathetic and entirely obsessed with you. 

But then you disappeared to Dragonstone, for three years straight, he didn’t see you not once. Yet his obsession still lingered, just now, he learnt how to hide it. Using the betrothal set with him and Floris Baratheon to hide.

Your family had been summoned back to court after years away, with Luke's legitimacy as the heir of Driftmark being called into question, and you were forced back to Kingslanding.

“Prince Aemond,” you greeted, seeing the man standing in the training yard, swinging his sword with his hand, a cocky smile on his face.

“Princess”, he greeted, his voice and face cocky, his eyes trailed up and down your body, taking in the sea green dress you wore, the neckline that dipped low enough to show the cleavage of your breasts, something that caused Aemond's eyes to snag on. 

 “How gracious of Ser Cole to allow you to win.” his smile faltered at your words, his back straightening at your words. 

He clicked his tongue, prowling towards you, “and how gracious of you to attend my bethrothal feast,” he smirked, waiting for a reaction, some jealousy. 

You scoffed, “Who would marry you?” You walked towards him, circling him, “Someone so entirely pathetic?” you spoke, stopping to whisper in his ear, your hand sliding to his shoulder. Aemond's eyes snapped to your hand, words forming on his tongue. Your hand gripped his bicep, nails digging into him, stopping him from speaking. Face to face with him now, you scowled, eyeing him closely, “I pity her,” you drawled, walking away to leave Aemond to stew. Aemond, who had been so ready to face you, to act nonchalant and ignore you, now wanted nothing more than to chase after you.

You found Aemond easily the next day. He sat in the gardens, outside the windows to your chambers, his eyes focused on anyone but his would-be betrothed, waiting to lock eyes with yours the second you noticed him. 

“Floris, is it?” you asked, walking towards the table where she and Aemond sat. Aemond's eyes locked on yours, his hand moving to grip the table as you approached. 

“Yes, princess,” she nodded, a nervous smile on her lips as she looked between you and Aemond, her lip twitching as she noticed Aemond's gaze, and how it never once left you. “I hadn’t expected to meet you, princess,” she smiled, her voice wavering as you moved to sit. 

You laughed, your eyes following Floris,  hand as she moved to grip Aemonds, kissing your teeth as a feeling of envy rushed through you. Aemond smirked,  his eyes flickering between you and Floris, slowly pulling his hand away from her. 

“Why's that?” you asked, ignoring Aemond's gaze. 

“Do you not…” she faltered, gazing nervously at Aemond as she spoke, “ hate each other?”

Aemond chuckled, “I could never hate her,” you scoffed at his words, your hand reaching under the table to grab his hand.

“How sweet,” you cocked your head, waiting for Floris to speak. 

“My betrothed and I had plans.” She stated, her eyes turning to Aemond, waiting for him to dismiss you, but his eyes were focused entirely on your hand and his.

“Oh,” you gasped, running your over hand up the length of Aemond’s arm. “betrothed? So it's official,”

“Not yet,” Aemond dismissed, his eyes drawn to your hand, “just discussed,”

You nodded, feigning understanding, “so not betrothed,”

“No, but we are-”

“You should leave,” you cut her off,  your hand moving from the length of his arm to his thigh. 

A sharp breath left him as you did, “leave us,” he snapped, slamming his hand on the table as your hand reached further up his thigh, towards his crotch. 

She huffed, standing quickly and leaving, glaring at you and Aemond as she left. 

Your hand moved from his crotch and pushed Aemond away from you. “You don’t hate me?” 

“Aemond leaned forward, hoping you would touch him again, “no,” 

You rolled your eyes, “You're pathetic,” you scoffed, “you do hate me, admit it,”

“I tried, I don't hate you,” he pushed his hair closer to yours, his hands reaching for yours, “I wanted to, but I can’t”

“As I said, pathetic”, you stood from the table, pushing his hands from you, “after everything you did, you have the gall to not hate me? Pathetic!” You turned towards your chambers, ignoring Aemonds as he followed you. 

Reaching your doors, you turned to face him, “You're to be betrothed to another woman, and yet you still follow me around like a lost little puppy, as if nothing has changed.” You shook your head, pushing the door open behind you. 

“You're jealous?” he asked, smiling in victory.  

“Jealous?” you said, turning around quickly. “Oh, you pathetic little thing.” You laughed, “You think I’m jealous of her? That I desire you even after everything?” Aemond swallowed roughly, following you into your chambers.

“I could have anyone, I have men begging for my hand, and you think that I would want someone-eyed prince for a husband?” you scoffed, walking further into your room, settling on your bed. You laughed, your eyes moving down his body as he prowled towards you, “You do? Don’t you?” Your hands reached to play with the neckline of your dress “Why would I marry you? hmm? What could I possibly gain?”

“We were friends, I love you,” he pleaded, his hand going to the growing tent in his crotch. 

“Friends?” you scoffed, “you blamed me for loosing you eye, pushed me away,” you stood from the bed, standing face to face with Aemond, your hand reaching you grab his jaw, moving his face down to yours. “You were cruel,”

“I'm sorry,” he breathed, his mouth itching closer to yours.

“Get on your knees and beg for forgiveness.”

He swallowed, stepping back and dropping to his knees. 

“Please,” he begged, “forgive me, please…please, I'm sorry, please forgive me. I've only ever wanted to be worthy of you, to please you.”

“Good,” you whispered, moving behind him and pulling his head back, “now tell me how pathetic you are” Your hand moved to caress his neck, pulling his hair to the side as you joined him on the floor. 

“I am so pathetic,” he near moan, “I am nothing without you,” he groaned, your mouth coming to his neck, placing a teasing kiss along the column of his neck.

“Keep going,”

“Without you, I am pathetic, nothing more than a one-eyed disgrace,” you nodded, sucking on his neck softly. “Kiss me,” you muttered, moving around to kneel in front of him. 

The kiss was messy, desperate. Groans fell from him as your mouth met his. His hands reached to grip your face, only to fall away as your hands reached for his hair, yanking him back.  “So eager”, you muttered, placing a gentle kiss on his lips.

“Please, he begged.

“Do you love me?” you asked, smirking as he looked at you, eye wide. 

“More than anything, I want you to be my wife. ” His hands reached for you again, begging to touch you.

“Why would I want to marry you?”

“Because you love me,” Aemond stated, his breath heavy as he gaved up at you, desperate for you to admit it.

You faltered, your back straightening. Your hands came to grip his face, forcing his face closer to you,” You're not worthy of my love.”

“I am, please,” he breathed.

“Show me,” you placed a kiss on his lips, “show me your worthy of my love,”

“Yes, please, please,” he begged, his lips hovering over yours, begging for you to kiss him again. You huffed a laugh, your mouth taking his in a heated kiss. Your lips took his, your mouth dominating his in your heated kiss. Your tongue entered his mouth, your tongue dominating his, as your hands gripped his tunic, pulling him up with you and towards the bed. 

You pulled back, breaking the kiss and pulling your dress and small clothes off with it, leaving you entirely bare before him as you crawled back onto your bed. 

Aemond groaned at the sight, crawling towards you, placing desperate kisses from your ankles up to your thigh, waiting for your permission to place kisses on your inner thigh and towards your heat. His licks were slow at first, testing and tasting you and to see your reaction. A groan fell from him as moans began to spill from your lips. His mouth moved to your clit, his hands gripping your waist for leverage as he began to feast on your heat, his fingers teased at your entrance, his mouth focused on your clit as he began to finger you. A loud moan escaped you as he entered, your hand reaching to grip his hair, your legs wrapped around his head and pushing him further into you. His fingers began to fuck you, thrusting in and out of you at a testing pace, desperate to find a pace you liked. 

Your back arching off the bed as his fingers began to curl into you, your hips bucking into his face, riding it as his fingers fucked you, his mouth sucking on your clit as you felt your high begin to wash over you. a loud moan escaping your mouth once again as you came. Your hand in his hair, tugging him away from you as you rode out your peak. 

“Get on your back,” you commanded, pushing him onto the bed. Your hands reached for his breeches, practically ripping them from his body as his hands worked on his tunic. 

Your eyes traced his body as you threw his clothes to the floor, your eyes gleaming with lust as you took in his naked form and his pulsing, hard cock. 

Crawling over him, you took his mouth into a slow, deep kiss, your legs falling on either side of his head, one hand reaching for his cock and your other reaching behind you to steady yourself, as you slid it between your wet folds, before slowly easing down onto him, pushing his cock slowly into your heat. “Fuck,” you moaned, your head falling back as you eased down onto him. 

His hands flew to your hips, steadying you as you took a deep breath, a moan falling from your lips as his cock stretched your walls, your hips rocking forward. Your head fell back as you began to bounce on his cock, setting a hard pace. Your peak was fast approaching, as you focused entirely on your pleasure, your moans filling the room as your peak began to wash over you.

You fell back breathless against the bed, your hands reaching for Aemond, pulling him over you and down for a bruising kiss. “Fuck me,” you commanded, your hand reaching to tug his hair. 

His cock pushed into you slowly, his hips stuttering, pathetic moans falling from his lips as he thrusted in you, his eyes boring into yours as his own peak washed over you. He collapsed onto you, breathless and limp, his hands desperately clinging to you. 

“Tell me you love me, please,” he pleaded, pressing desperate kisses to your face. 

You sighed, playing with his hair, “No,”

A whimper fell from his lips, his arms wrapping around you and pulling you closer to him, whispering pleas into your skin. 

You turned to face him, studying him closely, “I-” The door swung open, your father's loud steps echoing, and he brisked into the room.

“The fuck is this?” Daemon mumled, scowling at the sight of you and Aemond. A chuckle fell from him, his hands reaching for the pile of clothes on the floor and tossing them at you both, as he turned around “Fetch Rhaneyra,” he called, his eyes flickering to Aemond, his scowl deepening, “and the fucking queen,”

“Do you think they'll marry us?” Aemond whispered, a smile on his face as he pulled you back into him as you tried to move away, kissing every inch of you he could reach.

“Is it poison?” she questions Grand Maester Gerardys, her arms crossed on her chest.

He nods. “It seems as so. We believe it is from the wine she drank at supper.”

“Can’t you open a window?!” you yell with a cracking voice.

Silence fills the room after the outburst. Both Rhaenyra and Gerardys glance over. You do the same once you see a smile fall over her face, one she fails to bite back.

The windows are open.

“All of the windows are open, princess,” Gerardys mumbles.

“Yes, I can see that now, thank you.” Your head falls back onto the pillow, allowing your dampened hair to reconnect with your sweaty nape and back. “Will I die tonight, Gerardys?” you question, almost joking.

“No, no, princess,” he says. “Not tonight.”

Your head shoots back up from its resting position. Rhaenyra is already looking at him, any sign of her former coyness erased from her features.

“It seems the poison was mixed with the wine,” he begins. “Therefore, unless the culprit is found, it will be quite difficult to tell whatever was infused in the drink. And given your symptoms, unless somehow magically cured, there is not much I can do.”

“Not much you can do?” Rhaenyra exclaims, her arms now at her side.

Gerardys lowers his voice and steps closer to her. “Not unless you would like me to find a maegi.”

She takes one look over at you. You look full of fear, full of suffering, but most of all—full of regret. “That wont be necessary,” she mutters. “If you’ll let me speak to my sister alone?”

“Of course, your grace.” He leaves the room. Rhaenyra watches him go, not looking back until the door swings back shut.

She makes her way to your bedside so swiftly it was as if she was running. The screech of the chair she pulls to sit on hurts your ears more than any of the conversation you had just been put through. You wish your protector was here instead. He would be able to help you. He would have to help you.

“Tell me,” she commands, already leaning forward, her hands folded in her lap.

You lift your body off the sheets, but they stick to you as you rise. “Tell you what?”

“Don’t play the fool. You know what I’m referring to,”

“I don’t.”

“You do.”

“I don’t, Your Grace.”

She scoffs out a laugh after that. Two of her fingers settle on the bridge of her nose. “Your condition is of your own volition. If you tell me what you drank, it will be easier for me to find a solution.”

You look at her. She isn’t smiling. There’s no hidden agenda beneath her stoic expression, none of the small facial cues you spent your childhood learning to decipher. She truly wants to help you.

And your body feels like it could give out at any moment. No, you want it to give out at any moment. You’re starting to feel nauseous.

You’ll do about anything to stop whatever you did to yourself.

You exhale a heavy breath. “You mustn’t tell anyone what I did.”

Rhaenyra lets herself crack a smile. “Gods, sister, what did you do?”

“I am unwed. Undesired,” you mumble. “I thought it clever to…”

“To what?” Rhaenyra presses, leaning closer.

You sigh and cover your face with your hands. You mutter something so quiet you don’t even hear it in your own ears.

“What did you say?” she asks softly.

“I had a potion brewed.”

Rhaenyra lets out a sharp breath through her nose. “Oh, Gods, sister—“

“You don’t understand! The Realm’s Delight, the most beautiful maiden in all of the Seven Kingdoms—you could have anyone and anything you desire!” you argue. “It isn’t the same for me. Even if it were, I don’t get to choose—”

“I’ve heard enough.” You finally remove your hands from your face, both now sheen with a layer of sweat as is the rest of your body. Rhaenyra is now standing at the edge of your bed, pacing back and forth. “When you had the potion brewed, did the alchemist tell you of any cure?”

“No…” you mumble.

“Well.” Rhaenyra sighs. She gazes over at you, but avoids your own. “I can presume what it is.”

You know what remains unsaid. It is torturous enough for your own sister to know of the humiliation you’ve brought upon yourself. For her, the queen, to be made uncomfortable by the revelation? You get a sudden urge to throw yourself from the highest point of the Red Keep. It would cure all of the emotions swirling in your head.

The writhing starts all over again. The feeling makes you want to crawl out of your own body. In your peripheral, you can see Rhaenyra stop moving. She faces forward to look at you as you thrash around the mattress.

“I know what must be done,” she says. And she leaves the room.

You are left alone in your torture. Now seems about the best time to consider your future. You could jump from the window. It would be quick. You’d be remembered as tragic. Never wed, without children, lonely, jumped from her bedroom window after being poisoned—Rhaenyra would spread the word of poison. She wouldn’t subject the public to the truth.

You suck in a breath as you rise from the bed, dragging your feet to the window. The air fanning on your face makes you hopeful for about fives seconds before the sun finally catches on your skin and shines over the moisture on your skin.

The ache in your body almost certifies that you wouldn’t be able to hoist yourself onto the windowsill without some help.

Maybe your protector would help you. You could say you need more air. He certainly wouldn’t help cure your self-inflicted debilitation—he is too honorable. No—he’s too insistent on protecting your honor to do anything to you.

The door swings open again.

Rhaenyra enters first. You watch her panic once she does not immediately spot you on the bed, then watch her settle once she finds you by the window. There is someone behind her.

The person unveils themself from the shadows.

It is your sworn shield and protector. Ser Gwayne Hightower.

He steps into the room, and it is like your legs turn to water. He notices this, and dashes across the room to wrap his arms around your waist, stabilizing you. Once you are brought back to your feet, you let out a moan. It is almost embarrassing, but you couldn’t care less now.

Gwayne is touching you. Sometimes, the Gods do work in your favor. You slowly look up at him. He is already staring down at you, concerned at your condition, of course—and probably confused as to why you just moaned when he touched you—and you place a hand on his shoulder. Your other arm wraps around his bicep.

“I shall leave you to it.” Rhaenyra is out of the room with a slam of the door before you can look over to acknowledge her. When you look back, Gwayne still has his gaze fixed on you.

The contact you share feels truly breathtaking, perhaps because it is. It does feel quite hard to take in any air. You find your body inching closer to his, desperate for closer proximity. You feel your nipples, hard under your smallclothes, brush against his gambeson. You let your head fall onto his sternum, and it is then that you realize what you are doing, and immediately push away.

You stumble back to the bed, sitting on its edge, and shame washes over you. Gwayne hasn’t moved from his spot by the window. He still stares at you, however.

“My princess.” He steps closer. You hold up a finger as if to tell him to stop, and he does. “I cannot bear to see you in this condition. I only wish to help.”

“Help with what?” you breathe.

He remains silent.

“What exactly did Rhaenyra tell you?” you question.

Silence.

“Tell me. I command it.”

His gaze shifts to the ground. “Her Grace informed me of your condition.”

“You already knew of my condition. What else did she tell you?”

He looks back up at you. “She revealed to me the nature of your condition. What exactly brought it on.”

“Gods,” you mutter under your breath and squeeze your eyes shut. This cannot be real.

“How it can be cured,” he adds.

Your brows tighten. You hope that when you open your eyes again, he will be gone, and this will all have been a figment of your imagination.

When you do so, you find that this is the realest he has ever been. Ser Gwayne of House Hightower, in all his glory. He glistens in the flare of the sun. His hair, usually a light brown, shimmers auburn in the light. It looks similar to his sister’s in a certain light.

You can see the resemblance, him and his father. You would rather not, but it is there. He is certainly more alluring.

“I want to help you.” He takes a single step closer. “I need to help you.”

Your head is cocked to the side, though only out of exhaustion. It feels to heavy to carry yourself.

“When you swore yourself as my protector, I vowed that I would ask no service of you that might bring you dishonor. What do you reckon this is?” you scoff out a laugh, feeling the whole situation truly ironic.

“It would not bring me dishonor if nobody discovers it.” His voice is low. He closes the window, then moves to close the other. “In fact, I swore first to protect you from any and all harm. I believe that prevails over bringing me dishonor.” You watch him then as he travels to the door. The lock clicks shut, and the sound of it travels to your core.

Not only is he able, he is willing.

He turns back to you, and you lock eyes. His brows are turned upwards at the corners—it is true, desperate concern etched onto his face. You can only imagine how disheveled you look.

You sigh, but it comes out as more of a moan, and let your head hang low.

Gwayne is across the room in a moment, kneeling down in front of you. He removes the gloves from his hands, settling them on the ground beside him, and then places his hands on your clothed thighs. The contact draws the linens slightly upwards. How you wish he would just slide them all the way up and just kiss your cun—

You close your eyes and draw in a long breath.

“Tell me what you need,” he purrs. Your eyes shoot back open, and his hands move to hold your hips. “I am yours.”

You want to. Gods, who are you kidding? You need to tell him, because he will do it, but you can’t. The words freeze on your tongue. Where do you even start?

