For years, Supes have become a prominent link in the everâadapting sequence of human biology. Born with supernatural and aweâspiring abilities, theyâve had a clutch on the reins of humanity since their first appearance. Some use their abilities for the greater good. Others for their own gain. Such is the duality of man.
Pittsburgh is a hotspot for fresh-faced Supes attempting to prove themselves and Villsâwhat the news channels have dubbed the more hedonisticâtossing a shadow of darkness over the city. Fights break out on a daily basis. Casualties happenâdonât they always, in war?
As a third-year resident at the Pittsburgh Medical Center Emergency Room, youâve seen enough injuries in bystanders and Supes both to know itâs no laughing matter. Thatâs why you take your roles seriously; as both a caregiver, and a vigilante Supe intent on tracking down rampant Vills.
Keeping your identity a secret proves difficult, though, when the small, ever-present spark between you and your attending, Doctor Robinavitch, begins to grow to a searing flame. He knows thereâs something off about you. He just canât put his finger on it yet.
Itâs only a matter of time.
After all, the bigger they are, the harder they fall.
word count: 4.8k
warnings/tags: vigilante reader, blood, swearing, mentions of car wrecks, age gap, attending/resident flirtation, reader grew up with two dads
authorâs note: little experiment to see if people like this idea i had
Youâre not entirely sure for how long youâve retained the title of a Supe. Some childrenâall of which are now required by law to be tested just after birthâdisplay their immensely overwhelming abilities just days into their lives. Eyes fading with the watercolors of an unnatural shade. Skin hardening into what could be akin to stone. On the rare and tragic occasion, lasering their exhausted parents and rendering themselves helpless until, two days later, concerned neighbors came poking around to investigate the smell and the endless shrieks of need. Luckily for both you and your fathers, you didnât fall into that last perilous category.
They began to have inklings of suspicion when you developed the ability to hear your dadâs car coming down the street far before it was even close to the driveway. When you were suddenly able to sniff out the manâs cologne on your third grade teacherâs dress that did not belong to her husband. When you could easily spot the stillâascending balls of barelyâthere light that would soon become fireworks miles upon miles away.
Your fathers called you their little bloodhound. It was not always attached to a positive connotation. They murmured low to one another at the kitchen table after theyâd put you to bed; fool on them to think you wouldnât have been able to hear them. They spoke of moving to the countryside. Homeschooling you. Keeping you from the harsh obstacles that came to Supes as young as you.
Nothing ever came of it, save for the crippling, backâbending moral compass guiding you to do anything you could to help others who couldnât help themselves.
Which has landed you here on a Friday evening thatâs meant to be enjoyed with lovers on couches, at bars with friends, at home with no one but yourself. Supposed to be isnât always how the reality of the world operates, however, if thereâs one thing youâve been forced to learn.
âSteady on the protrusion site,â you hear your voice command from where you stand over the writhing body on the table before you. âPack the sides and adhere the boards to the skin. We donât want it moving and cutting any deeper.â
The woman lying prone between you and your colleagues gives an aggravated hum of pain as the filet knife sticking like a planted flag from her thigh is held steady and gloved hands begin to wrap its handle. Your sinuses tingle as you inhale, able to catch the tinges of herbs and spices and sauces that seem to be coming from her very pores; thyme, soy, garlic, maybe just a hint of something hotter. A chef, you deduce.
You like to think youâd have gotten that one even if she wasnât wearing the distinctive stained white of a kitchen employee when she was rolled back here.
âHow exactly did this happen?â asks a first year resident across the table as he quickly scurries to prep a surgery kitâclamps to stifle an artery cut, gauze the pack the wound for when the blade is ready to be pulled. âWas there any kind of spray when the knife went in?â
The woman shakes her head, giving another hiss as your hands deftly slide a thin needle into the vein of her hand. Her fingers are stained with some kind of meaty juice, the tiny particles of whatever sheâd been working on stuck beneath her fingernails. It wonât be long now until the painkillers do their job.
âNo,â she grits out, blowing out a breath. âNo, no spray or anything.â She blows out hard through her nostrils and looks up at the ceiling to avoid the sight of her leg. âI was showing a new girl how to properlyânngghhâdress a fish, and she fumbled with the knife, and it just went straight through.â
Not good. Your mind, however addled from the long, milesâlong shift youâve been crawling your way through, flickers to the possibilities of a used knife coming in contact with the insides of a human limb. Lifting your head to the younger resident with you, your words come smoothly and efficiently. âLetâs get antibiotics going. Donât touch that knife again until we manage to get an attending.â
When you were a first year like the one standing across from you, youâd hardly have imagined you would be in the position you are now; the one giving the instructions, the commands, the looks which can be read across the department as stop screwing around and get me those results before I send your ass to triage. But you are, and you do, because you worked hard to get where you are now.
That, and because youâre the known and cautioned right hand to the day shift attending.
Youâre just about to raise your hand to place on the patientâs arm, able to hear her heart thundering (deep within her chest, not on the monitor beside the table), when your head tilts slightly to the side. Footsteps are approaching, swift and unmistakable.
Of course, footsteps are a thunderous, endless cacophony here in the emergency department. Everyone is going somewhere. Every step has a purpose, each stride growing slower and more and more tired as the hours go on. Shoes squeak, anklets jingle, laces flap lazily. You know them all, each and every gait and whom it belongs to. These steps, though, you know like the back of your hand and the inside of your heart. Itâs heavy but mindful, each tile it hits a stepping block it has traveled across thousands of times. Worn sneakers because their owners refuse to buy another pair before the current ones fall apart. Quick, purposeful strides, powerful, commanding respect and attention and everything else anyone has to offer.
Youâve come to expect these footsteps when you most need them and least want them. When your throat burns after youâve lost a young patient and youâve hidden yourself away in empty stairwells between floors. When your hand is unsteady with a scalpel, inches from fucking everything up and splitting skin youâre not supposed to.
When your heart thrums with something only he seems to sense and reacts like itâs your command bringing him forth and not the other way around.
You look up just before the glass door of the trauma room door opens, and you straighten a bit to find Doctor Robby in the frame. His eyes are tiredâwhen are they not, reallyâand youâre able to see the flecks of honeyed umber in the dark inkiness of his gaze. The rings beneath them seem deeper tonight than they were just this morning. Has he had the same day you have? Has he had to help a grieving sister decide to pull her brother off life support after a fatal seizure? Has he pulled shards of glass from a man after his window exploded in a driveby? Has he set a broken arm from a Supe battle slamming into the side of a car on the freeway?
You know he has, because youâve been at his side since the shift began.
Robby says your name, your last name, that title he calls you when youâre surrounded by the sterile walls and the fluorescent lights that seem to flicker when the day gets long. âCome on,â he says, gesturing with a weary but stern tilt of his head. âShiftâs over. Youâre done.â
Your chest unravels just slightly, but with the thought of whatâs awaiting you when you clock off, it winds up tight enough to pull taut. Itâs not unusual he has to round you up once the shift is said and done, and each time he calls, you dutifully answer. Thatâs what you do. Itâs what youâve always done. Itâs what youâll always do.
After leaving the resident with clear instructions and the promise to send Abbot his way, you duck from the trauma room and fall into step with your attending. In tandem, like your minds are one and youâre only a pair of limbs being operated by the same control, the pair of you dodge passing nurses and visitors, shimmy between wheelchairs being directed to discharge and beds headed for the elevators.
âThird time this week Iâve caught you over,â Robby says to you over the familiar hum and howl of the department. He doesnât need to turn his head to face you. He knows youâre listening. âWhatâs it gonâna take to make you go home on time?â
âAn ER that actually operates on real world time,â you say. Your hands sneak up to find the ends of your stethoscope around your neck, nose wrinkling just a touch as you pass from the main room of the emergency room and toward the lockers. Theyâre situated around a confusing number of corners you theorize were built that way to confuse anyone who didnât know where they were going. God knows youâve had patients sniffing around for something to snatch on their way out, be it vials of medicine or personal affects left lying around by halfâconscious caregivers.
Robby gives a sound that, normally, wouldnât have been audible over the din. Youâre able to pick it up like a shout next to your ear. Itâs a humming, almost rumbling kind of sound that makes you want to glance up at him. You fight to keep your head turned forward as you turn the combination of your lockâa personal one, not the standard, issued clicker the hospital gave you those years ago.
Itâs not that you donât trust people.
But the contents of your bag on nights like these will bring nothing but questions and conversations youâre not ready to have. You donât know if you ever will be.
Especially not with him.
âYouâd be better off asking Gloria for more pay.â Robby already has his own bag slung over his shoulder, leaning himself against the hard metal of the lockers as he watches you, as if to make sure you donât bolt back to pick up more cases.
Finally, as you pull your jacket over your scrubs and pull your bag from your locker, you face up to him.
When youâd first arrived to begin your residency here at Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center, you had been just one of many fresh faces who hadnât yet lost that spark in your eye. Who thought you could save the world, one patient at a time. The smells, the sounds, the everything about the place had overwhelmed your senses, assaulting you from all sides in a way not even a concert was capable of. But youâd pushed it all aside, given your all. Took direction and criticism, and it wasnât long until youâd caught the attendingâs attention. You were a model student. He often called for you to assist him with operations, careful with the steps of playing favorites, though everyone knew from how often you trailed at his side who his star was.
Robby had caught your smile the first time youâd helped deliver a child. Returned it, the worn creases around his eyes crinkling with youâd been able to smell as something real. He had stood with you the first time delivering the news to a family their loved one did not make it. Weâre so sorry. If thereâs anything we can do. A grief service specialist will be in with you shortly. The days when the sirens in the ambulance bay were too loud, when the antiseptic was too sharp, when the cries were too loud, he sat with you in the deserted corridors while you made up lies that you just had a headache, that you were just overwhelmed, it was fine, really.
You could tell he never believed you all too much, but he never spoke this aloud, only brought his knees to his chest with a pained groan that came with age and murmured about trivial matters until you found your feet once more.
Now, these years later, youâve become Doctor Robbyâs right hand, his inâcharge when the inâcharge was away. Not an easy feat. Nor were the instances he walked you home when you managed to get out at the same time, or the late night coffees gone lukewarm over conversations only cut short by the barista announcing they were closing, or the rare moments in which he admitted to you he was drowning. Drowning, and he felt like there wasnât much that could pull his head above the surface.
âA girl can dream, canât she?â you say, regarding his pay comment.
Securing your bag protectively over your shoulders, you slink after your attending as he leads you from the emergency room and out into the nipping autumn air. Fingers fumbling, you pull the zipper of your jacket up tighter as a thousand different smells assault your senses, some from miles away. When you reach the sidewalk that marks the line between the hospital and the streetâthe thin, thin partition between one side of your life and the otherâyou each pause. Here it comes, this moment in which youâre each faced with the decision of how this night will go.
Robby glances toward you a short moment before his lips quirk slightly. âOthers were heading over to the bar for a drink,â he says, again using his head to motion toward the left. âProbably started without us by now. I bet we could still catch them before Santos starts karaoke.â
Inside the depths of your chest, past the shuddering cage of your ribs, your stupid, foolish heart leaps and claws its way up. Toward hope. Toward anticipation. Toward something likeâŠ
Before youâre able to reply, the sound of sirens cuts through the air to the right. Youâre able to hear them before you see them, head snapping around to stare as, in the distance down the long street, police cruisers and a fire truck haul ass around a corner. Your fingers twitch and your legs suddenly feel like stepping in both directions, intent on splitting you right down the middle. Your heart gives one last tug before resigning with a soft, drawn sigh.
Youâd love nothing more than to get drinks, than to sit an inch closer to Robby than you did last time while you watch Langdon get drunk and assault everyone in sight with photos of the puppy he recently got his kid.
But youâve been a doctor for today. Itâs time for your other responsibility now.
Forcing down the vomit of explanations and sorries and excuses barreling up your throat, you take a small step backward and clutch the straps of your backpack. âIâd really like to,â you say, brows furrowing just an inch. âBut IâI have something I have to get to.â
You want Robby to protest. To ask what youâre doing thatâs more important than unwinding with your friends after a shitty day. God knows heâs already privy to the fact you donât have many others; youâve told him before on those midnightâhour walks home.
But he doesnât. He only nods his head in understanding and halfway lifts his hand as you make yourself take another step back. Each inch feels like a mile. âNext time, then,â he says, and you want to yell. âBe safe getting home. Iâll see you tomorrow.â Then, damn him, he hefts his bag further up his shoulder, turns, and begins to slink off into the night toward the bar the staff frequents.
Your knuckles pale around your bag strap and it takes a herculean effort to go on your way. To hurry into the darkness of the evening. To break into a jog when the sounds of the sirens begin to fade.
Youâre already gone by the time Robby turns his head to look back.
Ducking around the corner of a little pizza parlor and into the tiny crawlspace of an alleyway behind its back wall, your hands move deftly. The bag of your backpack is torn open, the contents of its belly yanked out as theyâre replaced with your scrubs, your tennis shoes, your jewelry. Youâve done this hundreds of times now, so often and so rushed that you think you could go for some kind of record. You carefully pull the last bit of your new facade into placeâa helmet that locks into place with the soft clicks of the two latches on either side of the thing.
After depositing your bag behind a discarded few cardboard boxes and emerging back onto the street, you stop to glance at yourself in the reflection of the pizza parlorâs darkened window.
No longer are you a resident at the Pitt, a caregiver with a gentle touch the most tortured of souls and practiced hands measuring out vials of medicine. Not for tonight, at least.
Youâre Bloodhound now.
The suit you wear was crafted for you by a retired designer youâd gotten in contact with after a few other Supes had commented on the crassness of your homemade outfit. Theyâd hooked you up with the old womanâs number, and lo and behold, you looked like the real deal. Grey fabric textured to the touch, edged and lined with black and white. Fire resistant, sheâd told you. Flexible. Good for strenuous activity. The helmet, she had cooed, was one of her favorites sheâd made in a long time. With the overall akinness to a motorcycle helmet, the sides had been shaped slimmer and the tops fitted with two small triangular points that resemble an animalâs ears pinned to its head. The visor is wide, giving you a good angle to either side of yourself. And, to give yourself some protection against the opponents you faced, sheâd added titanium blades that, on command, slid from the tops of your gloves like claws.
You had told her you thought that seemed a little overkill, but theyâd saved your ass more times than you could count.
Hand raising, you tapped the side of your helmet and, like a touchâactivated earbud, sound hummed to life inside your ears. Dulled so your enhanced senses could pick up both it and the outside world, the chattering, clicking, clacking of police radio filled your ears. Bouncing on your feet for a moment to steel yourself, you listened intently. Car jacked twelve blocks back, high speed chase, officers beginning to lose sight.
Just your kind of dig.
Seconds before youâre about to take off, your sensitive ears pick up the sound of another vehicle approaching fast and hard from behind. Turning, youâre met with a red Camaro painted with shitty lines up and down the hood screeching to a rubberâburning halt a few feet down the curb. Inside, raging pop music blasts, some Taylor Swift song from the newest album you havenât been bothered to listen to. The doors have been removed, a flightless bird thatâs taken up racing.
From the passengerâs seat, a lanky figure leans out, holding onto the overhead handle for balance. âYo, Bloodhound! What up!â he calls through the fabric of his mask.
Another masked silhouette pops up in the driverâs seat from the open sunroof, banging her hands on the top of the car. âCome on, bitch, letâs go! Weâre losing their signal!â
Your hands curl to fists at your sides and, for a fraction of a second, you consider turning them down. Taking off the suit and going to have a few drinks at the bar; theyâve got it. But the sirens are growing softer and softer, and you give a gruff scoff of exasperation before you sling yourself up and into the backseat. âGo,â you order, using the same voice you do in the ER.
The pair give whoops of excitement and the car roars as the pedal is pressed to the floor.
Youâve worked with the Metal Singers a few times in the past, though you mostly try to avoid themâas do most of the other Supes. Theyâre twins, that much youâve been able to gleam, though youâre not sure just how old they are. Young enough to be given trouble when they try to get into Nirvana, the Supe bar up in the nicer boughs of the city. They have the ability to easily manipulate metal, which, in relativity to some powers, was up there on the scale. And what do they use it for? Help with the increasing issue of illegally manufactured firearms? Repair structures that would take regular people months to do?
No. They mess with their car.
The Camaro shoots like a bullet down the streets of Pittsburgh, following the same police radio chatter you listen to inside your helmet. The vehicle dodges other cars and rides up on the curb every few corners, and you grip both the handle and the open sunroof lip as your stomach lurches.
âSlow the hell down!â you howl through your mask over the music. âYouâre going to kill someone!â
âWeâre catching bad guys,â says Metal One, which youâve taken to calling the sister. They never bothered to give themselves individual names aside from the Metal Singers, their pairing title. âNo time to slow down.â
Metal Two kicks his feet in the passenger seat excitedly. âThis is so fucking dope,â he says. âWe should totally put this on our Insta story.â
âFor Godâs sake,â you say, reaching forward to yank a seatbelt around his lithe torso. âBuckle up. Youâre going to fly through the windshield.â
Youâve dealt with enough car crash victims in the Pittâthose who made it and those who didnâtâto make your heart twist with the idea of kids as young as them getting themselves hurt chasing adrenaline like this. Tonight, theyâll be speeding like this. Tomorrow, itâll be your hands intubating and extracting shards from their faces.
Your ears prick as, inside your helmet, you listen to the police scanner erupt with commotion. The cruisers are losing the car jacker. They spout out the direction theyâre heading after causing a wreck at an intersection, and you can only hope the night shift back at the hospital is ready to handle the aftermath.
You grip the driverâs seat headrest. âTurn left up here,â you order, able to pick up the distant screech of tires and the throttle of an overworked engine over the bass-shattering sound of Taylor Swift asking are you ready for it?
Metal One spins the wheel and the Camaro barely keeps its bearings as you direct her through shortcuts, gaining ground on the stolen car where the cruisers have fallen short. In just a matter of minutes, you have eyes on it from afar through the shaded tint of your visor; a black Nissan thrumming powerfully as it swerves to avoid a center median. It corrects itself quickly, back tires spinning, before rocketing down the road again.
âMotherfucker,â you rasp. When you catch sight of Metal Two undoing the seatbelt youâve just slung around him, you bark. âWait until the roads are clear! Up here, near the marina!â
As his sister keeps a steady pace with the Nissan, Metal Two grips the handle overhead and leans out of the open doorframe, wind whipping past and throwing astray the few errant hairs that escape his mask. His gaze, watering, finds the car up ahead, brows furrowing.
You watch, still slightly amazed after all the times of seeing what theyâre capable of, as the black car begins to quite literally fall apart. The bumpers pop off and the Camaro swerves to keep out of their way, nearly throwing you from the backseat. The doors fall away, hissing with sparks and the sounds of screeching metal as they collide with the ground and vanish behind you. The back axle bends itself crooked and the back half of the Nissan dips, now dragging itself like a dog with back legs that donât work. Its path skitters, the ass end fishtailing.
Youâre loath to admit it, but youâre impressed with the kidâs control to bring the car to a slow and gradual stop. You half expected him to just crunch the engine and let the thing careen into the side of a building.