But he is knelt before you, almost pathetic in his attempt at a remedy, so eager on helping you.

Why must you tell him?

You grab the cloth at your thighs and curl your fingers enough times until it is bunched up near your crotch. All that prevents him from laying eyes on your bare cunt is closed legs. You let them spread, gruelingly slow, pushing Gwayne’s hands from your hips in the process.

He does not look away from your face. “Tell me. Please,” he whimpers, letting his fingers graze the sides of your thighs.

You stammer, and squirm once more. “I need you to touch me,” you declare.

Gwayne nods once. “As you wish.”

And he hoists your legs over his shoulders and his face inches closer and closer to your core until his lips latch onto your clit. And finally, for once since drinking the stupid wine, you feel bliss. You’ve never felt something like this before.

It surges through your body and your entire body twitches violently. Gwayne lifts his arms up and grips your hips back again, using the hold to tug your cunt farther into his mouth. He eats you like a man starved.

You did not realize of the noises you were making until you nearly screamed, letting your head fall back. Your hands snake into his hair, pulling his head closer to your core.

He releases your clit from his lips. “Tastes so good—my princess—” his words fan over your damp slit, and he leans down to lick a thick stripe from bottom to top, collecting your arousal into onto his tongue. He swallows it with a loud gulp.

Your breath catches in your throat.

Gwayne continues his assault on your clit, sucking down hard. Your hips roll toward the allure of his lips. You are panting and gasping, hand bunching up his hair into your fist.

Heat flows through your entire body. It is a mix of the feeling you felt upon drinking that curséd wine and something incredible. True, pure ecstasy. You feel the blood of the dragon in you now. You understand it.

An unfamiliar ache begins to tighten in your lower stomach as he persists in lapping at your cunt. Nothing in your life has ever felt so good. You wonder if this is the true effect of the wine, or if it is just because it is your first time—you cannot really think about anything else. His tongue flattens and rolls against your clit and you choke on a moan.

Your muscles tense, your toes curl, and your heels dig into his back. His tongue presses and prods against you and he can feel it coming, the way your thighs tighten around him and shake and spasm.

Shudders wrack your body as you cum. He does not stop even when you do, even when your moans crescendo, his tongue still relentlessly ravishes your cunt even after you fall back onto the bed.

Finally, he lets go of your core with a wet pop.

It is then that you realize the burn has subsided. Relief washes over you momentarily.

But it returns as quickly as it went away. It flows through your body and you feel desperate for him once again.

He crawls up your body, caging you in between his arms, searching for something beneath your fucked-out expression.

“It isn’t enough—” you declare, your breath labored.

“What do you require?” Gwayne rasps, using a hand to brush your hair off of your forehead. His touch wavers in concern when he realizes the scorch of your skin.

“I need—” you paw at his clothed cock. “Your—”

“My what?” he pants.

“I need you inside,” you mutter.

Without a word, he begins shedding his garments. You were simply too dazed to admire it. Perhaps if there is a next time—Gods you hope there is a next time—you’ll get to do exactly that.

He is crawling back over you in an instant, his body bare. You run your hands up his chest, dragging the ball of your hand over his sternum. His cock hits your pelvis.

Your smallclothes, practically wet at this point, Gwayne lifts slightly at your waist. “Would you like me to take this off?” he asks.

You nod lazily.

He shimmies the linen up your body. “Sit up for a moment, sweet girl,” he instructs, and you obey.

They are finally, finally off, discarded somewhere across the room, and it feels much better being exposed than you expected it to be. There is no insecurity when you are with him. He just wants to help.

He grabs a pillow from off the head of the bed, lifting your hips up with a swift sleight of hand and shoving it under. “For your comfort,” he clarifies.

His hand comes up to cradle your cheek, his elbow resting beside your shoulder, as his other hand reaches down to grip his cock.

You look into his eyes, trying to search for anything past pure devotion and adoration for what he sees before him, and failing. Your lips falter as they reach up to lock with his. He meets you halfway.

Your hand tangles in his hair, pressing his head down harder onto your wet lips. The kiss is unpracticed and messy. Has he done this before? With anyone else, you mean. You should ask once you finish.

Gwayne enters you in a slow thrust, inhaling the noise you make into his mouth. His hand, the one that was cradling your cheek, finds itself on the nape of your neck.

His lips depart from your own, and he presses his forehead against yours, looking down to watch his cock sink into your cunt. He withdraws and sinks in once more, just to see it again. And again. And again. Slowly, slowly, slowly, the torturous drag of his length into you.

Your lips are parted, throat singing moans so frequent you’d think you were performing for him. You know you are being too loud. It feels impossible to be anything but.

Those gorgeous blue eyes of his find their way back to yours. "Oh—fuck, look at you," he praises, no longer needing the arm that guided his cock into you to guide his cock into you, so he raises it up to your mouth.

His thumb glides over your teeth, and then pushes past them. You wrap a hand around his wrist and suck on the digit. Up and down, up and down, as if it were his cock. He almost freezes inside of you.

Your hand slides up his, grabbing his pointer and middle-finger, swapping his thumb out for them. You do the same to them, bobbing your head up and down, moaning around them, and Gwayne fucking whimpers.

He resumes his movements. His cock throbs, your walls wrapping around him, sucking him in like you were made for him—or more so he was made for you, because he was. He is your man. He will be your man until the day he dies.

His fingers leave your mouth, and your saliva connects to the pads of them. He takes them into his own mouth momentarily.

Your fingers dig into his shoulders, pulling his body down to connect to yours. His hand snakes between you, gripping your hardened nipple, earning a gasp from you.

“I’m yours, my princess,” he murmurs, drunk-like. “I’m yours.” And he presses his lips all down your neck, the trail all wet and sloppy.

You’re clenching around him, body spasming from under his caging hold. You feel close to a similar sort of climax that you felt only once before, just then when his head was between your legs. With each slap of his skin against yours, you are screaming. He mutters things, most you can’t quite catch, but they’re all something like that’s it, sweet girl, and let it out, my princess.

He uses his forearm to rise from the skin-to-skin contact you had forced him into. His fingers, desperate yet nimble, work themselves to the small of your back. The contact releases your skin from the suction of the pillowcase, and he lifts your hips up more with his arm now wrapped around them.

His pace quickens. You glance down, and nearly sob at the sight of him disappearing inside you.

“Gwayne?” you look back up at him. Again, he is already staring back at you, ready and willing to fulfill your every need.

“Yes, my princess?” he heaves.

“Kiss me.”

As you wish, is he would have said, if it weren’t for him immediately giving in to your wish. He kisses like he is eating you. Messy. His spit somehow finds itself all around your mouth. You don't notice that you do the same to him.

Your orgasm slams into you. It is a violent punch that knocks the wind out of you—you think you see the Stranger reaching out to you—then you feel Gwayne slow his movements and a thick liquid coat your insides. You babble incomprehensible speech as you ride it out.

“Fuck—” you hear him mutter, and pull out quickly. He runs a finger up your slit, not considering the fact that you were still beyond sensitive—you jerk back at his touch, still trying to catch your breath.

It was like all air was running from you. It probably was. You violently pushed it back out with every small inhale of it.

You finally come to, and realize he has been repeating the words fuck, fuck, fuck, since he pulled out.

“What’s wrong?” you raise a hand to hold his cheek, bringing his attention back to you.

“You don’t—” he pauses. And he sighs, squeezing his eyes shut. “I wasn’t supposed to cum inside.”

You’re still confused. “What’s the problem?”

“That is how you get pregnant.” He lets out one last heavy sigh and then falls onto his back beside you.

You turn onto your side, resting your head on one of the arms he lies beneath your shoulder, and bringing a hand up to place it on his chest. His is still rising and falling as rapidly as yours is.

Your fingers trace your name onto his chest. He is none-the-wiser, but you still smirk at the action. Your man.

“Will you ask the maesters to brew me moon tea?” you mumble.

He brings his other hand to hold yours. “As you wish.”

You chuckle breathily.

“Are you—are you cured?” he says, playing with your fingers.

“I suppose so.” You sigh. The need for him no longer thrums through you in the way that it did before.

Now you want him in a different way. A normal, human, potionless way. The way you wanted him before you drank that wine—you thought it would make you seductive enough for him. It certainly worked, you assume.

The war had been grinding on for eight months, but Ormund Hightower had not slept in four.

Not since the night she disappeared. She had taken Aethan—his son, his blood—and vanished into the darkness like a ghost, like a traitor, like the ungrateful little whore he had always known she could become if he did not keep her close enough.

He had torn the reach apart searching for her. He had sent riders in every direction, had questioned every guard and servant and spy who might have seen something. Nothing. She had simply… gone. As if she had never existed at all. As if the months of marriage, the nights in his bed, the child she had borne him meant nothing. As if he had not shaped her, taught her, owned her.

He had not been the same since. His men whispered about it behind his back. Lord Hightower had grown erratic. Lord Hightower had stopped eating. Lord Hightower's eyes had taken on a wild, feverish light that made even his most seasoned commanders uneasy. He still led them into battle—he was too good a soldier to abandon the war entirely—but his mind was somewhere else. Always somewhere else. Always chasing the ghost of a silver-haired girl who had slipped through his fingers like smoke, taking his son with her.

And now this. The letter had arrived an hour ago, delivered by a rider who had nearly killed his horse getting there. The man had stumbled into camp, half-frozen and wild-eyed, clutching a scroll sealed with the mark of Ormund's own spy network—the network he had deployed across half of Westeros with one purpose and one purpose only: find her.

The tent was crowded with commanders when the rider was ushered in. Ser Brynden stood at Ormund's right hand, as he always did, Ser Gwayne, and half a dozen other knights and lords who had pledged their swords to the Green cause. They had been in the middle of a strategy session, poring over maps and troop movements, planning the next offensive.

Ormund took the scroll without a word. He broke the seal. He read.

His face went pale first. Bone-white, as if all the blood had been drained from his body in a single instant. Then the color rushed back, flooding his cheeks with a dark, dangerous red that spread down his neck and disappeared beneath the collar of his tunic. His hands began to tremble, just slightly at first, then violently, the parchment shaking in his grip like a leaf in a storm.

"My lord?" Brynden stepped forward, concern etched into his weathered features. "What news?"

Ormund did not answer. His eyes were fixed on the letter, reading and re-reading the words as if repetition might change them. His lips moved silently, forming syllables that no one else could hear. The trembling in his hands spread to his arms, his shoulders, his entire body.

And then he began to scream.

"CREGAN STARK!"

The sound was not human. It was the roar of a wounded animal, a beast caught in a trap, a man whose last thread of sanity had just snapped like a bowstring pulled too tight. The commanders scrambled backward, knocking over chairs and sending maps flying, but Ormund did not seem to see them. He was already moving, already reaching for the sword that rested against the campaign chest in the corner.

"CREGAN FUCKING STARK! I WILL KILL HIM! I WILL TEAR HIS HEART OUT WITH MY BARE HANDS!"

The first blow took the map table in half. Wood splintered and cracked, and the maps that had been spread across it fluttered to the ground like dying birds. Ormund ripped his sword free and swung again, and this time the blade carved a great, jagged slash through the canvas wall of the tent, letting in a shaft of cold grey daylight.

"MY LORD, PLEASE—" Ser Gwayne started forward, but a wild swing of the sword sent him reeling backward, his hands raised in surrender.

"SHE IS MINE!" Ormund brought the sword down on a chair, and the chair exploded. "SHE HAS ALWAYS BEEN MINE! AND HE—THAT NORTHERN SAVAGE—HE HAS TOUCHED HER! HE HAS PUT HIS HANDS ON WHAT BELONGS TO ME!"

She was there. She had been there for weeks. Living openly in Cregan Stark's tent, sleeping in his bed, wearing his colors, warming his furs like some Northern whore. Everyone in the camp knew. Everyone could hear them—the sounds she made, the way she cried out his name, the way she begged for more. His wife. His Aethan's mother. Screaming for another man like a common camp follower. A public affair, the letter said. A very public affair. As if she wanted everyone to know. As if she wanted him to know.

And the child. His son. Living under Stark's protection, being held by Stark's hands, perhaps already learning to call another man father. The thought made something behind his eyes go red and hot and blinding.

"DO YOU KNOW WHAT THEY ARE DOING RIGHT NOW?" He rounded on his commanders, and they shrank back from the madness in his eyes. "RIGHT NOW, WHILE WE STAND HERE DISCUSSING STRATEGY AND SUPPLY LINES? HE IS TOUCHING HER! HE IS INSIDE HER! HE IS MAKING HER MOAN—THOSE MOANS BELONG TO ME!"

He threw the letter aside and grabbed another chair, hurling it against the central support pole with enough force to shatter it into kindling.

"I taught her everything," he snarled, his voice cracking. "Everything she knows about pleasure, everything she knows about her own body—I taught her that. I was the first. I was the only. And now she—she is using what I taught her with HIM—"

He could see it. That was the worst part. He could see it so clearly in his mind, as if he were standing in the corner of Stark's tent watching. Her silver hair spread across Stark's furs. Her body arching beneath another man's hands. Her lips parting on another man's name. The sounds she made, the expressions that crossed her face, the way she clung and gasped and pleaded—all of it, all of it, was his. He had discovered it. He had cultivated it. He had spent months learning every secret her body held, every spot that made her gasp, every rhythm that made her shatter.

And now Stark was reaping the harvest. Stark was enjoying the fruits of Ormund's labor. Stark was touching what Ormund had claimed, had trained, had owned.

The thought made him want to kill someone. Everyone.

"GET ME A MAP!" he bellowed, driving his sword into the floorboards. "A MAP OF THE NORTH! I WANT TO SEE THE FASTEST ROUTE TO WINTERFELL!"

Ser Brynden stepped forward, his old bones creaking, his weathered face set in lines of grim determination. "My lord, you cannot—"

"I CAN AND I WILL!" Ormund rounded on him, and for a terrible moment, the sword came up. But Brynden did not flinch. He stood his ground, steady as an oak, and met his lord's wild gaze without blinking.

"Strike me if you must," Brynden said quietly. "I have served your house for forty years. I served your father, and his father before him. And I will not stand by and watch you destroy yourself."

"Destroy myself? DESTROY MYSELF?" Ormund laughed, and the sound was utterly unhinged. "I am already destroyed! Do you not see that? She destroyed me the moment she spread her legs for another man!"

"Then let her destruction mean something." Brynden's voice was steady, measured, the voice of a man talking a jumper down from a ledge. "Win the war, my lord. Win the war, and you can have everything. Everything."

Ormund's grip on the sword tightened. "What do you mean?"

"I mean that if you ride north now, you die. You take men into the snow, into Stark territory, and you die. Cregan Stark will put your head on a spike, and your wife will watch, and she will not shed a single tear. Is that what you want? To give him the satisfaction? To give her the satisfaction?"

The words hit Ormund like a physical blow. He staggered, his free hand coming up to press against his temple.

"No," he said, his voice raw. "No. She is mine. She belongs to me."

"Then win the war first." Brynden stepped closer, close enough to lay a hand on Ormund's arm. The touch was gentle, almost paternal. "Win the war, and you win everything. The Iron Throne will owe you a debt that can never be repaid. You can demand Stark's head. You can demand your wife's return. You can have her back in your bed, back where she belongs, and you can make Stark watch while you remind her exactly who she answers to. But only if you win."

The tent was silent. The other commanders held their breath. Somewhere outside, a horse whinnied, and the wind snapped against the torn canvas walls.

Ormund stood perfectly still, his chest heaving, his eyes wild, his sword still clutched in his white-knuckled grip. The letter lay crumpled on the floor at his feet, the words still burning in his mind—words about her, about him, about the sounds she made and the way she cried his name. Stark's name. Not his. Never his, not anymore.

"Stark's head," he said finally, his voice barely above a whisper. "On a spike. Outside my gates."

"Yes," Brynden agreed. "Stark's head on a spike."

"And my wife. Back in my bed. Back where she belongs. In chains if necessary."

Brynden hesitated. "Yes."

"And my son. Back in my house."

"Yes."

Ormund closed his eyes. When he opened them again, the wild, feverish light had not disappeared, but it had banked. Transforming from an inferno into something colder, something infinitely more dangerous.

"Then we win this war," he said. He pulled his sword from the floorboards and slid it back into its sheath with a soft, deadly hiss. "We win this war, and we take King's Landing, and we put Daeron on the throne. And when it is done—when the dragons are dead and the pretender queen is ash and there is no one left to stand against us—I will march north with a full army at my back. And I will tear Winterfell apart stone by stone until I find her."

He turned to face his commanders, and the smile that spread across his face made every man in the tent take an involuntary step backward.

"And when I do," he said, "I am going to make her watch while I kill him. I am going to make her watch every single moment of it. I am going to make her see what happens to men who touch what belongs to me. And then—" He paused, letting the silence stretch, letting them all imagine it. "Then she is coming home. And she is never leaving again.

Cregan Stark was a dead man. He just did not know it yet. Every battle Ormund fought, every victory he won, every strategic decision he made, all of it was in service of that single, burning goal. Win the war. Claim the throne. Take back what was his.

The war would end, and Cregan Stark would die, and Ormund Hightower would have his family back—by any means necessary. By fire and blood, if that was what it took.

He had been patient once before, he could be patient again. He could wait. He could plan. He could let the rage simmer and build and concentrate into something lethal.

--

Every night, the same ritual. Ormund Hightower would sit alone in his tent, a flagon of wine at his elbow, the crumpled spy's letter spread before him on the table, and he would lose his mind all over again.

He tried not to. He tried to focus on strategy, on supply lines, on the thousand logistical details that came with commanding an army. But the moment the silence descended, the moment he was alone with his thoughts, the images would come creeping back. Vivid. Detailed. Unbearable.

Her. With him. Cregan Stark was younger than Ormund. That was the first thing that ate at him, gnawing at his pride like a rat at a corpse. Stark was her age—only a few years older than her, if that. A young man in his prime, not a grizzled lord of forty with grey threading his temples and lines deepening around his eyes. Stark was tall and broad-shouldered and hard-muscled from a lifetime of swinging a greatsword in the Northern wilderness. Stark had a full head of dark hair and a strong jaw and the kind of rugged, wolfish handsomeness that maidens swooned over in the songs.