Metal One slows the Camaro to a screeching halt as the Nissan finally refuses to drag itself any further, coming to its final resting place just to the side of the intersection leading to the marina. Before the twins are able to emerge and put themselves in even more danger than they already have when they should be doing their trig homework, you hop from the backseat and approach. In the distance, sirens are beginning to catch up to where youâve all stopped.
Footsteps careful, you release the trigger for the titanium claws to unsheath from the fingers of your gloves. They glint in the light shone down from the street lamps and the wavering moon reflected in the water. Cautiously, you approach.
As you pad closer to the driverâs side of the Nissan, expecting some eager-to-prove frat boy or a common lowlife, you take a few whiffsâand come to a halt.
Cigar smoke. Fresh leather. Aftershave that stings your nostrils even through the helmet.
You take a step back, raising your clawed hand to motion the twins back as the figure emerges from the driverâs seat of the Nissan and stands to his full height.
He clocks in a few inches over six feet tall, having to unfold himself from the seat, and the stitches of the dress shirt rolled up to his elbows strain painfully against the sinews of his biceps. The jackal-like kabuki mask sealed over his face disguises almost everything, save for the grey scruff along the curve of his jaw. Blond hair going silver appears ethereal in the midnight glow.
You swallow thick, aware of how quickly your pulse has raised within the last fraction of a moment. âAnubis,â you greet, trying to keep the shiver from your voice. âFigured car jacking was a little below your pay grade.â
Anubis has been, since you were a child, one of Pittsburghâs A-list Vills. Heâd gotten away with a smattering of robberies, grand thefts, black market auctions busted long after heâd already made a getaway. People are so frightened of him, eager to do what he says so heâll leave them alone, you donât even have the faintest idea of what his ability is.
In response to your comment, Anubis shrugs his shoulders. Youâre able to hear the smallest quirk of his lips when he speaks. âGod forbid a man have some fun in his life,â he says. âIâm sure you have some ways of relaxing after work, Bloodhound.â
For a moment, you think of Robby sitting at the bar, watching Santos sing karaoke while the nurses gossip in a booth and the residents drink their fill to seem cool to the older staff. A couple inches or three of your heart fracture slightly, but you force the sense of longing down and focus on whatâs before you.
âI wouldnât call a chase like this relaxing,â you say as you stand your ground, trying not to take another step back. âYou almost flattened half a dozen people.â
Behind you, your ears are able to pick up the sound of one of the twins clicking the record button on their phone and raising the camera. No doubt by tomorrow this will be blasted across their social medias they so diligently maintain.
âCollateral.â Anubis tilts his head just slightly to the side, almost like heâs studying you. Your skin crawls in your suit. âYou seem nervous. Do I make you nervous, Bloodhound?â
For once, you donât have a retort ready. Your words lodge in your throat and your lips remain parted, unsure if you should take a breath to reply or keep it held and hope you donât collapse from the lack of air.
The sirens are deafening now, red and blue tossing themselves across the streets and the building fronts like flashbangs and firecrackers. Youâre reminded of the fingers youâve had to sew back on after Fourth of July proceedings.
ââŠThink about it,â Anubis croons to you, then slinks toward the Metal Singersâ car. âLet me know.â
Metal One emerges as her brother cowers back inside, but one glance from that kabuki mask has them both stumbling over themselves to move out of his way. The Vill slides into the driverâs seat and expertly swings the muscle car around, speeding back off the way youâve come from just as the cruisers screech at the intersection.
âHey!â Metal Two suddenly howls, having suddenly broken from the trance of intimidation Anubis put him under. âOur fucking car! What the fuck!â
You stand there, breath still caught in your throat, as you watch the Camaro shrink in the distance and roar back through the wreckage its new driver caused on the way here.
Over the noise of the police stepping from their cars, and the laments of the twins, and the Taylor Swift music growing softer and softer, youâre able to pick up a low rumble of a laugh.
summary: when a vought experiment drives you to the edge for a primal need, butcher steps in to help stop the pain.
word count: 8k
warnings/tags: reader is homelanderâs little sister, reader is a supe, age gap, sex pollen, female masturbation, furniture humping, thigh riding, oral (f!receiving), p in v sex, biting, overstimulation, multiple orgasms, love confession (i think thatâs it)
âWhat is it, exactly?â
âActually⊠Iâm not entirely sure.â
You donât know, really, the specifics of how you became involved with the Boys. In the handful of months theyâve sprung up from seemingly nowhere, causing hell and destruction and strife everywhere they go, Vought HR has been scrambling to come up with information on them. Their whereabouts. Their next move. Just when Madelyn thinks sheâs got a grip on things again, a bombâsometimes a literal oneâgoes off and blows shit up in her face once more. Youâd think it funny if it didnât affect you, too.
First to grace the public had been your brother: Homelander, the charming, handsome, inescapable face that slinked his way onto every magazine cover, headline, and television screen across the country. Heâd been the icon America had needed, something to unite divided parties, battle crime on and off home turf, fix what had been broken so many times in the past. But, of course, next came his thunder. His temper. His desperate, howling, clawing need for control, for more power, for the love he had been starved of in that cold, sterile lab.
Heâd reached a breaking point one September morning and leveled a block near the river, had nearly ripped Vought Tower apart bolt by bolt. No one really remembers what the temper tantrum was about. Maybe an interview heâd been anticipating got cancelled. Maybe an intern had gotten his coffee order wrong and it had been his last straw. Maybe, just maybe, the deep, swirling, gnawing black hole of loneliness in his chest had finally breached the hardened armor of his facade.
Either way, Madelyn needed something to soothe him. To entice his best behavior.
And, the polls showed, the public was growing bored of regular old Homelander. He needed something new. A twist. A fresh gimmick.
Thus, Soldier Boyâs genes had once again been tapped, a heartbeat had been engineered and captured, and your eyes had opened to a world that, unbeknownst to you, would kneel at your feet for even a chance to glimpse the bottom of your shoes.
The first time Madelyn had placed you in Homelanderâs arms, sheâd required him to be sitting down. To remove his gloves. To promise to be gentle. Everything he was not. He had obliged without fight for once, without fang or claw, because, good god, you were his sister. You were his sister, his, his, his. Fuck Madelyn. Fuck Vought. Fuck the realization that you were just as powerful and indestructable as him, that he was holding the one thing that truly could kill him.
Goddammit, you were his.
You had not been introduced to the public until your seventh birthdayâJuly fourth. Was this your actual birthday? No. But what they didnât know wouldnât kill them. The nation had celebrated the appearance of a new Supe, a new hero, a mini-me of their golden savior. Homelander had grinned for every picture, interview, recording, keeping you clutched protectively on his hip in a way that had women swooning and their ovaries screaming. Youâd been taught since you could comprehend what a camera was to be good, to smile, to lean into your big brother and tilt your head just so for the perfect angle. Of course, you were still only seven. The flashes, the yells, the cries of your name from strangers you didnât even know⊠it flooded your childish senses, however enhanced they were, and the moment you began to whimper and heave and the crowds would coo, Homelander would turn, thank them for coming, and carry you back into the shadows.
Madelyn had all but ordered him to allow her to hold you while he was interviewed. He had, in turn, threatened to twist the handle off her office door and set it ablaze.
As you grew, your elder brother had only grown more and more enamored with you. To the public, you were a startlingly perfect young woman, Americaâs sweetheart who flashed her perfect smile and stopped runaway subway trains all in the same twenty minutes. Your strength and abilities matched those of Homelanderâs, but you had learned at a young age to share only a sliver of his spotlight. This, he rewarded with gifts galore, silly words of praise, a strong arm to bend any executive and Vought hireling to your will when you were pushed back against.
No one dared say no to you, Homelanderâs beloved, perfect little sister.
Except, of course, Billy Butcher.
Youâd been dispatched one day, on your own, to investigate unusual levels of chemical readings on the outskirts of the city. The location had been a dingy, abandoned shooting range which nature had once again made her own. Hovering in the air like the god amongst men you were, cape billowing gently at your back, youâd been able to locate the source of the traces; a man hunched over a trunk-sized vat of some strange, bubbling liquid. He was all lanky limbs, hair close to his head, and goggles strapped over his eyes as he used glove-covered hands to carefully mix in a new component.
âHello,â youâd called, gently touching yourself down a short distance behind him. âCan I ask what youâre doing?â
The man had whipped around, eyes going wide behind his goggles. âPutain,â heâd murmured in a foreign tongue. In the blink of an eye, heâd grappled in his waistband, produced a handgun, and released a trio of bullets into your midsection.
You had both watched as the lead crunched like tiny soda cans against your unbreakable skin, dropping to the dirt at your feet. You glanced up, unimpressed.
Homelander would have ignited his lasers, cut this man in half for even entertaining the idea of leveling a firearm with him.
But you were not your brother.
Blinking once or twice, you had raised a hand. âLetâs not jump to extremes,â youâd said. âYouâre not in trouble. Iâm just investigating a little chemically-intense readout we got over at Vought. I want to make sure youâre okay.â
âOkay?â the man said, his gun still raised to your central mass. âYouâve come to toss me in and do away with the DNA evidence, yes?â
âIâm sorry?â
Tearing off the glove of his free hand, heâd scrabbled at an earpiece in his ear. âButcher,â heâd rasped. âSheâs here.â Heâd flexed his fingers around the grip as heâd listened to whoever was on the other end. âNon, non. Sheâs just⊠standing here. Manners, yes. But I am not convinced her brother will not snap my neck from behind when Iâm not looking.â
The words had pulled a startled gruff from your throat. Sure, Homelander had a few⊠moments here and there, but he wouldnât do something like that. He helped people. He was a hero.
âThat wonât happen, I promise,â you said, taking another small step forward. âIâm only here to help. These chemicals are dangerous to you. They need to be disposed of.â
âDisposed of?â the man had said, and you were finally able to place his accent as French. âYou will do nothingâdispose of. Tch. Butcher, get here before I waste any more bullets on this girl.â
So you had waited patiently for this Butcher, attempting to converse with the Frenchman. After a few minutes of back and forths, heâd slowly, slowly begun to lower his firearm from your middle. The look of skepticism hadnât gone, but he was no longer arching his back like a cat when you took a step forward. And thus, your patience had been rewarded upon the arrival to the range of one William Butcher.
He was all gruff, accented growls from the back of his throat, large, calloused hands, and dark eyes that seemed to tunnel right through you with a venom you could practically taste. There had been no hello, no shake of your hand. Only a lift of his jowl as heâd looked you up and down.
âIf it ainât the star-spangled brat of Vought herself,â heâd drawled around the smoke between his lips.
Again, you had reeled. These people seemed to hate you for no apparent reason. Of course, the Seven had their opposition and haters, as the media people called them, but theyâd never been so bold to your face.
âIâm sorry,â you had said, approaching him. âHave I done something to offend you? Iâd love a chance to fix any ill will between us.â
One of his thick brows had quirked and heâd tilted his head at you like an interesting creature in the zoo. âYouâre settinâ foot where you ainât belong, pissinâ me off,â he said, flicking away ash. âPlayinâ all clueless like that cunt brother of yours ainât above to snipe our heads off.â
As if to accentuate his point, heâd glanced upward to the sky, searching for Homelander like a falling star that would kill you all.
âWhat?â you said, bringing up your hands in a show of confusion. âSir, I really have no idea what youâre talking about. Iâve only come to make sure everyoneâs okay with these chemicals. I donât know what you have against my brother, but I can assure you heâd never do such a thing.â
Butcher had stared at you for a very long moment then, seeming to bore into your very soul, past the armor, impenetrable skin, conditioned, engineered heart. The cigarette had burned so long you were afraid it was going to burn his lips.
But then he had reached out with a sudden, commanding grip and tilted your chin up to examine you. Your heart had stuttered to a stop, eyes wide enough to drink from. No one had ever dared to touch you like thisânot without your brotherâs twin beams of scarlet energy searing their limb off in a heartbeat. His touch was warm and firm, something to be disobeyed at a cost.
Something about it had turned your stomach in a way you hadnât expected.
âOh, you poor little pup,â heâd tisked. âAinât got half an idea in that pretty little brain, have you?â
His team, his Boys, hadnât been entirely sure of you at the beginningâbut after theyâd finally opened your eyes, filled your head with every horrid, terrible thing your brother and Vought had done, you had undoubtedly become one of them. The day you learned of the harsh, stinging truth of reality had been the worst of your life; worse than the experiments of your youth, the straps holding you down, the wails of your broken voice calling out for the man who had been your hero and world and everything in between. The news had torn a hole clean through your chest, a gaping wound you didnât think would ever heal, no matter how many stitches you tried to thread through your insides. Homelander had never been anything but the perfect brother to you, a role model, a protector when the world became too loud. The arms that used to lift you into his own bed when you had been small and crying to him after a nightmare. The voice that would point out his billboards to you as he cradled you to his chest.
To discover what he truly was⊠A murderer. A rapist. A terrorist disguised as a patriotic symbol of hope and freedom.
You didnât think youâd ever cried so hard, sobbing so violently youâd gotten sick, with only Kimikoâs hand on your back to soothe your wails.
But then that despair had turned on its head, morphed into an ugly, snarling, sharpened animal of rage.
From then on, Butcher seemed to have you on a leashâand you let him. He spoke bluntly and honestly in a way no one else did, swore and made disgusting jokes that, when you were alone, replayed over and over in your head. He was the opposite of everything you had been raised with, and that was what pulled you to him. Every order he gave, you were on it. Every request he made, youâd already finished it. Every word he spoke, you were there to listen.
Even when he began to order top security files, memos, and messages from between Voughtâs biggest players, you offered no objection. In fact, you jumped at the chance to please him.
Which leads you to the present, your next shining moment in which a few moments of Butcherâs approval hangs in the balance, teetering between victory and sullied disappointment.
You stand with the Boys in one of their hideoutsâa shitty apartment littered now with plans, takeout bags, and dirty laundryâaround the dining table. Upon the grain sits a small vial youâve swiped from Voughtâs experimental labs just this morning. The liquid is tinted a hazy fuschia color, resembling a childâs drink more than whatever bizarre concoction Voughtâs cooked up.
âThe container it was in was labeled with a final stage sticker,â you explain as you fold your hands behind your backâan old habit you picked up from your brother as a child. âWhatever it is, it was just about finished.â
Using a dish towel to protect his hands from the small vial, Frenchie reaches forward and gingerly tips the small piece of glass, watching as the substance slides easily back and forth. It seems to have the density of milk, not nearly as thin as water, but not as thick as blood, either. âWas it inside any kind of temperature regulation chamber?â
âI donât think so.â
While Frenchie tips the vial to show Kimiko, Hughie, and MM, you peek a quick, hopeful look to Butcher. He peeks at your prize with the interest of an owner watching their dog bring them a dead animal; thereâs an edge of unreadable thought in those dark eyes of his, but accompanying it is what looks like a tiny sliver of pride.
At least, thatâs what you tell yourself it is.
Youâve never really known a love that goes beyond what you feel for your brother, and the few friends youâve had here and there briefly. Vought has kept a tight collar on your whereabouts and contacts your entire life, never allowing you time or place to experience anything like what you read and watch in the movies. You hope, deep down, this is love. This aching in your chest when Butcher speaks and looks your way, itâs so deliciously perfect and painful and everything in between. You want to see him happy. Truly happy, not basking in the few moments of amusement between broody sessions of plotting and scheming until he collapses from exhaustion. In those instances, youâve been mindful when draping a blanket over his prone form, feeding Terror his late night snack, turning off the television left onto a channel thatâs now playing a western. You want him happy. Safe. Comfortable.
You want him to look at you not with contempt or with the buried knowledge there in the back of his mind youâre the sister of the man who raped and killed his wife. You want him to look at you with that softness you know is hidden in there, with that vulnerability you caught a glimpse of the night you half-dragged him to bed after one too many whiskeys on his couch.
But youâre not stupid enough to think he could ever love you back. Youâre a Supeâthe very thing he hates, has sworn to bring down. Youâre half his age, too chipper, too naive. So you allow yourself to settle for your thoughts alone, the late night fantasies and hidden meanings you make up between the short, curt messages you exchange over text.
Thatâs the closest youâll get, you know.
âYâthink itâs some kindâa bioweapon?â Butcher says, pulling you from your thoughts.
Hughie gives a small exhale. âIf it is, itâs potent stuff,â he says. âNot much in here. They didnât need a lot if just a drop or two would do, Iâm guessing.â
You pipe up, eager to bask in the credit of your discovery. âWhen the scientists handled it, they always wore gas masks and gloves. And the air ventilation systems were always blocked to the labs.â
âHmm,â Frenchie murmurs, obviously fascinated with the vial. Kimiko carefully taps the glass with her nail. âTransferred by air, then. I wonder if it vaporizes when exposed to oxygen.â
âWell, weâre not going to find out here,â MM says.
Butcher rumbles an agreement, taking the vial through the dish rag and holding it up to the light. He gives it a careful twist, dark haze watching the pink liquid stain the sides of the small glass container. âMustâve been important if it was kept locked tighter than my nanâs china cabinet,â he says. When he tilts his head to look at you, you feel your heart flutter like a butterfly having escaped its glass. âGood work, pup.â
Oh, there it is. That half a second of praise, the everlasting effects it will have. It sends a thrill like your first time flying pumping through your veins, a high youâll be riding tonight when you use your fingers to explore your heightened arousal in bed and imagine you hear his groaning, rasping grunts and groans and huffs in your ear. Your hands are already twitching, needing to feel him, touch him, maybe.
You donât realize youâve drifted closer to Butcher until youâre right up on him. He begins to say something more, but his elbow accidentally checks your shoulder, and when he recoils, he fumbles the small glass vial through the dish rag and it shatters against the table. Just as Frenchie predicted, the liquid begins to immediately vaporize when itâs exposed to the air, a few visible pink wisps wafting from the pieces of glass.
âMotherfucker,â Butcher barks, immediately backing away from the table. The others mirror his actions, each of them raising the collars of their shirts to cover their noses and mouths.
âIâm sorry!â you hear yourself yelp, quickly and without thought grabbing a few of the broken pieces, attempting to salvage the few droplets that havenât gone up in smoke yet. âIâm sorry. It was an accident. Here, Iâll fix it. We can still save some.â
A large hand grips the collar of your red, white, and blue suitâcustom designed and tailored to complement your brotherâsâand yanks you backward with enough force to neatly fold you in half. âYou daft little shit, get back from that,â Butcher barks, his voice muffled from the dish rag he now holds over his face. He tugs you to his side as the pink vapor slowly vanishes, leaving behind a damp mess of shattered glass in its wake.
Hughie hurries to open a window as MM fans a few papers, attempting to disperse whatever chemical youâve accidentally released into the apartment. You canât detect any discernible smell, though your sinuses are a little frazzled, buzzing softly like youâre about to sneeze.
The others all seem to hold their breaths, glancing at one another as they wait for the other shoe to drop. To vomit uncontrollably. To have blood pour from every orifice of their bodies. To keel over and drop dead then and there.
And yet⊠nothing follows. Nothing happens.
Butcher is the first to slowly lower the dish rag from his face, brows furrowed, and the others follow suit.
âWell,â says MM. âThat was anticlimactic.â
âPerhaps it was a dud?â Frenchie says.