Ormund had seen him once, years ago, at some tourney or council. He remembered thinking the boy was arrogant. Northern savages, all of them. But now—now he could not stop picturing that arrogance in his bed. In his wife.

He would pour another cup of wine and drink it down in one burning swallow, but the images only grew sharper.

Stark's hands on her hips. Stark's mouth on her throat. Stark's body—younger, harder, stronger—pressing her into the furs. The furs. Northern furs, rough and barbaric, not the fine silk sheets of the Hightower. And she was moaning for him. Making those sounds—those sounds that Ormund had discovered, had cultivated, had taught her to make—for another man.

A younger man.

A man her own age.

"FUCK!"

The goblet flew across the tent and clanged against the central pole, spraying wine across the canvas. Ormund was on his feet, pacing, his hands tearing through his hair.

He was not just any man. That was the second thing. That was what made it so much worse. Cregan Stark was the Lord of Winterfell. The Warden of the North. A Great Lord in his own right, who ruled a territory larger than all the other Kingdoms combined. His titles were ancient and unimpeachable. His bloodline stretched back eight thousand years to the First Men, to the Kings of Winter. The Starks had been royalty when the Hightowers were still lighting signal fires and calling it civilization.

Ormund was a powerful man. He knew that. He was the Lord of Oldtown, the Beacon of the South, the head of one of the oldest and wealthiest houses in the Reach. But he was not a Great House. He was not a Warden. He was a vassal to the Tyrells, technically, however much he might disdain them. He did not have a crown in his history. He did not have the blood of kings.

But Stark did.

She was a princess of the blood. A Targaryen. A dragonrider. And now she was spreading her legs for a man who could call himself her equal—or near enough. A man whose titles could almost match her own. A man who could give her a castle that had stood for thousands of years, a kingdom that bowed to no one, a name that commanded respect across the entire continent.

What could Ormund give her that Stark could not match or exceed?

The thought made him want to kill someone. "HE IS NO BETTER THAN ME!" he roared at the empty tent. "HE IS A SAVAGE IN FURS! HE KNOWS NOTHING OF HER! HE DOES NOT KNOW HER THE WAY I DO!"

But the cruel voice in the back of his mind whispered: He knows her now. He's learning her. Every night, he's learning her.

He hurled the wine flagon against the tent pole, and it shattered, spraying dark red liquid across the maps and the bedroll and the crumpled letter. He picked up a chair and smashed it against the ground. He drove his fist into the tent pole, once, twice, three times, until his knuckles were bloody and the pain cut through the red haze for a few blessed seconds.

"She was MINE!" he screamed at no one. "She was MINE before she was his! She will be MINE after he is dead!"

But the voice whispered: She chose him. She ran from you and chose him.

He staggered to his cot and collapsed onto it, his bloody hand pressed to his face, his breath coming in ragged, uneven gasps. The images would not stop. They never stopped. Every night, the same torture.

Her on her back, her hair fanned out across Stark's furs, her eyes hazy with pleasure. Her legs wrapped around his waist—his young, hard waist, not the softening middle of a man twenty years her senior. Her nails raking down his back. Her lips forming his name. Stark. Cregan. Not Ormund. Never Ormund.

Did she think of him at all? When Stark was inside her, when she was crying out for him, when she was shattering around him—did she remember the man who had taught her what pleasure was? Did she remember her husband?

Or had she forgotten him entirely?

"Ungrateful little WHORE," he snarled, but the word felt hollow. Because she was not a whore, was she? A whore took coin. A whore spread her legs for anyone. She had spread her legs for one man—one other man—and that made it so much worse. That made it a choice. She had chosen Stark. She wanted Stark. She was with Stark not out of duty or desperation but because she preferred him.

Because he was younger. Because he was her age. Because he was a Great Lord, a Warden, a man whose power matched her own.

Because he was not Ormund.

"I GAVE HER EVERYTHING!" The cry was torn from somewhere deep in his chest. "I gave her a home, a name, a son! I protected her! I loved her! And she—she threw it all away for—for a Northern savage who—"

Who could give her a kingdom. Who could give her a castle that made the Hightower look like a merchant's counting house. Who could give her the blood of the First Men, the loyalty of the North, a place at the side of a man who answered to no one but himself.

Ormund had spent his entire life climbing. Clawing his way up the ladder of power, building alliances, accumulating influence. He had married a Targaryen princess—a feat that should have been the crowning achievement of his house. And now she was in another man's bed, and that man outranked him, and there was nothing—nothing—he could do about it except win this damned war and take her back by force.

"I will kill him," he whispered into the darkness. "I will kill him slowly. I will make it last for days. I will make her watch every moment of it. And when he is dead—when she has seen what happens to men who touch what is MINE—she will beg for my forgiveness. She will crawl back to me on her knees. And I will decide whether to give it to her."

He lay back on the cot, staring at the canvas ceiling, his bloody hand cradled against his chest. Outside, the camp was quiet. The sentries walked their posts. The horses stamped in the picket lines. The army slept.

But Ormund Hightower did not sleep. He never slept anymore. He just lay there in the darkness, listening to the sound of his own ragged breathing, and pictured his wife in another man's arms.

Younger. Stronger. Higher-born.

It did not matter. None of it mattered. Because when this war was over, Cregan Stark would be dead, and YN would be back in his bed where she belonged, and he would spend the rest of his life reminding her exactly who owned her.

That was the thought he clung to. That was the thought that got him through the night.

That, and the image of Stark's head on a spike outside the gates of Oldtown, his sightless eyes staring at nothing, his blood dripping down the stone walls.

˚꩜ He never wants you to worry or have any negative feeling toward money. No stress or dilemma. But you are the head of household ands you’ve given him the privilege to be able to handle some of your finances. He’s like a finsub. A big dumb(incredibly intelligent) finance bro turned your bitch.

Horrible predicament.

˚꩜ If he’s not with you he’s figuring out how to make more money for you. You create businesses and art and products he loves that stocks and bonds bs.

˚꩜ He’ll rub your feet while watching the news and making comments on new stocks you two should invest in,

˚꩜ “The Dow Jones is down .4% which is fine it’s not like it affects us but I have been hearing some news on some data energy infrastructure companies that are going to skyrocket soon. I already talked to Nina(your broker- women and women first) and she’s set up an appointment for tomorrow.”

˚꩜ Or he gets turned on by making you more money and dorking out about candlesticks (finance) and the stocks that you had invested in before a surge.

˚꩜ “Last year we were right in Marvell Technology, AMD, and Broadcom. “

˚꩜ Before you’d met he worked in finance(of course) he ether worked for a VC firm or as a startup engineer with some side gigs he liked to do for sport.

˚꩜ He’s tall and has muscles that he will let you chew on while he scrolls his phone reading big tech ceos X statements to see what they’re saying and see if they are insinuating anything.

His entire life consists of two things -

1. Her royal divine majesty(you)

2. Money

˚꩜ He golfs sometimes. But it’s not even like the way other guys are obsessed with golf it’s just for the visuals of it which is funny because he’s actually very good.

˚꩜ You like to put on a skort and tennis bracelets and go to the turfs. You end up doing some fuck ass score board “golf” match that’s really you just swinging it wherever or- you really lock in.

˚꩜ Vacations are interesting because it includes him on the phone with your concierge company for 45 minutes streamlining the entire experience as if you don’t already pay a ghastly retainer for these people to do it.

˚꩜ You have an assistant and housekeepers to do the tasks like ironing and packing your bags but he insists on being the one to plan your outfits around your excavations and dinners.

˚꩜ He has you try some things on and sets up your tripod so you can record your content for your followers. (He will most likely be editing all that content on the plan to wherever you’re going.)

˚꩜ Airports are your favorite because he becomes like an emotional support animal/security guard/dad. You don’t have to do shit. No bag carrying or holding on to passports or anything. His job is everything and to make sure you get your snacks and to the centurion lounge safely. His payment is the pics you’ll post on insta and you holding his hand through terminal.

He chuckles, moving into the room and dropping down to sit right behind you. He sets the toy aside and pulls you back against his chest, his arms looping firmly around your waist. He leans his chin on your shoulder, squinting at the small camera screen.

"We’re just being honest, Trouble" he says, his voice dropping to that lower, softer tone he only uses with you. He presses a kiss to your temple, then looks at the lens.

"Survived a year of parenthood and now we’re trying to add another one to the chaos. What could possibly go wrong?"

"Exactly.” You lean back into him, feeling the familiar comfort of his heartbeat against your spine. “And if it goes wrong, I’m blaming you."

"Yeah, yeah," he says, squeezing your waist. "Whatever you say, Princess."

You let your head fall back looking up at him through your long lashes, his soft blue eyes meeting yours for a moment before flashing back to the camera.

“Anyways hopefully next time you see us she’s successfully pissed on a stick!” Morgan claps, ending the segment.

Tilly was perched on your hip as you waited for your 3 minute timer to go. Minutes stretching on for hours.

“I know it’s probably negative, it’s only month one of trying” Your voice soft as you bounced the one year old gently on your hip.

Flipping over the test you tried to hide the disappointment from your face. One glaringly obvious, clearly negative, singular pink line staring back at you.

“That’s okay” you cooed, still bouncing the babbling Tilly. “Just round one, we got plenty of time haven’t we Tilly girl?”

In the next clip you were standing in the same spot, Morgan had his strong arms around you, leaving kisses in your hairline as the result sunk in.

“It’s okay princess, not like trying to get one in there is a terrible chore” he teased squeezing your hips.

You let out a sigh as you twisted in his arms, your own coming up and encircling his neck.

“It’s been three months squish!” You pouted up to him.

“You had no symptoms this month though have you, trouble?” His hands tighten on your waist as he consoles you. “Just not the right time yet, try not to stress too much.”

“I think it means you need to get your mum to babysit and take me on another date night.” You tease to break the slight tension that’s built.

“Oh yeah? Sure it does, dickhead.” He laughed as the clip cut.

A series of similar clips showed, some with Morgan, some with Tilly and some of you by yourself. Always in the same spot, camera balanced on the sink with the plastic test upside down just in shot as you counted down with the viewers.

Unfortunately, every test had the same increasingly devastating negative result once the timer was up.

And in each clip it was getting harder to mask the disappointment and heartbreak from flashing in your features as you flipped the plastic stick over.

“So everyone keeps telling me I need to be relaxed and stop trying” you opened up the vlog from the passenger seat of Morgan’s car.

“So daddy back there,” the camera briefly panned to Morgan who could be seen, and heard, strapping Matilda into her car seat. “Is on a mission to help me relax, and he’s looked up healthy recipes that are meant to promote fertility… however the idea of a boneless banquet is really appealing right now.”

“Hey,” Morgan calls from behind you, “If momma wants kfc we can get kfc, forget the vegetables for a day. It’s self care, innit?”

“Tilly will be two soon and she’s not got a baby sibling yet.” you mutter.

“We see the doctor next week, don’t get too in your head about it reader” He spoke softly as he got behind the wheel, one of his hands reaching out to cup your face. “I don’t think little lady is too bothered stealing all our attention for herself at the minute anyway.”

Almost to prove his point Matilda started shouting for attention from the back seat.

The camera was wobbling as you cried in Matilda’s dark nursery, only the soft glow of her nightlight illuminating the room.

“I feel like such a fraud” you sobbed, “I already have the most perfect baby right there! But every time it’s just one line there I feel a grief for something that never existed.”

Tilly was asleep in her cot, now taking up much more space at 22 months old. She had her arm and leg outstretched to her side as she lay on her tummy, the same way Morgan slept wrapped around you every night.

“The doctor said I’ve got unexplained infertility, medically I should be able to give Tilly a sibling… my body just won’t” you harshly rubbed at your face to get rid of the tear tracks. “I don’t know why I’m so upset because at least I get to be her mummy, and being her mum really is my favourite thing ever.”

You were looking solemnly at your sleeping daughter as you cried, taking in her soft features while she slept.

“It was so easy with her, we didn’t even have to try! I was on the pill and we still somehow got her” you whispered towards the camera. “I started this vlog ten months ago… which realistically isn’t even that long ago but, part of me expected to be about to give birth or already have a newborn by now... Maybe I was dumb for thinking that it’d happen so quickly?”

Nervous laughter followed your sentence as your fingers anxiously twisted through the ends of your hair.

“Anyway I should probably go to bed before Morgan wakes up and comes looking for me, if he sees me crying over our sleeping daughter again he might think I’m crazy”

The frame shook as you stood up, using the sleeve of your hoodie to wipe the remaining tears away as you smiled gently into the lens.

“To clarify I don’t cry over her a lot, but mums will know those first few weeks of having a newborn and post partum emotions sometimes you do be crying during the night feeds because you can’t believe you actually created a cuter perfect mini version of your feral ginger boyfriend”

The next clip opened mid conversation.

“–don’t think I can piss on another stick this month actually,” you muttered, phone balanced against the bathroom mirror instead of the usual spot on the sink.

Morgan’s laugh came from somewhere behind the camera.

“Bit difficult to know if you’re pregnant then, innit?”

You rolled your eyes weakly, though the joke barely landed this time. Tilly, now fully in her I’m two and I’m the boss now era, banged tiny hands against the bathroom door from the hallway.

“Mummyyyy!”

“One second baby!” You pinched the bridge of your nose before looking back toward the lens.

“I just…” your shoulders lifted helplessly. “I already know what it’s gonna say before I even check.”

Morgan appeared in the reflection behind you then, quieter than usual as he wrapped his arms around your waist from behind.

“You don’t know for sure, babe.”

You didn’t answer. The clip cut before the timer finished.

Another clip, another month. The camera wasn’t even steady this time, just loosely held in your hand as you sat in bed, the room bathed in the soft, blue light of your phone screen.

“We didn’t film the test,” you said quietly. Behind you, Morgan was dead to the world, face down across the mattress with one arm hanging limply off the edge of the bed.

“I dunno. It just felt a bit…” You shrugged, your gaze dropping to your lap. “Sad.” You took a breath, forcing a lighter, brighter tone as you looked back into the lens.

“But! On the bright side, apparently stress is the enemy, so Morgan’s officially banned me from watching my missing children documentaries.”

Half-asleep, Morgan’s muffled, gravelly voice drifted across the room, barely audible.

“You were scaring yourself, Trouble.”

“You snore like a lawnmower, you knobhead.” You rolled your eyes, a small, genuine smile tugging at your lips.

“You still shag me though,” he mumbled into the pillow, not even bothering to lift his head.

That finally pulled a real, unforced laugh from you, the tension in your shoulders dropping for the first time all day.

The camera sat on the coffee table, capturing the scene from a low, slightly awkward angle — the way it always did lately.

Tilly was in the middle of a serious, high-stakes operation. She’d wrapped one of Morgan’s hoodies around her doll and she was currently pacing the rug, shushing the air with the frantic intensity only a two-year-old is capable of.

“Daddy get me a real baby” Tilly chirped, coming to a stop in front of Morgan. “I share my Pooh-bear!”

You didn't look at the camera; you were too busy trying to keep your expression neutral. You glanced over at Morgan. He was sat on the rug in front of her, halfway through building a tower of blocks, but his hands had gone still.

"A real one, eh?" Morgan said, his voice soft as he spoke to your daughter. He didn't look at you, just kept his eyes on Tilly, though his grip on a wooden block was a little too tight.

Tilly nodded enthusiastically, nearly tripping over the oversized hoodie pooled around her ankles.

“Yeah! Tiny baby.” She held her hands up dramatically to demonstrate. “Thisssss big.”

Morgan let out a quiet hum, the kind he did lately whenever he was trying very hard to sound normal.

“And what if the baby cries all night, hmm?” he asked, reaching out to steady her before she face planted into the blocks. “What then?”

“I sing!” she announced confidently.

“Oh yeah?” His mouth twitched faintly. “Reckon that’ll work?”

Tilly nodded with the unwavering confidence only toddlers possessed before toddling over to you instead, shoving the doll into your lap.

“You practice mummy.”

Your breath caught so subtly the camera probably didn’t even pick it up. Morgan looked up then, just for a second. Neither of you said anything but, there was something exhausted in his expression now. Something carefully controlled.

You forced a smile for Tilly’s sake, adjusting Morgan’s hoodie around the doll automatically.

“Thank you baby.”

“She cold,” Tilly explained seriously. “Need mummy’s magic cuddles.”

“Yeah?” you whispered, eyes burning suddenly as you cradled the doll against your chest.

The room went quiet except for the soft sound of Cocomelon playing faintly from the TV.

Morgan cleared his throat after a moment, dropping the block back onto the rug with a dull clack.

“C’mere monkey,” he said gently, opening his arms toward Tilly. “Daddy needs help building this tower before mummy starts crying at cartoons again.”

“I don’t cry at cartoons” you muttered defensively, swiping quickly beneath one eye. Morgan’s eyes flickered toward you briefly.

“You cried at that bluey episode for forty five minutes.”

“Because auntie Brandy’s infertile, Morgan!”

“Mummy say bad word.” Tilly gasped dramatically, pointing at you.

Morgan barked out a startled laugh while you buried your face in the doll for a second, mortified

“Not that kind of bad word, baby,” he managed between laughs, reaching to scoop Tilly into his lap.

The camera kept recording for another few seconds.

Morgan pressing absent kisses into Tilly’s hair while she squirmed in his arms. You sat curled against the sofa clutching the doll a little too tightly.

And despite the laughter that had softened the moment, Morgan still looked at you the same way he always did lately, like he was trying to figure out how to carry heartbreak for the both of you.

The camera is propped on the dresser, filming you as you haphazardly stack boxes of toddler shoes. You pause, leaning against the dresser, looking directly into the lens.

"Were doing the bed transition, right? And Morgan is doing the 'supportive dad' thing, trying to make it a big, happy event. But I hate it! I really thought there’d be a baby ready to move into her cot when she was ready to move out of it."

You sighed as you busied yourself with reorganising the bookcase, replacing the books with far more force than required. The hardbacks thudding against the wood filling the short silence.

“And people keep saying to us when they see the three us together it’s a ‘perfect time’ to give her a sibling, total strangers too by the way. As if I don’t know. As if I haven’t been wanting to give her a sibling since she was like 6 months old!”

You stop, one book held mid-air, and let out a sharp, incredulous laugh.