Hughie skirts to the kitchen and pulls on a pair of rubber yellow gloves, crossing back to the table to start examining the pieces of glass. âWeâre going to have to toss the table,â he sighs, disappointment evident in his tone; heâd snagged this rickety thing on an online marketplace for twenty bucks, and heâd been rather proud of himself when he assembled it, happily announcing you could all eat at an actual table instead of staining the couch and recliners.
As they begin to discuss the possible reasons as to why none of them melted into puddles, you turn slightly. Your sinuses are still tingling and humming, and your head is beginning to thrum with a steady, rising pulse. Is it warm in here all of a sudden, you wonder? Maybe the vapor is slowly shifting the temperature in the room, and your enhanced senses are the first to pick it up. Moisture begins to bead on your hairline and upper lip, and youâre quick to wipe it away to keep your composure.
âWell,â Butcher says, tossing the rag irritably down onto the ruined table. âMaybe if we close our eyes real tight, we can pretend itâs still here.â
âAt least it is not in Voughtâs hands,â says Frenchie.
âLike they ainât goinâ to make more the second they realize itâs missing.â
Jesus Christ, has his voice always been so⊠gruff? So deep and perfect and rasping, lilted with a thick accent speaking colored speech? Youâve always loved that timbre, the way smoke spills from his tongue when he talks, but now itâs too much. Itâs sending roils of a hot, searing wave like a wall of fire through your veins and down south. Youâre barely able to recognize the familiar flicker of arousal through the haze, something that naturally comes around him, but this is almost painful.
Itâs so sudden youâre forced to lean over slightly and grab the back of the couch for balance, your free hand raising to touch your lower stomach.
Heads turn in your direction.
âWoah,â MM says and calls your name, taking a step forward as he raises a hand. âYou alright?â
The fire is quickly, quickly spreading. It branches like a river from your core and into your limbs, and soon enough your arms and legs feel as if theyâve been ripped apart, filled with stones, and sewn haphazardly back up. The arousal isnât like any youâve felt before; youâve gotten worked up in the past, fooled around with yourself to pass time and manage stress, yeah, but youâd never been able to pull this kind of reaction from yourself.
Kimiko is there at your side, touching your back, and that burning monster inside you lurches. You give a short, strangled sound and jerk away from her, nearly stumbling onto your face as you stagger away.
âDonât,â you rasp out, tripping slightly over your cape. âDonât.â
Butcherâs lips part and his eyes widen as he watches you, and you fight back the sudden powerful, gnawing urge to moan aloud and collapse into him. His eyes upon you are like dark spotlights, ones you would dance and perform for eternally if it meant he was watching you. He says your name once, and this time youâre unable to keep at bay the muffled whimper that escapes your lips. You stagger back another step or two.
âWhatâs happening to her?â Hughie demands, speaking the question everyone is thinking.
Frenchie shakes his head, then glances down at the shattered glass. âThe vapor?â
âWhy her and noneâa us?â Butcher says, watching as you paw away the sweat starting to roll down your temple. You bump into the television blindly as you double over, mumbling out a short cry when he speaks.
âMaybe itâs a Supe thing?â MM offers.
âKimiko would be feeling it too, then.â
Kimiko herself shifts her weight anxiously from foot to foot as she watches you, wanting desperately to help but unsure of what to do.
Hughie quickly scrapes the remaining glass into a brown paper bag and folds it tight, sealing whatever traces of the substance is left. He gives a sound of thought, leg shaking nervously. âWell, sheâs a natural born Supe, isnât she? She and Homelander were engineered with their abilities. Kimiko wasnât born with hers. Could that be it?â
Good god, you feel like youâre about to combust. Itâs too hot in here, way too fucking hot. The heat between your legs is searing, the pain in your lower belly unbearable. Your logical thoughts are beginning to claw for a hold on you, whatever primal urges that command you now rising to the forefront of your mind. You need something, anything. Some kind of friction down there, stimulation to soothe the now-raging beast of your heart.
You donât think youâll last long enough to leave, to haul ass and fly back to your suite in Vought Tower. You definitely wonât make it. Not when your pulse is thundering like a rock concert and your thighs are growing damp with your slick and you feel like youâre suffocating on the scent of Butcherâs cologne youâre able to smell across the room.
Ignoring the calls of your name, barks of voices to wait, you stumble your way down the hallway leading to the rooms. Your hands are already fumbling, fingers quickly unclasping your cape from your shoulders and letting it fall unceremoniously to the floor in your wake. You duck into the first bedroom, not caring whose it is, and kick the door shut before you really, truly let loose once eyes are no longer glued to your back.
With a rough, snarling sound that mixes with a panting moan, desperate for relief to the pain and heat, you yank off clasps and buckles and claw at your suit until it lies in a rumpled heap on the floor. Falling backward without any patience left for your spandex bra or underwear, you topple onto the bed and realize, as the sheets catapult a deep, musky, smoky scent over you, just whose room youâve chosen to hide away in.
Butcherâs bed is unmade, and part of you is glad for it, because youâre about to make a mess of it. His smell engulfs you like a deep, constricting embrace, and that fire sparks into a blaze. Your entire body aches like every joint has been cut off and glued back together, your core throbs and clenches around nothing. The inside of your thighs are already a mess, your underwear beyond ruined with how much slick is seeping through the fabric.
Without waiting any longer, you plunge your hand down the front of your panties and quickly run your fingers through your sopping folds. A wail, broken and strangled, escapes your throat, and your mind is too hazy to care that the others can surely hear you. That Butcher can hear you. The thought only spurs you on as your middle finger slides easily into your cunt, the heel of your hand grinding desperate ruts and circles against your swollen clit. Itâs good, a healing bask over the pain, but itâs not nearly enoughâlike tossing a shot glass of water over a burning car. Too little, too late. Your index finger joins your middle and you plunge your digits in and out of yourself, attempting to sate the demand for friction.
This is usually how youâre able to get yourself off, when the night is dark and youâre off the shift for evening patrol. Though, you do also have your rabbit and a couple of your favorite videos during those times, too.
The work up the hill of arousal isnât difficult, per se, given how slick and worked up you are, but itâs not nearly enough. When you reach that first orgasm with a hitching exclamation that fills the apartment, it does practically nothing for you. Only perhaps a minute of relief ebbs through your bones before the searing, beating heat starts up again.
Tears well and gather in your eyes, and you donât have the composure to stifle the sob of agony that tears through you. What the hell is happening to you? If you had known this was what that shit youâd swiped from the lab would do, you wouldâve just gotten Butcher lunch on your way over.
The thought of him crossing your mind stretches a blanket of warmth over you, and your body drags itself into a new position. Hands shaking, you snatch up the pillow at the head of the bedâhis pillowâand straddle it. Spreading yourself, you begin to desperately rock your hips back and forth across the fabric, wetness gliding down your cheeks as you moan out a twisted sound.
Shutting your eyes tight, you try to picture itâs him. That youâre humping up against Butcherâs stomach through the fabric of his shirt, his back against the mattress and large, calloused hands guiding your back and forth movements. You try to think about riding his stomach, the softness of his middle as he watches you fuck against him like an animal in heat, clit catching perfectly on the buttons every time you swipe your hips upward.
âFuck,â you hear yourself sob, shaking your head as that beast howls and claws and kicks at you. âFuck, please! Please, pleaseâŠâ
Your second climax isnât even nearly as satisfying as the first, and that one had been pitiful. It can barely even be called an orgasm, the way it only manages to jerk your hips once and your need satiated thirty seconds, tops.
You donât know how long you stay there in Butcherâs room, but you ravage it attempting to beat down whatever sex disease has taken over you. Your nails tear at the sheets and rip the threads apart, your super strength shifting the mattress as you roll your hips down with pathetic thrusts, folds soaking into the fabric. You shift the nightstand over onto its side with a snarl, cover the corner with one of Butcherâs shirts you find, and ride the hard edge while your hands paw at your breasts. You even tear apart the dirty laundry until you find a pair of his dirty jeans and bury your face into the crotch of the denim while your hand works at an inhuman speed between your legs.
Nothing works. Nothing fucking works. No matter how many orgasms you push your near-limitless body through, neither the pain nor the heat ceases for long. It wraps around you like a binding, the jaws of a predator greater than yourself. Your tears run out and you resort to dry sobs as you suffer through the agony, hips jerking and searching for something, anything that will pull you out of this.
A part of you considers, for a moment, calling your brother. Attempting to make your way home. Only a few of the experiments youâd been subjected to as a child had been this painful, and surely he would demand the antidote be served up on a silver platter before you could even touch down on the ground. Heâd always been there to protect you when the world hurt you, always been there to hurt the world back.
But then you remember the terrible, ugly man he truly is and you banish the thought from your mind.
Itâs dark outside by the time a harsh, rapping knock lands on the bedroom door. You startle, freezing up where youâre leaned back on your haunches on the floor against the bed and attempting to stimulate your abused folds with a light, whispering touch. You swallow back the quivering in your throat.
âWhat?â you whine. Itâs a far cry from the usual polite, warm disposition Vought hammered into you from an early age.
When Butcherâs voice comes through the door, you feel yourself grow wetter, surely staining the hardwood beneath you. ââŠCan I come in?â
âNo!â you say suddenly, your head spinning with the dehydration, never ending orgasms, and the alarm at the idea of him walking in on you. When you speak again, your voice descends into whimpering cries. âNo, no. I donât want you to see me like thisâŠâ You cast a glance at his ruined room, shame filling your chest and making its home with that snarling, flaming monster.
âBeen listeninâ to you caterwaul and moan and groan fâhours,â he says, the barest hint of amusement in his voice. âYou gotâta be done by now.â
You feel a twisting in your throat. Does he think this is funny? Amusing that youâve been masturbating for hours, attempting to get this pain to go away? You sniffle and wipe at your eyes with the back of your hand, letting your fingers fall from your core and curling up tight against the side of the bed.
The rest of the Seven constantly murmur to one another youâre a crybaby. That any flash of your watery eyes to your brother, and the world is yours. You donât want Butcher to think that. Youâd rather die than hear him say he thinks you childish.
On the other side, Butcher exhales a deep breath when he hears your sniffs. Heâs quiet for a short moment before, without another warning, he pushes through the door and steps into the room. He jerks to a halt, obviously taken aback by the state of his things, the reeking smell of sex that permeates the air, and the sight of you, naked and your thighs red and raw, cheeks damp and eyes averted.
You shut your eyes tight when the need inside you flares, a fresh spark bursting to life at the sight of him, the smell of him.
Donât, you hound yourself. Donât look at him. Donât jump him. Donât push him down, hold him down, fuck downâŠ
âFuck me,â Butcher finally says, and his footsteps draw closer. âFigured you wouldâa ridden it out by now.â He pauses before you, and you hear his breath become just a touch heavier. ââŠYou still hurtinâ, pup?â
A muffled, pitched whine claws its way from your throat. You try to swallow it down, stamp out the howl of feral need attempting to burrow from your belly.
Slowly, you nod.
âRight.â Butcher shifts above you, and you peek open your eyes enough to watch him as he peels off his jacket and hangs it aside on the headboard of the bed. âUp you get. Lemâme see âya.â
âNo,â you say, shoving away his hand he extends you and pretending the feel of his skin on yours doesnât elicit a shiver from deep within. You shake your hand sharply. âNo, IâI donât want some⊠some pity fuck from you, Billy.â You want to simply sob at the idea; finally getting to feel him, see him over you, under you, against you, just because he feels bad for your suffering. You fantasize about riding his thick cock and whimpering out declarations of need and love and everything in between; not pinning him down and ravaging him like an animal, all pleasure and relief and nothing else.
âPity fuck?â He gives a sharp exhale and rubs a hand over his beard, peering down at you. âThat what you think it would be?â
âWhat else would it be?â you snip, shifting uncomfortably on the floor, the wood boards pressing into your bare ass. âJust⊠go away. Kick me out. Whatever.â
Just like that day youâd met him there in that overgrown shooting range, Butcherâs handâcalloused, scarred, warmâ reaches out and captures your jaw to tilt your head up. Your nerves explode at the touch, and your lips fall apart as he slowly brings your gaze to meet his. Jesus Christ above, you want to drown in those eyes. You want to give up your breath, your strength, everything that makes you indestructible and sink into those dark irises that you just know would swallow you whole. The scar above his brow, the plush of his lips, the scruff of his beard⊠fuck.
âMuch as I hate to admit it,â he drawls, eyes lidded as he peers down at you, âyouâve gotten yourself under my skin. Not a fan of seeinâ you in pain. Upset. Yâknow?â He slowly tilts his head to the side, and you swear youâve never seen anything more attractive. âLet me help you, pup. Yeah?â
Finally, your chest rips open and that beast escapes.
Faster than any regular human can move, youâve shoved Butcher backward with a rough shove. He grunts as his back hits the floor, eyes wide as he watches you prowl on all fours over him like a hunting cat, none of the usual grace or poise you carry yourself with. Panting with arousal and need and pain, you quickly scramble to straddle his thick thigh through his jeans and begin to rapidly drag your pussy against him. The moan you release is downright pornographic, fingers digging into him to keep him still and where you want him.
Butcher is stunned by your sudden aggressiveness, but he quickly recovers. His hands fly up and latch onto your sides, gripping at your bare skin. âChrist,â he rasps out, winded. âEasy, pup.â
âNo.â Spreading your legs even further, knees digging into the floorboards, you press your hips down harder, clit dragging perfectly across the rough material of his denim. âNoâno, canât. Need you. Need you so bad.â
âYeah?â He bends the knee of the leg youâre straddling, giving you a slight angle to rut yourself against. âBeen thinkinâ âbout me in here all night while you touch yourself?â
You bob your head quickly. âYes! Yes, only you, Billy.â Your breath catches when a ragged shot of fresh arousal leaks from you and wets his pant leg. âPlease, please, it hurts. Sâbeen hurting since the thing broke, pleaseâŠâ
A small yelp of surprise escapes you when Butcher is suddenly moving, shifting his weight as he hoists you up and deposits you on the sex-smelling bed. He watches you with those harsh, endless eyes as he quickly pulls his shirt over his head, revealing his chest and torso covered in dark, coarse hair and scars that were ticked here and there across his skin. His lower belly was soft around the middle, a healthy couple layers to keep him warm and comfortable; before youâre able to stop yourself, you roll over, prop yourself up, and gently but firmly sink your teeth into his stomach.
âAh,â he hisses, hand quickly coming to card through your hair and yank you back. Heâs met with simmering, damp puppy eyes. âDo that again, Iâll put a muzzle on âya,â he says in a husky voice, but youâre able to tell he liked it. He gruffs out a breath when your hands, desperate and trembling, begin to paw at his belt buckle. âYou are needy, ainât you? Need my cock that bad, pretty girl?â
The fire licking at your veins, the very marrow in your bones, you hurriedly shove his pants and boxers down. His cock springs free, already achingly hard; the head is ruddied red and beginning to bead with shiny precum, and you feel yourself salivate at the sight of it before you.
âYes,â you groan again, voice strained. You hear him hiss when you take him in hand, using your thumb to spread the precum from his head and smear it down his member in a rough stroke. âNeeded you forever. Since I met you.â
Butcher quickly kicks off his boots and trousers, carefully but firmly pushing you back so your back hits the mattress. He grabs your ankle, hauling you down the sheets, then uses his massive hands to lift your legs up and over his shoulders; your back is bent and your head pressed into the bed, arms flailing to evenly distribute your weight as he hitches you closer.
âCâmon, then,â he says, hooking a strong arm around your thighs to keep them pressed against his front, âlet me hear how much you want me.â
With that he ducks his head and his tongue drags rough and insistent through your soaked folds, no warning or signal given. Your cry is sharp and loud, head tipping back, as your entire body seems to jerk and lock up. The feeling of having anotherâs touchânot just anyoneâs, but hisâis the closest thing youâve felt to heaven. The cameras, the press, the fans howling your name, it canât compare. His lips wrap around your swollen bundle of nerves and suck viciously, drawing pitched, sobbing sounds like an animal from your chest and out your throat. Letting go of your clit, his tongue slithers down and presses into your cunt, dragging and licking and kissing and mouthing. His hums vibrate against your pussy, sending shivers of pure bliss and relief through your systems.
âFuck!â you all but scream, fingers tearing further holes into the sheets. Youâre able to feel his hard cock twitch against your back. âOhâoh! Sh-i-it!â
âThereâs a girl,â he murmurs against you as he works, messy and greedy. âCry fâme.â
Abruptly, that band in your stomach snaps like a coil twisted too tight, and blinding pleasure and relief floods your brain. Your hips twitch and buck up against his face, his beard scratching your thighs, and you sob as fresh tears are pulled from the corners of your eyes. He devours you through the best orgasm youâve had since this whole thing started, slurping obscene sounds and lapping up everything you give him.
Finally, he lowers you back down to the mattress, panting slightly, cheeks flushed and pupils blown. Like a jackal, he prowls over you, pinning you down to the bed.
âSound so fuckinâ good, donât âya?â Butcher hums as he palms at your center, swiping through the mess youâve been making for the past handful of hours. âBeen listeninâ to you howl fâme in here since the others left. Say my name when you cum on my cock, yeah?â
Panting sharply, your chest beginning to tingle with the beginnings of the thrumming pain and searing heat once more, you reach out a hand and press it gently on his chest. He pauses where heâs glancing down to line up with your entrance, chain around his throat dangling between your breasts.
âBilly,â you gasp out, your fingers shaking as you feel the thick chest hair beneath your palm. âIâI donât want to hurt you.â
He tilts his head to the side. âHurt me,â he parrots in a question.
You nod once, swallowing thick. âI donât think I can control myself with⊠with whateverâs happening to me. I donât want toâI donât know, cave your dick in or something.â
At that, Butcher actually laughs, lips curling up into an amused smile that crooks at one side. His incisors glint in the soft light, and you suddenly want them dragging along your skin. âEven if you did,â he grunts, slowly dragging his leaking cock through your folds with slow, teasing flexes of his hips, âwhat a way to go, eh?â
Before youâre able to offer any more protest, he carefully catches the cockhead against your clit and drags himself slowly. The sensation makes your hazy head spin. âThat golden boy prick brother of yours know youâre a little pervert?â he coos. âHe know you been thinkinâ âbout little old me at night?â
Your hips buck impatiently, and your hand slides down to try and shove him into you. âJesus, Billy, donât fucking talk about hââ
In one solid thrust, Butcherâs cock bullies his way into your cunt, hips meeting yours and thighs covering your own. Your head drops to the bed as your vision whites out, your hearing dissolves into blissful static, and your body all but locks up. Youâre being filled for the first time since you inhaled whatever was in that vial, since your body started to betray you, and you think maybe this is what you could get addicted to. The pleasure is so great, each of his full, deep, punctuated rolls of his hips overlaps and youâre not sure where he ends and you begin.
âYeah,â Butcher is snarling out, his hands finding your thighs to keep them hitched and apart as he drills into you. âTaking me so fuckinâ good, darling. So tight fâme, fuck. Thatâs it⊠keep doing that.â
Your arm shooting out, you grasp the back of his neck and haul him down at a breakneck speed, crashing your lips against his. Your teeth click against one anotherâs and there might be a little blood from where your canine catches his lip, but goddamnit all, this is too good to stop. His weight over you is heavy and perfect, his cock is hitting the best spots inside you, his hands are all over, one at your breast and the other rubbing tight, quick circles against your clit.