“It’s like they think we’re just... not doing it? Or that we’re waiting for the 'right vibe'? I swear, if one more person tells me to 'not think about it and just have a drunk night together,' I might actually lose the plot.”

You shove the book into the shelf, the movement sharp and jagged. You look back at the camera, your voice dropping to that hushed, secretive tone.

“I used to love the spontaneity of it, you know? With Morgan? Like we all have eyes he’s so attractive, he’s my best friend – it used to be the best part of our day. But now? I’m all ‘Will this position help with conception?’ or ‘Quick! she’s napping, we’ve got at least 10 minutes, I’m ovulating.’ It’s not even fun anymore. It’s like a shift.”

You lean back against the shelf, looking defeated.

“It’s good because it’s with him, obviously. But I dread it. I can see the dread in his face, too, which somehow makes it worse. It’s like we’re both just performing. I look at him and I know he’s only doing it because he knows how much I want this, and he’s trying to be the ‘good husband.’ And I’m only doing it because an app told me it’s the ‘optimal day.’”

You rub a hand over your eyes, your voice thick.

“I miss being a wife who just… wanted her husband. I’m so tired of being a patient who needs a result. Does that make me a bad mum? For wanting more when I’ve already got the most perfect little thing in the other room? I feel like I’m constantly mourning a life I don't even have, while trying to ignore the guilt of not being happy enough with the life I do have.”

You walk toward the camera, your movements slower now, the initial rush of anger replaced by that hollow, creeping exhaustion. You lean in, your face filling the frame, eyes reddened and tired.

“The worst part is that I know he’s hurting too. But he’s so busy trying to keep the fun version of himself alive for me that he’s forgotten how to just be sad.”

You let out a shaky breath, your gaze dropping to the floor. The silence in the room is absolute now, no toddler giggles, no Morgan, just the hum of the camera.

“Anyway. That’s enough. I’m making this a pity party, aren’t I?” You sniff, rubbing your nose with the back of your hand and forcing a bright, brittle tone that doesn't reach your eyes. “Tilly needs her snack and I’ve got a big girl room to finish tidying. Life goes on, right?”

The camera flickers on shakily, still blurry before focusing on the bathroom sink. You’re standing there in one of Morgan’s oversized hoodies, nervously twisting your hair. Morgan is beside you, half-asleep, his ginger hair sticking up in every direction, squinting through heavy eyes.

“I’m five days late,” you breathe into the quiet room. “I didn’t want to say anything… I thought if I said it out loud, my period would start out of spite.”

“Bit rude of your uterus, that,” he murmurs. It’s almost a laugh, but it doesn't quite reach his eyes.

You offer a weak smile, but it vanishes as quickly as it appeared. Morgan rubs a hand down his face, his expression sharpening as the reality settles in.

“Have you looked yet?”

You shake your head. “I’m scared to.”

The words land heavy. After eighteen months, the fear isn't just about disappointment anymore; it’s about that familiar, hollow humiliation of the negative result.

“We’ll do it together,” Morgan says. He starts pacing — just short, jagged laps across the tiny floor before stopping right beside you.

“You’re stressing me out,” you mutter, your gaze fixed on the white plastic test sitting on the edge of the sink.

“You think I’m not stressed?”

“You never get stressed anymore.” The words slip out before you can stop them. Morgan goes quiet. It’s true – over the last year and a half, he’d stopped letting himself believe enough to feel the nerves. He’d built a wall of stoicism to protect you both.

He lets out a slow, steadying breath and reaches for the test, handling it carefully, as if it might shatter under his touch.

You don’t look at the stick. You watch his face. You see the confusion hit, then the disbelief, and finally, something dangerously close to hope.

“Morgan?” your voice is a whisper.

“There’s… there’s something there.” He turns the test toward you, his hand trembling slightly.

The line is faint, fainter than a heartbeat, but it is there. A distinct, stubborn slash of color against the white.

Your hand flies to your mouth. Morgan lets out a startled, breathless laugh.

“Told you your uterus was just being dramatic.”

“Oh my god,” you choke out, tears flooding your vision. Morgan is staring at the test as if it’s the most offensive, beautiful thing he’s ever seen.

“That’s a line,” he says, his voice thick with wonder. “That’s actually a line.”

You start to sob, laughing through the mess of it as Morgan grabs your face with both hands, his thumbs catching your tears.

“Hey, hey, don’t cry yet, we don’t—”

“I can’t help it!”

“You’re gonna make me cry, and I’m meant to be the emotionally stable one.”

“You’ve never been emotionally stable,” you sniff, a watery laugh escaping you.

“That is slander.” He kisses you then. Hard, desperate and smiling against your mouth.

Downstairs, the sound of tiny footsteps thuds against the floor, followed by Tilly’s muffled yell for breakfast. Reality rushes back in.

The next clip opens in absolute darkness. The only sound is your jagged, hitching breathing as you struggle to balance the camera on your knees.

Morgan is sat beside you, anchoring you to his side, his lips pressed softly against your hairline.

Above you, caught in the faint glow of the camera’s light, sits the graveyard of your efforts: a pack of tampons, a bottle of fertility vitamins and a box of unused ovulation tests.

“So… she got her period during the night,” Morgan explains softly.

You’re crying into his shoulder, your body shaking with a heartbreak so deep it feels exhausting.

Morgan’s hand rests firmly on your back, rubbing slow, steady circles. He doesn’t tell you it’ll be okay. He doesn’t tell you to stop crying. He just holds you in the dark, and for the first time, he doesn't look like he’s trying to keep the ‘fun’ version of himself alive.

The camera is propped up on the edge of the bathroom sink – not for a test this time, just because habit makes you reach for it whenever things feel too heavy to hold alone.

You’re sat on the edge of the bath in one of Morgan’s hoodies, fingers twisting at the ends of your hair. The bathroom light is dim, casting tired shadows beneath your eyes.

“So,” you say eventually, voice quieter than usual. “We had a talk.” You swallow hard. “And I think… we’re done trying.”

The words don’t sound real out loud, like they belong to somebody else. From somewhere downstairs, Tilly’s laugh echoes faintly through the house followed by the sound of the Bluey theme tune. It makes your expression crumple for half a second before you pull it back together.

“We’re not buying ovulation tests anymore,” you continue softly. “Or pregnancy tests. I deleted the tracking apps.” A weak laugh leaves you. “Which honestly felt a bit like deleting a tiny little dictator who’d been ruining my life for a 20 months.” You rub tiredly at your face.

“I just can’t keep doing the cycle of convincing myself every month is different and then feeling stupid when it isn’t.” The camera shakes slightly as you adjust it.

“And I miss my husband.” The confession comes out barely above a whisper. “Not physically, I mean he’s literally downstairs making dinosaur nuggets with our toddler—”

A faint THEY’RE FUCKIN BURNT! echoes from downstairs. Despite yourself, your mouth twitches.

“But I miss us. I miss kissing him without thinking about ovulation windows. I miss him touching me without both of us silently wondering if maybe this’ll finally be the time it works.” Your eyes start filling before you can stop them. “I miss when we were just stupidly obsessed with each other.”

The bathroom door creaks open then and Morgan appears, ketchup bottle in hand and a tea towel flung over his shoulder.

“Language,” he shouts automatically down the stairs before looking at you properly. His face changes instantly, the sauce bottle gets abandoned on the sink. “Oh, Trouble.”

“No, it’s okay. I’m okay.” You shake your head quickly, embarrassed by the tears now falling, but your voice cracks on the last word.

Morgan crouches in front of you immediately, hands settling on your knees.

“You don’t have to do that with me.”

And that’s what finally breaks you because he sounds tired too. Not frustrated, not angry, just tired in that deep, aching way people get when they’ve carried hope for too long.

“I think I need us back,” you whisper.

Morgan’s face folds a little at that. His thumbs brush under your eyes gently.

“You never lost us.”

“Feels like I did.” You let out a small sob-laugh. He leans forward then, resting his forehead against yours.

“We made her,” he says quietly. “Got our tiny little psychopath downstairs singing the Bluey theme tune at chicken nuggets. Think we did alright, Princess.”

That gets a real laugh out of you through the tears.

Downstairs, Tilly suddenly screeches “MUMMY I NEED KETCHUP!” Morgan closes his eyes briefly.

“See?” he mutters. “Dream life.”

You laugh again, shakier this time, and he kisses your forehead softly. The camera keeps rolling a little longer.

Just long enough to catch the way Morgan stays kneeling between your legs even after the conversation ends, holding your hands like he’s terrified that if he lets go, you’ll disappear into the grief again.

The camera is propped against a stack of laundry on the table, slightly crooked. The living room is a landscape of chaos— toys, mismatched socks and half eaten snacks.

Tilly is sprawled across the rug, surrounded by a mountain of stationery she definitely doesn't need yet. She holds up a glittery pencil case like she’s presenting a legal document.

“Mummy,” she says with grave seriousness. “This for important business.”

“What business?” you ask, your voice coming from behind the camera, warm and unhurried.

“My important business.” Tilly shrugs, unbothered.

Morgan snorts from the dining table. He’s hunched over, painstakingly ironing name labels into tiny school cardigans.

“She’s definitely your child.”

“She screams when the people on tv don’t do what she wants, Morgan.” You deadpan. “She’s yours.”

“That’s necessary, that is.”

“You’re ridiculous.”

The camera catches Morgan grinning. A real, full-blown grin, the kind that’s been rare through the video. You’re sat beside him, folding tiny socks into pairs. You aren’t rushing, you aren't checking a clock or a phone app, you’re just there.

“Tills,” Morgan calls out after a minute, holding a polo shirt up like evidence in a courtroom. “You’re too little for this. Stop growing.”

“I’m big girl now!” she shouts, jumping up to prove it and immediately tripping over the oversized backpack she insisted on wearing.

You burst into laughter. Morgan doesn't even flinch he just reaches out, grabbing her by the hood of her jumper and hauling her upright in one practiced motion.

“Tiny drunk person.”

“Mummy! Daddy being rood!” Tilly gasps, dramatically.

“You literally fell over air, baby” you say, wiping a tear from your eye.

“She gets that from you as well,” Morgan mutters, you kick his shin under the table. “Ow! Domestic violence in front of the child.”

“Yeah, Mummy! Vile-ence!” Tilly claps her hands.

You laugh until your sides ache, the camera shaking slightly as you lean back against your chair. The room feels full. Not because there’s another heartbeat in the house and not because the ache of the last two years has vanished but because you’ve stopped living in a waiting room.

Morgan glances over at you. His eyes linger, watching you laugh, his expression softening.

“You alright?” he asks. The question is simple, stripped of the loaded fear it used to carry. You look around the room. The half-ironed clothes, the glitter pens scattered like confetti and the man who, despite everything, is still your best friend.

“Yeah,” you say softly, and you mean it. “I really am.”

The camera continues to roll, capturing the way Morgan’s gaze doesn’t leave your face. His expression shifts; that guarded, supportive wall he’s been keeping up for months finally drops, replaced by a slow, knowing smirk.

“You look nice,” he says, his voice dropping just a notch. “Like, actually nice. Not just mummy nice.”

You lean back, arching a brow at him, catching that familiar, mischievous glint in his eyes that you haven't seen in ages.

“And you,” you tease, resting your chin on your palm, “look like you’re trying to start something.”

Morgan smirks as he kicks his chair back, the legs scraping against the floorboards, and he leans into your space not quite kissing you, but close enough that the air between you feels charged.

“Maybe I am,” he murmurs. “I think I’ve been a very patient man lately. Don't you?”

You laugh, a light, airy sound, and give his arm a playful shove.

“Oh, have you? Is that what we’re calling it? You’ve been a nightmare, more like.”

He laughs, the sound genuine and unburdened. He reaches out, his hand sliding across the table to cover yours, his thumb tracing the back of your knuckles.

“A nightmare, huh? Just wait until I’m off the clock, then you’ll see.”

Tilly lets out a loud, frustrated grunt from the rug as she struggles with her pencil case zipper.

“Mummy! Help!”

You tear your gaze away from him to look at Tilly, but you don’t pull your hand out from under his. You’re still grinning, that flirty, knowing look still plastered on your face.

“In a second, Tills.” you call out, your voice bright, though your eyes go right back to Morgan.

He leans in a little closer, his voice dropping to a low, intimate murmur that’s meant just for you, even if the camera is recording.

“Don’t worry about the uniform labels,” he whispers, his eyes shimmering with cheeky intensity as he looks you up and down. “I think we’ve got more important business to focus on for today.”

You feel your cheeks flush and you let out a shaky, breathless laugh. You give his hand a squeeze, leaning into him just enough to feel the solid warmth of his shoulder against yours.

“You’re ridiculous,” you breathe, though you’re looking at him like he’s the only thing in the room.

Morgan just grins, that smug, familiar spark back in his eyes. He taps your hand twice before finally standing up to go help Tilly, but he leaves a lingering touch on your shoulder as he passes, his fingers brushing the back of your neck in a way that feels like a promise.

“Go on then,” he says, glancing back at you over his shoulder with a wink. “Go be a mum. I’ll be back for you in five.”

You watch him walk away, laughing to yourself, the knot in your chest completely gone. You reach for the camera, not with the frantic energy of someone trying to hide something, but with the relaxed, happy smile of a woman who finally has her life back.

You give the camera a final, playful smirk, and with a soft click, the screen goes black.

The camera is propped on the bathroom counter. You’re in a black bodycon dress, hair curled, mid-laugh while fixing your lipstick. You’re holding glass of rosé looking relaxed and loose.

“Right,” you say to the lens, giggling. “I’m literally about to head out to meet the girls, but I promised myself I’d bin this last pregnancy test first. I’m having a massive cupboard clear-out. Between nursery germs, new allergies and me catching every single bug Tilly brings home, I’ve honestly never gone to the doctors so much in my LIFE. I’m reclaiming my space.”

You tear the packaging open with your teeth, still laughing as you prepare the test.

“I know it’s negative. I’m not even going to look at it, i’m just going to do the thing, toss it and not be a mum for the night.“ Your tone is still cheerful as you talk to the viewers. “Suppose it’s a good ending though isn’t it? The final test, we’re happy with where we are so I can end the video now.”

You lean over, do your thing and casually set it on the edge of the sink. You turn back to the camera, picking up your drink, totally unfazed.

“So, yeah. Tonight is purely for cocktails and complaining about the nursery mums and I am so ready for it. I’ll update you when I’m — wait.”

You pause, mid-sip as your eyes caught the test. You freeze, leaning in, squinting as your brow furrowed in complete confusion.

“No… that’s not right.”

You reach out and pick up the stick, holding it up to the bathroom light. You tilt your head, turning the stick from side to side.

“That’s… that’s a line,” you whisper, your voice deadpan. “That’s definitely a line.”

You look at the test, then at the camera, then back at the test. You let out a short, disbelieving laugh.

“Well. That’s inconvenient.” You walk to the bathroom door, still holding the test, wine glass in the other hand.

“Morgan?” you call out, your voice perfectly steady. “You need to come here for a second. I think I’ve just ruined my night out.”

“What you mean? You’ve planned it for weeks, I’ve told you me and monkey will be–“ Morgan wanders into the frame, stopping mid-sentence when he sees you holding the test. “What’s that? You said you were binning it, princess.”

You just hold it out to him, still holding your glass.

“I know. I was. But apparently I’m not broken.”

Morgan looks at the stick, then at you. His eyes go wide, then he starts to chuckle, shaking his head. He doesn't even go for in for a hug, he just takes the test, looking at it with a mix of shock and amusement.

“You’re having a laugh, aren’t you?”

“I wish I was,” you say, finally setting the drink down on the counter. “I was really looking forward to shots and bad decisions.”

You both just stand there, staring at the little piece of plastic and then you start to giggle again.

“Well,” Morgan says, a slow, dazed smile spreading across his face. “I suppose you’re not going to the pub then.”

You look at him, the humor of the situation finally sinking in. You burst out laughing, a genuine, confused, happy sound.

Morgan steps closer, his gaze drifting from the stick to your face, his usual smirk replaced by a look of dazed, utter disbelief. He gently takes the glass of rosé from your hand and sets it down next to the test, as if it’s suddenly a dangerous object.

“Think we’re done with this for now too.” He reaches out, tucking a loose curl behind your ear, his touch lingering on your cheek. “You’re actually serious? It’s not one of those… dented lines or whatever you used to call them?”

“It’s a line, squish,” you say, your voice vibrating with that same disbelieving laughter. “A very dark, very night out ruining line. I barely put it down before it showed up”

He lets out a short, incredulous huff of air and pulls you into him, his arms wrapping around your waist. He doesn’t squeeze too hard, he just holds you there, looking over your shoulder at the sink like he expects the test to have vanished by the time he looks back.

“We literally just decided to stop,” he mutters into your hair, sounding both winded and amused. “We were one and done. And now – and now you’re telling me there’s a tiny little squatter on the way?”

You laugh, a wet, shaky sound as the reality starts to bleed through the shock. You lean your head against his chest, feeling his heart hammering against his ribs, just as fast as yours.

“I know. I was literally about to put on my heels, have a tequila and forget that I have responsibilities.” You look up at him, your eyes crinkling at the corners.

Morgan’s expression softens, that familiar, cheeky light returning to his eyes. He leans down, pressing a lingering, soft kiss to your forehead.

“So,” he says, his voice dropping to a low, amused rasp. “You’re telling me that after two years of temperature tracking, calendar alerts and enough ovulation tests to build a small house… I get you pregnant the second you plan a night out that involves shots?”

“It’s the timing, isn't it?” You burst out laughing, the sound slightly hysterical. “It’s genuinely insulting, Tilly has been extra testing this week I needed a girls night.”

He shakes his head, a wide, disbelieving grin spreading across his face. He doesn’t reach for a dramatic embrace instead, he just leans his hip against the vanity, looking at you with that familiar, cheeky glint.

“You know what this means, don’t you? You’re going to have to go to the pub with the girls, order a coke, and pretend you’re having the time of your life while they get absolutely hammered.”

“Don’t.” You groan, dropping your forehead onto his shoulder. “I’ll have to listen to Heather talk about her sex life while I’m sat there sober and fully aware she’s talking about MIKEY. It’s a tragic existence, Morgan. Truly tragic.”

He chuckles, his hand finding the small of your back and pulling you flush against him. The intimacy of it makes your heart ache in the best way.