Butcher continues to thrust into you until his forehead becomes slick with sweat and his chest is heaving, and the rolls of his hips grow quicker and sloppier. âCâmon, pretty girl,â he pants out. âSay my name. Say my name while I fill you up, make you mine.â
âFuck, Billy!â Your voice is hoarse and all but gone, but you give up the last remnants for him. âBilly, Billy, Billy.â You clench your eyes shut, sobbing and wailing and hiccuping. âLove you, love you, love youâplease, please!â
âGoddammitââ Butcher bites off a shout as he cums, and youâre able to bask in the feeling of hot, pulsing spurts filling your cunt deep. He works his hips a few more times, keeping it all inside you, before he finally hangs his head and stills.
But youâre not done with him. Not even close.
Flexing your arms and propelling your super strength forward, you drag him down, roll over, and begin to raise and lower yourself in a hurried pace.
Butcher gasped, hands grasping onto your thighs in an attempt to still you. âFuck me, pup, you gotâta give me a minute.â
âNo,â you hear yourself rasp out despite the softening of his cock inside you. âNo, canât. I warned you.â
Butcher is able to see your Supe stamina up close and personal. You donât stop, even when he hardens again and you ride him until he fills you up a second time. He pants hard and his voice is tense and thin as he all but wrestles you off his oversensitive crotch. But even then, you rut yourself against his hand until you get off, and then again on his face. You go for hours, and finally, when the clock on the floorâonce on the now-tipped nightstandâhits one in the morning, your body begins to come down from the cliff itâs been hanging over.
You lie sideways across the bed as, parallel to you, Butcher blinks back the sweat in his eyes and the exhaustion threatening to drag him under. Heâs all but worn down from the sheer amount of sex youâve hauled him through, heart on the verge of giving out from the exertion. The fiery beast inside you has finally gone back to sleep, and your limbs ache from the echoes of the thrumming pain thatâs now left your body.
Finally, itâs over.
âDidâya mean it?â
You lift your head, blinking with bleary eyes. You fix your gaze upon Butcher where he leans against the headboard, too numb and exhausted to even get up and root for a cigarette. He peers back at you expectantly, expression unreadable.
You know at once what heâs referring to; the confession of love youâd bleated in the throes of your pleasure and relief. Your chest stirs slightly, and you glance down, finger picking at a tear in the sheet youâd created. ââŠYes,â you say finally, and nothing more.
ââŠCome up here, pup.â
Your limbs throb as you drag yourself up the bed and collapse at his side, and you refrain from all but purring when his arm curls around you and drags you tight against his side. Heâs warm and his heartbeat beneath his skin reminds you heâs here, heâs real, heâs alive.
Butcher leans down and you think, perhaps, he presses his lips to the top of your head. Just once. But itâs a cry of volumes for the man who communicates almost entirely through swears and noncommittal huffs. He keeps you there against him, settling down, and itâs not but a handful of minutes before his breath has evened out and he snores softly.
You stare at nothing as you draw light patterns along the back of his hand. You suppose youâll find out whatever kind of fucked-up aphrodisiac you stole from Vought tomorrow when itâs all over the company behind closed doors. You really canât guess its purpose; why get natural-born Supes hyped on endorphins and arousal? Maybe some kind of reproduction program?
You exhale. Who gives a fuck.
All that matters is that youâre here in Butcherâs arms, your bare body against his, and his grip hadnât loosened when he fell asleep.
Slowly, contentedly, exhaustedly, your eyes slipped shut.
i would love to see more of winchester!sister and gabrielâs relationship before she knew of him. like maybe demons could never truly hurt her; her nickname being âangelâ. him seeing what itâs like for a woman being a hunter, human or demon, they all think the same. what she had to do to save her brothers; showing skin and having the favor of mean men
heâs been OBSESSED with you since the moment you were born. you think he wasnât there for all those moments?
gabriel x fem!winchester!reader
(spinoff from this post)
Gabriel had never really been a fan of hospitals. People were always so serious here between the four sterile wall, a tile floor mopped ten times a day, and a ceiling that had seen more prayers than a cathedral. No one wanted to be here; they were forced to come because their skin had split, or their bones had shattered, or, sometimes, they were dying, and they knew the car ride here would be their last one.
But standing there in the corridor outside the viewing room of the nursery, invisible to the eyes of the people treading to and fro about him, he thought to himself that, perhaps, hospitals werenât all so bad. After all, youâd been born here. And that in itself was a miracle, if he ever saw one.
To anyone else peeking in, you wouldnât have been anything special; another newborn girl swaddled in pink with a scribbled placard of your name taped to the plastic carrier you wriggled in. You were one of a couple dozens, pinks or blues, stirring gently as nursery attendants bustled about.
But to Gabriel, you were everything; a beacon of the hope heâd been holding out on for what felt like centuries, a shining star like the ones heâd helped his father create those eons ago. Perfect in every way, from the slope of your nose, to the twitch of your lips, to the curl of your fingers around nothing. You were his; his human, his soul, his destined vessel in which he was to fight the holy war in. His to keep safe, to protect until it came time for you to know him.
And keep you safe, he did.
Gabriel had been able to feel the tug of your distress in the bond between the two of you the night your mother burned. Heâd dropped what he was doing in an instant, whisked himself to your nursery and had nearly stumbled back upon realizing the Winchester house was alight. His ears pricked with the sounds of Samuelâs pitched shrieks and Deanâs panicked caterwauling and Johnâs devastated cries. He knew, in the back of his mind, he couldnât interfere, couldnât intervene with the Grand Design. But that didnât mean he couldnât keep the flames at bay from your crib before Dean scrambled in, eyes pink and watering with smoke, snatched you up, and vanished after your remaining family.
Your living conditions following the fire hadnât exactly been what some would call suitable for a small child. John was never the same after Maryâs death, and the responsibility of your upbringing fell to your eldest brother. Gabriel felt for the kid, he really did; stuck raising two young siblings while mourning your mother, bouncing from place to place every other night? Not a situation he envied. Nights when John left for a fruitless hunt or a dive bar, and Dean was stuck flitting between a brother who refused to go down for bed and a baby sister who refused to cease her cries, Gabriel would sprinkle a little of his grace here and there. Samuel would suddenly knock out, deep, deep asleep. Your cries would silence and it would be all Dean could do not to collapse with relief then and there.
As you got older, Gabriel could always be found by his brothers and sisters hanging around his destined vessel. Whether you were waiting patiently in a sleazy motel room for your family to return from a hunt, or running rampant at rest stops between states, he was there, ensuring his vessel, his soul, his everything never strayed too far.
He came to hate playgrounds nearly as much as he despised hospitals before you were born. Your brothers had been slouched over your fatherâs shoulders, reviewing facts and notes from their current case, while youâd scampered to and fro with other small kids across the playground. All paint dulled by the sunshine, swings in dire need of oiling, slides that broiled in the summer heat, it was a childâs heaven that, normally, would have pulled at least a smirk from Gabrielâs lips. Unfortunately, it was also a hunting ground for those who sought to prey upon those smaller than them.
Gabriel had locked in on the man stalking you immediately, straightening where he stood, hidden to the naked eye as he did when he watched over you. Heâd been prowling the sidelines, aura rippling with danger that any fledgling angel would have been able to sense from a mile away.
The guy had only been able to take approximately three steps in your direction when Gabriel had intervened.
You returned to your family in one piece, and reports of a missing man in the area followed the next day.
When Sam left for college, leaving you and Dean in the bitter, now-hardened arms of your father, times had been dark. Heaven was roiling with tension over a dispute with Hell, and Gabriel had been in constant turmoil over the aching, throbbing tug of his bond to you. The absence of your brother had pulled from you a sadness, an anger, like nothing youâd experienced before. Youâd thought Sam had abandoned you. Hadnât loved you as much as you and Dean loved him. And after Johnâs disappearance, when your family whittled down to just twoâyou and Deanâit grown darker than ever.
Gabriel had attempted to bless your dreams at nightâthe evenings you did sleep, that was, in creaky motel beds or across the backseat of the Impala. He made sure your favorite programs were on every television you turned on, your favorite songs played when you reached into the front to crank the radio.
In any way he could, your angel cared for you, loved you, shielded you.
Not long after Sam came back and the Winchester siblings were three again, your brothers began to teach you to hunt. Gabriel had wanted to smite them then and there. What kind of half-brained idiots did they think they were, putting you in the crosshairs of every demon, vampire, and djinn out there? He shouldâve swooped in the moment Sam placed a gun in your hands and guided your aim, should have taken you away and hidden you someplace only he knew.
But he couldnât. He didnât.
Instead, he waited. Oh, he waited. For the day he could finally reveal himself, connect the bond that God Himself had created for you and Gabriel. For the day he could feel your skin for the first time, make you laugh and give him that perfect smile, hold you close and tight, nothing between you, and seal the connection like it was supposed to.
But for now, he told himself as he watched you and your brothers snort over a late supper at a midnight diner, he would wait.
Heâs got your legs tossed over his shoulders, calves digging into his collarbones, large, calloused hands anchored on your waist to drag you down the bed and onto his aching cock with punishing thrusts. He watches how your breasts bounce with each punctuated movement, enamored by the way the softness of your body moves.
Your cries of pleasure and overstimulation are music to his earsâbetter than any symphony or any Supe begging for their life right before they meet the forefront of his bullet. Mewls, whimpers, babbles of his name⊠they all go straight down south.
âSo fuckinâ gorgeous like this,â he tells you, tilting his head down at you like youâre an interesting program on the television. âYâthink so, darlinâ? Tell me you think so.â
Your head bobs up and down like your life depends on it, your fingers wrapped around his forearms for any kind of support as he fucks you within an inch of your life.
In retaliation, Butcher gives you a sharp, rough thrust that he knows makes you see stars, then holds there, buried deep in your heat. âBig girl words. Can still talk, canât you? Or did I go and fuck it outâta âya?â
âMâpretty like this,â you rush to sob out, your body throbbing and thrumming and weeping for his friction, for his cockhead to keep brushing against that perfect spot inside you. âPlease, Billy, mâpretty like thisâŠ!â
He gives you that crooked smirk, showing off the sharp of his teeth, and continues his rhythm. âYeah, you are.â
SUMMARY: Cursed objects are always pesky little things, unpredictable and dangerous. But coming across a very powerful aphrodisiacal piece of jewelry while you're actively struggling with your unrequired feelings for dean might just be the worst experience so far.
WARNINGS: okay here we go. porn with plot. pining. light angst. fluff. self-esteem issues. reader is in katniss everdeen's level on misunderstanding signals. shameless smut. sex pollen (kinda). multiple orgasms. masturbation. oral sex. fingerfucking. unprotected piv. creampie. shifting dynamics. blood kink (subtle and not so subtle). light choking. lots of spit. im sorry. love confessions. fluffy ending. that might be all.
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âI swear Iâm gonna throw up.â
âCome on, Dean. Itâs not that bad.â You roll your eyes, softly kicking an angel Christmas ornament out of the way, being careful not to break it.Â
âIâm choking, sweetheart.â Dean grasps his throat dramatically, clawing at his skin and making his voice thinner. âI canât breathe. Oh no, thereâs the light at the end of the tunnel. I leave everything to Baby.â
âYou literally have nothing to leave. You donât even have a will! Youâve been legally dead likeâfive times.â
Sam snorts somewhere behind you, still making his way through the giant pile of heart-shaped chocolate boxes by the door of the warehouse.Â
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. Thereâs no windows, lamps, or candles, and still the room glows in a golden-pink hue. The whole place buzzes with magic, like youâre walking into a giant ancient altar. You wonder what kind of cherub has enough money or power to build a place like this.Â
Youâd gotten a heads up from Castiel a few days ago about what Dean relayed as âa disturbance in the forceâ around Stockbridge, Massachusetts. Youâd driven here last night, stopping a few towns over so Dean could get some sleep before making your way into town.Â
Youâd spat all kinds of speculations about what the disturbance could beâanother horseman, Lucifer himself, maybe even Godâjust to find a glowing, castle-like building on a field just out of town instead.Â
Deciding that walking in without any idea of what youâd 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.Â
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.Â
âNah, the only church in town is down the street. Baptist, I think, but the nuns are pretty chill.â 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. âMaybe I can show you the way? I know the perfect scenery route.â
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.Â
You continued asking around, but every time you directed someoneâs 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.
âSo, are we thinking witch?âÂ
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 Girlâs eyes, the opaque fog, the slight tremble of her lower lip.Â
Her biting down on said lip when Dean used some cheap line, the twirl of her orange hair, the way Deanâs grin turned sharp at the sight of itâ
You needed to focus.Â
âProbs. Thereâs definitely some kind of incantation over the building, but I donât know any witch powerful enough to cast magic over a whole town.â
Your voice was dragged, low and dull. Sam threw you a concerned look over his shoulder, you didnât meet his eyes. âDeity, then?â
You shrugged without a word. The brothers shared one of their looks, and you knew it wouldnât be too long until one of themâmost likely Sam, because Dean is allergic to any kind of emotional talkâcornered you about whatâs been going on.Â
The truth is as embarrassing as it is hilarious, if you were anyone else and not the one living it.
Valentineâs day is tomorrow, and itâs 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 âcomfort all those poor, heartbroken, smokinâ girls.â You threatened him with your knife, âshut up or Iâll gut you open and feed you to some poor street dog.â He only got louder.Â
Evading the man youâre in love with while he talks about fucking other women doesnât 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 Valentineâs milkshake. Everything is a reminder of the day of love, and while youâre usually indifferent to dumb capitalistic holidays, this year it feels like salt in an old, festered wound.Â
Dean doesnât love you, not like you love him.Â
Itâs the end of the fucking world, youâre hunting down the Devil, and still Dean canât find it in himself to see you as anything other than the poor hunter girl they had to aid years ago and who theyâre now stuck with. The man whoâd sleep with anything that moves and has good tits, canât fathom to look at you twice.Â
Sam brought you back Valentineâs 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.Â
Youâre being petty. Itâs Armageddon time, youâre entitled to some pettiness.Â
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.Â
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.Â
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.Â
âWhat theââ Sam cursed when he ran into the mountain of chocolate boxes heâs still trying to put back in place, sprawling them all over the ground.Â
There were similar piles all around the shiny bronze flooring. Teddy bears, cheap costume angel wings, more Valentineâs decor. The place was flooded with pink, red, and white knick knacks. Some objects were propped up on pedestalsâan 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.Â
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 cupidâs identity. After the fiftieth baby angel scented soap youâd accidentally stepped on, youâd just assumed itâs a cherub.
âCanât wait to get out of this place. If any chick tomorrow smells like roses I might throw up all over her.â
The little glass swan youâre holding cracks under your fingers, you leave it on top of a velvet box before it breaks.Â
âHave we ever heard of any angels that can bewitch a whole town?â You ask Sam, desperate to change the topic.Â
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?
âI donât think so, and cherubs are supposed to be pretty low-ranking. Iâm not sure one of them would be able to manage something like this, but we should ask Cas.â
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.Â
Your eyes sweep the room and find Dean, whoâs searching a honey-colored vanity in the far left corner. Thereâs 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.Â
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.Â
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.Â
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 thereâs 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 guyâs 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.Â
Ignoring the brothersâ questioning looks, you leave the book back on the pile and grab another one.Â
One by one, you open at least ten different erotic books. Thereâs one with a skinny blond guy being impaled in a dick way too big to feel good. Thereâs one with two girls making out in the mud. Thereâs one with a girl in a cowboy outfit riding a tied-up guy. Your cheeks flush at that one.Â
Youâre not a prude, nothing close. Inside you, thereâs 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 outâmuzzled and on a leash, but peaking its head through the bars of its cage. Most of the time, though, you keep it locked away.Â
It feels too dangerous, perverse. Itâs scary, just how feral it can be.Â
It cannot be healthy. Youâve grown used to nothing in your life being healthy.Â
You sort through the pile, no longer taking the risk of picking at random. Anything with the words âsexy,â âsteamy,â or âadultâ 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 languagesâsome Italian and French, many of them in Greek. Anything you canât read gets discarded.
Even then, most of the ones you open are explicit. Some are supposed to be clever little âhiddenâ 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 mechanicâs guidebook that soon turns into a playboy mag.
Youâve 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 â67, but a similar model. And on top, laying across the hood in a too-cliche pose, is a guy. Heâs 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. Itâs too fucking close.Â
His eyebrows are drawn together, his mouth almost pouty as he grips the faceless girlâs thighs desperately. His feet are propped up on the front bumper, and he looks almost in pain as he thrusts inside the girlâs pussy. His chest is lined with scratchesâdeep, 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.Â
His cheeks are red, the left one more than the right one. Thereâs bruises on his neck and down his chest. He looks hurt, he looks blissed, he looks so fucking horny.Â
He looks like Dean.Â
The beast wails, your thighs press together, you feel so violent that you could spontaneously combust. It terrifies you every timeâhow hot your blood burns, how feverish it makes you, how wrong it feels.Â
Not pretty, not delicate, not sensual. Just ugly, destructive, all-consuming hunger.
âHey,â Dean says your name, way too close. âLook!â
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 corpseâs innards. You almost wish he had, youâd feel less dirty.Â
âHi.â Your voice is too high, your eyes too wide. Dean frowns.Â
âYou okay?â You nod, bobbleheaded, hiding the book behind your back. Deanâs eyes shift down to it, forest green thatâd look beautiful all teary. You squirm. âYou sure? Whatâs that thing?â
âJust a true crime book about âcrimes of passion.â Itâs a little graphic, so I got a little shaken up. Iâm fine now.â You wave your hand dismissively, Dean still looks suspicious. You clear your throat, kicking the beast until it whimpers and hides, and you smile. âYou wanted to show me something?â
âRight.â Dean shakes his head, his mouth still twisted as he pulls something from the pocket of his jacket. âI found this, and I thought youâd like it.â
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 itâs covered in fairy dust.Â
âItâs gorgeous, Dean.â You delicately pick it up from Deanâs 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. âWhere did this angel get all this stuff?â
âDunno, but I guess they wonât miss one thing.â
You blink up at Dean. Heâs glowering down at his dirty biker boots, a hand scratching behind his ear. âYou want me to keep it?â
Dean shrugs, and the question seems to grab Samâs attention, the younger boy shuffling closer through the lovey mess.Â
âWe donât come across beautiful things too often. You deserve beautiful.â The words seem sour in his own mouth, like theyâre spilling out without his permission. Your heartbeat is loud in your ears.Â
No, I donât. Not really.Â
Youâre glad when Sam chimes in.Â
âI donât think it's a good idea to take stuff, guys. Weâre still not sure itâs a cherub, and we donât wanna upset anything.â
Dean glares at his brother, and you sigh dejectedly. Sam is right, and so is Dean. You donât get many beautiful things. You donât get quartz bracelets or Dean Winchester under you. Thatâs just your life.Â
âThereâs nothing in these books,â you murmur, none of this helping your already bad mood. âWe should keep looking, find some kind of sigil or rune so we can confirm what weâre actually dealing with.â
With your shoulders hunched and your soul weary, you start to walk toward the vanity to put the arm cuff back. Youâve 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.Â
âAt least try it on.â It takes you a second to figure out what heâs talking about, too lost in visions that make you want to take a dive into Hell.