“You could always just text them,” he suggests, his thumb brushing slow, lazy circles against your dress. “Tell them you’ve been struck down by a mysterious, tiny, very inconvenient virus.”

You look up at him, your eyes crinkling. The sheer, absurd irony of it all is finally sinking in.

“You mean tell them I’m ‘pregnant and suffering from a sudden intolerance to fun’?”

“Exactly that, yeah.” Morgan snorts quietly, leaning down until his forehead knocks gently against yours. “Terminal condition. Symptoms include cancelling girls nights and becoming violently sober.”

You laugh again, soft and helpless now, your fingers twisting in the fabric of his t-shirt as the reality starts settling properly between you.

The house is quiet around you. Tilly had gone to bed an hour ago after demanding three stories, one yoghurt and exactly seven kisses. Her little nightlight glows faintly beneath the crack of her bedroom door down the hall.

“Oh my god,” you whisper again, but this time it sounds less shocked and more terrified to believe it.

Morgan’s eyes flick between you and the test like he still thinks one of them might disappear if he looks away too long.

“We literally gave up,” he says quietly, almost laughing again. “Like properly gave up.”

“I know.”

“You deleted the apps.”

“I know.”

“You bought wine.”

“I KNOW.”

That finally breaks him. A real laugh escapes him, startled and disbelieving and so painfully happy it makes your throat ache.

Then suddenly he’s covering his face with one hand, shoulders shaking once as he looks down at the stick again.

“You’re pregnant,” he says, muffled behind his palm.

Your eyes instantly burn the way he says it gets you, like after two years he never actually thought he’d get to say it again.

You step closer without thinking and Morgan immediately reaches for you, both hands settling on your waist like muscle memory.

For a second neither of you speaks he just stares at you, at your face, your dress, your curled hair, the glass of rosé abandoned beside the sink.

At the woman he’d spent nearly two years trying to convince he loved regardless of what her body could or couldn’t do.

“You know what’s mental?” he says softly.

“What?”

“You’re standing there looking all pretty ready for a girls night and I genuinely think this is the sexiest you’ve ever been.”

“Morgan.” You let out a watery laugh.

“I’m serious.” His thumbs brush slowly against your waist. “You’ve looked heartbroken for so long and now you just…” He shakes his head slightly, eyes glassy. “You look like you again.”

“WAIT!” You look up at him, smile infectious. “We have to tell Tilly… would we be the worst parents ever if we woke her up?”

Morgan blinks at you for a second, still looking shell-shocked. “…Probably,” he says honestly. You burst out laughing again, grabbing at his arms.

“I’m serious! She asked for a baby for like six months straight, she’s gonna lose her mind.”

“She’s also three and it’s half eight at night,” he points out, though he’s already smiling now. “She’ll wake up, ask for ‘a mummy snack’ and then tell us it’s morning time cause she’s already been to sleep.”

“That’s still a valid reaction.”

Morgan shakes his head at you, smiling so hard now it looks almost painful. Like his face has forgotten how to hold this much happiness all at once.

“You’re actually buzzing to wake a sleeping toddler” he mutters in disbelief.

“I really thought my body hated me.” Your eyes well up again as you let out a shaky breath.

“Don’t say that.”

“But I did.” Your voice cracks slightly. “For ages, I did.”

Without hesitation, he pulls you into him again, one arm firm around your waist while the other cups the back of your head.

“Your body gave me Tilly,” he murmurs against your hair. “And now apparently it’s gone and done it again just to humble us.”

“You’re such a knobhead.” A broken laugh escapes you against his chest.

“Yeah, but I’m your knobhead.”

You stay there for a second longer, wrapped around each other in the tiny bathroom before Morgan pulls back just enough to look at you properly again, blue eyes brighter than they’ve been in months.

“Go on then,” he says, a grin creeping back onto his face. “Let’s go wake the tiny dictator.”

Your gasp is immediate. “You said no!”

“I changed my mind.” He shrugs. “This is arguably bigger than bedtime.”

You beam at him so brightly it almost knocks the breath out of him.

you couldn’t remember the last time you’d slept through an entire night without waking up every few hours and staring blankly at the ceiling, spiraling thoughts keeping you company until sunrise. 

instead, you had a deep and comfortable sleep. the kind you genuinely thought stopped existing for you years ago. 

and somehow, against all reason, your brain supplied the answer before you could stop it. 

satoru. 

you physically recoiled from the thought. 

the movement caused satoru’s grip to tighten instinctively around your waist and your stomach dropped. 

fuck, this was so so so bad. 

your rules were practically meaningless now. 

you carefully lifted his arm from your waist, holding your breath the entire time as you slowly untangled yourself from him. 

after waiting for a second, eyes trained on his features, he was unmoving still and you breathed out. 

the second your feet touched the carpeted floors, relief flooded through you.

your clothes from last night were dry now, resting against the armchair and you made a beeline for the items, putting them on quickly but quietly. 

as your jeans buttoned fully, you heard shuffling from the bed behind you and your heart dropped. 

slowly, almost amusingly careful, you turned around to see that satoru hadn’t moved from his position. 

one arm tucked beneath his head, icy eyes half-open beneath the morning light as he watched you from his place in bed. 

for the first time since you’d met the boy, you felt your stomach churn. 

your stomach fluttered, not anxiety exactly, but something closer to apprehension. 

you could barely name it, but you felt a bit nervous. 

you were never nervous!

“um, i uh-” you cleared your throat once as satoru watched you lowly, jaw clenched under your gaze, “i should get home.” 

a beat passed, then another and you hated to admit how much you despised silence from satoru. he was always irritatingly loud and his silence kind of unnerved you. 

your eyes didn’t leave him, wide and watching, unusually unguarded and even he could see that. 

satoru closed his eyes once more then, pulling the blanket up higher to his chin and essentially going back to sleep. 

you felt a pang in your chest, his hurt practically tangible in the air between you. 

it isn’t my fault!

you had to remind yourself of that. the nature of your relationship was laid out clearly and he couldn’t blame you for re-establishing them every time you accidentally stepped over the line. 

so with that, you grabbed your bag from beside the door and exited his room. 

unbeknownst to you, satoru’s eyes fluttered open once more, chest heavy as he watched the door to his room close and he felt his jaw clench. 

and for once, it wasn’t hurt that settled but anger. 

fucking annoyance. 

it was utterly irritating how you refused to let him in. 

you were a fucking nuissance and he wanted you more than anything. 

☀︎

there was something wrong with you, you were sure. 

why was your anxiety flaring up? why were you so uneasy? 

why is satoru being off with you throwing you off your axis?

you noticed the change instantly, but refused to acknowledge it. 

it’s been three days since you’d woken up atop satoru gojo and he’d made no effort to see or text you since then. three.

this was unusual considering the frat president normally found at least six excuses a day to bother you. 

you’d become accustomed to random texts that made no sense, texts telling you to come to parties or him simply sending you his location. 

you’d ignore most of them anyways, so when your phone remained suspiciously quiet, you simply carried on with your day. 

what did it matter? if anything, space was perfect after the way you’d embarrassingly been atop him that morning. 

except you kept glancing at your phone throughout the second day then immediately becoming increasingly irritated with yourself. 

what were you expecting exactly? a good morning text? 

ugh, you nearly gagged at the thought. 

your feet swung back and forth where you’d been laying on your stomach atop your bedsheets. 

when your thumbs hovered over his contact anyways, you blamed it on the fact that you were bored and needed a distraction. 

trouble: come over?  8:32pm

his response came twenty minutes later. twenty. 

usually, the text would barely be received before he’d already answered. 

and the response made you wish you had never sent a text in the first place.

gojo: busy  8:54pm

busy? busy? 

your jaw clenched momentarily, a feeling you weren’t quite used to settling in your stomach like a bag of bricks. 

his text was left unanswered. 

you blamed the stupid storm and your stupid self for letting yourself sleep, unknowingly making you more vulnerable. 

you wanted nothing more than to go back and erase that from happening completely, but you couldn’t. so you’ll settle for regret. 

you were sprawled out on the grass beside luna, attempting to work on your paper while she rambled on about some girls from her economics lecture. 

it was sunny that day, warm enough that students littered the campus in little groups. 

“so, i told her-” luna paused momentarily, “are you even listening?” 

your eyes snapped to her from where you’d been scanning the quad, huffing with a short nod quickly, cheeks uncharacteristically warm. 

“yes, of course i’m listening!”

luna seemed unconvinced, eyes narrowed but she didn’t spare one more second before going back into her discussion. that’s what you loved about luna, she was truly the perfect distraction. 

until she started asking a million questions, then you were simply annoyed. 

it was a tuesday, meaning satoru usually came by after practice despite not having a single class anywhere near the science building. 

he always showed up purely to pester you like a particularly persistent stray cat. 

sometimes he’d bring you a cherry coke, sometimes a chai latte, depending on the weather. and sometimes he’d bring pastries and sit beside you, absolutely annoying you to near death. 

you thought you’d feel relief once he stopped, except your eyes kept drifting around, waiting for him to appear. no, willing him to appear. 

just as you went to snap yourself out of this limbo he’d put you in, you spotted him. 

it was embarrassing how your stomach instantly settled. 

only to drop again. 

satoru walked across the quad with nanami beside him, hands tucked into the pockets of his sweats as his sunglasses rested atop his head. 

satoru was laughing at something nanami had said, properly laughing and your eyes followed him automatically. 

satoru glanced over, gaze finding yours as if fate herself had dragged his eyes over. 

your face remained neutral but you didn’t look away. but he did. 

satoru looked away without a grin, a wave or coming over, simply leaving alongside his friend. 

your stomach twisted unpleasantly, eyes immediately moving downcast. 

“ouch…” luna stated as she turned to watch you. 

you lifted your head up, eyes blank, “what?” 

luna’s brows raised, “weren’t you two, like, besties just last week?” 

your ribs tightened, “tch. i told you we’re not friends.” 

and it was true. you weren’t lying. 

satoru and you were anything but friends, barely even acquaintances! 

so why should you care that he was being so annoying?

“you sure?” luna hummed, violet hair bouncing a bit, “cuz everytime we sit here, he’s really eager to-” 

“luna.” you cut off, refusing to acknowledge the pit at your stomach, “satoru means nothing to me. can we stop talking about this?” 

you placed your ipad beside you on the grass, huffing as you pulled your legs to your chest, resting your chin on your knees. 

ugh, he was so irritating!

you don’t remember the last time you spared any person, besides your brothers and grandma, this much thought. let alone satoru! 

that’s what you liked about him from the start, that you didn’t have to think when you were with him. he’s ruining everything!

“did he say anything about tonight’s party?” 

your ears perked up like a damn cat, head turning to face her, “party?” 

“mhmm.” luna nodded eagerly, ever the biggest fan of sartoru’s idiot frat, “i’m not sure of the theme but it should be insane! can he invite us?” 

your tongue poked against your cheek, eyes narrowed on your friend as your mind moved a mile a minute. 

practically every party satoru had ever invited you to, you’d rejected. 

and now he didn’t even bother to invite you. that just irritated you more. 

“we’re invited luna.” you smiled at her, almost smirking as she narrowed her eyes at you but grinned eagerly regardless. 

“seriously?” she excitedly voiced as you nodded with a shrug. 

“yup.” you nodded once, “we’re going.”

luna eyed you suspiciously, uncharacteristically wary about a party, “you sure? do you even know the theme?”

no, you didn’t. but how hard would that be to figure out? 

you’d become somewhat friendly with the frat the last few months. well, at least your kind of friendly. 

you could just ask. 

☀︎

it was an ABC party. 

Anything But Clothes. 

music bled through the walls violently enough that you could feel the bass vibrating beneath your shoes while bodies crowded the front lawn in every imaginable interpretation of the theme. 

people wearing trash bags were on the roof, a girl wearing a whole outfit made from beer boxes waiting in line for sukuna to let her in and a guy walked past wearing nothing but purple bubble wrap around his crotch. 

“college is a disease.” you muttered as you watched the insane state of the alpha phi house. 

luna snorted beside you, “says the girl wearing caution tape.” 

you glanced down at yourself, the bright yellow tape wrapped around your body in overlapping strips, creating a sort of mini dress. technically. 

it had taken nearly two hours and a breakdown to assemble. 

“ugh, this is ridiculous.” 

“hey, you look hot!” luna stated with a grin as she adjusted her makeshift crop top that was made out of playing cards. she looked great too. 

“alright, let’s go.” you stated as you looked at the line outside the frat that stretched down the porch steps and practically down the block. 

pledges stood near the entrance checking names while drunk sophomore and freshman attempted to negotiate. 

your stomach twisted then. maybe this was all stupid. 

fuck, you should’ve stayed home! what were you even thinking? 

satoru obviously doesn’t want you here and he clearly has no interest in speaking to you. 

“next.” the deep voice immediately pulled your attention forward. 

sukuna. of course.

the vice president stood at the front of the door like a nightclub bouncer from hell, arms crossed and expression murderous. 

so murderous, you didn’t even feel the need to laugh at the pool noodles wrapped around his crotch like a diaper. 

he looked thoroughly unimpressed as the guy stepped forward, “c-carson.” 

the poor freshman in front of him visibly swallowed as sukuna looked down at his phone. 

he didn't even speak, simply looked up and shot the kid a look, as if daring him to argue that he was on the list. 

“um, i-”

“next!” 

luna winced from beside you, “as much as i would love sukuna to yell at me, he’s really scary.” 

you nodded once, “he enjoys this.” 

sukuna’s eyes lifted then, rolling his eyes at the two freshman girls babbling excuses and flirtatious remarks at him. then his eyes met yours.

his gaze dropped to the caution tape, slowly and deliberately before lifting back to your face, his lip twitching. 

“what the fuck are you wearing?” 

you scoffed, “i know you’re not asking me that.” 

sukuna’s smirk instantly fell, as if you reminded him just how ridiculous he looked, “shut up.” 

you grinned falsely as sukuna rolled his eyes once, looking mildly annoyed which probably meant he wasn’t actually annoyed. 

“name.” he stated flatly, eyes tinged with a touch of amusement. 

your eyes narrowed, “you know my name-”

“name.” 

he raised a brow as you stared back, eyes narrowed and arms crossed. 

luna was practically trembling beside you, hand reaching out to hold your arm, as if in warning. 

“um, she’s not even in line!” a freshman girl whined from the front of the line, pouting up at the salmon haired man. 

he offered her a sharp side eye that not only made her shrink back but her and her friend both scurried away. 

you’d barely paid attention to him at that point because you saw a glimpse of white hair inside the house and your heart flipped once. 

“not on here.” sukuna announced after glancing at his phone, a smirk tilting his mouth up as you glared at him. 

“well, check again.” you demanded, arms crossing once more, eyes frantic as they tried to follow the moving head of white. you knew damn well your name wasn’t on that list on his stupid phone. 

sukuna raised a brow once more, “i’d be nicer to me, sweetheart. m’the one that can magically make you appear on this list.” 

your jaw clenched once as his smirk remained painted on his ruggedly handsome face. 

this asshole. 

“um, maybe we should just go-” 

“let me in, asshole.” 

the words left you before you could stop them, tumbling from the tip of your tongue, absolutely riddled with your desperation to get inside. 

luna practically squeaked as her wide eyes looked between you and sukuna. 

the front of the line had gone quiet as well, awaiting the wrath of the vice president. 

meanwhile, sukuna’s face didn’t change and if anything, his smirk widened. 

“that your version of nice?” 

he almost sounded amused but you were anything but, huffing gently as your features melted into a scowl, “what do you want?” 

sukuna huffed out a laugh, “how bout we say you owe me one.” 

now, you didn’t know sukuna all that well but you knew enough to know that owing ryomen sukuna could not be a good thing. 

you, in your right state of mind, would have simply walked away, but you weren’t in the right state of mind. you were under some sort of curse caused by the frat president and you would do anything to stop feeling this way.

you’d been feeling weird the past few days and desperation to see satoru clung to your bones. you were probably just sexualy frustrated, that was all. 

“fine.” 

sukuna’s smirk widened, stepping away from the door, “have fun, sweetheart.” 

you merely shot him a glare as luna clung to your arm as you both walked into the chaos of the party that looked somehow worse from the inside. 

music rattled your ribcage, people dancing on tables and a girl had fully had two solo cups on each breast and around eight covering her lower half. 

“this is insane!” luna practically squealed, the words of fear she wanted to utter about sukuna dying in her throat, “look, it’s cole! i’m gonna go before ava gets to him!” 

she didn’t give you the chance to respond before she was zooming past you towards the blonde who you assumed to be cole. 

you shook your head softly, eyes lifting as you moved towards the kitchen to grab a drink. 

you willed your eyes to keep forward and not to scan the entire room like you desperately wanted to. 

with a small sigh, you grabbed a drink and leaned back on the counter, eyes drifting across the sea of people.  

you were not looking for satoru. you simply wanted to walk around, so you did. 

your feet carried you to each corner of the room, eyes scanning and checking before you made it to the little side room that was usually open. 

and after ten minutes of absolutely not looking for satoru gojo, you’d found him. 

or rather, you’d heard him. 

“YOU HAVE TO MAKE OUT!” 

your brows furrowed as you moved towards the open door and lo and behold, there he was. 

satoru was sprawled across the floor amongst a circle of people, white hair messy and eyes almost bloodshot. 

and he was practically naked. oh god. 

you looked at his version of anything but clothes and you wondered if he missed that the point is that you have to make clothes out of the item. meaning he should not be naked. 

satoru had a three giant ruby christmas bows around his crotch and ass. 

and despite the ridiculousness of it all, he looked damn good. 

his lean figure was leaning back on his hands, muscles bulging and chest glistening with a thin layer of sweat from, no doubt, his partying. 

there were a group of people, around seven, seated on the floor with an empty beer bottle in the middle. 

besides satoru, you’d only recognized nanami and that alone surprised you. 

whatever they were playing, you didn't think nanami would be taking part. 

you weren’t sure how long you’d been standing there but it must’ve been long because when you looked back at satoru, he was already looking at you. 

something flashed across his face as your eyes met his, something akin to relief. 

but you were more focused on the bloodshot nature of his eyes, you had no doubt he was both high and drunk. 

you hated it. 

his gaze softened on you before the softness disappeared just as quickly. 