âDeââ
âCome on.â You donât understand why he cares so much, but his grip on your wrist tightens. âWhen will Iâany of us get enough money to buy something like that?â
You hold your breath, Deanâs 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. âFine. But Iâm taking it off before we leave.â
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 heâs built from scar tissue and barbed wire through the years wrapping around him. You donât understand how you were so fooled by his facade before, itâs so obvious now.Â
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 youâd 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.
âWhat do you think?â You extend your arm toward Dean, giving him a bright beam.Â
He stays silent, something flashing on his face right before he grabs your shoulders, spinning you in place.Â
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. Itâs not a physical change, itâs still just you, but glowy. Every sweet feature enhanced, every detail you hate washed in a new light.Â
It feels nice. Itâs 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 angelânot the real, douchy ones. Cartoon movie angel. He looks divine.
Almost instinctively, you lean back, craving the contact more than usual. Deanâs 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.Â
You canât help but shiver when his breath brushes the side of your neck. You need to get a grip.
âGuys, I think I found something.â
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.Â
Thereâs another pile of miscellaneous things at Samâs 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.Â
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.Â
And the hexbags.Â
âShit, you think itâs actually a witch?â
âNot quite.â A voice comes from behind you, sweet like the summer breeze and pitchy like the song of birds. âBut youâre getting warmer.â
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.Â
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, thereâs a kid.Â
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 heâs wearing an oversized white button up that barely covers his chest, hanging off a shoulder and showing his delicate collarbones.Â
Heâs blinking at the three of you naively, but the curl of his lips show a hint of provocativeness.
âWho the fuck are you?â Dean steps forward, still pointing his gun at the boy, but even he sounds breathless.Â
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. Heâs not the kind of man youâre usually into, you like them pretty but a little damaged. Still, because your whole body is tender and your stomach feels weird, you canât help but ogle a bit.
Itâs only fair, youâre almost certain the brothers are doing the exact same thing.
âPut that down before you hurt yourself, big boy.â 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.
Youâre always highly suspicious that anyone who sees Dean wants him. This time thereâs not an ounce of doubt.Â
Suddenly he locks his eyes on yours, and a fuchsia glows on his irises.Â
Of course, someone like that could not be human.Â
His lips grow into a mocking sneer, and he takes an animated step toward you.Â
âDonât get any fucking closer.â Dean blocks his way to you, his broad shoulders shielding you. Itâs always hot when he gets protective, today is a little overwhelming. âWhat the hell are you?â
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.Â
Clearly not a cherub. You can almost hear Samâs voice in your head, easily reading the subtle twitches of his face.Â
Thatâs certain, I donât think angels can look likeâthat. Sam looks like he wants to snort, but he keeps his face perfectly still. Not a witch, either.Â
You gnaw on the inside of your cheek. Porn books, pagan artifacts, every romantic thing to ever exist.Â
âNo wonder you kids are famous, look at you!â At some point, the boy had glided closer. The barrel of Deanâs gun is pressed to his sternum, he doesnât seem concerned. Dean looks agonizingly unable to pull the trigger. âThose pretty faces, those eyes!â He cups Deanâs cheek with his free hand, tilting his face down even as Dean flinches but finds himself unable to move away. âIâm surprised Zeus hasnât given you the Ganymede treatment.â
Greek smut. Greek letters in the back of petals. Greek gods.
âHoly fuck.â You gasp, dragging the godâs glowing pink eyes away from Dean. Only then is he able to scamper backwards, stumbling against your side. Roses, Valentineâs day, erotic overload. âLord Eros.â
The boy giggles, absolutely delighted. Shit.Â
Sam slumps at your side, finally recognizing who youâre up against. This isnât good. This canât be good.
âI see youâre the smart one! Such beauty as well.â 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. âIf anyone was to find my little vault, Iâm glad itâs you.â
âAll of this is yours?â Sam asks, lowering his gun.Â
âIâm bad at throwing things away.â The god shrugs, twirling a blond curl on his delicate finger. âWhat can I say, Iâm sentimental. I like to keep mementos from every mortal I meet.â
He says the word with such lascivity that it sounds like a slur.Â
âEros. Which one is that again?â Dean seems to have shaken off the godâs enchantment, sharp eyes now squinted and focused. Heâs given up on his gun, though. You tuck your knife into your waistband.
Itâs not like any simple weapon will kill the ancient god of desire.Â
âCupid, for the Romans.â Eros groans loudly at Samâs words.
âRomans, they were so fucking boring.â The boy huffs, lips setting on a deeper pout, looking more like a bratty twink than a god. âHad such a hard-on for bloodshed and war, ugh. The Greeks knew how to have fun, they had hard-ons for each other.â He sighs, looking off into space, reminiscing of better times.Â
You hope heâs not getting a hard-on.Â
âOkay, so youâre likeâa supercharged cherub?â You send Dean a shut up look, but he ignores you.
âDonât you ever compare me to those guys!â Erosâ 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. Deanâs shoulders relax. Oh no. âTheyâre disgusting little things who canât tell love from lust! Them and their Christian puritanism, ugh!â
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.
âCareful there, princess, youâre gonna break a nail.â
Eros goes perfectly still, Sam and you close your eyes in defeat at the same time.Â
âI would be really careful, Dean Winchester.â His voice has changed, now thick like melted candy. And poison, definitely poison. âI may like you, but you are still simply a mortal. Do not mess with forces you are too feeble-minded to comprehend.â
âDean,â you finally whisper, your hand moving to grasp his wrist. A piercing chill washes down your spine. What the fuck is wrong with you?Â
âAm I supposed to be afraid?â He continues to mock, even when Sam is throwing daggers at him over your head. âWhat, youâre gonna shoot me with your little heart arrows?â
âDean.â This time itâs Sam who speaks. Your throat feels too dry to do so, goosebumps rising all over your skin. âHeâs not just any god. His father is quite literally the god of war.â
Eros scoffs, rolling his now magenta eyes. He moves closer, until heâs just a step away from the three of you. You canât handle the smell of peaches and cream coming from him, overwhelming and dizzying from up close.Â
âYeah, Daddy always scares people. Him and his big spear.â The god smacks his lips, staring at Sam until he recoils in his place. âBut itâs not him who you should fear. Daddy likes to play tough, but heâs simple-minded. Unambiguous, methodical, and so fucking boring. Now, Mommy⊠thatâs who you should be afraid of.â
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 Deanâs crooked one.Â
âBut you already are, arenât you?â
Youâre not sure Dean knows who Eros is talking about, but he still winces.Â
âWe're not here to antagonize you.â Sam intervenes. Youâre still too busy fighting your own body to do anything. âWe just wanted to make sure everything was in order.â
âAnd itâs not.â Dean raises his chin, his obstinacy and stupidity implacable. Eros takes a little hop back, his grin only growing. âYou have all of those people in town under a spell. We canât have that just because you wanna be a little bitch about souvenirs.â
Dean and his fucking bravado. Itâll get him killed one day. Maybe today, while youâre too damn defective to act.Â
You try to talk to Eros, take back Deanâs words, but another weird lightning strike flashes in your gut, and all that comes out is a faraway babble. Erosâ eyes flare.
âYouâre more incompetent than I expected, Dean Winchester. But youâre also more⊠complex.â He looks from Dean to you a few times before settling on you. More specifically, on your arm. âNice bling you have there.â
Shit.
Panic claws at your throat. Of course, your luck canât get any worse.Â
Immediately, your hands fly to the scorching cuff, trying to rip it off. It doesnât budge, only getting tighter and hotter around your flesh the harder you tug, charring your fingers.
âWhat did you do?â Dean snarls.Â
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.Â
âI didnât do anything.â Erosâ sing-songs, you fight to keep your breath even. âYou did. Itâs not nice to take whatâs not yours, you know?â
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 canât hear anything. For a moment, youâre sure youâre dying.Â
ââme! I took it! Kill me!â
Deanâs voice sounds underwater. Sam is yelling your name. Erosâ cackle is piercing. It brings you back.Â
âIâm not gonna kill her, silly! What a waste thatâd be.â The air around you shifts. Suddenly, a finger is tapping on the quartz flowers. Your knees falter. âIâm the god of desire, baby. Iâm here to make people feel good.â
âWait, wait,â 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. âFuck!â
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 youâd run and proudly show your mother how pretty the marks bloomed.Â
Disgusting, from the very start.
âFuck!â You repeat, but this time itâs in the shape of a long, lewd moan. Sam and Dean freeze. You curl further into yourself, panting like a thirsty dog. âStop, stop, please! It feelsââÂ
Your words are so breathy that youâre 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.
âIâm gonnaâah.â You bite down on your tongue to try and swallow any more humiliating noises, screwing your eyes shut. Your head drops back, slamming against whateverâs behind you. The dull, less sparkly pain is enough to return some clarity to you. âIt hurts, please. Please, stop.â
âYou think it hurts now?â Eros kneels by your side, and youâre able to half-open your eyes. Slowly, the wave retreats, like itâs 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. âThe flashes only get stronger and more frequent, child. And you just wait until youâre in your fifth orgasm.â
âYou son of a bitch!â Dean charges for Eros, but the god dodges him with the swiftness of a small and lean body against Deanâs broad shoulders and heavy feet. âTake that shit off of her, or Iâll cut your fucking dick off.â
Eros giggles, pinning Dean in place with glowing pink eyes. Once again, the god invades his personal space, and the sight of them so closeâDeanâs muddy jacket against the pristine white of Erosâ shirtâmakes you buzz all over.Â
âThatâll just hurt you more than me, handsome.â The god winks, salacious. âOh, in another life, in another life.â
Itâs a furious, voyeuristic kind of prickle. Jealousy mixed with allure.Â
The stupid cuff is making you horny for shit youâve never found hot before.Â
âHow about I make you boys a deal?â Only then you notice Sam standing right beside you, teeth bared like a guard dog. Youâll have to buy him a new book as soon as this is all over, maybe one of those protein bars he likes so much. âYou help her survive this, I move back to rural France and let your little town free. How does that sound?â
âSurvive this? So it is gonna kill her.â You donât think youâve heard Sam this furious before.Â
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?Â
They probably donât want to deal with this when the apocalypse is around the corner. Once again, youâre dead weight on their already sinking ship.
âNo, but itâs gonna get⊠nasty.â Eros cracks up like he just made the most hilarious joke.
A pause, the tide starts to go out. And then, âHow do we help?â
Another wicked giggle, a migraine lingers in the back of your skull.Â
âYouâll figure it out, eventually. At least I hope so.â The god is still glued to Deanâs chest, and he runs a sharp nail down the slope of his jaw. âYouâre either gonna stop fearing Mommy, or youâre gonna despise her. Either way, Iâm in for a fabulous show.â
With that, he vanishes in a cloud of glitter and peaches.Â
Sam and Dean start to talk, but your bones are lead and your head is pounding. Everythingâs sore, like you just ran a marathon or got your guts rearranged, so itâs easy to let your eyes flutter close when the needles on your skin melt down to a faint gooseflesh.Â
â...we gonna do?â
â...ake her backâŠsomewhere safe, so sheâŠâ
â...donât know wâŠâ
â...research in the car. Come on.â
Reality fades in and out, your mind a sluggish mess of tangled bodies and gory memories.Â
Aphrodite and Ares. Love and war. Beauty and violenceâErosâ whole deal.Â
âIâm gonna pick you up, okay?â Samâs voice has gotten closer. At your lack of response, he repeats your name. âWe need to get to the car, and you canât walk, so Iâll carry you. Okay?â
You hum absentmindedly, a small part of you still present enough to feel hurt over the fact that Dean wonât carry you.Â
It makes sense, you wouldnât 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, youâre airborne.
You gasp, holding onto Samâs shoulders tightly. The sudden movement wakes you up completely, and youâre able to take in the brothersâ impassive expressions as they stomp out of the warehouse, leaving behind perfect marble and immaculate crystal. Itâs a relief to see it all get smaller the farther you get.Â
Deanâs shoulders are taut, his face hidden by the way he walks slightly ahead of you and Sam, but youâve learned to recognize when heâs 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.Â
âWeâre gonna find out how to get the cuff off. Youâre fine, we wonât let anyone hurt you. Youâre safe with us.â
âI know.â Sam relaxes a little at that, his touch on you growing more confident and less vacillating. And maybeâjust maybeâyou were wrong, and he actually cares. It would be nice to have a friend, you hang onto the idea. âI trust you.â
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. Youâre safe.Â
For now, that evil part of your brain reminds you.
Shut the fuck up.
Of course, peace doesnât 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.
âSam.âÂ
Your voice is low and whiny. Youâve never sounded like that before. You squirm and Samâs arms around you tighten, probably to stop you from moving so he doesnât drop you. But his fingernails dig into the meat of your legs, and his chest is lean and warm against your side, and you canât do this right now.Â
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 Deanâ
âSammy,â you repeat. The nickname makes both brothers stop marching. âSammy, I needâI need you to stop touching me. Right now.â
âWhat?â Sam sounds confused, but you canât make out anything aside from the white fog clouding the edges of your vision. Samâs hands spam, your back arches involuntarily, biting down on your cheek so hard you taste iron. Itâs building. Up, up, up.
âStop touching her.â Deanâs somber voice is faint through the rush of blood in your ears and the scream of your brain. âSam, fucking let her go!â
âButââÂ
Dean makes a guttural noise, it doesnât help. âStop touching her or Iâm gonna fucking kill you!â
Just like that, youâre plummeting.Â
The world spins, air roars all around you, thereâs more screaming. Then, pain.Â
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.
âYou told me to let her go!â
âI didnât mean drop her, you fucking brute!â
The drag of tiny rocks against your flesh, the rush of adrenaline from falling, the metallic smell of bloodâyou gasp desperately.Â
Youâre sick. Youâre so fucking sick, and now Sam and Dean can see it. The beast has been unleashed and youâre left begging it to please, donât do it. Youâre a monster that wants too much, that wants wrong. Perverted and broken and wrong.
You knew it. Apparently the gods did as well.Â
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 youâre gonna fly off your body.Â
Someone calls your name again, and you finally notice that youâre still lying on the pavement, rolled into a little ball. Slowly, you force yourself to seat up, heaving for air.Â
The wave has passed.Â
âI donât thinkââ Your voice is hoarse, you hope you werenât being too loud. âI donât think you should touch me anymore.â
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.Â
âSon of aââ Dean cuts himself off with a bark, your eyes gloss over, shrinking further into the curb. âCome on, sweetheart, get off the ground. Babyâs right there, you can do it.â
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.Â
Taking a deep breath that makes the fabric of your sweater brush against your breastsâyour stiff, oversensitive nipples feeling it even through the lace of your bra, fuckâyou rise to your feet. The first step you take is shaky, and you stumble forward a little.Â
Both brothers extend a hand, instinctively wanting to hold you up, but they stop themselves before they can graze your skin. Itâs humiliating, being this fucking helpless. The spite helps you straighten up and make your way to the car.Â
âThatâs it, sweetheart, youâre okay.â Dean murmurs before closing your door, once youâre already laying down across the backseat. âYouâre gonna be okay.â
Youâre not sure if heâs trying to convince you or himself. Either way, you cling to the words and close your eyes.Â
àŒ đČÖŒđąâïœĄË
The car ride is hellish.
Youâd 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.Â
Itâs a blessing. You canât 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.Â
But itâs 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.
âI canât find anything on, uhm, aphrodisiacal jewelry.â Samâd said about ten minutes into the drive, already having gone through at least five articles in his laptop with miraculous wifi. âIâll have to take a closer look at the cuff later, okay?â
You gave him a noncommittal grunt, an attempt at agreement.Â
You hadnât talked since the last wave. Either from exhaustion or shame, not even you were sure. But all youâd been able to do was hug yourself like a baby, eyebrows drawn with the effort of fighting the beast, whoâs slowly waking up again.Â
Still, you felt Samâs gaze on you, firm and unyielding. Without another choice, you blinked your eyes open.
Howâre you doing? He asked you with a wiggle of his eyebrows.
How do you think? You glared, Sam chuckled. Fucking fantastic.
I donât know whoâs gonna suffer more: you, Dean, or me having to witness it all.
The heat all over your body was momentarily replaced by confusion. Dean?
âI fucking hate when you two do that.â Dean grumbled, hitting the breaks at a red light a little too hard. You almost fell down into the footwell. âFucking demonic, like the creepy twins from The Shining.â
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 didnât open them again until you reached the house.
àŒ đČÖŒđąâïœĄË
You find it in yourself to be grateful that the tide only starts rising once youâre 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 donât understand how it is supposed to feel good. Itâs 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.Â
Itâs 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.Â
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 Erosâ 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 Deanâs shirts lying over your pillow, wrinkled and dirty and oh.Â
Heâd 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 youâre questioned in purgatory, once this stupid curse kills you, youâll 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 clothesâand 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.Â
Finally, you have your first orgasm.Â
Thereâs barely any buildup, no warning or omen. One second youâre drowning in Deanâs shirt, the next one youâre 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. Itâs all white-hot delight, long and infinite. You keep humping the mattress until your clit pangs with oversensitivity, and even then you canât help but rut your hips in gentle circles as you make your way back from elysium.Â
This time the fall isnât as awful. The ocean settles, the wave retreats, and youâre 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, youâve never felt more alive.Â
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. âCan we come in?â
âNo!â You yell before clearing your throat. âWaitâwait a second.â
â...We can come back later.â
âNo, No.âÂ
You quickly bundle Deanâs 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 âjust in case you get cold,â onto the bed, being mindful to open a window before sliding under it.
âCome in, itâs okay.â
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 Samâs hands and some water bottles in Deanâs, both looking around the room like they're expecting to encounter a murder scene. Theyâre not too far off.Â
âHey, soââ Sam takes some steps closer to bed before he halts, finally glancing at you. Dean is still immobile on the doorway. âOh. Oh, wow. Uhmââ
You frown, lucidity returning, worried that youâd missed some crucial evidence in the rush of it all. âWhat?â
Sam is speechless, gaping like the townies after youâd forced them to look at Erosâ 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.Â
The bliss starts to turn into tar.
âNothing, justâwow.â Samâs voice is high, because the kid is a great liar when it comes to the big stuff, but he canât handle a white lie to save his life.
âWhat?â You repeat, harsher, squirming self-consciously.Â
âAre you feeling better?â Dean interrupts roghly, pushing his brother aside to make his way toward the window. He looks mad, you canât judge him.Â
âYeah. I mean, itâs still working.â You point to the arm cuff, scarlet prickling on your cheeks. âBut the waveâs passed.â
âAnother one?â You nod at Samâs question. He scribbles something in the margin of his book. âThatâs around five minutes earlier than the last one.â
âGreat.â You huff, drawing your knees up to your chest under the thick comforter. âSo Eros wasnât bullshitting. They get more frequent and more intense the longer I wear it.â
âIt was more intense?â Sam questions as if heâs conducting an experiment, you feel like youâre under his microscope. âHow come?â
You splutter, the red of your cheeks worsening as you feel both brothersâ eyes on you. âIâmâI meanâI donâtâugh.â 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. âItâŠtoppled over. Like, all the way.â
âHuh?â One second, two more, and then: âOh.â
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.Â
Sam gives you his classic puppy-eyed look, it doesnât 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.Â
âJust do whatever you need to do,â you murmur, sinking further into the bed. âBefore I get sick again.â
Because no matter how good it can feel, how high it can take you if you give into it, it doesnât change the fact that itâs sick.Â
Now you remember why you donât let yourself have this, not in this way. Because itâs degenerate, nauseating and depraved. You shouldnât desire like this, for this. Blood shouldnât taste good and sweat shouldnât smell good and Dean shouldnât feel good.Â
He doesnât deserve to be the victim of your obsession, not when itâs 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 youâre free of this carnal torment.
By the time Sam shuffles out the door, youâre half asleep already. He doesnât 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 Erosâ cackles, haunting you.
àŒ đČÖŒđąâïœĄË
You havenât seen Dean in a day.Â
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.Â
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 Deanâs shirt from the closet, a siren song begging you to falter.Â
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. Youâd scarcely ever done this, always so afraid that someone was watching, that someone would condemn you for itâyou 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.Â
Still not quite what the curse wanted, but it got the job done.
Not too soon after that, the fantasies started.Â
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.Â
Youâve 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.Â
Baths were hard to get through, especially when you had to take so many. Around every three hours, you were disgusting enough that you couldnât 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 couldnât stand looking at yourself in the mirror.
But then youâd discovered the handheld shower head.Â
Itâd been a miracle. Your cunt was starting to get too sore from the direct friction, your fingers were cramping and your insides were bruisedâevery orgasm brought tears to your eyes, and not the good kind.Â
But the water was perfect, gentle enough not to hurt, intense enough to satiate the beast.Â
After a two hour âshower,â 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 hasnât found much.Â
He still looks shocked every time he sees you, having to take a second before walking into the room. You donât ask, he doesnât explain. Thereâs a reason youâve been avoiding mirrorsâyou donât want to see what your disease has done to your body.Â
You must look like an obscene mess. Or maybe Sam is just being a little Victorian-Man about it.
Youâd ask Dean, but Dean hadnât shown his face at all. Not to say goodnight, not to nag you about salt lines and devilâs traps, not to make sure youâre not dead.
You knew that once he saw just how rotten you are, youâd lose him. It still hurts like a rusty nail to the brain.
Sleep wasnât perfect, still plagued with dreams of debauchery and perversion, but it was replenishing.Â
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.Â
Youâd learned a lot more in your confinement other than how many ways you can make yourself cum. Youâd 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 werenât made to stay in one place only.
Youâre 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.
âIâm going out.â You announce to Sam, rushing into the kitchen and grabbing the first piece of food you can find. âIâll be back in exactlyââ You glance down at your watch, where youâre timing your next wave. âTwenty-five minutes.â
âYouâre what?â
You almost spit out the piece of bread youâd 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 hasnât left the house at all.Â
They both flinch a little when you face them. Your cheeks redden with embarrassment, you donât let it deter your initiative.
âThereâs a corner store less than a mile down the road,â you explain, munching on the rest of the bread before moving to grab your jacket. âIâm just gonna go buy some ice cream and Iâll be back.â
âThe fuck you are!â
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.
âExcuse me?â
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. âGo back to your room.â
You raise an eyebrow, and Sam winces somewhere behind you.Â
âIs that an order?â Dean only shrugs, because he never knows when to back down. Youâre seething. âWho the fuck do you think you are?â
Because how dare he. Talking about fucking other girls and abandoning you when youâre like this and not wanting you. How dare he, break your heart into pieces so small, youâll 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.Â
How fucking dare he.
âIâm the guy who has to deal with your mess while youâre in thereâwhatever.â If you were less furious, youâd notice the flush creeping down his neck. âSo go back to your room, and let us work.â
âYou have to deal with my mess?!â you shout. Dean recoils, it sobers you up. Your voice lowers to a still livid but collected tone. âYou were the one who insisted on me wearing it in the first place!â
Something akin to guilt crosses his face before it goes back to disdain, and he grumbles something unintelligible that you donât care to dissect. Time is running out, and you need to go.
âWhy are you even here, anyway? Shouldnât you be out getting passed around like a blunt?â
Itâs depressing, the way your own words make you ache. And Dean has the audacity to look offended.
âThatâs got nothing to do with this.â
âIt does if youâre getting in my way!â Your clock beeps. Twenty minutes. âSo why donât you go find a bar or some glory hole, and leave me alone.â
âBecause Iâm stuck here, reading about fucking hellistic magic shit, for you.â
âHellenistic.â Sam corrects unhelpfully, both of you ignore him.
âNo oneâs asking you to!â You run a hand through your hair, tugging on the roots harshly. Because youâre just so, so tired. You close your eyes, taking a few slow breaths. âGo! Youâre free, Winchester. Leave! Iâm not getting in the way of your fun, so donât get in the way of mine.â
The kitchen is completely silent as you stay still, eyes screwed shut and lips trembling, and for a second youâre almost sure that the brothers left. But then, âIs that what this is about?â
Youâve 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.Â
But his facade is faltering, and so is yours.
âYou want to go find someone? Have some fun?â
Oh.Â
Youâve thought about itâsomeone elseâs hands on your burning flesh, their fingers and tongue and cock, helping you ride the tide until youâre 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. Thatâs all your mind could chant. Wrong. Thisiswrongsowrong.Â
You feel nauseous, ready to vomit all of your insides. No.
âMaybe,â you answer instead, because youâre half delirious from Erosâ 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. âWhat, Winchester? Is it so fucking impossible to imagine anyone could want me? Do I disgust you so much that you canât handle the idea of someone fucking me?â
Now Dean looks like heâs about to hurl.Â
âGuysââ
âThatâs notâugh, you can be soâŠâ Dean covers his mouth with a hand, like heâs physically trying to swallow back his words.
âNo, no. Say it.â You step closer, even when the proximity is like sulfuric acid in your brain. He still wonât 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. âSay it, Dean.â
To his credit, Dean holds himself together way more than you expected. He doesnât yell, doesnât throw shit around, doesnât even try to push you back. He simply exhales, loud and forced, and lifts his face with calculated resolve.Â
âYouâre going back to your room, and weâre gonna keep researching. Thatâs the end of it.â
Deanâs tone is demanding, your watch beeps, your pussy throbs.Â
It doesnât help how infuriated you are.Â
âYouâre not my dad, Dean, you can't just tell me what to do!â You shove him again, harder, and the way his muscles donât budge under your palm does nothing for the twist of your gut.Â
âIâm not letting you go outside right now,â he spits out your name, his faux tranquility shattering. His next words are spoken through clenched teeth. âNot whenâwhen you look like that.â
A gunshot. Right to the right of your heart, blood oozing and lungs punctured. Fatal.Â
Itâs not a surprise that Dean isnât attracted to you. Being faced with the excruciating reality of it is still cataclysmic.
âFuck you, Dean.â 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. âFuck you! I fucking hate you, Iââ
You spin on your heels, ready to lurch for the door. Itâs too late for the store, and thereâs nowhere else to go in this deserted little town. The next wave is too soon and itâll last too long and itâs too cold outside to take a walkâ
Dean calls your name, a desperate plea youâve heard so many times before in midnight fantasies, and then his hand wraps around your wrist, yanking you back from the doorway.
But youâre burnt-out and woozy, so the firm tug makes you lose your balance. Once again, Deanâs chest is there to catch you, huge arms around your body and immovable frame holding you up. His breath is on your neck, and heâs so warm and firm behind you and you canâtâ
White. For a long moment, everything goes white. Your whole body feels like an exposed nerve, as if youâre made of pure lighting. Itâs better than Deanâs shirt, Itâs better than the showerhead.Â
Itâs Dean, finally.
You enter another dimension, where everything is syrupy and glorious. Thereâs the faraway but familiar sound of knees against tile, the faint crawl of sickness, someone shouting your name. But itâs all filtered by the colossal ecstasy that Deanâs 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.Â
When you come back to yourself, youâre 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.Â
Worn fabric against your palms, scratchy and warm like the hand that just catapulted you out of the stratosphere.Â
âDean.â This time you say it outloud. Dean makes a wounded noise, you canât 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. âIâm sorry, Dean. Iâm so sorry. Fuck, Iâmââ
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 didnât hate you before, he for sure hates you now.Â
Now that youâve dragged him into the mud with you, imposed your disease on him, forced him to be part of your depravity.
âSweetheartâŠâ Dean whispers, kneeling down and trying to reach for you.Â
You slither back, kicking your legs and shaking your head so hard it makes you all dizzy. âNo, No. Donât touch me! Iâm sick! Iâm so sorry. Iâm so fucking sick and Iâm sorry.â
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.Â
His arms are like iron around you, caging you against his chest and not letting go, no matter how hard you trash around.Â
âShhh. Shhh, sweetheart. I got you, you need to calm down. I got you.â
You want to keep fighting, to kick him in the gut and punch him in the eye and protect him from yourself. But youâve 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 Deanâs bare arms against yours, like his voiceâhis real voiceâmurmuring sweet nothings in your ear, like the vivid smell of him instead of the washed off remains on old fabric. Itâs impossible not to take.Â
Because youâre selfish and ugly and starved.
âIâm sorry,â you repeat. Iâm sorry for clinging to you like this. Iâm sorry for cumming just from your body pressed against mine. Iâm sorry for wanting you. âI didnât mean to, I swear.â
âI know, sweetheart. I know.â He sounds sad. Why does he sound fucking sad? âItâs the cuff, I know. IâIâm sorry.â
You canât 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, heâs everywhere.Â
âWhy? Iâm the one whoâs fucked up.â Youâre 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 Deanâs chest. âHell, you didnât consent to that at all, Iâm so sorry.â
A moment of silence. Sam, who youâd forgotten about entirely, clears his throat. âIâll take the Impala and go get that ice cream. Text me when I can come back.â
Dean nods silently. You tilt your head back until you can see Sam over your shoulder, hazel eyes already searching for yours.
Youâll be okay?
Probably not.Â
Sam chuckles, shaking his head.Â
Iâd beg to differ. A little sparkle in his irises tells you. Good luck.
With that, he leaves. Youâre left staring at the door, wondering how this all wouldâve gone if you had just left for good. This morning, yesterday, months ago. Maybe you shouldâve never been here.
âYou didnât either.â 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. âYou didnât consent to this, either.â
âWhat?â
âSweetheart, Iâgoddamn it.â 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. âYouâre cursed and in pain, and Iâm just a selfish bastard taking advantage of it. Iâm the one who should be sorry.â
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?
âDeanâŠâ you murmur slowly, trying to search for his eyes. He avoids you like the plague. For some reason, it doesnât hurt as much anymore. âAll Iâve done is drag you and Sam into myâproblem, over and over again. Iâm the one infecting you with this, the one staining you. How on earth are you taking advantage of it?â
So many things flash on Deanâs face at the same time. Shame, loathing, mortification, resignation.
âYou really have no idea what you do to me.â For the first time in ages, you feel cold. Frozen in time, only Deanâs words keeping you grounded. âIâve got a handle on it most days, but when youâre 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.â
It hits completely different now.Â
âWhat are you saying, Dean?â You squeeze his hand, tight enough for his fingers to turn white.Â
He utters your name, low and huskyâan imprecation, a psalm.Â
âYou know damn well.â
âNo,â you whisper, leaning closer to those beautiful green irises thatâve haunted you for so long. âI have no idea.â
âI want you, sweetheart.â He whispers back, almost inaudible. The beast starts to roar, maniacal. âIâve been wanting you for years. Iâm the one whoâs truly sick.â
A million things pass through your mind. Why, how, when. If it wasnât for the constant throbbing of your body, youâd pinch yourself to make sure itâs not just another vivid dream.Â
âBut you never look at me?â
âWhat?â
âYou never look at me, Dean.â Your cheeks are stiff with dried tears, Deanâs hand cups one of them gently. You melt against the touch, shivering all over. âIâm always there, but you just see right through me.â
âOh, baby.â 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. âYou think I could look at you and still hold back? I had to look away. I ruin everything I touch, and I couldnât riskâI couldnât risk losing you. Not you.â He hesitates for a second before resting his forehead on yours. Your lips part at the contact. âStill, you are all I can see.â
With a desperate little whine, you dive down for Deanâs lips.Â
But all your mouth finds is the stubbled skin of his cheek, his head jerked to the side and scrunched in agony.Â
âDean.â You mutter, because thatâs all that's in your mind. âDean, Dean, Dean.â
âStop,â 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. âI canât. Itâs the cuff, baby. You donât really want this.â
âI do. I want you, more than anything else.â
âStop it. Now.â
You canât.
âIâve wanted you ever since Iâve known you, Dean.â
Your name, again, imploring.
âItâs not the stupid arm cuff, itâs not Erosâ magic, itâs not anything else. Itâs just me. Me, wanting you so bad I canât breathe when youâre not with me.â After so long holding back, it all spills out like a hurricane. âIâve wanted you long before this, when Sammy lets me ride shotgun down the interstate and when Iâm patching up your reckless wounds and when you put on that stupid little winning smile whenever things go your way.â
Dean tries to look away again, but you wonât let him anymore. You grab his face, nails digging into his jaw, pinning him under your gaze just like Eros did.Â
âLook at me, Dean. Finally, really look at me.â
Youâre not sure who leans in first, with the heat rising and clouding your mind, but suddenly Deanâs mouth is on you.Â
Itâs violent, teeth clashing and lips bruising. Deanâs 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.
Youâre basically eating each other, hands groping all they can find and hips rutting incessantly. Deanâs fingers tangle on your hair, pulling gently. You bite down on his tongue, sucking it into your mouth right after, and he tugs harder.Â
âFuck. Fuck, baby. Iâm goinâ insane.â He grunts when you break the kiss, licking and nibbling down his throat, leaving angry red bruises everywhere you can. âYou have no ideaâlookinâ so gorgeous, like fuckinâ sex reincarnated. Iâve been losinâ my mind.â
He sounds deranged, itâs 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.
âCalm down, baby girl.â 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. âYouâre so desperate, darling.â
He yanks his shirt over his head, and you immediately get to work. Pushing him back until heâs 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.
âYou have no idea, Winchester.â 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. Deanâs hips jerk up, your teeth sink into the flesh of his waist in reprimand. âIâve been locked in that room for ages. Iâm more than desperate.â
âIt was less than a day.â Deanâs laughter is interrupted when you pull his pajama pants and underwear down his thighs with one swift movement.Â
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.Â
âHow are you pretty all over?â You whine, fisting the base of it furiously. Heâs big, thick and veiny. Delicious. Dean cries out, but you ignore him. You want him to hurt a little. âFucking unfair. Pretty eyes and pretty face and pretty cock. Maybe I do hate you.â
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 isnât watching from somewhere.
But deep down, you donât really care. He can enjoy the show.
All that matters is the veins of Deanâs dick pulsing on your tongue, his hand fisting your hair and his back arching off the floor. He keens, so loud youâre glad there arenât 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.Â
âShit, darlinâ, warn a guy.â 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 youâve ever heard. âYeah, fuck, taking me so deep. Sweet fuckinâ mouth, so warm and wet for me. Youâre heaven, baby girl. Swallowing me down like an angel.â
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.Â
âShit, shit. Wait.â 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. âStop, Iâm gonnaâGonna cum, sweetheart. You needââ
You part your lips, letting him slide out your mouth but keeping him pressing against your face. You gaze up at himâgreen irises consumed by blown pupils, lips shiny and parted, hair mussed and wild. Itâs better than the guy in Erosâ book, better than your wettest dreams. Heâs perfect.
âI want you to cum.â You nuzzle your cheek against the sticky length of him, making him twitch, more precum spurting out. âI want to taste it, De.â
Dean whines, and it shoots through your bloodstream like heroin. You need more, now and tomorrow and forever.
âIâm not cursed like you, you little vixen. I canâtââ 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. âMotherfuâI canât come twice so quickly, baby. And I wanna fuck you.â
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.Â
âItâs okay, I can wait.â You blink up at him in what you hope is an irresistible pout. It seems to work, because Deanâs fingers on your hair relent. You lick your teeth slowly. âBesides, I can think of about a million things to do in the meantime.â
âWhen did youâAh!â 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 youâd like to admit. âWhen did you get so filthy?â
Always. You want to say. Iâve always been like this. Iâve always been this perverse.Â
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.Â
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 Deanâs thigh, moaning around his still quivering dick, swallowing down every bit of his sweet release.Â
Heâs coating your mouth and your throat and your insides. Heâs all over you, on your lips and esophagus and guts. All yours. Only yours.
You straighten up, leaving one last smooch on Deanâs softening cock before climbing back on top of him.Â
He looks almost dead. Breath ragged, eyes closed, skin glisteningâabsolutely 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.Â
âCome on.â You shake him slightly, hips already rutting in little circles against his stomach. The wave isnât gone, but itâs not wrecking you either. Youâre hot all over, still itchy and bothered, but youâre not hurting. Not anymore. Youâre just eager. âLetâs get you hard again, I need you inside me. Now.â
Dean groans, curling into himself a little. âYouâre a psycho, I shouldâve known. You murdered me, you insatiable little thing.â
âYou can thank Eros for that.â Anguish flashes on Deanâs face. You kiss him slowly, letting him taste himself on your tongue, licking behind his teeth until heâs a puddle under you. âStop thinking so hard, we need all that blood downstairs."
âJesus Christ.â 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. âYouâre batshit crazy. I adore you.â
That makes you giggle, pecking his lips chastly as your body erupts in little satisfied goosebumps, heart swelling against your will. Itâs just dirty talk, shit that he must say to every girl. It still makes you all soft inside.Â
âCome on, big boy.â You smack his pec, watching it jiggle with glittering eyes. You lean down, taking a mouthful of it between your teeth. âUnless you donât wanna fuck me?â
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.Â
âDean! What are youââ
âYouâre out of your mind if you think Iâll fuck you for the first time on the fucking floor.â
Itâs not special, you have to remind yourself. Youâre 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.Â
âYou really made a mess in here, huh?â Dean drops you on the mattress, draping himself over you immediately. âLeft all alone, so fucking needy.â
âYes,â you croak as Dean rips your clothes off, leaving you only in your underwear. âIt was Hell, De. It hurt, so bad, and nothing I did was enough.â
âBut you tried, hm?â He hovers over you, observing you carefully. Admiring, almost devoted. You repress the urge to hide. âTried to take care of it? Give your body what it needs?â
You nod, a little fevered under Deanâs 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. âOff. Dean, take it off.â
âNot until you tell me what you did,â 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. âTell me, baby. How did you survive that awful day locked away.â
Heâs being a condescending asshole. You want to kick him, you kiss him instead.Â
All the shame suddenly vanishes, the beast gone missing inside of you, replaced by an irresistible hankering. Tomorrow youâll vomit, and scrub your skin raw, and beg to be put down like a rabid animal. Today, youâre allowed to indulge.Â
âIâI touched myself,â you mutter against his lips. Dean breaks the kiss and bites down on your neck, leaving little marks of his own. âI 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.â You grab Dean's hands, guiding them under the cups of your bra. He squeezes, sucking harder on your jugular. âAnd I imagined it wasââ
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 theyâre stiff and flushed, and then moving even lower, dipping his tongue on your navel. When he speaks, he sounds wrecked.