“hi.” you stated simply as satoru’s jaw clenched at the mere sound of your voice. 

“hey.” the word left him flat, almost cold.

it sounded all wrong, causing your jaw to clench gently. 

what the fuck was his issue?

“we’re playing seven minutes in heaven!” a girl announced, slurring her words as your eyes flatly met hers, “come play so we’re equal!”

your mouth opened to protest-

“she doesn’t wanna play.” satoru stated lowly, bringing his beer to his lips as his gaze avoided yours and your fists clenched. 

fuck him!

without a word, you moved towards the circle, taking a seat directly beside satoru. 

his eyes followed you, almost surprised before his eyes flared in irritation. 

“you look like a mess.” you stated lowly, referring to the distant bloodshot look in his eyes. 

“you look like a construction site.” 

a few people within the circle barked out a laugh as your jaw clenched, satoru’s lips twitching. 

“okay, let’s play.” the girl announced as you looked forward, meeting nanami’s eyes as he shot you a gentle smile that you returned lowly. 

“why are you here?” satoru whispered beside you as you turned to shoot him a glare, irritation bubbling beneath your ribs at his indifference.

two people drunkenly stumbled into the closet in the room, already pawing at each other’s clothes as the girl started the timer. seven minutes. 

“what kind of question is that?” you scoffed, face devoid of emotion as you faced forward once more, ignoring satoru’s gaze on the side of your face. 

“pretty simple one.” 

“it’s a party. people come to parties, y’know.” 

satoru chuckled but it lacked any real humor, “not you. trust me, i’d know that.” 

your eyes flickered over to him then, noting the bitterness lacing his words. 

“what is your problem?” 

finally, his gaze slid towards yours, blue eyes bloodshot and unfairly pretty. 

“don’t got one.” 

you scoffed once more, “yeah, clearly.” 

“careful, sweetheart, you almost sound like you care.” satoru smirked menacingly, voice dipped in bite you weren’t used to from satoru. 

your stomach twisted as realization overcame you, memories of leaving behind a half-asleep satoru plaguing your mind. 

around you, everyone was gossiping, predicting what the two were doing in the closet, unaware of the tension between you both. 

“you’re seriously upset about that?” your voice was back to being monotonous, guard high and eyes blank. satoru felt his stomach twist but his expression didn’t change. 

“upset?” 

“yes.” 

“didn’t know i was upset.” his tone matched yours and you had to fight to remain emotionless because god, you wanted to ring his neck. 

your jaw clenched, “you’re acting pretty upset.”

“and you’re acting like sleeping in my bed was a federal crime.” 

your eyes widened just a bit, “keep your voice down!” 

“why?”

“because!” 

satoru leaned closer, breath fanning over your cheek, “because what?” 

you hated him. you absolutely despised him. 

he always fucking did this, he poked and poked and poked until he found the one thing you didn’t want to talk about. 

your jaw clenched as the two began stumbling out of the closet, hair a mess and clothes askew. 

you looked forward, ignoring the man beside you and you could feel his gaze on the side of your face. 

“you left.” his voice left him quieter now, not as angry and somehow, that felt worse. 

you glanced at him, watching his jaw clench and nostrils flare as he met your gaze, “you always leave, that’s what you do.” 

you looked away again and immediately regretted it as a soft laugh left him, bitter and real. 

“right…” 

your hands turned to fists by your sides, hating that he basically made you prove his point. 

damn him. your stomach clenched because you hadn’t expected his words. 

for a second, he looked tired and something beneath your ribs twisted. 

you really shouldn’t have come, this was just making everything inside you, whatever this sickness was, feel even worse. 

“alright!” the girl running the game clapped loudly, saving you from whatever this conversation would’ve become, “next spin!” 

the bottle spun and everyone starting making suspenseful ooohs and ahhhs. 

you watched it lazily, mind far away as your mind remained occupied on satoru's words.

the bottle spun slower and slower until it stopped, pointing directly at the man beside you. 

the room erupted instantly. 

“GOJO! LET’S GOOO!”

satoru rolled his eyes, smirking lowly as if feeding his fans and you could see the fakeness from where you were. it was pathetic. 

“spin again!” the girl grinned, sitting up wider and you could practically see her entire soul wishing the bottle would stop on her and frankly, you hoped it did. 

so you could fucking leave while he was in the damn closet and forget you’d ever even came. 

satoru’s hand wrapped around the bottle, giving it a hard spin and you watched it rotate. 

once, twice, three times before it gradually slowed…

and your stomach dropped. because the bottle wasn’t stopping, it was landing directly on you. 

everyone cheered, the girls evidently disappointed as you stared at the bottle, then at satoru. 

satoru was already looking at you and for the first time that night, he smiled. a real, him smile. 

slow, dangerous and boyish.

“would ya look at that…” his eyes locked onto yours, “almost like fate, don’t ya think?” 

yes, you really could ring his neck.

☀︎

the second the door shut behind you, the cheering outside became muffled. 

like the rest of the party had been shoved underwater as you entered the dark and cramped closet. the place was small, way too fucking small to fit two people, let alone satoru’s 6’5 ass. 

satoru had been in this very closet a hundred times before with a hundred different girls, different intentions, different conversations or lack-thereof. 

he’d never once felt nervous. yet somehow, standing two feet away from you had his heart betray his decision to distance himself.

“ugh, i can barely breathe…” you complained, crossing your arms as the little light allowed him to only imagine the look of annoyance on your achingly pretty face. 

fuck, when he saw you in that stupid caution tape sorry excuse of a dress, he regretted his decision to go with christmas bows on his cock. 

he was achingly hard for you, not even just physically but mentally. 

he had a heart boner for you too, he concluded. because the mere sight of you made a sense of relief so deeprooted fill him in an instant. 

satoru rolled his eyes at your words, despite the beating of his heart hammering against his chest, “the lack of space is supposed to serve a purpose, sweetheart-”

“stop calling me that!” you huffed out, squirming against him as satoru scoffed. 

“sweetheart?”

“yes! it’s cheesy and stupid and you never call me that, so quit it.” the words left you dripping in annoyance and he relished in pulling that reaction from you. 

any reaction from you was better than your indifference, even if it was severe irritation. 

“you call me gojo and i don’t like it-”

“that’s your name!”

“not to you,” satoru breathed out before realizing how his words sound, “i mean, people i don’t like call me gojo, ones i’m not close to…so, you shouldn’t call me that…”

he was met with silence and he sighed, able to picture you as you practically crawled back into your shell. 

he shook his head as his knees cramped, “fuck, can you just-”

before you knew it, satoru was sinking to the ground with you in his grip, pulling you to sit on his lip, straddling him and though you were caught by surprise, relief filled you instantly at the comfortable position. 

satoru let out a sigh of exasperation as his legs stretched out a bit, head tilting back against the wall. 

you relaxed in his hold, “don’t be so thrilled.” 

satoru barked out a laugh, “rich coming from you.”

your eyes narrowed, “meaning?” 

“meaning you look like somebody’s holding you hostage.”

“you can’t even see me!”

“i can feel it!” 

“well, sorry i didn’t even wanna play.” 

satoru tilted his head as his chest clenched in anticipation, “then why did you?”

your jaw clenched and he could feel you stiffen up in his lap, "because they asked.” 

satoru scoffed once as you squirmed against him, “bullshit.” 

“excuse me?” you shifted again and his jaw clenched, big hands spanning your hips before pulling you down, keeping you there. and you understood his issue, conceding. 

the lack of clothes made it hard to miss. 

“i said bullshit.” satoru repeated, his grip tightening as he shook his head, “you hate people.”

you scoffed gently, “i do not hate people.”

“you hate most people.” 

you rolled your eyes once, “what’s your point?” 

sartoru’s jaw clenched as he debated getting into this. there was a chance, a huge one, that this would just make you want to run even more. 

he may never see you again after today but he would risk it even if the thought made him want to vomit because frankly, he couldn’t take the heartache anymore. 

“why’d you come?” satoru demanded more than asked as your expression flattened, he could fucking feel it. there it was, that goddamn wall that he despised more than anything. 

“i already told you.” you replied as he shook his head. 

“i wanna hear it.” 

“it’s a party. people come to parties.”

“and i already told you, you don’t. name fucking three parties you’ve attended voluntarily.” 

the light from the little sliver of space offered him a look at your irritated expression, you looked annoyed enough to bite him and satoru found himself smiling in victory. 

“you’re insufferable.” you whispered as he grinned. 

“you came anyway.” 

there was this silent understanding, a low hum of truth that filtered between you both, something you’d usually never allow to linger. 

you came for him. and he knew that. and you allowed him to know that. 

that was more than you’ve ever given him before and for now, it was enough. 

silence filled the space momentarily before your voice penetrated it, uncharacteristically soft and low, “you’ve stopped talking to me.” 

the words left you so quietly, he almost missed them but his entire being was so attuned to you that he simply couldn’t miss anything when it came to you.

he blinked once, twice and watched as your face twisted in subtle embarrassment, regret filling you at the vulnerability he could see. as if it escaped you accidentally. 

and his heart nearly punched through his ribs because holy shit, you noticed. not only that, but you cared.

satoru laughed, actually laughed and you felt your face twist in irritation, “what is so funny, asshole?”

satoru’s hand moved to splay across your lower back, pulling you just a bit closer, “you leave every single time we hang out-”

“we don’t hang out, satoru, we have sex!” 

satoru. satoru. satoru. 

you called him satoru and not fucking gojo. 

his chest twisted as if your hand reached through his sternum and petted at his heart that was so entirely gone for you, he was sick. 

“you know what’s crazy?” 

you rolled your eyes, “here we go.” 

“you slept on me!” satoru stated lowly, “you slept on me.”

“don’t remind me.” your arms crossed once more, jaw clenching as satoru scoffed as if he wasn’t even hearing you. 

“you fully drooled on me…”

your face warmed, eyes widening, “i did not!”  

“you literally did!” satoru exclaimed with bright eyes, the anger diminishing just enough for you to recognize him once more. 

you looked genuinely horrified and satoru laughed so hard, he nearly doubled over. 

god, he missed you, he missed this which was honestly pathetic. 

“you’re such an asshole.”

“and you’re a runner.” satoru claimed with a shake of his head, the words slipping out before he could think about them.

your expression changed then, the space between you growing tense once again. 

fuck, he shouldn’t have said that. 

you felt raw, as if someone had stripped you naked, looked for your oldest scar and carved into it again. 

he could tell you were hurt and he was drunk and hurt. and you were right there, close enough to touch, to kiss, to want. 

“i didn’t mean-” 

“it’s fine.” the words left you sharp and it cut through the air as he sighed, hands moving from your hips to his face, digging into it with a shake of his head. 

“no, no it’s not,” he looked at you then, “i’m just drunk and high and stupid…”

you remained quiet, fingers fiddling with the caution tape fraying by your side, jaw clenched and walls up so high, he could barely tell what you were thinking but god, could he feel it. 

then satoru panicked. 

“you give me boners!”

your eyes widened just a bit, startled as you looked up at him, ever the most straightforward man of all time, apparently.

“excuse me?” you breathed out as satoru groaned, mind too jumbled to think properly and honestly, he preferred it this way. 

“you…you give me boners.” satoru stated lowly, slurring just the slightest bit as the last three shots he took back to back twenty minutes ago hit him all at once. 

you sighed gently, “isn’t that the point of our dynamic, satoru?”

satoru groaned as he realized his words didn’t quite mean what he intended for them to mean. 

“no, i mean…” he breathed out slowly, “you give me all kinds of boners like…like in my heart and stuff.”

your brows furrowed in confusion, “i give you…heart boners?”

satoru nodded frantically, hands gripping your hips again, pulling you even closer till you were flush against him, caution tape against his muscled front, “yes! yeah, you…you give me heart boners all the time, even when you're not even there.” 

you were too focused on his body against yours, more specifically, the christmas bow snug against your panties, “you sure, satoru? cuz i can only feel one type of boner right now.”

satoru huffed in irritation as his confession flew right over your head. 

seven minutes suddenly felt way too short and way too long. 

just as his mouth opened to speak, light spilled into the closet and both your eyes squinted up at nanami who stood before you, face all too unimpressed at your compromising position. 

“its been longer than seven minutes. we’ve been calling out for you for a while.” nanami stated lowly before turning to walk away and you were quick to jump up from satoru’s lap, stumbling out of the closet as you looked at satoru in what had to be the most uncomfortable position on the ground. 

satoru groaned lowly before stumbling into a standing position, hand cupping the christmas bow at the front, “think game’s over for me.”

you gulped lowly, ignoring everyone’s cheers before stepping back, “yeah, me too.” 

you offered satoru one last look before walking past the circle and out of the room, towards the drinks. fuck, you really needed a drink. 

☀︎

the party had somehow gotten louder or maybe you were simply reaching your limit. 

either way, the music felt harsher now, the room hotter, bodies moving together in a blur of alcohol and flashing lights. 

you had been trying to find luna while simultaneously avoiding satoru for the past hour. 

fuck, you just wanted to go home but you couldn’t leave luna and she wasn’t answering her damn phone.

the closet had done absolutely nothing to improve your mood, instead, it made your regrets about coming to this stupid party even worse. 

satoru’s words followed you through every room you entered as you tried to locate your purple haired friend. 

you’re a runner. 

the worst part about it all is that everything he had said was right. and you fucking hated that he even noticed, that he cared enough to notice in the first place. 

a frustrated sigh left you as you looked down at your dying phone, luna’s contact staring back at you, all your calls and texts left unanswered.

the house seemed less crowded now, people dispersing into bedrooms, hallways and the pool as the night stretched later and you had to dodge every guy that came to hit on you. yuck. 

you barely registered the conversations happening around you until a familiar voice cut through the noise.

“he’s a fuckin’ mess.” 

your head turned automatically, suguru standing near the staircase, rubbing the back of his neck while nanami looked vaguely exhausted beside him. 

“where is he?” nanami questioned, bringing his cup up to his lips to take a sip. 

suguru pointed toward the living room, “he decided he could outdrink sukuna.” 

nanami immediately looked disappointed, “oof. stupid.” 

despite yourself, your eyes drifted towards the living room and they instantly found him. of course they did. 

satoru was slumped sideways across the couch, one arm hanging off the edge, snowy hair a complete mess. 

he looked absolutely gone. 

your stomach tightened as you glanced between him and luna’s contact. 

“he’s fine…” you muttered to yourself as you shook your head. 

“he’s absolutely not fine.” suguru stated from beside you as you turned to look at him, the slightest bit startled as you didn't realize how close they were before you noticed the knowing look on his face, instantly irritating you. 

“he drinks all the time.” you retorted lowly, eyes giving nothing away as suguru scoffed out a chuckle. 

“not like this, he only does this shit when he’s upset.”

something in suguru’s voice made your attention sharpen as you stiffened, “why would he be upset?” 

suguru merely stared as nanami cleared his throat from beside him, “probably something to do with those seven minutes.” 

your jaw clenched before letting out a breath, “right.”

before you knew it, choso had called out for the two men beside you, something about a sophomore puking in the pool.  

you hated how you felt half responsible for satoru’s current state. 

a low sigh left you as you glanced at the living room once more, however this time, a girl was leaning over him. 

your brows furrowed, moving closer to see the girl with inky hair in a bob clad in a tiny skirt far too close to him, one hand resting against his chest. 

she was talking into his ear while he sat there, looking dazed and half-asleep. 

your gut churned once more. god, you were really getting sick of that feeling. 

the girl laughed at something satoru mumbled, her hand moving into his hair and something ugly flared beneath your ribs. 

you hated how much the sight was making you sick, how vulnerable satoru looked and you hated that your feet were already moving before your brain could catch up. 

the walk across the room felt entirely too long and every step gave you another opportunity to turn around. you didn’t. 

by the time you reached the couch, the girl was in his lap, kissing down his damp neck. 

your jaw clenched, “hey.” 

the word left you sharp, cutting through whatever intimacy she was imagining was occurring between them. 

the girl turned and you recognized her as a girl in luna’s class, the girl your friend absolutely despised, which in turn made you despise her. emi. 

you could see satoru’s eyes blink open just the slightest bit, your voice like a siren bringing him to life. fuck, he craved to hear you, to feel you always. 

his entire face softened, a lopsided smile painting his face like sunlight breaking through clouds. 

“hey, trouble..” 

the word sleft him slurred and your heart betrayed you instantly. 

emi, however, looked significantly less pleased, her long nails tracing over satoru’s jaw as he flinched lowly. 

“can i help you?” 

you barely spared her a glance, taking one more step closer, “satoru?” 

his eyes remained fixed on you, completely and entirely like everyone else had ceased to exist. 

“yeah, baby?” 

you allowed the nickname to slide off your back, knowing he was too out of it to be aware of his actions or words. clearly. 

“c’mon, let’s go.” 

emi instantly frowned, turning to look at satoru who looked up at you as if you promised him the moon, stars and everything in between. 

“go where?” 

“upstairs.”

a slow grin stretched across his face, the absolute stupidest but prettiest grin you’d ever seen, “okay.” 

he stood immediately, stumbling just the slightest bit as emi yelped, tumbling off his lap to the ground. 

you caught his arm before he could faceplant into the coffee table, “for fuck’s sake.”

satoru was now pressed aginst you, clammy hands cupping your cheeks to force you to look up at him, “hi...”

your eyes narrowed at his wide and hazy grin, “you already said hi.”

satoru merely grinned, leaning down so his nose brushed against yours, once, twice before you sighed and pushed him just a bit back. 

“let’s go, satoru…” you held his hand, turning to pull him away before you felt a tug on your other arm causing you to turn around. 

emi stood before you, visibly fuming as she glared at you, “what the fuck are you doing?! we were in the middle of something!” 

you glanced down at where she’s touched you with a look of pure disgust before looking back up at her, “that’s not how it looked to me.” 

emi’s fists clenched, “you don’t own him, you bitch!” 

your tongue pressed against your cheek before smirking at her, leaning back to look up at satoru who was already gazing down at you with a lopsided smile, “who owns you, satoru?” 