âWhat did you think about, baby girl? Come on, donât get shy on me now.â
âYou. I thought of you.â His spent dick makes a brave attempt at hardening again, twitching against your calf now that Deanâs 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. âNgh, Dean! I thought of your fingers inside me, of your tongueââ He laps at your cunt again, more profusely. Youâre gushing, drenched panties and inner thighs. âOf your cock. Fuck, I wanted your cock so bad, De. C-came the hardest when I thought of you fucking me.â
âYouâre so wet.â He sounds awed. Scarlet blooms across your cheeks, you try to push his head away. It's futile.
âIt-itâs the cuff. Iâm sorryââ
âYouâre fuckinâ soaked, darling.â He doesnât even seem to hear you, his voice dreamy like a kid in a candy store. âDrippinâ for me, such a good girl.â And then, shredding. Fabric tearing, cold air and hot breath. Dean just ripped your panties off. âShit. Prettiest fuckinâ pussy Iâve ever seen.â
Thatâs enough for the curse, apparently. Fireworks burst inside your ribcage, your thighs squash Deanâs headâwho doesnât complain in the slightliestâand youâre cumming again.
âSon of a bitch.â Youâd laugh at Deanâs astonishment if you werenât so busy fighting the tears that burn in the back of your eyes. âAnother one, just from that? How many times can you come, baby girl?â
âIâm notââ Dean starts to mouth at the mess on your thighs, lapping up your slick and sweat, humming contently. âIâm not sure. I think I counted ten, last night. But IâI kinda passed out, so.â
âMhm.â Dean grins up at you, foxy and glistening with your arousal. You want to devour him whole. âWell, letâs find out.â
âHuh?â Youâre a little dumb with it already. Three orgasms at the hands of the man you love more than life isnât for the weak. But then Dean blows air over your pussy lips, leaving a sweet little kiss on your clit. âMore?â
âOh, darling.â His grin turns dangerous, you find it in yourself to be a little afraid. âIâm not anywhere near done with you.â
With that, he plunges face first into your cunt, fully making out with it. And as he promises, he doesnât 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. Deanâs 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.Â
His dick is already hard, weeping and still pretty, somehow looking even more inviting after a million climaxes.Â
âDean.â 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. âBaby, câmon. Let me see you.â
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 isnât yours at all.
âLook at you.â Deciding that youâre 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. âSuch a pretty thing.â
âNot pretty.â He goes for macho, it comes out huffy.Â
âNo? Youâre a big bad hunter?â He nods, scowling, the haze behind his eyes slowly fading. âWell, I think youâre pretty.â You lick into his mouth, the taste of both of you long mixed between your tongues. âThe prettiest boy Iâve ever seen.â
âShut up.â He sounds more present as he pushes you down onto the sheets, but the bridge of his nose flushes crimson and his eyes donât quite meet yours. âYouâre pretty.â
âReal mature, lover boy.â You poke his side, giggling against his teeth. âWhatâs next, youâre gonna accuse me with your mommyâ?â
Suddenly, your legs are being pushed against your chest, bending you in half as Deanâs cock slides between the folds of your abused cunt, tip brushing your swollen clit, succulently painful.Â
âIâm gonna cum inside you. Thatâs whatâs next.â For a beat, everything is funeral-silent. Dean looks as shocked by the words as you, whatever daze had overcome him before completely gone. âIâI didnât mean that. Iâll go get a condom, donât worryââ
âNo!â 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. âI wanna feel you. Please, I need to feel you.â
âYou sure?â His voice is tight, like heâs holding onto his last bit of resolution. You want him to let go.
âYes, yes,â you say desperately, hips jerking under the unrelenting weight of Deanâs. âPlease, I want you to mark me, inside and out. I want you to fill me up, baby, please.â
Dean lets out a broken noise, grabs your hips, and rams into you in one thrust.Â
Youâre so full, you feel like youâll tear at the seams. Itâs been years since youâve had something other than fingers enter you, and Dean fits so right that you canât fathom how youâve lived this long without it.
âThere you go, good girl.â 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. âLook at you, baby, taking my cock so well. Opening up for me, soaking wet, perfect sweet cunt. Just for me.â
Oh, he has no idea.
His whispers in your ear are so much better than anything your mind couldâve 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.
Theyâll have to rip him from your cold dead hands.
âDeanââ You gasp when he shifts, changing the angle and hitting depths you werenât even aware existed. Itâs like your body molds around him, making space for his huge cock, and you know youâll hold the shape of him long after heâs gone. Maybe forever. âYouâreâGodââ
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.Â
âYou like it, baby girl? Like it when I wreck your pretty pussy? Want me to fucking ruin it?â
âYesyesyes.â You chant, going a little cross-eyed when he finally finds that gooey, needy spot inside of you. Itâs so different from Erosâ magic, less glittery and more real. Carnal and brutal and real. âFeels so good, De. Youâre soâyouâre so fucking good. Need you to ruin me.â
Dean moans, guttural and a little demented.
âYouâre gonna be the end of me.â 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. âSo fucking tight, baby. Better than any other pussy Iâve ever fucked, fitting me like a glove, made for me.â
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 youâre being engulfed by nectar.Â
âI wanted to kill them.â You babble, your mind sluggish with Deanâs touch, the heat of him, the way you can feel precum leaking inside of you already. âAll those other girls, all those âsmokinâ singles.â I wanted to murder them. I needed them dead, I needed you all to myself.â
Part of you knows youâll regret all of that later, that evil side that never lets you have anything. But the way Deanâs cock twitches as he starts pounding harder against that sweet spot drives you to utterly ignore it.
âFuck, why is that so hot.â He groans, hiking your legs higher up his body and enclosing you in his arms, his body covering yours completely. You canât move an inch, absolutely at the mercy of his frantic thrusts and ponderous frame. âItâs only you now, baby. Just you.â
You know itâs not true. Not a single cell in your body even attempts to believe itâthat you could be Deanâs best, Deanâs only one. Itâs as delusional as the earth being flat or God being a mediocre fantasy author.
It doesnât 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.
ââM gonna make you mine, pretty girl. Hell, look at that angel face, all fucked out, just for me.â He mirrors your previous actions, licking up the drool dribbling down your chin. âStupid cuff, making you look like a fuckinâ goddess, all glowy and shit. And you donât even know it. Goddamn doll face and dream body, even without the curse. Gonna fuckinâ fill you up, mark that perfect cunt all mine.â
Itâs almost too good. Too much. The soft circles against your clit, the head of Deanâs cock slamming against your cervix, his warm mouth on your jaw, sucking more bruises that youâll press down on later.
The cuff starts to smoke. Youâd almost forgotten about it, until now. It feels like itâs 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.Â
You turn your head to the side, writhing under Deanâs unrelenting weight, but thereâs nowhere to go. Your face ends up smushed against his bicep, flexed and chunky muscle against your lips, almost as big as your face.Â
You bite down on it, hard.Â
Metallic explodes in your mouth, thick and holy. Dean cries out, his hips stuttering.Â
âYouâre bleeding,â you mumble through a mouthful of flesh, deliriously. âOh my god, youâre bleeding.â
You think you scream his name, youâre 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 youâre in the eye of the storm.Â
The next few moments are utter oblivion. Everything blurs together until you canât tell them apartâDean still grinding into you and the cuff on your arm and the mess of emotions buried so deep in your ribcage.Â
For a second, theyâre all one and the same.
You come back down like youâre resurfacing from a shipwreck, gasping as your vision clears, your mouth wrapping around words you canât really make out. When the rush of blood and exhilaration start to fade, your own loopy voice reaches you.
â...love you, love you, love you, love you.âÂ
Youâre 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.
âWhat?â Deanâs stopped moving completely, his limbs rigid all around you. You whine at the interruption, grinding up against hisâthankfully still hardâcock. 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. âWhat did you say?â
Thereâs no point in lying. Youâve shown all your cards, revealed every rotten and ugly bit of you, there was never a way back from here.Â
âI love you, Dean. I really fucking lovâah!â
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.Â
âI love you too.â Youâre 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. âI love you so much, holy shit. Iâve loved you forever, baby girl, I canât believeâfuck.â
Heâs feral, snaring and grunting and fucking crazy.Â
It still takes you a bit to process the words, the way heâs moving like a madman, the pure devotion in his tone. He loves you. Dean Winchester freaking loves you.
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 youâre straddling his hips, staring down at his terrified wide eyes and holding his flushed, now almost purple dick in your fist.
âRepeat it.âÂ
Dean only blinks up at you, jaw dropped and hands hovering over your body like he doesnât 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 Deanâs 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.Â
âRepeat it, De. Say it again.â
His cock weeps, his eyes gloss over, his blush travels down to his freckled chest.Â
âI love you, sweetheart.âÂ
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.Â
You continue to hold his throat as you ride him, bouncing on his dick as your fingers spam just under his Adamâs appleâsometimes barely-there pressure, sometimes leaving him completely breathless.Â
Itâs like all the pain has transformed into empowerment, all the rot into gold and all the poison into amrita. Youâre untouchable. Youâre celestial. Youâre Deanâs.Â
âAgain,â 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. âLook at you, just a little choking and you go all stupid with it. My pretty boy, big bad wolf melted into a dumb puppy.â
âWhat the fuck?â Dean rasps. You tsks softly, tightening your grip around his windpipe.Â
âSay it again, baby. Be good for me, and youâll get a reward.â
Dean stammers before croaking out: âI love you, more than you could ever imagine.â
Your chest heaves, something breaking and mending at the same time. Your free hand moves to Deanâs face, fingers slipping into his lax mouth, hooking over his lower teeth and tugging it open.Â
âGood boy,â you whisper before spitting right into his tongue. Your digits slip out, pushing his jaw closed before slapping his cheek lightly. âNow swallow.â
With a wild moan, Dean obeys, his hips pistoning up into your throbbing cunt as heâs pushed over the edge. Warmth coats your pussy, painting your walls white and running down your legs, washing you clean and tainting you dirtier. Itâs immaculate.Â
Youâre trying to catch your breath when youâre abruptly dragged down, tumbling against Deanâs chest as his dick softens inside of you and his arms hold you down, clinging to you like a comfort stuffed animal.Â
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. Itâs truly out of your wildest dreams.
âWhat the fuck was that?â Dean eventually chokes out.
You giggle, nuzzling against his pecs. âThat was me off the leash.â
âHoly shit.â His arms tighten around you, dick twitching against your swollen walls. âI might need to smite that leash, fuck that shit. That wasââ He makes a little explosion sound. You laugh harder, languidly rising to peck his full lips.
âI love you, you fucking dork.â
Dean smiles, toothy and silly, kissing your forehead with so much adoration it makes you blush. âI love you too, sweetheart.â
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. âDid I hurt you?â
âNo, you were perfect.âÂ
You look down on your own bodyâpurple and maroon clouds all over, scraped knees and palms, tacky inner thighs. For the first time in your life, you think youâre perfect as well.Â
Your eyes drift to the sheets under you, finding them wet, wetter than they should be. Clear and splashy and yours.Â
âDid Iâ?â
âYes. When you said you loved me, the first time.â Dean drapes an arm across your waist, the distance between you apparently hurting him as much as it does you. âIt was the hottest fucking thing Iâve ever seen.â
âMore than the singles you were going to comfort today?â
Dean huffs, leaning down to pepper kisses all over your face. âThereâs no one else, darling, not anymore. Just you and me.â
You try to play grumpy, but itâs impossible with Deanâs soft lips all over your cheeks and nose and forehead. You end up giggling softly, pretending to fight him but basking in the attention.
âBesides, none of them compare to you.â He buries his face on your hair, breathing you in. You happily let him. âThe spell, it gave you thisâafter-sex glow, all the time. You were freaking glittery, baby, like a goddamn pornstar.â
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 heâs yours. Only yours.Â
âSo it was the cuff? What made you want this?â
âNah, Iâve wanted you ever since I saw you that first day in Montana. I started loving you not too long after.â You can feel his grin against the top of your head. âBesides, you always look like a pornstar to me, no need for any damn magic bracelet.â
You snort, bumping his chin softly. âThatâs not the compliment you think it is.â
But then, it dawns on you.Â
âThe cuff!â
You swiftly sit up, ignoring Deanâs 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.Â
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. Thereâs no value in crying about it now, not when Dean presses up against your bare back and whispers against your neck.Â
âSee, I told you, youâd be okay. We survived another day.â
This time, when you lean back on him, thereâs 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 youâre not ashamed anymore.Â
Not when Dean Winchester is just as sick as you.
You try to look for the cuff again, but itâs 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.
âI know you might not believe me, but Iâm truly glad that you two figured it out. Either outcome wouldâve been entertaining, but you two gave me a real showdown. In repayment, Iâll make sure to leave you out of the way of my arrows for the rest of your mortal lives. I canât promise anything for those pesky cherubs, though. Not my jurisdiction.Â
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 donât come bother me, or I might have to get mean again.
Unless you wanna play around, in which case my doors are always open.Â
Enjoy the rest of the most important day of the year, and donât forget to thank me in your prayers!â
âFucking asshole.â Dean plucks out the postcard from your hands, ripping it in half. âMight have to go find him, blast his face off.â
âBut then youâd have to get on a plane, pretty boy.â
Dean glares at you, and you just laugh softly before surging forward to hug him, both of you falling back onto the soiled blankets.
âMaybe if youâre with me, I can do it.âÂ
âYeah?â
âYeah, I could do anything with you by my side.â
Someone knocks on the door, loudly.Â
âGuys!â Sam yells through the thick wood. âIâm back! It was getting late and this town is practically dead, so I couldnât wait at the gas station any longer. Hope youâfixed things! I guess. Iâll go put my earbuds on, so donât worry about me, just thought Iâd let you know Iâm here!â
Shuffling, prolonged and awkward.Â
âThereâs ice cream in the fridge, by the way. Anyway, Have fun! Orâwhatever.â
Samâs 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.Â
âShower?â 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. âDonât even think about it, Jesus Christ. What did I get myself into?â
You grin, because he doesnât know half of it. The world is gonna wish you never lost your shame.
âHappy Valentineâs day, my love.â
âHappy Valentineâs, sweetheart.â
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!
maybe he is desperate to have you? could be because of possessiveness/jealousy or something else its up to you.
i just need that manâŠ
oh, he can deny it, but i know this man gets jealousâŠ
billy butcher x fem!reader (18+)
It wasnât ever really something âofficial,â but there was no question between the Boys or anyone else they came across you were Butcherâs. It was expressed not through wordsâwell, maybe a âere, love, or a câmon, pet, or perhaps even a good girlâbut instead through his actions. The commonplace arm around your shoulders. A large paw on the small of your back. Fingers digging into your calf when your feet are propped in his lap.
You were his. No test needed, no approval, no proof.
That didnât seem to matter to the man at the bar tonight, though.
Youâd been at the dive in order to scope out a Vought lab assistant known to have a loud mouth and a direct tap to his brain through liquor. Cheap liquor, at that. Enough to drown him in, which was exactly what Butcher looked like he wanted to do from where he was perched at a corner table, watching the bum paw all over you at the counter.
Undercover was your wheelhouse. Between flashing pretty smiles to plying men youâd never met or distracting authorities while your boys snuck behind their backs, you were the go to when the others needed information or a quick getaway. Tonight wasnât an exception; the drinks kept coming, and though you were only halfway through your first, the guy with you was downing number four and using each one as a shot of liquid courage to sidle closer. And closer. And closer. Until he was reaching out to slip a thumb over the necklace around your throat, to give you a crooked, wobbly grin and a rather crude offer.
âWant to go back to my place?â he asked of you over the music of the bar. âPromise to show you a better time than you know what to do with.â
Before you could formulate a response kind enough to keep him hooked but with the notes of a rejection, you felt that familiar warmth against your back and fingers on your upper arm.
âSheâll be busy tonight, mate,â came Butcherâs familiar warm, raspy gruff from behind you. ââPreciate the offer, though.â
You half expected Butcher to drag you out of the bar and into the car, where heâd already have his hand down your jeans before heâd pulled out of the lot. But instead he steered you through the building and to the back restrooms, where he glanced over your shoulder a moment before he guided you into the menâs room and locked the door behind you.
âWhat is it? Whatâs wrong?â you asked of himâjust before he backed you against the door and connected his lips to yours.
It wasnât a gentle kiss or a soft, affectionate one like the touches he would dole out when he was too many whiskeys in and deep in his feelings. It was deep and domineering, possessive and akin to a predator marking what was his and his alone. Teeth clicked against yours and his tongue plunged into your mouth, licking at your own, down your throat, anywhere and everywhere. One of his hands came up to grasp firmly at your jaw, keeping your head where he wanted it and forcing you to take what he gave you.
It seemed like an eternity before he finally pulled away and you felt like you were swimming for air, desperate.
âBilly, whatââ
âYou was just goinâ to let that wanker touch you like that?â Butcher huffed, free hand beginning to work deftly at his belt buckle. âThought I wouldnât have any kindâa problem?â
You felt the familiar spark of arousal shoot through you as he leaned forward again and skimmed his nose along your jaw, the scratch of his beard pulling goosebumps over the skin of your arms. His tongue flicked out to drag a warm, wet path as you heard his zipper yank down before he set to work at your own pants.
âIt was justânngghh.â You swallowed thick, breath hitching, when he expertly dragged both your jeans and panties down just enough to expose your already-throbbing sex to the cold air of the barâs bathroom. âJust doing what I normally do. Information. Wasnât anything real.â
âHe ainât have to grope all over you.â
âIf that was groping, what is this?â
Butcher pulled back a few inches to peek at you, then cracked a twisted smile that resembled an animal bearing his fangs. It made your stomach flip like a rising tide.
âMakinâ sure you know who you belong to.â
He dragged his aching cock through your folds once, twice, sending fireworks between synapses, before sinking into you in one solid thrust. Pleasure and a whisper of delicious pain cut through you and you released an airy sound that harmonized with his deep rumble of pleasure.
âAh, fuck,â Butcher said in a low, thrumming gasp. He gave you just a handful of moments to adjust to him before he started rolling his hips soundly, firmly, against your own, pulling his leaking cock out almost entirely before pushing back in. âThere we go. Thereâs a girlâŠâ
If this was what came of drunken men and wearing your necklace over your collar, youâd be happy with taking a trip down here to the dive bar every other day of the week. Colors danced behind your eyes, the greens and pinks and oranges of pleasure as Butcher leaned himself back in to mouth and sucked at your neck while he continued to ram you against the bathroom door.
The sound of the lock clicking gently against the metal doorframe with every thrust tingled the sense still left inside you, and your fingers clutched uselessly at the back of his jacket.
âBillyâfuck! Weâre in publicâŠâ
âDonât care,â he replied, hands gripping the plush of your waist just beneath the hem of your shirt. âLike I couldâa waited âtil we got home.â
You were grateful for the loud-ass music being showered down over the bar, because otherwise the other patrons could most assuredly hear your whimpers and mewls and loud, ragged pants for breath as Butcher fucked into you. You jutted your hips, arching your back, into every one of his movements to meet him halfway, and when one hand came down to deftly roll and circle your clit, you scrambledâand failedâto hold onto that tiny flicker of control.
âShit,â you said, voice echoing like a reverb there in the little restroom. âFuckâfuck, Butcher. Mâgonna cumâŠâ
âYeah,â he said. âCum fâme, pretty girl. All over my cock. Show me youâre mine.â
You did just that, finding your release around him and gripping him like a vice. Stars like the cosmos themselves surrounded you, behind your eyelids, filling your thoughts. You were vaguely aware of Butcher swearing loudly and hitting his own climax with one final deep thrust and a grip holding you to himself like an anchor. Hot, filling pulses throbbed inside your heat and you rasped softly for breath when he rocked gently into you a few more times, ensuring it all stayed inside.
Only then was he satisfied enough to pull out, hands starting to tuck himself back into his pants.
âFuckinâ perfect,â Butcher mumbled, leaning in to catch your lips with his again. This time it was just a touch softer than the first; still marking and claiming, but with a hint of gentleness now that heâd sated his need. âAll good?â
You felt yourself bob your head a few times, swallowing thick as your hands fumbled to fix your jeans. âGood,â you said, warmth like a bonfire spreading from your core, to your toes, to the very top of your scalp.
Oh, it was always good with him, you were always good after him. Whether it was like this, all hot, fierce kisses and fucking against the bathroom door to show how much it bothered him when another man touched you, or when he was firmly gentle and slow in his movements, all wrapped up in his sheets and keeping you against his side afterward⊠it was always so, so good.
Butcher tugged you to him and placed a rough kiss atop your head, his own cheeks still a touch rosy from the exertion. Then he unlocked the door and held it open for you to pass throughâbut not before he gave your ass an affectionate smack as you ducked under his arm.
As you both passed the bar where your target was still sat, a pathetic dog still awaiting an audience for a cheap trick, Butcher flashed the guy a smirk and a cheeky wink.
Butcher figured you hadnât seen much action, but he had trouble believing youâd never given a handjob before. What kind of chaperoned, all hands on deck, home by ten prom had you been to?
That was alright. No better time to learn than the present.
He had you on your knees between his spread thighs, breath deep and rasping as he instructed you to gently nuzzle and tease him through his trousers before you really get started. No need go rush the main event.
âGentle, sweetheart. Got all night, donât we?â
When he was properly worked up enough, he lifted his hips and let you manage to work his belt loose, tug his trousers down and set eyes on him for the first time. He was big, and thick, and the head was already leaking precum that glistened softly in the dim light from the lamp.
Butcher tilted his head to the side and gave you a low, rumbling chuckle at your look of slightly intimidation.
âDonât bite,â he tisked. ââLess you ask real pretty for it.â
When you tentatively took him in hand and started to stroke him, his breath caught and his lip pulled back just slightly. His thighs flexed and he shifted, thick brows furrowing slightly.
Before long, he gruffed and placed his larger hand over yours, the callouses on his palm gently scratching over the backs of your knuckles. âEver heard of a rhythm, darlinâ?â he said, beginning to guide your hand in a deep, steady pace. He made sure to twist your hand on the upstroke, giving the head of his aching cock perfect friction. âThere you go. Ainât nothinâ to be âfraid of.â
You kept up that rhythm he liked, and eventually his hips started to twitch, his chest heaved deeper, his head tilted back against the cushion of the couch.
âFuck, yeah,â he rasped out. âJust like that, darlinâ. Fuckinâ perfect.â
You watched with rapt attention as he moved above you, those hands now gripping the edges of the sofa and his hips twitching. His grunts and groans and gruffs began to grow louder.
âFuckâfuck. Thatâs it. Ah, shitâŠâ
As Butcher grew closer, you experimentally quickened your pace just a bit, gripping his cock a bit harder on the downstroke. His jowls lifted and he beared his teeth, snarling out a ragged sound.
âYeah, yeah, yeah. Fuck. Fuckinâ⊠shit!â
You watched, fascinated, as Butcherâs body jerked and his cock throbbed, shiny streams of pearly cum weeping from the head and streaming down your hand. He gasped softly for breath, letting himself slump back on the couch, head tipped back and lips parted as he attempted to come back to his body.
One of his eyes peeked open when, curiously, you leaned yourself forward and stuck out your tongue to give a kitten lick along the tip of his shaft. You gathered warm stickiness with the flat pink muscle, and he cracked another crooked smile. One of his wide hands reached out to cup your chin.
âGettinâ a jumpstart on our next lesson, eh?â
"Ladies and gentlemen, a baby is not a life preserver. You don't throw a drowning man a baby. In fact, I remember my sister had her fourth kid, I said 'What's it like?' she goes 'Imagine you're drowning in a swimming pool and somebody throws you a baby."
Noah Wyle talking about people's theory that Robby will adopt Baby Jane Doe.
summary: as a winchester, you were divinely created to be a vessel for an archangel. as that archangel, gabriel waited a long, long time for you.
word count: 3k
warnings/tags: mentions of blood, swearing, gabriel being a bit of a stalker (but itâs sweet), sexual undertones, angelic possession
authorâs note: nsfw part 2 mayhaps?
Gabriel would never cease to be amazed by the inventions of mankind; the gentle altruism of kindness, the floristry of their garden of love, the thrumming roar of bravery when their world collapsed in on them time and time again. Each new century, they created something more, from their own hands, their own hearts, just as his own father hadâbridges to connect themselves, machines to spare their aching muscles, devices on which they could contact their loved ones halfway across the world all because they missed the sound of their voice.
So many wonderful, perfect, astounding inventions from a flourishing species that, when he was far younger, used to steal his breath away upon his perch in Heaven.
However, one of Gabrielâs least favorite inventions of mankind was patience.
It had never been his strong suit. Why wait for gratification, for pleasure and reward, when you could have it right then and there when you wanted? Too much of a good thing had never been too big a part of his vocabulary. Heâd never had to wait for, well, much of anything. Either his father or brothers handed whatever he wished for over to quiet his incessant pleas, or heâd learn to simply conjure it up himself.
So when, those suddenly long, endless years ago, the Winchester brothers had been bornâmade and designed specially for Lucifer and Michael, their holy vessels, their human souls to be bound toâGabriel immediately desired his own. Why did his brothers get to have their very own, and he didnât? Heâvery politely, thank youâdemanded of his father when he got his vessel. His person. His human.
God, in turn, kindly but firmly commanded him to wait.
Wait? What the hell was Gabriel supposed to do? Twiddle his thumbs? Heâd watched empires rise and fall over hundreds of years all while traipsing about and wasting time, sure, but this was now torture. While Michael eyed his vessel as the boy grew, as Lucifer surely was down below as well, Gabriel couldnât help but mope. Was he so looked down upon as the youngest son? Did he not deserve to have his own human crafted from Godâs eye, made for him and him alone?
Then, finally, the time came. The Winchesters welcomed a third child into their midst, and when his father informed Gabriel you were his, he was enamored.
Oh, you were perfect. More beautiful than Mona when sheâd posed for her portrait, than the first sunrise after the end of the Great War, than each and every moment dripping with wonder and awe and everything in between. You were tiny, and fussy, and shrill, and Gabriel swore your cries were the most wonderful symphonies heâd had the pleasure of hearing. But your laugh was even better, and he ensured your tears never stuck around for long. Your family had been wowed at your calmness as an infant, your calm disposition a direct opposition to your brothersâ fussiness in their first few months. They accredited it to your being a blessing after the nightmare of two small boys.
They were closer to the truth than they thought, fast asleep while your angel stood over your crib and watched you sleep, a silent guardian to your rest.
Gabriel still had heavenly responsibilities, of course, but he hardly ever missed an event in your life as you grew. Birthdays, the laughs that pulled tears from your eyes and made your stomach cramp, the days your eyes shone bright enough to rival heaven. Even on your worst days, he was there, protecting you from darkness that had, as a young Winchester, attempted to prey on you. Demons, devils, even regular, human menâthey were met with the swift and searing blade of an archangel who had something to lose.
After the death of your mother and the disappearance of your father, your brothers tried their very best to raise you as best they could. You switched schools faster than clothing, and eventually Sam took it upon himself to teach you instead of going through the hassle. Friends came quick and left quicker. That was alright; you had your brothers. They wanted to keep you from the hunting life, protect the last thing they had left, but, as life deemed so often, plans fell through. It wasnât long before your hands bore the same callouses from blades and firearms, and you knew the taste of blood in your mouth and the ache in your neck from long nights spent in the back of the car speeding along lone highways to and from cases.
You had grown into a bright, independent, marvelously wonderful young woman. Quick as a whip, smart as a tack. Your brothersâ pride, and your angelâs joy.
Only, once you and your brothers had discovered just whose vessel you were destined to be, youâd all been less than thrilled.
That was alright. Gabriel had ways of getting what he wanted.
The bunker sat still and tired like an old, protective embrace, keeping you warm and sheltered where you stood in the kitchen. You hummed softly to yourself, some tune that had been stuck in your head for days, as your eyes focused deftly on the dinner being prepared before you. Sam and Dean had gone out to their favorite dive bar to meet a pair of girls theyâd met earlier this week, giving you the peace and quiet youâd been craving so long youâd lost count of the days. You had your show queued up in the den, your dinner plated, and your mind set on a hot bath before bed.
The perfect night in.
Youâd only just grabbed your dinner on its plate and turned when, like a shush falling from above, there came the familiar rustle of wings and the collide of a warm body with yours.
âWoah, sugar,â said Gabriel with that smackable smirk he wore like a badge of honor. He reached out and held your upper arms to keep you steady, hands clasping at your skin a bit tighter than necessary. âIâve only just gotten here, and youâre throwing yourself at me.â
Your pulse jumping to your throat with surprise, you felt yourself bristle as you instinctively took a step back and furrowed your brows up at the angel before you. âJesus, Gabriel,â you gruffed, holding your dinner closer to yourself to keep it from dumping to the floor. âIâve told you not to do that.â
âWell, I figure using the door is much less of a grand entrance than I prefer.â
Glaring up at the manâdivine beingâyou had supposedly been created for, crafted and put together and designed for like a personal puppet, you deftly shifted around him. While you did, you tried to ignore the paintbrush-like swoop of dark locks that fell over his temples, the honeyed oak of his playful gaze, the way the collar of his jacket brushed against the barely-stubbled curve of his jaw. You wanted to believe it was just the holy connection that bound you to him that formed the attraction which sat in your gut every time you were around him. That you were being blindsided by the red string of destiny between your fingers. That, deep down, you didnât truly think he was one of the most beautiful men youâd had the pleasure of meeting.
No, you tried to tell yourself. No. That wasnât even Gabriel. That was just the vessel, the man, he was currently occupying.
He was so very good looking, thoughâŠ
âDid you come here wanting something?â you forced yourself to get out around the conflicting, warring thoughts in your mind. Turning, you began to pad your way from the kitchenâknowing full well heâd follow. He always did. âSam and Dean are out. If you hurry, you can probably catch them before tongues get stuck down throats who wonât call them tomorrow.â
Gabrielâs snicker that followed was warm and sticky, lodging in your throat like molasses as he trailed after you into the bunkerâs den. His steps were relaxed and slinking like a predatorâs who was comfortable in territories not even his own, like heâd memorized the drag paths in this building a long time ago. When you found your usual seat on the sofa, he dropped himself in the seat next to youâclose enough that your knees brushed and his arm could extend across the cushion behind your head. He only smiled when you flickered a harsh glance his way and wriggled an inch or two away.
âTempting as that sounds,â Gabriel drawled, crossing one ankle over his knee in that way men spread themselves out, âyou should know I come here for you, honey.â
âTch,â you said as you curled into yourself and propped your plate against your knees. âI know what you come here for.â
Since you had been young and gripping Deanâs hand while a fellow hunter tattooed the anti-possession into your skin, your brothers had driven home the point of never allowing an entity to possess you. No matter who or what it was, they would control you, wear you like a skin and play around with your body like a puppet. Use your hands to wreak havoc, wear your face to bear their teeth and snarl at innocent people who didnât deserve their wrath. Theyâd told you horror stories of huntersâ possessions, your own parents being controlled when situations had gone from bad to worse. Blood spilled and loved ones harmed and their bodies never the same.
You didnât quite think angels fell into the same category as the other possessing forces in the world, though youâd never taken the risk of allowing Gabriel what he truly wantedâto possess you. To occupy. To have and bond and connect in the way he was destined to. To fill you with himself and make his home where he belonged.
As you ate, Gabriel gave another tisk of his tongue and smoothly rolled his head on his neck. âYou act like itâs this horrible thing,â he said teasingly, thick brows quirking. âLike it wonât be the best thing either of us have felt. And trust me, sugar, Iâve been around long enough to experience some doozies when it comes to pleasure.â
The corner of your mouth twisted, and you tried to pretend it was disgust roiling in your stomach. You didnât want to acknowledge what you truly knew it to be. âDonât make it gross.â
He gave one of those lapsing, confident laughs of his and tilted his head in your direction, gaze stuck momentarily to your lips as you chewed before he met your eyes again. âNothing indecent about it,â he said, voice curling slyly. âJust the truth.â He tilted his head back, exposing his neck as he kept your gaze. âThat first snap of the bond, itâs something else. Like that part you feelâs always been missing justâŠâ He waves a graceful hand. âLatches into place.â He paused. âSo I hear. My little vessel still wonât open the door for me.â
Giving a small breath of exasperation in an attempt to ignore the sudden tingling in your chest at the thought, you finished your dinner and leaned forward to set the plate on the coffee table. Sam was always dogging you and Dean about putting dishes where they didnât go, and youâd been trying to do better⊠but something within you was loathe to get up and leave the angel sitting beside you on the couch.
You didnât want to think about why.
âGuess youâll have to suck it up,â you mused, finally breaking your eyes from Gabrielâs and attempting to find something else to focus on. Youâd left your phone in the kitchen, having forgotten it in his abrupt appearance. âPatience is a virtue, you know.â
Something deep within Gabrielâs amber eyes shifted at your words, the very corner of his lips twitching. He was still for a long moment, seeming to be considering his next move. Then, his knee shifted and brushed heavily against yours. He moved himself, legs uncrossing and arms coaxing and mass shifting as he manipulated his body to lean in your direction. You felt your lips part as he loomed over you, your back pressing gently against the rounded arm of the couch. One arm caged you against the armrest, preventing your main route of escapeâbut never blocking entirely. If you so wished, you could easily wriggle between his arm and his torso and scramble from beneath him.
But you didnât.
âBelieve me, honey,â Gabriel said, his voice now touching a tone lower, deeper, âIâve been patient.â
When he came closeâcloser than the few times heâd come this near beforeâsomething in your chest thrummed. Like a guitar string plucked and left to vibrate, a pang of an echo reverberating through an empty room, a beckoning surged through your very being. Youâd only felt it this strongly once before, and that had been the moment youâd first set your eyes upon the archangel.
âYou donât have to pretend you donât feel it, too,â he murmured, and you were able to catch a hint of sweetness on his breath that rolled gently across your lips. âWeâre connected. Interlinked. You know that.â
You felt yourself swallow thick, every argument and push back against this slowly and steadily dying on your tongue. His knee slotted gently between your legs to let him get closer down to you, and your breath hitched slightly in your throat.
Youâd fought this for so long, and now that you were so close, the bond between you singing and straining to link, you were grasping at straws to keep yourself at bay. Every warnings your brothers had given you about allowing Gabriel close, about falling for his tricks and promises and flirtationsâthey were gone. What did they know, you found yourself suddenly thinking? Gabriel wasnât like Michael or Lucifer; he had no side, no army except he, himself, and him.
And you.
Army of two against the world, and by god, you wanted to be one.
No more pretending.
âIfâŠâ The words bullied themselves from your lips and into the space between the two of you, lines and sinkers cast out desperately. âIf I say yes, it⊠Just for a minute. And thenâand then you have to come back out. Okay?â
A spark like a match catching lit in Gabrielâs eyes like youâd never seen before, even when his stupid jokes and conjured scenarios worked out better than heâd anticipated. It erupted and seemed to spread throughout his body, because you could have sworn he gave the smallest of shivers where he loomed over you.
âJust a minute,â he repeated, and his lower body ever so gently began to descend, resting himself there between your legs, which you unconsciously parted to make room for him. His weight rested gingerly against you, atop you, one of his hands still planted on the arm of the couch beside your head to keep from crushing your form with his own. âA couple minutes?â
âDonât push it.â
He smiled crookedly, free hand raising to slowly, affectionately, lovingly cradle the softness of your cheek. A rush of dizziness flooded through you like his touch alone was capable of breaking dams. Which, it was. âA minute,â he conceded.
For a long few seconds, Gabriel simply stared down at you. Studied you. Took in every feature like you were something he couldnât get enough of. You swallowed thick and glanced down to his collar, feeling all the sudden like an insect under a microscope with his scrutinizing. But then his hand on your cheek angled your head back up, and he cocked his head just an inch to the left.
âSorry, honey,â he said, voice softer than you thought youâd heard it before. âJust been waiting a hell of a long time for this.â His throat bobbed once. âMay I come in?â
ââŠYes.â
When your lips connected with Gabrielâs, that straining, desperate, needy thrum of your bond snapped like a rubber band pulled too taut. Only, it was anything but painful. It pulled a small sound from your throat like a moan, an explosion of sharp, throbbing, warm sensation bursting and searing down each and every individual nerve and artery. A feeling like being filled from the inside out took its place and pleasure you didnât know was possible to experience pulled another whine from your lips and a jerk of your hips.
Fuck, it was so, so good. Like coming home after a long trip. Like slowly allowing a lover to kiss down your body after time apart. Like being pulled back together after you hadnât even realized you were in pieces.
Your eyes had slipped shut against the feeling of Gabrielâs lips on yours, but you were able to understand his weight had vanished from atop you. The tingling, exploding, collapsing sensation was still present, in you, on you, everywhere⊠but he was gone.
Then, gently, like a coaxing tug led by a gentle, patient hand, you felt your head buzz softly. Your mind began to slip and sink far into the depths of your head, attention dulling, senses humming and dimming. You were still there, of course, but it was almost as if you had been tugged to the backseat of the car of your thoughts. Of your body. Of control.
When your body inhaled a deep breath and your eyes flickered open, you let yourself sit back for the ride. You werenât in charge any longer, the reigns taken from your handsâbut that buzzing, surging, perfect heat was still there, and by god, you were going to enjoy it.
From your lips came a gentle, sly chuckle that was not your own, and when you turned your head, you caught a glimpse of your reflection in the reflection of the entertainment standâs glass; your eyes burned a deep, swimming golden, a pair of searchlights belonging to your angel, now nestled within your own sockets.
In your body, Gabriel grinned. âOh, honey,â he moaned aloud, hands coming up to caress your own face. âYouâre somehow even better than I dreamed.â
Slowly, he sat up there on the sofa, and you felt him give you a wink there in your shared mental space.