“you do, trouble.” his response was immediate, instantaneous and you had to ignore the rush going through you to shoot her a glare. 

emi faltered, tears filling her eyes as she glared at you both. 

you tugged at satoru’s hand, making a move towards the staircase before turning to her once more, “and don’t put your hands on people who can barely stand, you sick freak.” 

you shot her one more glare before guiding satoru away, helping him towards his room as he followed with no argument, his hand somehow finding the back of your ‘dress’ and remained there as you climbed up the stairs. 

as if he was afraid you’d disappear. 

the walk to his room took forever, mostly because satoru kept getting distracted by paintings, doors, absolutely nothing. 

at one point, he stopped in the hallway entirely as you sighed, turning to look up at him, “what is it now, satoru?” 

his blue eyes blinked down at you, “you’re so pretty, it makes me nauseous sometimes.” 

a sigh left your plush lips as you tugged at his hand once more, “mhmm.” 

you forced his steps, one after the other before you made it to his room, guuiding him inside. 

you expected him to collapse instantly, however, he sat on the edge of the bed and simply looked at you, eyes all droopy and bloodshot. 

the room felt strangely quiet compared to the chaos downstairs, the silence stretched and his gaze never moved away from you. 

it made something uncomfortable settle beneath your ribs as you shifted, “what?” 

satoru smiled, small and sleepy and dangerously genuine, “i like that you showed up.” 

your breath caught and his eyes were already drifting shut, half-asleep and entirely unaware of what he was saying, “i always know when you’re about to leave.” 

the confession landed softly, somewhere right in your chest. 

“you do this thing,” his hand moved vaguely, “with your phone…”

you froze because you did, absolutely. you always checked the time before getting up from his bed. every single time. 

“i know when you’re annoyed too…” his voice was quieter now, the fight gone as well as the frustration until only honesty remained, “you scrunch your nose all cute like…” 

you hated that you knew exactly what he meant, your hands clenching beside you.

“and you pretend you don’t care about stuff…people…but you do.” 

the room suddenly felt too small, too warm and too fucking claustrophobic. 

you let out a short breath, “okay, time to go to bed, satoru.”

you moved forward, helping take off his shoes before ushering him forward till he was beneath his blankets, head heavy against the pillow. 

you couldn’t help but move your fingers into his white locks, brushing it away from his sweaty face before sighing gently and moving back. 

“stay.” 

the word left him soft and simple, nothing dramatic or grand about it. 

it was simply one exhausted request. 

and it caused every instinct you’ve ever had to scream at you to run. 

you’re a runner. 

your eyes drifted toward the boy, hair messy and eyes heavy, heart somehow worn openly across his sleeve in a way that was braver than you ever could be. 

and for the first time since you met satoru gojo, you stayed.

☀︎

an | this is deffo my fav chapter so far i love them so bad AHHHHHH

Your hands clenched in your lap.

“Surprise,” he drawled, stepping forward slightly. “You’re not going to invite your old man in?”

Your body remained frozen. “What… what are you doing here?”

Your father let out a chuckle, his eyes scanning the entryway as if he was appraising it. Then, he stepped forward without waiting for permission. “What? A father isn’t allowed to come see his only daughter once and a while?”

You blinked, your stomach twisting. “How did you get the address?”

He waved a hand. “Your brother gave it to me. Had to practically bully it out of him.”

Your jaw tightened. 

“What a place,” he mused, looking around before his eyes landed on Tommy. “And you must be the husband, aye?”

Tommy stood there, unreadable, his gaze cool and detached. He stepped forward, offering his hand, because that’s what men like him did– offered respect until given a reason not to.

Your father shook it.

“Thomas Shelby,” Tommy introduced himself, his voice measured.

Your father smirked. “Oh, yeah, I’ve heard of you alright.”

Tommy merely hummed, but his attention flickered back to you. He saw it then– the way your arms had wrapped around yourself, your fingers gripping your sleeves, your body tensed like a coiled spring.

You barely spoke all evening.

At dinner, Tommy tried to gauge your mood, throwing you small glances, subtle touches, but each time, you withdrew. When his hand brushed yours under the table, you flinched.

Just slightly. But Tommy noticed.

That night, after you’d made up the spare room and your father went to bed, Tommy pulled you into the hallway. His fingers tilted your chin up, his thumb brushing against your jaw.

“Everything alright?” His voice was soft, but there was something in it– something heavy.

You forced a small smile. “Of course. Just tired.”

Tommy studied you for a long moment, his gaze searching. He didn’t look convinced.

You exhaled, glancing toward the closed door of the spare room, then back at him. “I’m sorry he just showed up like that. I– I didn’t know he was coming.”

Tommy shrugged slightly, his thumb still absently stroking your cheek. “It’s alright. Family’s always welcome here. Lord knows mine barges in whenever they damn well please. It's kind of nice having it be yours for a change."

You let out a dry laugh, but it was hallow as your stomach twisted. “Right. Thank you.”

He watched you for a beat longer before sighing. “You sure you’re alright?”

You nodded, almost too quickly. “I’m fine.”

He exhaled through his nose, brushing a stray lock of hair from your face gently. Tommy watched you for another second, his thumb pausing at your cheekbone before he finally nodded.

“Alright, love.” His voice was quiet, but you knew him well enough to hear the doubt behind it. He wasn’t convinced.

You both made your way to the bedroom in silence. Tommy moved around the room, shrugging off his vest, unbuttoning his shirt. You sat at the edge of the bed, staring at your hands, the weight of your father’s presence pressing heavy on your chest.

You should have told Tommy the truth.

You should have said something.

But you couldn’t. You didn’t know if it was the shame that stopped you– not wanting Tommy to know where or what you really came from… 

He saw you as strong, capable, resilient.

But if he knew… If he knew that you used to be a girl who flinched at raised voices, who held her breath when footsteps neared, who learned how to measure a person’s anger like a storm on the horizon, would he still look at you the same?

The thought made your throat tighten.

You lay beside Tommy, facing away from him, curled in on yourself. A moment later, his arm draped over your waist, pulling you into his warmth.

“You’re tense,” he murmured against the back of your neck.

“Just tired,” you said again. 

He studied you for a moment before sighing, obviously unconvinced. But he kissed your shoulder anyway. “Get some rest, then.”

It took a long time before you finally did.

…

The days stretched on.

Your father made himself comfortable in your home, slipping into the space between you and Tommy like he had a right to be there.

He drank Tommy’s whiskey like it was his own, spoke to him like they were equals, like there was no history of violence, no reason for you to avoid looking him in the eye.

And yet, you did what you had always done…

You played the part: the dutiful daughter. The quiet peacemaker. The one who let his sharp words roll off her back like they didn’t cut.

But the part that made you sick to your stomach, was how easily you fell back into it. How, in his presence, you became her again– that pitiful version of yourself… that scared little girl who walked on eggshells, who measured her words carefully, who held herself so still when he passed by, like movement alone might set him off.

You hated it– hated that he still had that power over you. Hated that, despite the years of distance, despite the fact that you had built a new life for yourself, he still made you feel so small.

You tried desperately to keep Tommy from seeing that version of yourself. You smiled when you needed to. Laughed at the right moments. Acted like everything was fine.

But the longer the visit stretched out, the harder it was to hide your discomfort.

Days passed. Then nearly a week. Your father showed no sign of leaving.

One afternoon, while Tommy was away at work, you found your father in the hallway, stretching, rolling his shoulders like he’d spent the day laboring instead of lounging.

You took a deep breath.

“Dad.”

He looked up, raising a brow as if you had interrupted something important.

“How long are you planning to stay for?” you asked, keeping your voice even, cautious.

He shrugged, running a hand through his graying hair. “Dunno. Not sure yet.”

You shifted your weight, forcing yourself to hold your ground. “I just– Tommy has a lot going on, and I don’t want to impose.”

Your father scoffed, waving a dismissive hand. “Oh, please. Your husband’s got plenty of room. He’s not hurting, is he?”

You swallowed your frustration and tried again.

“Did you tell Mom you were coming?”

His expression changed. 

The lighthearted arrogance drained away, replaced by something darker, more dangerous. His posture stiffened, and his gaze turned sharp.

“That’s none of your business,” he said coldly.

You should’ve stopped there. Should’ve let it go. But something inside you, some small ember of defiance, pushed forward. “It is my business. And this is my house–”

The slap came so fast, you barely saw it coming.

The sharp crack echoed in the hallway, and before you could register what had happened, you were stumbling back, one hand flying to your cheek as heat bloomed across your skin.

Your breath hitched. Your father loomed over you, his face twisted in a sneer. “You don’t get to speak to me like that. Do you understand me? What I say or don’t say to your mother is between me and her. Understood?”

You nodded quickly, pressing your lips together, trying to swallow down the lump in your throat. “Sorry– I– I was just–” you stopped yourself. “Sorry.”

Your cheek burned and your heart pounded in your ears as you turned on your heel and walked away.

You closed yourself into the bathroom, locking it behind you before turning to the mirror.

The mark was already forming. A bright red outline, the shape of his palm clear against your skin. Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes. You inhaled deeply, steadying yourself, gripping the edge of the sink until your knuckles went white.

…

That evening, you made dinner. A nice dinner. A meal you knew Tommy liked– something warm, familiar. A distraction. Maybe even something to please your father.

You set the table carefully, your hands only shaking slightly as you arranged the plates. You kept your face turned slightly away, hoping the dim lighting would mask the worst of it.

When Tommy got home, the door creaked open, and the familiar weight of his presence filled the space.

You were stirring something at the stove when his arms slipped around your waist from behind.

His touch was warm and grounding. His lips pressed a soft kiss to your shoulder as he murmured, “Smells good in here.”

You smiled– forced and practiced. “I thought I’d make us something nice.”

His arms tightened briefly. “God, it’s been a long day,” he murmured.

Then, as he leaned in, pressing another kiss just below your ear, he turned his head slightly, just enough for his gaze to catch the side of your face.

You felt him go still. His hands, steady on your waist, tensed.

His lips parted. “What’s this?” he asked, finger ghosting along the edge of your cheek.

Your stomach twisted. You knew what he had seen. The mark. The redness that you couldn’t fully hide. 

You turned your head slightly, brushing him off. “Oh, it’s nothing. I–” You exhaled, forcing a lighthearted tone as you stepped away from his embrace. “I walked right into that hallway shelf. Must not have been paying attention. I was stupid.”

Tommy didn’t say anything for a long moment. You could feel his eyes trained on you, sharp and assessing, as you moved around the kitchen. Before he could challenge your excuse, another voice cut in.

“Tommy!”

Your father stepped into the room, grinning, swirling a half-full glass of whiskey in his hand. “Good to see you, son. How’s business today?”

Tommy and your father sat at the table, engaging in light conversation. Your father asked about business. Tommy responded, his voice steady, polite.

But his eyes kept flicking to you.

You barely spoke. You moved carefully, quietly, only nodding when necessary.

Tommy noticed. He saw the way you kept your head slightly down. The way your smile didn’t quite reach your eyes. The way your hands trembled slightly when you reached for a glass.

You forced yourself to sit through dinner, every bite feeling like it might turn to ash in your mouth. Every sip of water was just an excuse to avoid speaking.

You were suffocating. You needed to get out.

So, when the dishes were cleared, and the conversation between Tommy and your father began to stretch into the evening, you pushed your chair back and stood.

“I think I’ll turn in early,” you murmured, keeping your voice light. “Didn’t sleep very well last night.”

Tommy’s gaze snapped to you immediately.

Your father barely glanced up. “Night, sweetheart,” he muttered, already swirling the last of his drink in his glass.

Tommy, though– he studied you. You didn’t meet his eyes.

He opened his mouth like he might say something, might challenge you, might ask you to stay, but after a moment, he simply nodded.

“Alright, love.” His voice was careful. Measured.

You forced a small smile before slipping from the room.

…

It was late when Tommy finally came to bed.

You heard him before you saw him, the slow creak of the bedroom door, the quiet sound of his footsteps across the floor.

He moved carefully, as if not wanting to wake you.

You kept your breathing steady and your eyes closed and pretended to be asleep. 

The mattress dipped slightly as he crawled in beside you. For a moment, there was nothing but silence. Then, slowly, his hand came to rest on your hip. His touch was gentle, hesitant. You didn’t move. Didn’t react.

A deep sigh left his lips, and you felt the warmth of his breath against the back of your neck. His grip on your hip tightened slightly, just for a moment, before he exhaled again and let it relax.

You waited for him to say something– to ask, maybe demand answers. 

But he didn’t.

Instead, he did what Tommy Shelby never did. He hesitated.

And it was at that moment you realized, he was waiting for you.

Waiting for you to come to him.

But you weren’t ready. So, you remained still, your heart hammering against your ribs as his thumb trailed lazily along your hip. Then, he stretched his arm carefully around your waist and pulled you close.

… 

You kept up the act– kept making dinner. Kept playing hostess. Kept pretending like the walls of your own home weren’t closing in on you.

A few nights later, you found yourself in the kitchen, stirring a pot on the stove, when you heard the front door swing open.

The sound was jarring, clumsy, forceful, followed by the sound of staggering footsteps. 

The hair on the back of your neck stood up before you even turned around. Your father stepped into the kitchen, his shirt wrinkled, his eyes glassy, the stench of whiskey thick in the air.

He wasn’t just drunk, he was angry. A cold wave of fear ran down your spine.

You froze, hands gripping the edge of the counter as he loomed in the doorway.

“Look at you,” he slurred, waving a hand at the dinner on the stove. “Little housewife, cooking for your big, important husband.”

“Dinner’s almost ready,” you said, picking up a glass cup from the counter and trying to keep your voice steady. “You should sit down.”

His eyes narrowed. “What? You're giving me orders now?”

Your grip tightened on the glass. He took another step closer.

“You always were a smug little thing, weren’t you?” He muttered, shaking his head. “Always had something to say.”

You held your breath as he took another unsteady step forward, his eyes dark and unfocused, but sharp enough to cut straight through you. “I didn’t mean–”

“Now that you've married a Shelby, you're arrogant, too. Tell me,” he interrupted, the word twisted with venom. “Was it him who kept you from coming home all this time? Or was it you? Think you’re too good for your own family now? With your rich fucking husband at your beck and call?”

Your grip on the glass tightened. “You’re drunk.” You tried to turn away, but your father reached out to clutch your wrist. 

“Don’t walk away from me.” His grip tightened, his fingers digging into your skin like a vice.

Your stomach twisted violently. “Let go,” you said, your voice shaking despite your efforts to sound firm.

He didn’t. Instead, he yanked you back toward him, forcing you to stumble. The glass in your hand wobbled precariously, liquid sloshing over the rim.

“The king of fucking Birmingham, aye? And you’re what? His housewife? Or his whore?”

“Stop it,” you cut in, trying to wrench your wrist free. “You don’t know what you’re saying.”

“I don't care who you're married to. You don’t get to fucking tell me what to do,” he spat.

Your pulse hammered, panic rising in your chest. “Dad, just stop– you’re drunk.”

He let out a bitter laugh, the sound jagged, cruel. “Drunk?” He sneered. “I’ve been drinking since before you could fucking walk, girl. You think you know better than me? Think that slimey Shelby husband of yours turned you into something special?”

“Tommy,” you swallowed thickly, forcing the words out. “Is a good man. I know that term might be hard for you to comprehend–"

A dark flash crossed his face. And then– the slap. It struck you with enough force to snap your head to the side, the sting burning hot across your cheek. The room blurred for a moment, your ears ringing.

Your father didn’t give you time to react. Before you could move, before you could process, he shoved you hard against the wall.

The glass slipped from your fingers, hitting the floor and shattering, fragments scattering across the kitchen tiles.

Your back collided with the surface, your breath leaving you in a sharp gasp. The pain barely registered before his hands were on you again– this time around your throat, squeezing. 

Your hands flew up, clawing at his wrists, your body struggling instinctively. But his grip was tight, unrelenting.

Your chest heaved.

Your lungs burned.

A strangled sound escaped you, but it wasn’t loud enough. Not enough to stop him.

His breath was hot against your face as he leaned in. He was seething. His teeth clenched together as his eyes bore down on you with pure hatred. 

Your vision blurred. Your limbs weakened. The edges of your consciousness began to flicker, the darkness creeping in.

In the hazy distance, you vaguely heard the sound of the front door opening, followed by heavy footsteps.

Then, the pressure around your throat disappeared instantly as your father was ripped away from you. You collapsed to the floor in a heap, gasping, your hands flying to your throat as air rushed back into your lungs. Your body shook violently, but you barely noticed.

Because in front of you, Tommy had your father by the collar, slamming him against the kitchen table with enough force to rattle the dishes.

The look on Tommy’s face was lethal.

Your father coughed, groaning, trying to push himself up. But Tommy was on him before he could move.

His fist connected with your father’s jaw– once, then twice. The crack of bone meeting bone echoing through the room.

Blood splattered across the floor. Your father groaned, but Tommy wasn’t done. He grabbed him again, dragging him up by his shirt, slamming him against the wall this time.

Your father choked, spitting blood.

Tommy leaned in, his voice eerily calm now. “You ever touch her again, and I’ll kill you with my barehands. You hear me?”

Your father wheezed, coughing weakly. “Fuck you–”

In an instant, Tommy pulled his gun.

He pressed the barrel beneath your father’s chin, tilting his head back slightly, forcing him to meet his gaze. The air in the kitchen was thick, the only sound the ragged breathing of the men in front of you.

Your father’s eyes widened, his drunken haze fading into something closer to fear.

Tommy’s finger flexed on the trigger.

Your stomach twisted violently.

“Tommy,” you pleaded, voice barely above a whisper.

His grip didn’t loosen.

At least not right away. His chest heaved, his knuckles white around the handle of the gun. 

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, Tommy exhaled sharply and lowered the gun.

“Get the fuck out of my house,” he spat before releasing your father’s collar. 

Your father crumpled to the floor, coughing, gasping.

Your father didn’t wait to be told twice.

His hand clutched where Tommy had struck him, his movements shaky as he scrambled to his feet. Blood dripped from his split lip onto the kitchen floor, but he didn’t bother wiping it away. He staggered toward the door, barely able to walk straight, a mix of pain and drunken stupor slowing his steps.

He didn’t even bother to grab his things. Or have the courage to look back at you.

Just stumbled toward the exit, his breath ragged and uneven, one last curse muttered under his breath as he shoved the door open and disappeared into the night.

Tommy followed him to the threshold, his cold gaze never leaving the man’s retreating figure.

Then, click. The sound of the lock sliding into place echoed through the house.

Tommy exhaled sharply, pressing his palm against the door, as if physically barring your father from ever stepping foot in this house again. His shoulders were tense, the muscles in his arms flexing as he gripped the wood tightly.

Your focus shifted to the glass– the shattered pieces lay scattered across the floor, sharp edges gleaming under the dim kitchen light.

Your hands trembled as you scrambled forward, sinking to your knees, desperate to clean it up. You needed to fix this. You needed to make things right.

Tommy was angry. You knew he was.

And if there was one thing you had learned in your life, it was how to keep the peace. How to stay quiet, to smooth over the damage, to do whatever it took to make things okay again.

So you reached for the shards, ignoring the way your fingers shook. One after another, you gathered them in your hands, barely noticing when a sharp edge knicked your skin.

A thin line of red beaded at your skin, but you kept going.

If you could just get it all cleaned up– 

Strong hands stopped you, fingers curling around the wrist you had collected pieces in.

“Love.”

The word was soft, but firm.

You hadn’t even realized he had moved, but now he was crouched in front of you, his hands gently prying your fist open so that he could take the glass from you.

You tried to protest, shaking your head. “I– I just need to clean this up, Tommy, I–”

“Leave it,” he said quietly, reaching his arm up and discarding the shards on the countertop.

Your lip trembled. “I– Tommy, I–”

You couldn’t finish the sentence. Because the panic was setting in now, hitting you all at once. Your hands shook violently, the tremors traveling up your arms, your whole body beginning to quake. Your breath came in short, sharp gasps, your chest rising and falling too fast.

You were unraveling.

“I– I can fix it, Tommy, I have to–” Your words broke apart into a sob as you tried to pull away from him, your limbs weak and frantic all at once. “I can fix it–”

Tommy didn’t let you go. “Hey, hey, hey,” he said gently. "It's alright."

Your eyes flickered back to the rest of the shattered glass, your mind spiraling. “It’s a mess, I made a mess, I– I didn’t mean to, I–”

“Love, stop…” His voice was a tether, grounding you even as you spiraled.

But you couldn’t stop.

Your fingers clawed weakly at his arms, desperate for something, anything, to keep you from sinking completely.

“I’m sorry,” you choked out, your whole body trembling so badly you could barely keep yourself upright. “I– I didn’t mean to–”

Tommy swore under his breath. Then, without hesitation, he pulled you in. His arms wrapped around you, strong and steady.

You let out a broken sound, your fingers gripping his shirt in fists as sobs racked your frame. You were shaking so hard it felt like you might come apart completely.

But Tommy held you together.

His hand cradled the back of your head, anchoring you to him. “Shh,” he murmured, his voice thick with something you couldn’t quite name. “Stop, just stop.”

The words tumbled out anyway. “I– I swear I didn’t mean to make him angry, I’m sorry… I didn’t mean to–”

You felt the way his breath hitched, the way his hold on you tightened just slightly. 

“Do not apologize,” he said, voice low and steady. “Do not apologize for that man. You hear me?”

You shook your head, barely able to breathe. “But I– I should’ve just–”

“No.” Tommy’s tone left no room for argument.

His hand slid from your back to cup your face, forcing you to meet his gaze. His blue eyes were burning now– not with rage, not with violence, but with something unwavering.

“Now you listen to me,” he murmured, his thumb brushing away a tear from your cheek. “He did this. Not you.”

A sob caught in your throat, but he didn’t let you look away. 

Tears blurred your vision, but the panic still gripped you tight, its claws lodged deep in your ribs. You shook your head weakly. “I– I should have done something.”

Tommy’s gaze darkened, his hands firm but gentle as they cradled your face. “Like what?” His voice was unwavering, pushing you to say it.

You swallowed, your breath coming in shallow gasps. “I should’ve just kept quiet. But I pushed him. I should’ve known better.”

The moment the words left your lips, shame burned through you like acid. It felt filthy to say it out loud.

Tommy inhaled sharply, his grip tightening ever so slightly. His thumb skimmed over the fading red mark on your cheek, the bruises forming along your throat, and something behind his eyes fractured.

“He would’ve done it anyway,” Tommy said, his tone quieter now. “No matter what you did. No matter what you said. Because men like that don’t need a reason to hurt people.”

Realization washed over you.

He didn’t blame you.

Tommy didn’t blame you.

You had spent your whole life believing it was your fault. That every slap, every harsh word, every cruel punishment was something you had earned.

But Tommy didn’t see it that way. He saw him as the problem. He saw him as the one at fault.

Not you.

The weight of that realization shattered something inside you, splintering through your chest like glass. You let out a broken sound, your body crumbling under the weight of all of it.

And Tommy caught you. He pulled you into his arms again, crushing you against him, holding you so tightly it felt like he was trying to anchor you to the world, to him.

And you let him.

You clung to him, your fingers twisting into his shirt, needing to feel the solidness of him, the warmth, the safety.

Tommy pressed his lips to the top of your head, lingering there as his breath shuddered against your skin. And he didn’t let go. Not when your sobs finally quieted, not when your breathing finally steadied, not even when your body had stopped trembling in his arms.

He just held you.

His hands ran slow, soothing strokes down your back, grounding you in the steady rhythm of his touch. His breath was warm against your hair, his chest solid beneath your cheek, rising and falling in time with yours.

For a long time, neither of you spoke. 

Then, finally, his voice broke the silence. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

You stiffened slightly, but his grip didn’t loosen.

“I would’ve thrown him to the wolves the second he walked through the fucking door,” he murmured, his jaw tightening against your forehead. “Christ, I thought you wanted him here.”

You swallowed, gripping the fabric of his shirt in your hands, but you didn’t answer. You didn’t know how.

Because how could you explain that some wounds never really heal? That no matter how far you run, no matter how much time passes, the fear always lingers– deep, insidious, always waiting for an excuse to crawl back up your throat and choke the words before they ever leave your lips?

You felt Tommy sigh against you. His arms tightened, just slightly, like he was bracing himself.

And then, his voice dipped lower. “I should’ve pushed harder,” he murmured. “I knew– I knew something was wrong. And I let you tell me it wasn’t.”

That got your attention.

Your breath hitched, and you pulled back just enough to look at him, your hands still fisted in his shirt.

“Tommy, no.” Your voice was hoarse, shaky, but firm. “This isn’t your fault.”

His jaw tensed.

“I just wasn’t ready to talk about it,” you admitted, voice barely above a whisper. 

Tommy studied you for a long moment, his blue eyes unreadable. Then, finally, he nodded, exhaling slowly.

“How long?”

You gazed up at him questioningly.

"How long has he been hurting you for?"

His blue eyes burned into yours, steady, patient, but unrelenting.

You took a breath, one that barely filled your lungs, and whispered,

“I think I was six the first time. I accidentally left the laundry out in the rain. Ruined his favorite suit."

You felt the shift in him. The way his hands, still cradling your face, tightened slightly. The way his breathing turned just a shade too slow, too controlled, like he was forcing himself to stay calm.

"I figured I deserved that one. It was an expensive suit and… well, we didn't come from money."

You swallowed, your throat tight, forcing the words out even as they scraped against something raw inside you.

“But the next time it happened, it was something smaller. I don’t even remember what I did.” You let out a weak, humorless breath. “I think I knocked over a drink. Or maybe I spoke when I wasn’t supposed to.”

You shifted slightly, staring at the spot on the floor where the glass had shattered earlier, as if it might somehow piece itself back together.

“Eventually, the reasons stopped mattering, I guess,” you murmured. “He’d get angry over anything. If you looked at him the wrong way, or even if you were just in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

Your fingers twisted into the fabric of Tommy’s shirt, a subconscious need to hold onto something solid.

“When I was nine, he threw me against the table." Your throat felt tight, but the words were coming now, unraveling like thread. “I hit the edge. It cracked a rib, I think. I couldn’t breathe right for weeks.”

Tommy exhaled, sharp and controlled, like he was holding something down, something dangerous.

“The next day, he brought me flowers.” A bitter smile tugged at the corner of your mouth. “To say he was sorry.”

Your voice wavered. “I don't know why but kept them in my room until they wilted. Because no matter how badly he hurt me... I think I still wanted to believe he loved me.”

The words felt foreign coming out of your mouth, like admitting them made them more real. More pathetic.

"I don't know what happened," you admitted. "He showed up here and I just... I panicked. It felt like I was that nine year old girl again. Just trying to make him happy, despite how scared he always made me. It felt like... Like I didn’t belong to myself anymore."

Tommy's hand rose to cup your face, his fingers brushing tenderly over your bruised cheek. His thumb traced the fading outline of your father’s fingers, and his gaze darkened, his lips pressing into a firm line.

Then, after a long pause, he spoke. “Fear that deep that never goes away,” he murmured, his voice quieter now, distant. “Not completely.”

You blinked at him, something heavy settling in your chest. He wasn’t just talking about you anymore.

“France?” you whispered.

His jaw tightened slightly. “Aye.”

His thumb brushed absently over your skin, but his gaze had drifted, staring past you now, as if he was seeing something else entirely.

“I used to think I’d come back and it would be over,” he continued, his voice steady, but different. He was using that careful, guarded tone he used when speaking of the war. “That the things I saw, the things I felt... they’d stay behind, buried in the trenches where they belonged.”

A humorless breath left him. “They didn’t.”

A silence stretched between you. You wondered if he had ever admitted that the war hadn’t ended when he stepped back onto English soil.

Just like your past hadn’t ended when you left home.

Your fingers curled slightly against his chest, your breath uneven. “How do you live with it?”

Tommy’s eyes refocused on you.

“I haven’t quite figured that one out yet,” he admitted.

His thumb brushed absentmindedly over your collarbone. “But it helps to find things that keep you here.” His voice dropped lower, his eyes locked onto yours. “Things worth staying for.”

Tommy exhaled, his fingers pressing lightly against your skin. “And maybe one day, you wake up, and you realize that even though it's still there, that fear doesn’t own you anymore.”

You swallowed thickly, your voice barely above a whisper. “And what keeps you here, Tommy?”

His hand on your chest tightened slightly, his fingers curling over your heart. His breath brushed against your skin. Then, softly, almost so softly you didn’t hear it, he sighed. “I thought that was obvious.” 

His hand slid up, fingers trailing along your jaw before cupping your cheek with a tenderness that made your chest ache.

“I’ll always protect you,” he murmured, his voice low, steady. Certain. “I mean it,” he said. “You never have to be afraid in this house again. Not while I’m breathing.”

The way he said it– it wasn’t just a promise.

It was a fact.

A truth carved into the very foundation of who he was. 

You swallowed thickly, pressing your forehead against his chest, letting his warmth, his presence, his words wrap around you like armor.

“Darling, I’m home!”

Your voice rang through the hall, far louder than necessary. Tommy stood, his jaw ticking as he moved toward you.

You were leaning against the wall, trying to toe off one heel, the other already abandoned halfway across the floor. Mascara slightly smudged, lipstick kissed off, hair a little mussed. And grinning like a fool.

“There she is,” Tommy murmured, catching you just as you wobbled forward. “The ghost of gin and bad decisions.”

You giggled, wrapping your arms around his neck with more force than finesse. “Tommy, love of my life, you’ve got two heads. When’d that happen?”

“You’re fuckin' pissed.”

“Who, me?” You hiccuped. “Absolutely. Gloriously. Marvellously.”

Tommy sighed, sliding his hands to your waist to steady you. “Let’s get you upstairs.”

“Wait!” You slapped your palm to his chest dramatically. “Did you miss me?”

He raised a brow. “You were gone for four hours.”

“That’s practically forever in marriage time, Mr. Shelby.”

“You reek of whiskey and trouble.”

“And you,” you whispered, poking his nose, “reek of brooding and disappointment.”

That earned a low chuckle. “Come on.”

He scooped you up—heels, purse, and all—despite your surprised squeal.

“Tommy! I’m a grown woman!”

“A grown woman who can’t walk straight,” he replied, carrying you up the stairs like it was nothing.

You nestled your head into the crook of his neck. “You’re strong. Like, stupidly strong. It’s hot.”

Tommy let out a small huff, trying not to smile. You always got talkative when drunk—sweet, unfiltered, messy. He both loved and hated it. Loved it because he got to see the softest corners of you. Hated it because something in him always felt like he didn’t deserve it.

Once in your shared bedroom, he sat you gently on the bed and knelt to unbuckle your shoes.

You swayed forward, fingers burying in his hair. “Tommy?”

“Hm?”

“You know I love you, right? Like… stupid, stupidly in love with you. I’d punch anyone in the throat who looked at you funny.”

“I know.” He looked up, eyes softer now. “You tell me every time you drink.”

“Well, then you should really believe it,” you said seriously.

He tugged your dress off gently, replacing it with one of his shirts, letting it fall to your thighs. You flopped onto the pillows with a sigh of contentment.

Tommy turned off the lights, slid in beside you, and pulled you to his chest.

“Thanks for not being mad,” you mumbled into him.

“I’m not mad,” he whispered into your hair. “Just glad you’re home.”

A pause.

“I brought you a sausage roll,” you murmured. “It’s in my purse. It’s probably squished.”

He laughed—actually laughed—and kissed your forehead.

“My girl,” he said quietly. “Drunk, messy, but always thinking of me.”

James then proceeded to kiss a path from your cheek to your temple and whispered, “We already have a snake at home.”

It took about two seconds for him to snort, and you pushed him off playfully. “You’re so disgusting, you know that? Ew James, ew.”

But before he could protest— Seonghyeon walked in, toothbrush already in his mouth.

“What the…” Seonghyeon mumbled around the toothbrush, eyes wide. “You know what? Fuck you and fuck you too.”

James pulled away reluctantly, keeping you shielded somewhat. “Seonghyeon. Bad timing, man, leave before i make you.”

“Man i AM leaving, i’m leaving,” Seonghyeon cringed, spitting out toothpaste in the sink. “Y/n, you’re great for hyung but not in the place I brush my teeth. Both of you— fucking disgusting.”

MARTIN

The kiss had started slow and teasing, your fingers threading through James’s hair as he pulled you closer on the dorm living room couch.

His lips were warm and insistent, moving against yours with that perfect mix of softness and huger.

He tilted his head, deepening it, tongue brushing yours in a way that sent sparks down your spine.

You sighed into his mouth, hands sliding under his shirt, pushing the fabric up and off his shoulders and James groaned softly, breaking the kiss just long enough to tug your shirt over your head, discarding it somewhere on the floor.

“So pretty, my girl.” he whispered into your neck, smelling your skin. “You’re so pretty aren’t you?”

Bare skin met bare skin as he captured your lips again, more urgent now, one hand cupping the back of your neck while the other traced down your side.

The kiss turned messy and heated— teeth grazing, breaths mingling, little sounds escaping as clothes continued to shift and loosen.

The dorms were empty, everyone was busy, outside and you’d placed the key right in the door so you’d hear a sound if someone was trying to come in.

Well— turns out the key was in fact NOT in the door, and now dangling on the floor.

Martin stood there, bottle of water in hand, ready to barf.

“Ah for fuck’s sake man??? Really? You guys both have bedrooms— the couch really??”

James pulled back immediately, his arms and hands wrapped around you to cover your half naked figure. “Yo, look away man. Fucking hell.”

You grabbed the nearest blanket and wrapped it around your body, you were sure your cheeks were as red as tomatoes now.

“You guys, are doing this in the motherfreaking living room, oh my god, did you want me to just expect you guys to be here half naked? Jeez.”

You buried your face in James’s shoulder for a second, cringing. “We thought— we thought there wasn’t gonna be anyone”

Martin raised an eyebrow, looking away respectfully,

“Clearly. I approved the relationship, but I didn’t approve turning the common area into a strip club man.”

JUHOON

The kiss was electric from the start- like always.

James had you pressed against the practice room mirror, his mouth claiming yours deeply.

Lips moved together in perfect rhythm, slow at first then building as his tongue slipped past yours, tasting and exploring.

You moaned quietly into it, fingers digging into his back as you pulled his shirt up and over his head, breaking contact only for a second before crashing back together.

“James, we’re in the— fuck… in public.” you muttered between kisses.

James was gonna be your thirteen reason why.

He was always needy, always wanting to be near you— to touch you— including in public.

His hands roamed, sliding under your shirt, lifting it off as he kissed you harder, bodies flush. “Who cares? I need you.” he whimpered in the kiss,

“Is that okay? Tell me it’s okay baby please.”

The mirror reflected every angle— the way his hair fell messily, your hands in it, the growing heat as more clothes loosened and dropped to the floor.

It was hungry, breathless, full of giggles turning into sighs.

Until it wasn’t really funny anymore.

Juhoon walked though the door you thought had been locked, phone in hand, and stopped dead.

“Man what?” Juhoon exclaimed loudly. “In the practice room? Where we dance? You guys are pigs.”

James broke the kiss but kept an arm around you, both of you breathing hard. “Juhoon-ah. It’s— it’s not what it looks like.”

“Oh you wanna tell me this is the new choreography you’re working on?” he fake gagged, averting his gaze as you tried to pull your shirt back on quickly.

KEONHO

On James’s bed, the kiss was fiery— clothes on but you wished they weren’t.

James’s lips moved against yours with heat, tongue sliding in as hands roamed freely.

“Remember when you didn’t want me? Playing hard to get and stuff… I wish i could film this and show you back then.” James chuckled against your mouth. You were about to slap him, amused but provoked, but before you could do that—

Keonho kicked the door open dramatically, looking for snacks.

“EW EW EW!” Keonho screamed then laughed. “Bro, what the fuck is wrong with you guys. Go do that somewhere else.”

James sat up slightly, pulling a blanket over both of you. “When we do it in the living room it’s a problem, when we do it in the practice room it’s a problem and now in the bedroom??? Am i supposed to just never kiss my girl?”

“You can, just not when i’m alive bro. I swear to god i was telling Juhoon the other day— you guys are animals, litteraly always kissing everywhere.”

James groaned. “You came for snacks. Just grab them and go.”

Keonho snatched a bag of chips anyway. “This needs to stop. You’re gonna get her pregnant man.”

“WE’RE NOT EVEN—“ you started, clasping your hands on your eyes.

“These things can happen through kissing, im not dumb. Just don’t do this in the dorms man.”